The last dumbbell clatters onto the rack with a satisfying metallic ring. Sweat rolls down my temples like warm oil, tracing the contours of my jaw before dripping onto the rubber flooring. Two of my slaves stand motionless by the weight tree, their collars reflecting the harsh gym lights.
"Water," I say, and instantly one of the slaves moves—a smooth but fast motion—extending a chilled steel bottle toward me. Its forearm flexes as it holds the offering steady, eyes lowered, never meeting mine. I take the bottle, my fingers dwarfing its grip, and tilt my head back as the icy water floods my throat. The slave doesn't move, barely even seeming to breathe—just waits, its shaved scalp gleaming under the fluorescents. The other slave has already begun wiping down the bench press, its movements precise and silent. Neither of them speaks. They never do.
Turning, I stride toward the gym's frosted glass door, my bare feet leaving faint damp prints on the mat. Behind me, I hear the soft clink of metal as the slaves shift to clean the dumbbell rack. The door swings shut without a sound, sealing them inside. The hallway is cooler, the air thick with the scent of lemon disinfectant and the faint musk of sweat. Four of my other slaves stand at attention outside the bathroom door, their collars identical, their postures rigid. They don't look up as I approach.
The bathroom door opens before I touch it—one of the slaves has anticipated my movement, stepping aside with its head bowed. Steam curls around my ankles as I enter, the shower already running at the perfect temperature. Four pairs of bare feet shift slightly on the wet tile, but otherwise, they remain still, waiting. Their shaved heads gleam under the recessed lighting, their pale skin flushed pink from the heat.
I step under the showerhead, the water instantly sluicing down my chest, turning my dark-brown skin slick. My slaves move in unison—no hesitation, no wasted motion. One kneels in front of me and begins lathering my calves with a rough washcloth. Its fingers are careful but firm, kneading the muscle as it works upward. Behind me, another slave kneels before reaching for the soap. Its hands glide over the curve of my ass, down the thick cords of my hamstrings, its touch reverent. The remaining two step forward, one on either side, their arms raised to scrub my chest and arms. The rings of their collars click softly as they move, the sound lost under the rush of water.
The slave kneeling before me works its way up my thighs with the washcloth, its movements methodical against my skin. Its head dips lower as it reaches my groin, its fingers spreading the suds carefully over my massive cock and balls. The contrast is stark—its pale hands against my dark, thick flesh, its knuckles brushing the coarse hair at the base. It doesn't hurry, doesn't falter, just continues its task with the same quiet efficiency as always. Behind me, the other slave's hands press into the meat of my buttocks, kneading the tension from my muscles. The heat of the water and their touch makes my skin prickle, the sensation almost electric.
One of the slaves at my side lifts my arm, its fingers working into the dense hair of my armpit, scrubbing with just enough pressure to make my muscles twitch. The other traces the ridges of my abs with the washcloth, its touch lingering on the deep grooves between each one. Their silence is absolute, broken only by the patter of water and the occasional soft click of their collars. I tilt my head back, letting the water rush over my face, my own hands raking through my hair. None of them could reach this high even if I allowed it—their obedience keeps them low, their bodies bent in service.
A familiar pressure builds low in my gut, warm and insistent. The slave between my legs doesn't pause its ministrations, even as my cock thickens under its touch. I exhale through my nose, watching the way its muscles tense slightly—anticipating, but never resisting. The piss comes hot and sudden, splattering across its right shoulder before streaking down its chest in golden rivulets. It doesn't flinch. Doesn't gasp. Just tilts its head slightly, letting the stream hit its shaved head, the liquid sheening over its features before dripping off its chin.
Behind me, the slave washing my hamstrings doesn't falter either—its hands continue kneading the muscle, unfazed by the wet sound of urine hitting tile. The ones at my sides don't glance down, their focus locked on scrubbing the sweat from my pecs, their fingers digging into the solid muscle. The smell is sharp, earthy, mingling with the steam and soap. I watch the piss hitting the kneeling slave's scalp. Its breath stays even, its hands still working the washcloth in slow circles around the base of my cock.
