Chapter VI – The new life in the BDSM dungeon

The country house stopped being a place he went to on weekends. It became his only reality, the absolute center of his existence.

Everything that had been before—the gym, the small room, the routines he himself chose—faded away until it became a blurry, ever more distant memory. Sánchez had assigned him a permanent space in the basement: a small dungeon with cold, damp stone walls that constantly sweated, with a narrow metal bed without a proper mattress, only a thin mat that barely cushioned the cold of the iron.

There were rusty rings fixed to the walls and the floor, sturdy enough to withstand hours of struggling, and a low toilet with no privacy at all, placed in a corner where anyone who came down could see it. The air was always heavy. He almost never took off the black leather collar anymore. Only when Sánchez decided he should train for a few hours in the gym to keep his body in the physical condition he considered useful as merchandise. Those outings were brief, watched, and purely functional: he lifted weights, sweated, went back. Then the collar closed around his neck again with the same dry click as always.

The days had a clear, cruel, repetitive structure, designed to erase any remaining trace of his own will. In the morning, if he had not been used during the night to complete exhaustion, he had to kneel next to the dungeon door in the exact posture he had been taught: back straight, hands on his thighs, eyes on the floor, mouth slightly open. There he waited, sometimes for more than an hour, until Sánchez or Vince came to get him.

The silence of that wait became deafening. Only the distant dripping of some pipe and his own breathing could be heard. Then came the forced cleanings. He had to shower with cold water while someone watched him, scrub himself until his skin burned, and then present himself completely clean and available.

Then the positions began: staying on his knees with his arms outstretched until his muscles trembled uncontrollably, staying on all fours with his back arched for increasingly long periods, or standing with his legs spread and his hands behind his head while they placed clamps on his nipples or on his scrotum.

The pain endurance exercises were daily. Spankings with the hand, with the belt, or with the thin cane. Prolonged orgasm denial until tears ran down his face without him being able to help it. Sánchez had taught him to stay open with ever larger plugs for hours at a time, even while he slept or while he ate on his knees. To endure the whipping without asking for it to stop, even if the skin split slightly and the burning became almost unbearable. To use his mouth for as long as they ordered, even if his jaw ached to the limit, his throat burned, and tears sprang from his eyes from the reflex. Every failure was paid for with more pain. Every success was rewarded, sometimes, with the possibility of coming… or simply with not being punished immediat...