By Catgenie
Email: catgenie@gmail.com

Previous page

7. The new life

Aykut slipped through the unmarked side door of the warehouse on the edge of the industrial district, the heavy steel clanging shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the quiet night. Inside, the enormous space was his alone—no prying eyes, no crowds, no judges. Just rows of gleaming black iron, pristine machines, and wall-to-wall full-length mirrors that reflected every brutal inch of him under harsh, unforgiving fluorescent light. He stripped to his black posing trunks without ceremony and began. He attacked the weights with the same savage focus that had once carried him toward national stages—only now the fire burned colder, more obsessive. Hack squats crushed his quads until the teardrops swelled to grotesque proportions, veins snaking across them like rivers of blue lightning. Deadlifts pulled every fiber in his hamstrings and lower back taut, the bar bending under plates he loaded without counting. Overhead presses carved his delts into cannonballs, traps rising like mountains. Cable flyes and pec-deck sets shredded his chest until the separations looked etched with a blade. He posed between sets—double biceps, most muscular, side chest—holding each contraction until his vision tunneled and his breath came in ragged gasps, watching himself in the mirrors with clinical detachment. The reflection staring back was no longer just a bodybuilder; it was a monument, a weapon, a gift. When the final set ended—quad extensions that left him shaking and gasping—he stood motionless in the center of the room, sweat pouring in rivers down every carved ridge, chest heaving, cock half-hard from the pump and the endorphin flood. He knew what he looked like: bigger than ever, harder than ever, peeled to a level of definition that bordered on inhuman. Every striation, every vascular roadmap, every swollen head of muscle had been sculpted for one audience.

Efendi would approve. The thought sent a shiver through him—not entirely unpleasant.

He showered in the small, pristine bathroom attached to the warehouse, dried off, dressed in dark street clothes, and drove back across the city to his quiet apartment in the upscale residential enclave. The building was discreet, the neighbors polite and distant. Inside, the space was immaculate: dark hardwood floors, minimalist furniture, a 85-inch OLED that dominated one wall, a king-sized bed with sheets that cost more than most people’s rent, and a kitchen stocked like a high-end supplement store—rows of Tupperware filled with prepped chicken, rice, sweet potatoes, egg whites, and a fridge humming with protein shakes, BCAAs, creatine, and every cutting-edge ergogenic aid money could buy.

Aykut stood naked before the full-length mirror in the bedroom, lights low, hands on his hips. He turned slowly, cataloging the changes: the sweep of his quads now so extreme they brushed even when he stood relaxed, the deep Christmas-tree etchings above his glutes, the impossible thickness of his arms at 22 inches cold. He flexed once—slow, controlled—and watched the muscle dance under paper-thin skin.

Efendi would see this.

Efendi would touch this.

Efendi would own this.

The realization settled into him like a drug—shame and hunger twisting together until he could no longer tell them apart. He climbed into the huge bed, pulled the covers over his still-warm body, and closed his eyes. Aykut closed his eyes, the weight of exhaustion and surrender pulling him under like dark water. Sleep came fast and dreamless, a black void that swallowed everything.

The next morning he woke before dawn, the apartment still wrapped in silence. Habit took over before thought: five-mile run through the quiet, tree-lined streets of the upscale neighborhood. He needed the cardio—sharp, relentless—to keep the mass from turning soft, to burn off any hint of bloat that might dull the razor edges of his physique. The air was cool against his skin as he pounded the pavement in nothing but compression shorts and running shoes, quads and calves firing with mechanical precision, breath steady, mind blank except for the rhythm of his stride and the knowledge that every mile sharpened the body Efendi would soon inspect.

Back home he showered off the sweat, then prepared the usual post-cardio feast: eight egg whites, two whole eggs, a mountain of oats, a scoop of whey, berries, almond butter, black coffee strong enough to strip paint. He ate standing at the kitchen island, staring at his reflection in the dark window—already fuller in the traps and delts from yesterday’s pump, veins still faintly visible even relaxed. The sight sent a low, familiar heat coiling in his groin.

