The room was dark, lit only by a low-intensity red lamp hanging over the wooden cross. The air smelled of leather, dry sweat, and a hint of incense. It was the agreed-upon hour. It always was.

The bodybuilder slave arrived punctually, as he had learned. On his knees, eyes cast down, heart racing. His body still showed the marks of the last session. He had taken care of them with care, like someone protecting a new tattoo.

The Master appeared behind him without making a sound. He wore high boots, a tight latex pants, and a bare torso, showing a mature, sculpted physique, not built in gyms, but in years of control. His presence alone imposed silence.

"You have disobeyed," he said coldly.

The slave looked up, confused. His blood froze.

"My Master... no... I don't understand."

"You spoke without permission during Tuesday's dinner. You interrupted when you hadn't been given the word. It doesn't matter if it was minor. Obedience has no exceptions."

The words fell like a stone. The slave swallowed hard. He didn't remember breaking the rules. But he didn't argue. He shouldn't.

"Yes, my Master. Punish me."

A slight smile drew on the Master's lips. It wasn't sadistic pleasure. It was satisfaction. The training was bearing fruit.

"Today, it won't be just physical punishment. Today, we'll train your mind."

The bodybuilder was taken to the cross. The straps were adjusted one by one. Wrists, ankles, chest. His back was exposed, open like a confession. The Master took a thin, flexible rod. No announcement was needed.

The first blow was dry, precise. The slave gasped. Ten more followed, alternated with pauses, with words.

"You don't speak without permission. You don't decide without guidance. You don't dominate without my command."

Each phrase was followed by a blow. He wasn't seeking screams. He was seeking surrender. And he got it.

When the body trembled, and sweat slid down the tense shoulders, the Master approached from behind and spoke into his ear:

"Now, I'll give you a test."

He freed the slave from the cross and led him to a full-length mirror. In front of it, another young man waited. Naked, kneeling. Young, beautiful, new. His gaze was loaded with anxiety and poorly tamed submission.

"His name is Íker. He wants to serve. But he doesn't know how. You'll train him. I'll watch."

The bodybuilder swallowed hard. He looked at the boy, then at the mirror, and what he saw was disturbing: not just himself, but the Master's reflection behind, firm, observing. As if he was manipulating him with invisible strings.

"Start now."

Without thinking, he took the boy by the chin. He ordered him to lie down. He tied his wrists. Guided by the memory of each lived session, he caressed him, tested him, corrected him. The boy gasped, trembled, begged. And he, for the first time, felt it: p...