The slave's shoulders ripple slightly as the piss runs down its spine, pooling in the hollow of its lower back before disappearing into the drain beneath me. Its hands never stop moving—the washcloth glides down my scrotum, twisting gently at the base before sliding back up. The warmth of the water and the heat of my release make the air thick, humid.
The slave behind me presses deeper between my buttocks, the washcloth rough against my skin as it traces the crease. I shift my stance, widening my legs just enough to give it space. Its knuckles brush against my hole, the pressure firm but not insistent, waiting for my body to yield before it continues. I exhale, feeling the heat of the water and the warmth of its touch against the back of my thighs. The soap lathers thick between my cheeks, its fingers working in slow circles, the friction just shy of too much.
The washcloth drops with a wet slap against the tiles as the slave presses its face firmly against my ass, tongue flat and broad on me. It laps with disciplined focus, the rhythm almost meditative—warm, wet strokes that make my thighs quiver. I arch slightly, allowing it to continue until I decide I've had enough. My muscles tighten, trapping its face for a brief moment before I release, and it pulls back, breath uneven. Water streams down my back, mixing with the soap left behind.
With a snap of my fingers, I let my slaves know that the shower is over. The water shuts off with a quiet click, steam still curling around me as I step out of the shower. The slaves move instantly—two of them lifting thick cotton towels from the heated rack while the others remain kneeling, their hands now empty but poised, waiting. The first towel glides over my shoulders, the fabric rough but the touch feather-light. The second follows the curve of my spine, soaking up the water still clinging to my skin. Their fingers trace my muscles with utmost care, the friction of the towels teasing my nipples, my abs, the dip of my hips. I feel myself hardening under their attention, my cock thickening against my thigh as one slave kneels to blot the water from my legs.
I grab the slave drying my chest by its collar, the metal cold under my fingers, and drag it toward the marble countertop. Its body goes pliant, legs parting before I even lift it, its chest pressing into the cool surface as I bend it over. There’s no resistance—just the subtle jerk of its hips when I shove inside, its back arching to take me deeper. The other slaves don't pause; one continues toweling my buttocks, another my arms, their touches never faltering even as the one beneath me jerks with each thrust, its fingers scrambling for purchase on the marble.
When I finish, I pull out with a wet sound, my cum streaking down its thighs. Two slaves immediately drop to their knees, their tongues lapping at my cock before any semen can drip to the floor. Their mouths are warm, insistent, one sucking the head clean while the other licks up the mess along my shaft. They don't stop until I'm spotless, their tongues flicking over every inch, their lips pressing into the crease of my groin. But the heat in my gut hasn't faded—if anything, the sight of them kneeling, their collars glinting, has stoked it higher.
I yank another slave up by its arm, turning it to face the mirror above the sink. Its reflection stares back at me—eyes lowered, lips parted—as I push into it from behind, one hand fisted in its collar to hold it still. Its body is tighter, clenching around my solid meat as I fuck it harder, my hips snapping forward until its knees buckle. It catches itself on the edge of the sink, its breath fogging the glass with each ragged exhale. The other slaves watch, their hands now still at their sides, their bodies taut with anticipation.
When I pull out this time, my cum spills down its legs in thick ropes, but I barely notice before two slaves are on me again, their tongues lapping at my softening cock. Their mouths are relentless, their tongues tracing the veins along my shaft as they swallow every drop. The one that I had fucked first presses a kiss to the tip before pulling away, its lips slick and parted.
The slaves step back as I straighten, their heads bowed, their bodies still glistening with water. One of them lifts my bath vest from the rack, the silk sliding over my shoulders like a second skin. The fabric clings to my damp chest, the deep V-cut accentuating the swell of my pecs as I stride toward the bathroom door.
The door clicks shut behind me, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood as I stride toward the kitchen. Another of my slaves—younger than the others, having been bought just a couple of weeks ago—stands motionless by the marble counter, a plate of sliced venison arranged in perfect arcs before it. