CHAPTER 1: THE ARRIVAL AND THE DISINTEGRATION

CHAPTER 1: THE ARRIVAL AND DISINTEGRATION

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PROLOGUE: THE DECISION

My name is Ray. I'm 70 years old. I'm gay, passive, submissive. And I've been dead inside for two years.

My Master died two years ago. Cancer. Three months from diagnosis to the end. He left me alone, without direction, without purpose. I tried to keep going, but without Him, I was just an old body that breathed.

I live in Lamalou-les-Bains, a small town in southern France, 40 kilometers from Béziers. I work here, but my heart has always been in Spain. During those two years, I tried everything to fill the void. Apps, websites, BDSM groups in Montpellier, Béziers, even in Barcelona. I found dozens of "masters". They were all a damn lie. Guys who played at being dominant on weekends. Who had safety words for everything. Who stopped every five minutes to ask "are you okay?". Who confused BDSM with amateur theater.

I don't want theater. I want total surrender. TPE. Total Power Exchange. I want someone to strip me of everything: will, identity, control. I want to be property. Not a submissive boyfriend. Not a play partner. Property.

So I looked in Spain.

I found two profiles that caught my attention.

Marc, 38 years old, Girona/Barcelona. Professional dominant. Structured. He had a partner. He offered me a weekend of "intensive exploration". Safety words. Aftercare. Respect. All very correct. Too correct.

José, 45 years old, Granada. His profile was brutal: "Looking for older submissive for real TPE. No games. No safety words except 'red', which means definite end. If you say it, it's over forever. You come to my house, you're mine. 48 hours. You leave transformed or you don't leave."

I talked to both of them for weeks. Marc seemed safe, professional, predictable. José scared me. Real fear. Not the exciting fear of BDSM. Real fear of knowing that if I entered his house, there would be no going back.

I chose José.

Because I'd been dead for two years. And I needed to feel something. Even if it was terror.

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PART 1: THE JOURNEY

It's 6:00 AM on Friday. I leave Lamalou-les-Bains in my car. 945 kilometers to Granada. 9 hours of driving. 9 hours to regret it.

The first 50 kilometers to Béziers I do on autopilot. Highway A9 towards Barcelona. The sun starts to rise over the mountains. The Mediterranean will shine soon on my right.

My brain is at war.

The prefrontal cortex (the logical, rational, responsible part) screams at me: "What the hell are you doing? You're 70 years old. You're going to drive almost 1,000 kilometers to surrender to a stranger. This is crazy. You could die there. You could disappear. No one knows where you are."

The limbic system (the emotional, primitive, instinctive part) whispers to me: "You've been dead for two years. This is the only thing that's made you feel alive in months. Ke...