The air was thick. Not because of the heat, but because of the presence.

The cell had no windows, and yet it seemed more exposed than any public square. Because inside, everything one was —name, will, history— was left at the door. The only thing that mattered was the body. The one that commanded, and the one that obeyed.

And he, Mandla, was the one in command.

He advanced naked, without haste, with each step like a hammer striking the floor. His body was a cathedral without cracks: black skin stretched over muscles that knew no compassion. The broad chest, the marked shoulders like carved stone, and between his legs, hanging with living threat, his scepter: a thick, brutal cock, pulsating like the heart of a beast. Fat, proud, erect without effort, as if the mere act of walking was enough to demand adoration. It was his crown. His scepter. His weapon. His flag. He didn't need symbols: he wore it in front, fearsome, imposing, like a promise that always came true.

In front of him, on his knees, with his head bowed and his ass back, was the other. He no longer had a name. He no longer had a sex. Only a small, white body, huddled in itself, covered in soft skin and useless flesh. His cock was the opposite: small, shrunk inside a steel cage, harmless, mocked, almost childish. Shame had been suppressed by time: what remained was resignation.

And his ass, his ass was another story.

It was the place where the law was written. Round, pale, worn out by previous sessions. Mandla called it "the altar", because that's where he sacrificed resistance, where he imprinted his dominance. The marks were visible: fingers, belts, open and closed wounds. And between the buttocks, that hole that seemed to always wait, as if it knew it no longer belonged to him.

Mandla surrounded him. He didn't say anything. He just observed him, like a god contemplating his servant. Then he stopped in front of him and raised his cock with one hand, like someone presenting a banner in an ancient ritual.

"This is the only thing that matters here," he said with a deep, dry voice, closer to a sentence than a phrase. "Your life begins and ends with this."

The submissive raised his gaze. Not out of desire, but out of obedience. His mouth was dry. His throat was tense. He couldn't speak, nor should he. He could only listen, swallow, kneel.

Mandla forced him to turn around. He bent down and spat between his buttocks with violence. The sound of the saliva hitting the white flesh was like a shot in the cell. Then, with his palm open, he separated the buttocks with a force that didn't ask for permission.

And there it was. The orifice. The zero point. The symbol of submission.

"You're a vessel," he whispered while taking him by the nape of the neck and holding him down. "A container. Everything that enters you belongs to me. Everything that comes out, I despise."

The submissive...