Chapter II – Getting to know my masochistic self

The first time they crossed the line was in the gym locker room, after closing. The main lights were already off. Only the dim, dirty glow of the emergency fluorescent lights remained. Sánchez closed the locker room door with his foot and stood staring at Gustavo in silence for several seconds that felt eternal and heavy.

—Take off your shirt. Now.

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a clear, low, non-negotiable order. Gustavo felt the blood rush to his face and at the same time down to his crotch. He could have refused. He could have let out a nervous laugh and changed the subject. Instead, he crossed his arms, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and took it off with clumsy movements. The cool air of the locker room ran over his bare chest and made his skin prickle.

Sánchez came closer. He didn't touch him yet. He just inspected him with his eyes, roaming over every muscle, every line of definition, every small scar from past training sessions, as if he were appraising meat.

—Turn around. And pull your pants down halfway down your ass.

Gustavo obeyed. He felt Sánchez's hands settle on his shoulders, slide down his back with possessive slowness, stop at his waist. Then his fingers slid under the elastic of the sweatpants and pulled down hard until his ass was bare. Sánchez squeezed one buttock, his fingers sinking into the flesh, almost to the point of pain, and held it there for several seconds while Gustavo counted his breaths so he wouldn't tremble.

—This still doesn't know what real control is —he murmured near his ear, his voice hoarse and hot—. But it's going to learn. And it's going to learn in the dirtiest way possible.

That night there was no penetration. Only orders, contact, and deliberate humiliation. Sánchez made him kneel on the cold, dirty floor of the locker room while he finished changing with absolute calm. He forced him to stay still, with his hands on his thighs, his back straight, and his eyes fixed on the floor. Every time Gustavo tried to look up, Sánchez corrected his posture with a firm pull of his hair that made him let out a whimper.

—Say "yes, sir." And look at the floor while you say it.

The phrase cost him. It burned his throat and made him clench his jaw until it hurt. But he said it. And as he said it, something inside him cracked a little and opened at the same time. As if a door that had been closed for years suddenly burst open and let in cold, dirty air.

When he finally allowed him to stand up, Gustavo had a painfully hard cock, obscenely tenting his pants. Sánchez noticed. He smiled with an almost cruel calm and gave his erection a little tap with the back of his fingers.

—Go home. Don't touch yourself. Don't cum. We'll talk tomorrow. And if you touch yourself, I'll know.

Gustavo arrived at his room trembling. He obeyed the order, although it cost him hours of mental torture. He lay down with his hands outside the ...