His phone buzzed on the counter. One line from an unknown number:

*Car at 2. Master expects you ready.*

His cock surged instantly, thickening against the loose fabric of his shorts until the head pushed past the hem, leaking a dark spot on the cotton. He gripped the edge of the counter, breathing hard through his nose, shame and hunger twisting together until he couldn’t tell which was winning. He cleaned himself meticulously—shaved every inch below the neck, douched twice, oiled his skin until it gleamed, then dressed exactly as always: plain black tank top stretched tight across his pecs, gray sweat shorts that did nothing to hide the outline of his semi-hard cock, white trainers. No underwear. Never underwear anymore.

At 2:00 p.m. sharp the black limousine rolled up outside. Tinted windows, no markings. Aykut slid into the back seat without a word to the driver. The partition stayed up the entire ride. He stared out at the passing city, then suburbs, then gated estates, pulse hammering in his throat, erection never fully subsiding. The car eventually turned onto a long private drive lined with ancient cypresses. The house beyond was massive, modern, cold—glass and steel and stone, more fortress than home. As always, he was led not through the front doors but down a discreet side path to a basement entrance. Inside the familiar marble chamber the three masseurs waited—Emir, Burak, Kerem—hoodless this time, dressed only in white towels knotted low. They said nothing beyond the usual quiet commands.

“Strip.”

Aykut obeyed instantly, peeling off tank and shorts, kicking off trainers until he stood naked, cock heavy and half-hard between his thighs.

“On the slab. Face up.”

He lay back on the warm marble. They worked in silence, methodically, almost reverently: warm water, soft cloths, unscented soap, rinsing every trace of the day from his skin. They avoided his nipples, avoided his cock, avoided anything that might push him over the edge. Efendi’s orders were clear—save it. The process dragged on, deliberate and slow, until the sky outside the small high windows had turned the bruised purple of dusk. Finally they dried him with thick towels, oiled him lightly from neck to toes until his muscles gleamed under the low lights.

Then the blindfold—black silk, tied snug. Aykut didn’t resist. He hadn’t in months.

They guided him up, one hand on each massive bicep, through corridors he no longer tried to map—left, right, down a short flight of stairs he didn’t remember, another turn. The air changed: warmer, scented faintly with old books, leather, and wood polish. The blindfold came off. He blinked against soft golden light. Not the dungeon.

A library—two stories high, walls lined floor-to-ceiling with leather-bound volumes, brass ladders on rails, deep burgundy armchairs, Persian rugs underfoot. Dimmed sconces and a single massive chandelier cast long, intimate shadows. In the exact center of the room stood an enormous X-shaped cross made of matte-black steel, thick enough to look industrial, reinforced at the back with heavy diagonal braces to bear serious weight. Heavy steel manacles waited at each corner—wrists high, ankles low.

Aykut’s heart slammed once, hard.

Emir stepped forward, holding a large black ball gag with thick leather straps. Without a word he pressed the sphere between Aykut’s lips. Aykut opened automatically, tongue flattening as the rubber filled his mouth, jaw stretching wide. Emir buckled the straps behind his head, tight enough that drool would soon pool at the corners of his lips but not so tight it cut circulation. Then hands on his arms, his waist—guiding, not forcing. He stepped forward until cold steel pressed against his back. They lifted his wrists one at a time, locking each into the upper cuffs with a heavy metallic clunk. Then his ankles, spreading his legs wide, locking them low so his hips tilted forward, ass presented, cock hanging thick and vulnerable between his thighs.

A final click. Silence.

Then something new: the soft, heavy rustle of fabric. A large sheet of black silk—thin, opaque, almost theatrical—was drawn across the front of the cross. It draped completely over the steel frame and Aykut’s bound body, sealing him behind a dark curtain. The library lights dimmed further on the other side; from Aykut’s perspective, only blackness remained. No blindfold this time—just the enveloping void of the silk, muffling sound, blocking sight, turning the world into an intimate, suffocating cocoon of his own breathing, his own heartbeat, and the faint, distant murmur of cloaked figures gathering beyond the veil.

