I have noticed him at the gym, a 50-year-old man very marked, with wide arms, a large chest, and very marked abdominals. After 2 months of studying him, I finally attacked one night. I parked the van and asked him for help changing a tire, and at the moment of helping, I injected him with a sedative that left him conscious but unable to move.

I have him lying on the floor of my garage, still with agitated breathing. His open eyes show more fury than fear, but his body is totally useless due to the sedative. Tense muscles, perfect, useless now in the face of the control I have over him.

I put the cuffs on his wrists and ankles, making it clear that the rules are: no one escapes, no one challenges me. I take the scissors and start cutting the sweaty t-shirt into long strips, tearing the fabric from his chest, exposing that tanned skin and the black hair, the torso of a mature man that I have admired from a distance. I feel the heat of his body, the strong smell of the gym and masculinity, while I lower the scissors down his steel abdomen, opening his clothes until he is completely naked.

His arms, those that could once break anything, now tremble with pure impotence. I observe each muscle, each marked vein on his forearm, unable to move, only looking at me with resentment, swallowing his pride. I pass my gaze over his member resting between bull muscles, that body worked on for years reduced to mere flesh for my use.

I crouch next to him, smell him, touch him, palpate his chest with my fingers, and squeeze a nipple while speaking into his ear, making sure he knows perfectly well that he has no power here, that I decide what will happen.

"All that strength, that macho fifty-year-old body, is useless to you now," I whisper, laughing at his frustration. "Here you are only my toy, and we will see how much your body can endure."

Still lying down, he remains trapped in that mature and immobile body, only capable of responding to me with gestures of impotence and contained rage. He doesn't need words: each grimace on his face is a mixture of humiliation and pain while I play with his nipples, biting them hard, twisting them, pulling them until the skin reddens and trembles. My mouth leaves visible marks, and I know that each passing minute breaks him a little more.

Without giving him a break, I settle between his legs and use my hand to hit his balls, first softly, then with increasing force, observing how all his musculature tenses uselessly and his face contorts with each impact. Low grunts, gasps of pain; there is no modesty, only absolute submission to the pain that I provoke. No one will hear him here.

When I get tired, I squeeze his neck hard, seeing how his gaze bulges and his breathing accelerates, his veins throbbing under my hand. I don't let him reach the limit; I control each second, enjoying his vulnerability, before releasing him and leaving him panting.

I decid...