By Catgenie
Email: catgenie@gmail.com

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6. Aykut's final surrender

 The current died instantly. The humming vanished. The searing arcs through his core, his nipples, his cock, his ass—all of it simply… stopped.

Aykut collapsed against the marble like a marionette with cut strings. His massive frame shuddered with great, heaving sobs—uncontrollable, childlike, raw. Tears streamed without pause, soaking the sides of his face, dripping into his ears. His chest rose and fell in violent hitches; every breath came out as a broken, wet whimper. Sweat coated him from scalp to toes, gleaming under the amber lights, making his ruined muscles look almost oiled for worship rather than torment. He cried without shame now, without restraint—years of bottled discipline, pride, and unbreakable resolve pouring out in choking, guttural waves.

Efendi watched for a long moment, drinking in the sight: the once-defiant champion reduced to a sobbing, trembling shell. Then, very gently, he reached out and brushed a tear from Aykut’s cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“There, there,” he whispered. “That’s it. Let it all go.”

He leaned closer still, lips brushing the shell of Aykut’s ear.

“Now… tell me again. Will you be mine?”

Aykut did not answer. His sobs continued in great, shuddering waves, chest heaving as tears carved endless paths down his flushed cheeks, but when his swollen eyes lifted to meet Efendi’s, the fire there had not been fully extinguished. It flickered—dim, battered, but stubborn—a defiant spark buried beneath layers of exhaustion and shame. His lips trembled, parted as if to speak, yet no words came; only a low, broken whimper that carried the last remnants of his pride.

Efendi studied him for a long, silent moment, then nodded once to the hooded figures. “Remove the wires and clamps,” he said softly. “Slowly.”

Emir and Kerem stepped forward without haste. They began with the tit clamps, fingers working the knurled knobs in careful, incremental twists. Each turn loosened the jaws just a fraction, but the sudden release of pressure was agony—blood rushing back into the crushed tissue in a hot, throbbing flood that made Aykut’s back arch off the marble, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. The clamps finally snapped open, and the nipples—purple, swollen, raw—sprang free. Emir’s rough thumbs immediately began to rub them in slow, gentle circles, soothing the abused flesh, yet the touch was electric: every graze sent fresh stabs of oversensitive pain shooting through his chest, like fire ants crawling under the skin. Aykut’s sobs hitched into high, keening cries; his massive pecs jumped involuntarily with each stroke, muscles quivering as the tenderness amplified the lingering burn.

Burak detached the wires with methodical grace, the alligator clips popping free from the rods with soft metallic clicks that echoed in the dungeon. Then Efendi moved between Aykut’s spread thighs, his thin fingers wrapping around the base of the sounding rod. He pulled slowly—agonizingly slowly—drawing the smooth steel out inch by torturous inch. The withdrawal was as cruel as the insertion: the metal dragged against the inflamed inner walls, reigniting that sickening, crawling tickle that had driven him mad before, now intensified by raw friction. A burning sting bloomed along the entire length of his urethra, sharp and unrelenting, like a hot wire being pulled through tender flesh. Aykut’s hips bucked weakly, cock twitching and straining as the rod slid free; when the tip finally emerged, a fresh wave of nausea rolled through him, his bladder spasming with phantom fullness, the tip of his shaft throbbing in protest.

Efendi set the sounding rod aside and grasped the thick metal plug next. He twisted it gently at first, then pulled—slow, inexorable. The flared base stretched Aykut’s hole again, the ring of muscle protesting with a deep, tearing ache that radiated up his spine. The withdrawal burned worse than the entry: the lubricated steel dragged against swollen tissue, pressing against every nerve ending on the way out, sending jolts of fire through his prostate and up his tailbone. Aykut’s glutes clenched instinctively, trying to hold it in, but the pain forced a guttural cry from him—raw, animalistic—as the plug finally popped free with a wet sound, leaving him gaping, empty, and convulsing. He collapsed again, body limp against the marble, every breath a ragged sob. The removal had stripped away the constant torment, yet the aftershocks lingered: throbbing nipples, stinging urethra, aching hole—all of it pulsing in time with his heartbeat, a cruel reminder that his body had been violated and left raw. Tears still streamed; his chest rose and fell in broken rhythms. Yet those defiant eyes—red-rimmed, wet—still burned, refusing to yield completely.

Efendi leaned in once more, voice a low whisper against Aykut’s ear.

“You see? Even now, you fight. But we have time, Aykut. All the time in the world.”

