Chapter III – Sánchez's Obsession

Sánchez didn't just use him. He began to study him with the same cruel dedication with which a butcher studies a cut of meat before carving it up. He wanted to know exactly what broke him, what kept him whole, what made him tremble with fear and what made him beg in a low, broken voice. At the gym, in front of the clients, they continued to be trainer and student. At the country house, the rules were different, older, dirtier and more absolute.

He taught him positions to the point of exhaustion. How to kneel with a perfectly straight back and hands in the correct position for hours. How to offer his mouth without being asked, open and ready. How to keep his gaze lowered even when desire consumed him inside and his penis dripped. Vince sometimes helped him: he showed him how to breathe during a prolonged flogging so as not to faint, how to relax his body to accept a deep and sustained penetration without breaking completely, how to clean another slave's semen with his tongue without being ordered to. Other times he simply watched him with a mixture of understanding and desire, like someone who recognizes a person being destroyed exactly the same way he was destroyed years before.

One night, Sánchez took him to the basement. The room had cold, damp stone walls, with metal rings fixed to the ceiling and the floor. He tied him standing, with his arms above his head and his legs separated by a metal bar that didn't allow them to close even a centimeter. He inserted a thick, heavy plug that opened him to the limit, placed a low-intensity but constant vibrator against his perineum and left a thick blindfold over his eyes.

"You're going to stay like this until I decide," Sánchez said in a calm and cruel voice. "You can't come. You can't ask me to stop. You can only wait, feel and break slowly."

The hours stretched until they became mental torture. The vibrator didn't stop. The plug kept him open and aware of his own body in an almost unbearable way. When Sánchez returned, Gustavo was shaking uncontrollably, his penis swollen, purple and dripping, his breathing ragged and old and new tears on his cheeks. Sánchez removed the blindfold, spat in his face and fucked him without further preparation, with slow, deep and deliberate movements, while he spoke into his ear with an almost intimate and disgustingly possessive voice:

"You are not a free man, Gustavo. You are meat. You are a hole with muscles. You are merchandise that hasn't fully realized it yet. I am going to make sure you understand it. And when you understand it, there will be nothing left of you that isn't mine."

Each thrust was a lesson. Each denial of orgasm, a way of rewriting him from the inside. When he finally allowed him to come, Gustavo did so with a choked, broken cry, his body convulsing against the ropes, his mind blank for several long, dirty seconds.

From then on, Sánchez began to lend him out naturally. First to Vince, to...