He stood crucified behind the curtain—naked, oiled, muscles pumped and gleaming beneath the hidden light, gagged, heart thundering so loud he was sure the silk itself must tremble with each beat. The fabric brushed his skin with every shallow breath, a teasing reminder that he was on display, yet completely concealed from his own eyes. He could hear them now: the soft shuffle of footsteps, the low rustle of velvet cloaks, the occasional hushed breath or stifled sound of anticipation as more guests entered the library.

Then Efendi’s voice rose—soft, velvety, carrying just enough to reach through the silk and into Aykut’s ears.

“My dear friends,” he announced, calm and almost reverent, “I present for your pleasure… Hercules in restraints.”

A single, slow tug. The silk fell like dark water, drawn aside in one smooth motion by Efendi’s thin hands. Golden chandelier light flooded over Aykut’s oiled, gleaming body—every ridge of muscle, every vein, every trembling inch of him suddenly exposed. The masked guests stood revealed in their rich cloaks and ornate disguises, eyes gleaming through eyeholes as they took in the sight: the modern demigod bound spread-eagled on the black steel X, gagged, cock rigid and leaking, chest heaving. A low, collective exhale moved through the room—admiration, hunger, awe.

Efendi stepped aside, one hand resting lightly on Aykut’s quivering quad, and smiled beneath his mask.

“Let the worship begin.”

Aykut’s heart hammered against his ribs, the ball gag stretching his jaw, forcing shallow breaths through his nose. Warm palms, cool fingertips, calloused and smooth alike—brushing his skin in tentative exploration. At first just a few: a hand tracing the deep separation of his pecs, another gliding down the thick sweep of his quad, a third cupping the heavy swell of his bicep and squeezing as if testing marble. Then more. Fingers multiplied, palms overlapping, exploring every ridge and vein with reverent curiosity.

His cock—already rigid from the anticipation and the vulnerability—throbbed painfully upright, the head flushed dark and glistening. Several hands found it at once: one wrapping around the base with firm, slow strokes, another teasing the sensitive frenulum with feather-light circles, a third cupping his balls and rolling them gently. The combined sensation was overwhelming—too many points of contact, too much deliberate attention. At the same time, rough thumbs found his nipples, pinching and rolling the still-hypersensitive peaks until his knees buckled. Only the steel cross and the heavy manacles kept him upright; without them he would have collapsed to the floor in a trembling heap, legs useless, body quivering.

The room was filled. Men—perhaps fifteen, perhaps more—stood in a loose semicircle around the X-cross, all cloaked in rich, dark velvet and heavy brocade, hoods drawn low, faces hidden behind ornate Venetian-style masks: gold filigree, black leather, crimson feathers, ivory bone. Anonymous. Elegant. Predatory. They watched him with silent hunger, eyes gleaming through the eyeholes. Aykut’s gaze found Efendi immediately. Even masked, the old man was unmistakable: the narrow shoulders beneath the embroidered cloak, the scent of eucalyptus and aged parchment that clung to him, the precise way his thin fingers trailed down Aykut’s abs now, possessive and proud.

Efendi leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of Aykut’s ear, voice a low, intimate murmur that carried only to him.

“I wanted you to see, my prized possession,” he whispered, “how many people admire what I own.”

He straightened, raising one gloved hand in a small, imperious gesture.

The guests moved as one. Hands returned—more of them now—roaming freely across every inch of Aykut’s oiled, trembling body. Palms slid over his delts, squeezed his traps, traced the Christmas-tree etchings above his glutes, cupped the massive sweep of his quads. Fingers tugged at his nipples, pinched, twisted, rolled. Multiple hands encircled his cock again, stroking in conflicting rhythms—some slow and teasing, others firm and urgent—until precum welled steadily from the slit, dripping in long, glistening strands to the rug below.