Efendi studied Aykut’s tear-streaked face for a long, patient moment, then spoke again, his voice softer now—almost weary, as though the cruelty had begun to bore even him.

“I do not wish to torture you any longer, my Hercules,” he said quietly. “Truly. Eventually you will succumb. No one—no matter how strong, how proud, how unbreakable—can sustain so much pain and remain unyielding forever. The body betrays first, then the mind, then the soul. I have seen it time and again. Why prolong the inevitable? Speak the words. Yield to me. Let the suffering end.”

Aykut remained silent.

He turned his head away, refusing to meet Efendi’s gaze. His jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Though tears still leaked from the corners of his eyes and his massive chest still hitched with residual sobs, the defiance in his expression had not crumbled completely. His eyes—red-rimmed, bloodshot—stared fixedly at the shadowed brick wall, burning with the last embers of resistance. He would not give the old man the satisfaction of an answer, not yet.

Efendi sighed—a small, theatrical sound of disappointment—then straightened.

“Very well.”

He nodded toward the hooded figures.

“Kerem. Burak. Lower the ceiling chains.”

From the darkness above came the low mechanical whir of winches. Two thick, industrial-grade chains descended slowly from hidden tracks in the vaulted ceiling, each link heavy enough to rattle ominously as it uncoiled. At the side wall stood a sturdy metal control panel, its surface studded with switches and a large red-handled lever. Kerem and Burak left the existing ground chains still firmly attached to Aykut’s ankle manacles—those heavy links anchoring his legs downward to the slab—then fastened the new ceiling chains directly to the same steel cuffs, creating a dual restraint system: one set pulling upward from above, the other holding fast below to maintain constant tension. His legs were now suspended between opposing forces—heaven pulling one way, earth the other—trapped in perfect opposition.

Efendi stepped aside as Emir took control of the panel. With expert precision, Emir worked the controls: he engaged the ceiling winches to hoist while simultaneously releasing measured lengths of chain from the ground anchors below. The two opposing sets of chains remained perfectly taut at every moment—never slack, never over-stretching—as Aykut’s massive legs were drawn upward in a controlled, agonizing arc. The mechanism was seamless, almost surgical: upward pull balanced by downward give, keeping the tension constant and merciless. Inch by inch his legendary thighs rose, knees straightening until they hovered at a precise 45-degree angle above the marble slab. His ass lifted off the stone, lower back forced into a deep, painful arch as the dual chains locked his powerful limbs in mid-air. The position exposed him utterly—cock and balls hanging heavy between his spread thighs, hole still raw and gaping from the plug’s removal, every vein and striation in his quads, hamstrings, and inner thighs thrown into brutal, trembling relief under the amber light.

Aykut gasped—a sharp, involuntary sound—as the sustained strain settled deep into his hips, hamstrings, and lower back. The chains clinked softly with each tiny shift of his weight; his pumped arms remained pinned wide to the slab, but now his lower body was suspended in agonizing vulnerability, muscles quivering from the unrelenting stretch and the perfect balance of opposing forces.

Efendi returned to his side, gazing down at the spreadeagled, elevated form with quiet satisfaction.

“Now,” he murmured, “let us see how long that beautiful defiance lasts when your own strength becomes the instrument of your torment.”

He rested one thin hand on Aykut’s quivering quad, feeling the powerful muscle quiver beneath his palm.

“Comfortable, champion?”

With a curt nod from Efendi, Kerem stepped forward carrying a large white plastic bucket, its contents sloshing faintly as he set it down on the marble slab near Aykut’s elevated leg. The opaque sides hid whatever was inside, but the sound alone—wet, viscous, deliberate—sent Aykut’s heart slamming against his ribs. His breath quickened, shallow and ragged; he strained to crane his neck, but the angle and the taut chains kept his view limited to shadows and glints of light reflecting off the bucket’s rim. Burak followed, unfolding a long, white latex glove with clinical slowness. He stretched it once between his thick hands, the material snapping sharply, then handed it directly to Efendi.

Emir moved to Efendi’s side, offering a steady arm so the old man could climb onto the slab with surprising agility for his frail frame. Efendi accepted the help without a word, bare feet padding across the warm stone until he stood directly between Aykut’s hoisted, trembling legs. Only now, from this humiliating vantage, could Aykut truly see him: the scrawny, almost skeletal body of the old man—narrow shoulders, sunken chest dusted with sparse silver hair, thin arms hanging like withered branches, hips barely wider than a boy’s. Yet there he stood, dwarfed yet utterly dominant between the colossal pillars of Aykut’s thighs—those magnificent slabs of muscle quivering under the strain of the dual chains, quads flaring in brutal sweeps, inner thighs corded and veined, calves hanging heavy like carved marble hearts. The contrast was obscene: fragile age against youthful, godlike power, frailty towering over strength.

Efendi accepted the white latex glove from Burak and pulled it on slowly, the material stretching tight over his bony hand and forearm with a series of soft, deliberate snaps. He flexed his fingers once, testing the fit, then looked down at his captive, eyes gleaming with a quiet, triumphant hunger.

“I hated that it had to come to this, Aykut,” he said, voice low and almost regretful, though the faint smile betrayed no true remorse. “I truly did. But thanks to you—thanks to your stubborn pride, your refusal to bend—I have been given the rare privilege of breaking you personally. Not with machines alone, not through proxies or videos… but with my own hands. Body and spirit. To force a modern Hercules, a musclegod sculpted by years of iron and will, to submit to someone as frail and unremarkable as me.”

He spread his thin arms slightly, gesturing at himself—the concave chest, the spindly legs—then at Aykut’s suspended, straining form.

“Never in your wildest nightmares did you imagine it, did you? That a weak old man, someone you could crush with one hand if the chains were gone, could wield this much power over you. That I could make those legendary legs tremble, that unbreakable will crack, that magnificent cock betray you again and again. Yet here we are. And here we will stay… until you finally understand who truly owns you.”

Efendi’s gaze dropped to the bucket, then back to Aykut’s wide, frantic eyes.

“Shall we begin the next lesson, champion?”

Efendi dipped his gloved hand into the large white plastic bucket, the thick, clear lubricant clinging to his fingers in viscous strings as he withdrew it. Aykut finally caught a clear glimpse inside—the bucket was filled nearly to the brim with the slick gel, enough to coat far more than a single hand. Panic slammed through him like a fresh wave of electricity, snapping his mind back to brutal lucidity. His eyes widened, chest heaving as he thrashed against the dual chains that held his ankles suspended at that merciless 45-degree angle.

“You sick fucking bastard!” Aykut roared, voice raw and cracking from earlier screams. “Get away from me! I’ll kill you—I swear to God, the second these chains come off, I’ll rip your fucking throat out! Stop—STOP!”

Efendi ignored the threats completely, his thin lips curved in that same patient, almost paternal smile. He brought his lubricated hand between Aykut’s spread thighs, the cool gel dripping in slow, obscene trails down his inner leg. With deliberate care, he pressed two gloved fingers against Aykut’s still-raw, gaping hole—still tender and slightly open from the earlier plug—and pushed inside. The intrusion was immediate and humiliating. Aykut’s powerful glutes clenched instinctively, trying to deny entry, but the chains kept his legs locked wide and elevated, offering no resistance. The slick fingers slid in easily, stretching the sensitive ring with a burning glide that made Aykut’s breath hitch in a choked gasp. He felt exposed, violated in the most degrading way—his godlike body, once the pinnacle of masculine power, now reduced to a trembling, helpless opening for this frail old man’s touch.

“Get—your—fucking—hands—off—me!” Aykut snarled through gritted teeth, hips bucking uselessly, chains rattling with every futile thrash. His colossal arms strained against the manacles, biceps peaking grotesquely, veins bulging like cables, but the steel didn’t yield.

Efendi’s voice came low and gentle, almost soothing, as his fingers curled slowly inside. “Relax, my Hercules. Fight it and this is really going to hurt.”

He twisted his wrist, knuckles pressing deeper, then added a third finger—slow, inexorable, the stretch burning hotter now as the ring of muscle yielded reluctantly around the added girth. Aykut’s head snapped back against the marble, a strangled cry escaping him. The pressure built, intimate and invasive, every millimeter feeling like an eternity as Efendi paused, letting him adjust, then pushed again. Time stretched. Sweat poured down Aykut’s temples, mixing with the drying tears. Efendi’s movements remained unhurried, almost tender—fingers scissoring gently, brushing against the swollen prostate with deliberate, teasing strokes. Each graze sent unwanted jolts of pleasure-pain radiating through Aykut’s core, his cock—traitorous, humiliating—responding despite everything. It thickened rapidly, rising to full, throbbing hardness, the head flushed dark and leaking a steady stream of clear precum that dripped down the shaft and pooled on his lower abs.

Aykut’s face burned with shame. He could feel it—his own body betraying him again, hardening for the very man who was breaking him. His curses dissolved into ragged breaths, then low, broken whimpers as Efendi finally worked in the fourth finger. The stretch was brutal now—four digits filling him, knuckles pressing insistently against the prostate, rubbing in slow, rhythmic circles that made Aykut’s hips jerk involuntarily.

“Look at you,” Efendi murmured, voice soft with dark satisfaction. “So strong… yet leaking like a desperate boy. Your body knows its place, even if your mind still fights.”

Aykut turned his head away, jaw clenched, fresh tears of humiliation stinging his eyes. His magnificent physique—once a symbol of unbreakable will—now trembled and dripped under the old man’s slow, relentless hand, every teasing press against his prostate forcing more precum to well up and spill.

Efendi paused, fingers buried deep, letting Aykut feel the full, humiliating fullness.

“Almost ready,” he whispered. “Just a little more… and then we begin the true lesson.”

Efendi moved his four fingers with slow, deliberate care—twisting, scissoring, stretching in every direction as though mapping the limits of Aykut’s resistance. The gloved digits pressed outward against the slick walls, opening him wider with each measured rotation, preparing the passage for the inevitable escalation. Whenever he rotated his wrist deeper, the exposed base of his thumb—still bare beneath the rolled cuff of the glove—deliberately brushed against the underside of Aykut’s heavy, sensitive balls, the rough pad grazing the thin skin in slow, teasing drags that sent sharp, electric jolts of unwanted excitement racing straight up his shaft. Each accidental-on-purpose contact made Aykut’s cock throb violently, the head swelling darker and leaking a fresh bead of precum that rolled down the veined length and dripped onto his tense abs. Aykut felt every inch of the violation: the humiliating fullness, the burning stretch, the obscene intimacy of being spread open by this frail, unremarkable old man. Yet what cut deepest was the betrayal of his own body—his cock standing rigid and leaking, throbbing harder with each teasing brush against his prostate and each deliberate graze of that wicked thumb. He hated himself for it, hated the heat pooling in his groin, hated that arousal could bloom so traitorously for someone he would never have glanced at twice in the outside world.

Efendi gave a small nod toward Emir, who then stepped silently to the slab’s edge, lifting the heavy white bucket with both hands so that Efendi could keep his four fingers buried deep inside Aykut without withdrawing. The old man’s free hand plunged into the gel, scooping out a thick, glistening mound that he smeared generously over his gloved palm and wrist, the lubricant dripping in slow, obscene ropes between his thin fingers. Efendi lifted his gaze to meet Aykut’s—eyes soft, almost reverent, carrying a strange, twisted kindness that made the moment feel even more perverse.

“Here we begin, my Hercules,” he murmured, voice low and steady.

He tucked his thumb against his palm, shaping his hand into the classic “goose head” formation—fingers straight and tight, thumb pressed flat against them—and pressed forward.

Aykut thrashed wildly, chains clanking in furious protest as his massive frame bucked and twisted. His huge arms strained against the manacles, biceps exploding into peaked definition; his suspended legs jerked in their dual restraints, quads and hamstrings flexing to the point of cramping. “No—no—GET OUT—YOU FUCKING MONSTER—STOP!” The curses poured out in a hoarse, desperate torrent, threats dissolving into raw screams.

Kerem and Burak sprang forward at once. Their rough, calloused hands found Aykut’s swollen nipples—still tender and hypersensitive from the earlier clamps—and began to stroke them in slow, gentle circles. The sensation was devastating: electric jolts of pleasure-pain shot straight to his core, weakening his resistance while stoking the unwanted fire in his groin even higher. His cock jerked violently, more precum welling up and sliding down the shaft in thick beads, pooling on his carved abs. Aykut’s screams fractured into sobs, but he could not look away.

With relentless, unhurried pressure, Efendi’s hand advanced. The widest part—the knuckles—met the stretched ring of muscle. Aykut felt the impossible stretch tear through him: a deep, searing burn that radiated up his spine, his prostate compressed and milked mercilessly by the invading palm. His glutes spasmed uselessly, trying to clench shut, but the chains and the slow, inexorable push made resistance futile.

Then—slowly, impossibly—Efendi’s entire palm disappeared inside him.

The fullness was overwhelming, obscene, annihilating. Aykut’s eyes widened in horror as he watched the old man’s thin wrist slide past his own stretched entrance, the white latex gleaming with lubricant, vanishing inch by inch until only the forearm remained visible. His body convulsed—abs locking into brutal ridges, thighs quivering uncontrollably, cock throbbing so hard it hurt. Tears streamed freely down his temples again, mixing with sweat.

Inside him, Efendi’s hand curled gently, fingers brushing the swollen prostate in soft, rhythmic strokes.

“Shhh,” Efendi whispered, almost tenderly. “Breathe through it. You’re doing beautifully.”

Aykut’s curses dissolved into broken, gasping whimpers. His magnificent, godlike body—once the ultimate symbol of power—now trembled and yielded around the frail arm buried deep inside him, every twitch and leak a humiliating testament to his surrender. Aykut's world narrowed to the impossible, annihilating fullness invading him—Efendi's entire hand now buried wrist-deep inside his ass, the frail arm a living piston of violation that stretched him beyond limits he never knew existed. The burn was relentless: a deep, tearing ache that radiated from his core like molten iron poured into his guts, every knuckle and finger joint pressing against swollen walls, compressing his prostate into a throbbing, hypersensitive knot that sent unwanted shocks of electric pleasure shooting up his spine. It felt like being split open from the inside out, his ring of muscle clenched futilely around the intruder's wrist, the lubricant squelching obscenely with each subtle shift, amplifying the wet, invasive sounds that echoed in the dungeon like a confession of his own degradation. His magnificent body—quivering quads suspended in chains, abs locked in rigid, vein-popping contractions—betrayed him utterly, cock bobbing rock-hard and drooling precum in thick, humiliating strands that trailed down his balls and pooled between his cheeks.

Deeper than the physical torment came the soul-crushing defeat: years of forging himself into an unbreakable Hercules, every squat, every deadlift, every contest pose reduced to this—pinned, exposed, impaled by the bony hand of a man he could snap like a twig in another life. Humiliation burned hotter than the stretch, scorching his pride to ash as he realized how completely he was owned, controlled, reduced to a sobbing, leaking vessel for Efendi's whims. And worst of all—the forbidden, twisted arousal blooming in the depths of his shattered mind: a dark, seductive whisper that this surrender felt right, that the chains and the invasion unlocked something primal, making his nerves sing with a perverse ecstasy he hated but craved. His body arched involuntarily, hips grinding against the hand despite himself, tears streaming as he whimpered, "Please... no more..."—not knowing if he begged for release or for deeper ruin. Efendi's gentle rotations inside him only heightened it, milking his prostate with expert precision, forcing wave after wave of shameful pleasure to crash against the walls of his defiance, leaving him trembling on the edge of total, irrevocable submission.

Efendi’s arm moved with relentless, measured rhythm—slow, deep pumps that buried his hand and forearm deeper with each forward thrust, the white latex sleeve disappearing inch by inch past Aykut’s stretched ring until the elbow nearly kissed skin. Between strokes, when the friction grew too dry, Efendi would pause, withdraw just enough to scoop another generous handful of lubricant from the bucket, and slather it along his glistening forearm, the wet squelch of gel mixing with the obscene sounds already filling the dungeon. Then he would resume, pushing deeper still, the added slickness allowing him to claim more territory inside the trembling, muscled cavern. His free hand never rested idle. Whenever the pumping slowed for a breath, those thin and slick fingers would wrap around Aykut’s rock-hard cock—still leaking steadily, veins pulsing angrily along the shaft—and stroke with feather-light gentleness, thumb circling the swollen head, smearing precum in slow spirals. The contrast was merciless: brutal internal invasion paired with tender external caresses, pleasure and violation braided so tightly that Aykut could no longer separate them.

Words deserted him. The curses that had once poured from his lips in furious torrents dissolved into incoherent grunts, then fractured further into animalistic roars—deep, guttural, primal sounds that tore from his throat without conscious thought. They were neither pure agony nor pure ecstasy; they carried the ragged edge of both, laced with the hollow echo of defeat and the shameful tremor of arousal. Each roar vibrated through his chest, through the marble slab, through the chains that held him suspended and helpless. Even Aykut himself could not decipher what the noise meant anymore—only that it came from some place deeper than pride, deeper than will, a place he had never been forced to confront until now.

Every forward plunge of Efendi’s arm felt like it would rip him in two. The pressure built unbearably: prostate crushed and milked without mercy, walls stretched to their absolute limit, the sensation of being hollowed out and filled simultaneously threatening to tear muscle and membrane alike. Yet his Herculean body—those legendary quads quivering at 45 degrees, abs clenched into an armored grid, monstrous arms straining uselessly against steel—could do nothing to stop it. The dual chains kept his legs locked in perfect, agonizing opposition; the manacles on his wrists pinned his torso flat. He was a puppet, limbs and torso arranged exactly as the puppeteer desired, every twitch and convulsion dictated by the slow, inexorable rhythm of the arm buried inside him.

The mix of sensations turned nauseating—waves of white-hot pleasure crashing against razor-sharp pain, arousal so intense it bordered on sickness, the constant milking of his prostate forcing fresh ropes of precum to spill while his mind screamed in revulsion. His stomach lurched; bile rose in his throat only to be swallowed back down with another broken roar. The world tilted, narrowed, then fell away entirely. He felt himself slipping—plummeting—into a bottomless abyss where gravity no longer applied, where pain and pleasure fused into a single, all-consuming void. There was no bottom, no light, only the endless descent, the vise-like grip of Efendi’s arm inside him the only tether keeping him from shattering completely.

And still Efendi pumped—deeper, slower, more possessive—his thin face serene, almost loving, as he watched the once-unbreakable champion unravel beneath him.

“Shhh,” Efendi whispered again, stroking Aykut’s leaking cock in perfect counterpoint to the next deep thrust. “Let go, my Hercules. Fall. I will catch what remains.”

Efendi’s arm remained buried deep inside Aykut—elbow-deep now, the white latex sleeve slick and glistening, forearm muscles flexing faintly beneath the taut skin as he held his position without withdrawing. From between Aykut’s hoisted, trembling thighs he spoke, his voice rising soft and intimate from that humiliating vantage point, face level with the champion’s leaking cock and quivering abs, breath warm against sweat-slick skin.

“I can feel your heartbeat, Hercules,” Efendi murmured, pressing his palm a fraction deeper so the steady thump-thump pulsed against his wrist. “Strong, fast, alive… right here, wrapped around my arm.” He paused, letting Aykut feel the subtle answering rhythm of his own older, quieter pulse transmitted through the intimate connection. “And you can feel mine too, can’t you? The only person who has ever been this close to you—inside you—is me. No one else will ever reach this far. No lover, no rival, no admirer. This depth belongs to me alone.”

He curled his fingers gently, brushing the swollen prostate in a slow, possessive sweep.

“My arm in your gut is the missing piece of your body,” Efendi continued, voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “And even more so, the missing piece of your soul. Not the perfect muscles you spent years sculpting, not the titles or the mirrors or the crowds that once worshipped you from a distance. I am what makes you whole. Without me, you are incomplete—beautiful, yes, but hollow. You will feel that emptiness every time you lift a weight, every time you pose alone in front of glass, every time you come without my hand guiding you.”

Efendi leaned closer, lips nearly brushing the underside of Aykut’s leaking shaft.

“You will forever long for my presence—physically, when I’m inside you again… mentally, when you’re lying in your bed and the silence becomes unbearable. You will ache for it. You will need it. Because no one else can fill you the way I do.”

Aykut’s soft whimper escaped his lips unhindered, dissolving into silent weeping—fresh tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as he trembled, equal parts exhaustion, shame, and the dark, undeniable truth that had rooted itself deep in his core, right where Efendi’s arm still claimed him. In that suspended moment, something inside him had shifted irreversibly. He was no longer merely the defiant champion fighting the chains; he had become a Hercules fallen under the spell of Efendi’s words—entranced, enthralled, the mythic strength of his body and the iron will of his soul now bending toward the frail old man’s quiet command. The voice that had once roared defiance now softened into something fragile, almost reverent; he felt the pull of obedience like a tide he could no longer resist.

“Please…” The word slipped out again, barely a whisper, cracked and raw.

His massive frame—massive arms still corded and veined, quads quivering at that impossible angle—remained locked in the restraints, yet every tremor now carried surrender rather than rebellion. He would obey. He would beg. He would offer up every powerful inch of muscle, every breath, every beat of his heart, if only Efendi would speak the next order.

Efendi’s thin lips curved, eyes gleaming with quiet triumph as he felt the shift through the intimate connection of flesh and will.

