The private lounge was at the end of a long, carpeted hallway, on the last floor of a building that didn't appear in any public guide. It was Arturo Salvatierra's secret refuge: high ceilings made of dark wood, heavy Persian carpets, burgundy velvet curtains that let in a dim, dirty light. The air smelled of old tobacco, tanned leather, and spilled wine. A chandelier barely lit the scene, leaving the corners shrouded in twilight.

In the center of the lounge, dominating everything, a massive, brown leather armchair stood like a throne, where Salvatierra sat, master of the place, master of the men.

Arturo Salvatierra wore his usual uniform: a tailored navy blue suit, a white shirt with the first two buttons open, a red silk tie casually draped around his neck. On his wrist, a heavy, golden Swiss watch. In his right hand, the cigar he smoked with ritual slowness, and in his left, a glass of pink wine with small bubbles rising lazily. His eyes, gray and hard, were those of a sated predator.

In front of him, standing next to the king-size bed covered in black satin sheets, was Ramón.

Ramón was a bull of a man: sixty-seven years old, with a back like a wall, tattooed arms, a hard, muscular belly, and genuine flesh. His hair was short, steel gray, like his closed beard. He wore only coarse, lowered pants, exposing his heavy, thick cock, hanging menacingly like a ready-to-use weapon. His black boots resonated when he moved on the polished wooden floor.

In the middle of the bed, like a silent tribute, lay Iván.

Iván was thirty-four years old, with fair skin, a worked-out body now reduced to mere decoration. He wore only a small, black lace bra, too tiny for his masculine torso, and a chastity cage that kept his genitals prisoner, swollen, sensitive, useless. He had no right to more clothing or protection. His wrists were tied to the bed's headboard with leather straps. His legs were open, presented, exposed without shame. His dark hair, disheveled, fell over his sweaty forehead.

The situation was not casual.

Salvatierra had bought this night. He had paid for Iván to be there, for Ramón to use him in front of his eyes, like an expensive, repugnant whim that only dirty money could buy.

"Start," Arturo ordered with a hoarse voice, without removing the cigar from his mouth.

Ramón didn't need more.

He jumped onto the bed with a heavy thud, crushing the satin with his boots, and grabbed Iván by the hips like a fallen prey. Without care, he spread Iván's legs even further, until the joints creaked.

He spat between Iván's buttocks, a thick, dirty thread of hot saliva, and without losing time, rubbed the thick head of his cock against the tense opening of the submissive. Without preparation, without compassion, he thrust it in with a single, brutal push.

Iván let out a broken moan, but his tied wrists prevented him from moving. The cage s...