Aykut’s muffled moans vibrated around the gag, body arching into every touch despite himself. The humiliation burned white-hot: this godlike physique—once his fortress, his pride—now reduced to a living exhibit, a plaything passed from hand to hand under the approving gaze of masked strangers. And yet… beneath the shame surged something darker, more intoxicating. It was the same attention he had always craved on the bodybuilding contest stage—dozens of eyes locked on him with admiration, hunger, and barely concealed lust, drinking in every flex, every vein, every glistening ridge of muscle he had carved through years of brutal discipline. But this was better. Infinitely better. There was no elevated platform, no velvet rope, no invisible barrier of lights and distance to separate him from his admirers. No judges scoring him, no audience bound by decorum or moral judgment. Here, behind the parted silk, the masks and cloaks granted permission for something rawer, truer: primal lust expressed in the most primitive way. They touched him freely—groping the thick sweep of his quads, fondling the heavy swell of his pecs, squeezing the peaked biceps until the veins stood out like cables, tracing the deep separations of his abs with greedy fingertips. Hands roamed without restraint, without apology, claiming every inch he had once guarded so fiercely. He was no longer performing for them. He belonged to them in that moment—center of their desire, object of their awe, a living altar of muscle and submission offered up by the one man who truly owned him. The shame and the worship twisted together until they were indistinguishable, feeding the dark, addictive heat that pulsed through his veins and kept his cock throbbing, leaking, begging for more even as tears continued to streak his cheeks. And every last drop of that power belonged to one man - Efendi. The frail old master who had broken him, remade him, and now displayed him like the rarest treasure in his collection.

Aykut’s hips jerked involuntarily, cock pulsing in the collective grip, precum flowing freely now. His knees trembled again, chains clinking as he fought to stay upright. Tears of overwhelmed sensation leaked from the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t look away from the masked faces, from the reverent hands, from the quiet, triumphant smile he knew was hidden beneath Efendi’s own mask. He basked in it—the adoration, the worship, the utter helplessness. All of it. Because it was all for his master.

Efendi stepped closer once more, pressing his cloaked body lightly against Aykut’s side, one thin hand resting possessively on the champion’s hip while the guests continued their silent exploration.

“See?” he breathed, just for Aykut’s ears. “They all want you. But only I have you.”

Aykut’s muffled whimper rose into a low, desperate keen. The night stretched on, hands never ceasing, worship never faltering. The worship escalated into a fevered frenzy—hands everywhere at once, greedy and reverent, stroking, squeezing, tracing every vein and striation as if trying to memorize the feel of him before the night ended. Aykut’s body arched involuntarily into the onslaught, cock throbbing in the collective grip, precum flowing in steady, humiliating rivulets down his shaft and over the fingers wrapped around him. His muffled moans vibrated through the gag, hips jerking in tiny, helpless thrusts as the collective attention pushed him perilously close to the edge.

Then Efendi raised one thin, gloved hand. Silence fell like a blade. Every palm withdrew at once. The sudden absence of touch left Aykut’s skin burning with phantom heat, muscles twitching in protest, cock bobbing desperately in the cool air of the library. Efendi stepped close again, pressing his masked face to the side of Aykut’s head, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“I want you to entertain my guests with one final feat before they go home,” he whispered, voice soft and intimate, carrying only to Aykut. “Something they will remember forever.”

Efendi raised one thin hand, the dark velvet glove catching the chandelier’s golden light for a final moment. With a slow, deliberate motion, he peeled the glove off—fingers sliding free one by one until the rich fabric dropped silently to the Persian rug at his feet. From the inner pocket of his cloak he withdrew a fresh white latex glove, the material crisp and clinical. He stretched it once between his hands—the sharp snap echoing in the hushed library—then pulled it on with practiced ease.

Only then did he reach for the small tube of Bengay. He squeezed a thick dollop onto two gloved fingers and brought them to Aykut’s nipples. The first touch was deceptively cool—then fire erupted. The menthol cream sank instantly into the hypersensitive peaks, igniting a chemical burn that felt like molten needles twisting beneath the skin. Aykut’s chest heaved, a strangled scream trapped behind the ball gag, body jerking hard enough to rattle the reinforced X-cross. Efendi worked methodically, rubbing the ointment in slow, thorough circles until both nipples were coated and glistening, the burn spreading outward in searing waves that made Aykut’s vision tunnel white at the edges.