“Yes, my Hercules,” he murmured, fingers curling gently once more against the swollen prostate. “You already do.”

“Calm down, my Hercules,” Efendi murmured, the words vibrating through the arm still lodged inside Aykut’s core, each syllable seeming to travel along the buried limb and resonate against his prostate. “Breathe. Let it happen. I will not stop—not until you taste the ultimate pleasure… or the ultimate defeat. Whichever comes first.”

The pumping continued without pause—deeper now, faster, each forward thrust driving Efendi’s arm further until the elbow disappeared completely, the slick latex gliding in and out with wet, rhythmic squelches that echoed obscenely in the dungeon. Every time the arm plunged in, Aykut felt the weight of the earth itself crushing his innards—his guts compressed, organs shifted, the relentless pressure building like a mountain collapsing inward, squeezing the air from his lungs and flattening every thought into white noise. When Efendi withdrew—slow, deliberate, almost teasing—the sensation reversed: it was as if the arm were drawing out not just flesh, but everything inside him—his breath, his will, his very essence—hollowing him completely, leaving a vast, aching void where fullness had been, only to fill it again with the next merciless thrust.

The pressure on Aykut’s prostate intensified into a relentless, crushing massage, every rapid stroke sending shockwaves of white-hot ecstasy ripping through his body. It felt like being flooded with something far stronger than any drug he had ever avoided; his mind swam in a thick, euphoric fog, every nerve ending lit up and screaming at once. He couldn’t describe it—couldn’t even think the words—only that it was too much, too deep, too everything: pleasure so intense it bordered on obliteration, pain so exquisite it felt like worship.

Efendi’s free hand wrapped tighter around Aykut’s tortured cock, stroking now with urgent, deliberate rhythm—long, firm pulls from base to leaking head, thumb swiping over the slit on every upstroke to coax more precum, then twisting gently at the crown. The dual assault—internal pounding, external milking—synced perfectly, driving Aykut higher, faster, toward a precipice he both craved and feared.

His roars grew wilder, more animal than human—deep, guttural bellows that cracked and splintered into high, desperate keens. Words were gone; only sound remained, raw and primal, echoing off the brick walls like the cries of a beast being broken and remade.

Then—suddenly—all hell broke loose.

Aykut’s entire Herculean body seized in one violent, full-frame convulsion. His suspended legs jerked against the dual chains, quads and hamstrings locking into impossible definition; his abs clenched into a brutal, rippling eight-pack; his engorged arms strained so hard the manacles creaked. Inside, Efendi’s arm—still buried to the elbow—pressed one final, deep thrust against his prostate and held firm, fingers curling to milk the gland without mercy.

The orgasm detonated.

Long, thick strings of cum erupted from Aykut’s tortured cock in forceful, arcing ropes—splattering across his own carved abs, his heaving pecs, even reaching the underside of his chin in hot, sticky lashes. Each spurt was accompanied by a guttural roar that climbed higher and higher until it shattered into a wordless, shattering cry—the climax of every sound he had made that night. His hips bucked helplessly in the chains, cock pulsing and jerking in Efendi’s stroking grip as wave after wave tore through him, prostate milking itself dry around the unyielding arm still filling him completely. Tears streamed freely again, mixing with sweat and cum. His roar peaked, fractured, then dissolved into shuddering, broken sobs as the orgasm kept rolling—longer, deeper, more consuming than anything he had ever felt. His vision blurred; the abyss he had been falling into finally swallowed him whole.

Efendi did not withdraw. From between Aykut’s quivering thighs, face close enough to feel the heat radiating from the champion’s spent body, he kept his arm buried deep, kept stroking Aykut’s oversensitive cock through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor, every last drop. When the final spurt finally ebbed, Aykut collapsed—limp, trembling, utterly spent—his magnificent body glistening with sweat, cum, and lubricant, suspended like a broken statue between the chains.

Efendi leaned in closer still, lips brushing the inside of one massive, quivering thigh before speaking softly against sweat-slick skin.

“There,” he whispered, voice thick with dark triumph. “That is what surrender tastes like.”

Only then—slowly, deliberately—did he begin to withdraw his arm, inch by slick inch, leaving Aykut gaping, empty, and forever changed.

