The television flickered without sound. In the armchair, Mario held a glass of whisky with trembling fingers. He wore a dirty t-shirt, his neck blackened with sweat. Behind him, Andrés looked at him like a piece of meat hanging from a hook. No words were needed. He approached and snatched the glass from Mario's hand. Then he bent him over the sofa. Without permission. Without words.

Mario opened his legs with the resignation of someone who no longer expects tenderness. Andrés spat on him, opened him with rage, and penetrated him abruptly. Each thrust was a blow against his past, his broken manhood, his desire hidden in shame. He screamed, but didn't ask him to stop. When he filled him to the brim, he left him there, dripping onto the stained fabric, and said in a deep voice:

—Lick it clean with your tongue.

Mario obeyed.

Far away from there, Samir knelt before Sheikh Karim, wrapped in white robes. The hall was spacious, covered in oriental carpets, with carved columns and golden light filtering through latticework. The sheikh's voice was a soft thunder:

—Today you will cease to be a man. You will be mine. Only mine.

Samir lowered his gaze. The sheikh opened his robe. His thick, oily cock pointed like a sacred weapon. Samir took it with his lips, trembling. The sheikh held him by the nape of the neck, setting the rhythm. Then, he laid him on the carpet and penetrated him without preamble, reciting sacred verses. Samir clung to the floor, crying, panting, being opened. The sheikh finished inside, urinated on him, and whispered:

—Now you are clean. The world outside you has died.

In a glass tower, Joaquín sat nervously in front of Hugo, a huge man with a hairy chest and a killer's gaze. He observed him with the whisky glass in his hand.

—Undress —he ordered.

Joaquín obeyed. Hugo stood up, pushed him to the floor, and penetrated him with force, with brutality. The young man screamed, but didn't resist. Hugo took him like an animal, holding his hips, slapping his cheeks, spitting in his mouth. He made him swallow his semen, left his anus open, wet. Before leaving, he whispered:

—Next time, another will come. You will only watch.

In a wooden cabin, Tomás hugged Ulises, a man with a white beard and a steel gaze. The fireplace illuminated the still-firm muscles of his older body. Ulises caressed his face with tenderness, then pushed him against the wall.

—You are not my guest. You are my toy.

He tied his wrists, whipped him, penetrated him until Tomás moaned like a punished child. He ordered him to lick his feet, swallow his semen, clean the sweat from his chest. And before sleeping, he said in his ear:

—Tomorrow, more will come. You will see what it means to serve all.

That morning, in a hidden basement beneath Madrid, the four were summoned. They didn't know how they got there. They didn't...