Then—worse.

Efendi squeezed another large amount into his latex-covered palm, the cream thick and white against the shining glove. He cupped Aykut’s heavy scrotum, fingers curling around the sensitive sac, and began to massage the ointment in with slow, rolling strokes. The menthol heat bloomed immediately—intense, unrelenting, like acid eating through the thin skin. Aykut’s balls drew up tight in instinctive defense, but there was no escape; the cream seeped in, amplifying every nerve ending into screaming agony. Muffled cries turned to high, keening whimpers behind the gag—meaningless, desperate sounds that vibrated through his chest. He thrashed violently now, shoulders rolling, hips bucking, massive quads and hamstrings exploding into full, vascular definition as he fought the unyielding steel. The X-cross didn’t budge; its braces held firm, turning every desperate surge into a beautiful, futile display of muscle straining against immovable metal. Veins popped across his arms, traps, delts; sweat flew from his skin in fine arcs; his cock—still brutally hard—slapped against his lower abs with each convulsion.

Several of the masked guests, emboldened by the spectacle, reached beneath their cloaks and freed their own erections. Hands moved in slow, rhythmic strokes as they watched Aykut’s Herculean body writhe and flex, the sight of raw power reduced to helpless struggle proving too much for their restraint.

Aykut’s teary eyes locked onto Efendi’s masked face—pleading, broken, begging without words for mercy. Efendi only smiled beneath his mask. He squeezed yet another thick glob of Bengay into his gloved palm, then wrapped his thin fingers around Aykut’s tortured cock. The cream touched the ultra-sensitive head first—a searing, white-hot blaze that made Aykut’s entire body seize. The menthol burned like liquid fire along the corona, down the shaft, into every ridge and vein. Efendi began to stroke—painfully slow, deliberate pulls from base to tip, twisting gently at the head on every upstroke so the ointment spread evenly.

Aykut’s muffled screams rose to a continuous, animal wail behind the gag. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, thrusting into the burning grip even as tears streamed down his cheeks. The pain was blinding, consuming—yet beneath it, twisted and perverse, the overstimulation forced his cock to throb harder, leaking more precum that mixed with the cream into a slick, stinging lubricant. Efendi leaned in again, lips brushing Aykut’s ear once more.

“I will let you go when you cum,” he whispered, voice calm and certain. “Show them how beautifully you break for me.”

The stroking continued—agonizingly slow, mercilessly precise—each pull dragging the fire deeper, forcing Aykut’s body to chase release through a haze of unbearable sensation. His muscles locked in full, grotesque contraction; veins stood out like cables across every inch of him; his roar behind the gag became one long, shattered note of agony and desperate need.

The masked guests watched in rapt silence, hands moving faster on themselves, breaths audible now in the otherwise quiet library. And Efendi—master, owner, puppeteer—kept stroking, slow and unrelenting, waiting for the inevitable explosion that would seal Aykut’s surrender once more.

The pain was unbelievable—something entirely new, a level of torment Aykut had never imagined could exist inside a human body. The Bengay on his nipples felt like twin brands searing through to the bone, each heartbeat sending fresh waves of chemical fire radiating outward across his pecs. But on his scrotum the sensation was apocalyptic: thin skin turned hypersensitive furnace, every nerve ending screaming as if dipped in molten glass, the menthol heat burrowing deeper with every involuntary clench of his balls. And on his cock, the cream coated the head like liquid fire from hell, burning along the corona, down the frenulum, into the slit itself until it felt like the entire shaft was being slowly dissolved from the inside out.

Yet beneath the agony—or perhaps because of it—the arousal was monstrous, almost violent. His cock stayed brutally rigid, veins bulging like steel cables under the oiled skin, head swollen dark purple and glistening with a steady flow of precum that mixed with the Bengay into a slick, stinging film. Every slow stroke of Efendi’s gloved hand dragged the fire along the length, forcing more fluid to well up from the tip, and Aykut’s hips jerked forward again and again in desperate, helpless thrusts. He wanted—needed—the stroking to speed up, to push him over the edge and end the ordeal, to let the orgasm rip the pain away in one blinding release. But Efendi refused. The old man took his time. He savored every thrash, every muffled roar behind the gag, every futile surge of muscle against the unbreakable X-cross. The reinforced steel frame didn’t yield an inch; it turned Aykut’s legendary strength into a performance, a living sculpture of agony and power. Quads exploded into sweeping teardrops, hamstrings corded like bowstrings, abs rippling in brutal eight-pack waves, traps and delts ballooning as he strained upward, biceps peaking grotesquely against the manacles. Sweat flew in fine sprays with each convulsion; veins stood out like ropes across every inch of him; tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks, mixing with drool that leaked from the corners of the gag.

Efendi watched it all with reverent hunger, his own breathing slow and measured beneath the mask. In his mind he was no longer just a man in a library—he was the almighty Zeus himself, enthroned on Olympus, gazing down at an unruly son who had dared to challenge divine order. This modern Hercules—forged in iron gyms instead of ancient labors—now bound to a cross Hephaestus might have crafted: black steel, cold and eternal, forged in the fires of torment rather than a volcano. Every twitch of Aykut’s body was tribute; every broken sound behind the gag was prayer. Efendi’s gloved hand continued its torturously slow rhythm—up, twist at the head, down—drawing out the suffering, milking the precum, letting the Bengay burn deeper into every sensitive inch.

He leaned in once more, lips brushing the sweat-slick skin just below Aykut’s ear.

“Look at them,” he whispered, voice soft and dark. “They see a god in chains. But you and I know the truth: you are mine. And you will come for me exactly when I allow it—no sooner.”

Aykut’s muffled cry rose again—half plea, half surrender—as his hips bucked harder into the burning grip. The masked guests watched in rapt silence, hands moving faster on their own cocks, breaths audible now in the otherwise hushed room. Some had already spilled across the rug, but most held back, enthralled by the spectacle: the Herculean body writhing in exquisite agony, every muscle locked in futile rebellion, cock leaking and throbbing under the slow, merciless hand of the frail old master who owned him completely.

Efendi smiled beneath his mask, savoring every second. He would not hurry. Not tonight. Not ever. The fire would burn until Aykut broke beautifully—and only then would release be granted.

After most of the masked guests had reached their own climaxes—spilling across the Persian rugs, onto their cloaks, or simply into their own palms—the air in the library thickened with the heavy, musky scent of release. Efendi’s gloved hand, still wrapped around Aykut’s tortured cock, finally quickened. The strokes turned fast, firm, merciless—up and down the burning shaft in rapid, slick pulls that dragged the Bengay deeper into every hypersensitive inch. The menthol fire flared hotter with the friction, turning the head of Aykut’s cock into a blazing torch, the corona screaming as if branded anew. Yet the sudden acceleration tipped the balance: pain and overstimulation collided, fused, and detonated. Aykut’s entire Herculean body seized one final time. His muffled roar rose behind the gag—deep, guttural, animalistic, rising into a high, shattered bellow that vibrated through the steel cross and echoed off the leather-bound walls. His hips slammed forward against the restraints, quads and hamstrings locking into grotesque, veined definition, abs rippling in brutal waves, traps and delts ballooning as every muscle fiber fired at once.

Then he came.

The orgasm erupted with terrifying force—long, thick volleys of cum jetting from his tortured cock in powerful, arcing ropes. The first shot cleared the space between him and the nearest guests, splattering across a crimson-feathered mask and the velvet cloak beneath. The second and third followed in rapid succession, spraying in threaded silk strands that painted masked faces, dripping chests, and outstretched hands. Volley after volley—more than seemed possible—continued to pulse from his swollen head, each spurt accompanied by a violent jerk of his hips and another broken roar muffled by the gag. His balls drew up tight, contracting painfully under the lingering Bengay burn, forcing every last drop out in forceful, rhythmic surges until the rug beneath him was streaked and glistening.