Aykut’s mind was a vast, echoing blank—emptied of thought, stripped of every anchor he had ever clung to. He didn’t know whether the tears streaming down his face came from the lingering burn deep inside him, from the shattering pleasure that still echoed in his nerves, from the crushing weight of defeat, or from the scalding humiliation of having come so violently at the hands of the very man who had broken him. Perhaps it was all of them at once, blended into something nameless and unbearable. Perhaps he had finally glimpsed the true self he had spent years burying beneath muscle and iron discipline… or perhaps he was simply too ashamed to ever look that self in the eye again.

His body shuddered uncontrollably—great, heaving tremors that rolled from his core outward, making his massive thighs twitch, his abs flutter, his spent cock jerk with aftershocks even as it softened against his cum-smeared lower abs. Sobs wracked him, raw and childlike, chest rising and falling in violent hitches. He barely registered the moment Efendi’s arm finally withdrew—slow, slick, leaving him gaping and empty, a hollow ache blooming in the sudden void. He didn’t feel Emir release the ceiling winches, lowering the dual chains until his legendary legs settled heavily back onto the warm marble, knees bending, thighs splaying wide in exhausted surrender. He didn’t hear the soft clank as Burak unlocked the steel manacles from his wrists and ankles, the cold bite of metal finally easing from torn skin.

Strong hands—Burak’s—helped him sit up on the edge of the marble, guiding his limp, sweat-drenched torso upright. Aykut swayed, vision blurred with tears, every muscle trembling like overworked steel cable finally given slack. And then, without warning, without conscious choice, he collapsed forward. Into Efendi’s waiting arms.

The old man’s frail frame felt impossibly solid in that moment—narrow chest against Aykut’s heaving pecs, thin arms encircling the champion’s broad back with surprising strength. Aykut buried his face in the crook of Efendi’s neck, inhaling the faint scent of eucalyptus and old skin, and sobbed harder—great, choking waves of grief and relief and confusion. To his own horror and astonishment, he found solace there: a strange, twisted comfort in the very arms that had just ruined him. The embrace felt like the only safe place left in the world.

“Please…” The word spilled out, cracked and desperate. “Please… please…”

He repeated it over and over, a broken mantra, voice muffled against Efendi’s shoulder. He didn’t know what he was begging for—whether he wanted to relive every agonizing, ecstatic second of tonight, to be filled and controlled and shattered again until nothing remained of the old Aykut, or whether he wanted Efendi to never touch him again, to let him crawl away and pretend none of this had ever happened. He had no answer. Even he himself did not know which plea was true.

Efendi held Aykut tighter, one thin hand cradling the back of the champion’s bowed head while the other stroked slow, possessive circles along the sweat-slick expanse of his lats. From the outside, the embrace looked almost tender—fatherly, even—as Aykut’s massive frame shook with uncontrollable sobs, face buried in the crook of the old man’s neck, tears soaking the sparse silver hair there.

“Shhh, my beautiful boy,” Efendi whispered, lips brushing the shell of Aykut’s ear. “It’s over for now. You were so strong… so perfect. Let it all out. I have you.”

The words were soft, soothing, laced with a warmth that made Aykut cling harder, fingers digging into Efendi’s narrow back as though the frail body were the only solid thing left in the world. Another broken “please” slipped from his lips, barely audible, dissolving into fresh sobs.

Yet beneath the comfort, Efendi’s dark eyes remained open, sharp, and utterly cold. He felt every tremor that ran through the godlike physique pressed against him—the aftershocks still rippling through those legendary quads, the faint, involuntary twitch of the cock that had just painted Aykut’s own abs in thick ropes of surrender. He could smell the mingled scent of sweat, cum, and lubricant rising from the champion’s skin, could feel the raw, gaping ache he himself had left behind. And in that moment, with the once-unbreakable Hercules weeping and trembling in his arms like a frightened child, Efendi knew the truth with crystalline certainty: This muscled modern-day demigod—every inch of sculpted power, every year of iron discipline, every roar of defiance—was his. Completely. Irrevocably. No chains were needed anymore. The manacles could fall away; the winches could rust. The real restraints had been forged tonight, deep inside Aykut’s body and soul, branded there by pain, pleasure, and the shattering orgasm that had ripped his pride to shreds. Efendi’s thin lips curved into a smile no one could see—small, private, triumphant. He pressed another gentle kiss to Aykut’s temple, murmuring comforts while his mind already turned to tomorrow, and the day after, and every day that would follow.

The Hercules of legend had completed his labors and earned his place among the stars. This one would never leave the dungeon again—not truly. He belonged here now, in Efendi’s arms, broken and remade, forever owned. And Efendi would never let him forget it.