It felt like forever.

The masked guests watched in rapt silence, many still stroking themselves through their own aftershocks, some reaching out to catch a stray rope on their fingers or tongues. When the final weak pulse finally ebbed, Aykut sagged against the X-cross, chest heaving, tears streaming unchecked, body trembling with the aftershocks of release and unrelenting pain.

Efendi stepped back, lowering his gloved hand. He looked up at his broken champion—eyes soft, almost gentle, the way a father might regard a beloved but wayward son who had finally learned his place. Without a word he turned, cloak whispering across the rug, and walked toward the double doors. The guests followed in silent procession, masks still in place, leaving only the scent of sex and menthol behind.

Moments later the doors opened again. Emir, Burak, and Kerem entered—no masks, no ceremony. Emir moved first, warm wet towels already in hand. He knelt and gently wiped the Bengay from Aykut’s nipples—soft circles that still made the champion hiss behind the gag—then down to the inflamed cock and scrotum, carefully removing every trace of the burning cream. The relief was immediate but incomplete; the nerves still throbbed with phantom fire. Kerem and Burak unlocked the manacles—wrists first, then ankles. The steel cuffs fell away with heavy clanks. Aykut’s legs buckled instantly; only the two masseurs’ strong shoulders kept him from collapsing to the floor. His massive frame sagged between them, head lolling forward, tears still leaking, body slick with sweat, cum, and oil.

They guided him—half-carrying him—through the corridors back to the familiar basement chamber. Warm water cascaded from overhead nozzles; gentle hands lathered soap across his trembling muscles, rinsing away the night’s evidence. Emir supported his weight while Kerem and Burak worked in quiet tandem, cleaning every inch with the same methodical care they had used to prepare him hours earlier. Aykut drifted. The water was warm, the touches careful, almost soothing. His eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The last thing he registered was the soft pat of towels drying his skin, the faint scent of unscented soap, and the low murmur of the three men guiding him toward a waiting cot in the corner.

Then darkness took him again—deep, dreamless, merciful.

Aykut woke in the dim light of his apartment bedroom, sheets tangled around his massive thighs, the faint scent of last night’s oil and sweat still clinging to his skin despite the shower. Exhaustion weighed on him like lead—muscles sore, joints aching from the strain of the cross, nerves still raw from the Bengay’s lingering burn—but his cock was already rigid, tenting the thin sheet with insistent hardness. The memories flooded back unbidden: the masked faces, the hands everywhere, the slow, torturous strokes that had turned pain into something unbearable yet intoxicating. He groaned low in his throat, hand sliding down to wrap around his shaft almost without thinking. The touch sent a fresh jolt through him—sensitive, still faintly stinging from the cream, but the ache only fueled the arousal. He stroked slowly at first, eyes closed, replaying the way Efendi’s gloved hand had milked him in front of strangers, the way his body had betrayed him with every desperate thrust. Fear twisted in his gut at the thought of what came next: some new torment, some deeper humiliation that would push him even further into the abyss. Would it be ice next time? Electricity again? Or something worse—something that would make him beg louder, break faster? He didn’t know. He couldn’t predict. And that uncertainty only made his cock throb harder in his grip.

The anticipation coiled tight in his chest—fear of the pain, dread of the shame, yet a dark, hungry craving for the submission that followed. Nothing in his life had ever felt like this: the surrender of his godlike body, the knowledge that every sculpted inch belonged to Efendi, that his strength existed now only to be tested, broken, and praised. He pumped faster, breath hitching, imagining the old man’s thin fingers, the masked eyes watching, the moment he would shatter again.

His hips bucked off the mattress. Cum spilled in thick ropes across his abs, hot and plentiful, each spurt pulling a low, guttural moan from his throat. He rode the aftershocks, hand slick and slowing, until the tension finally ebbed. He lay there panting, staring at the ceiling, cum cooling on his skin.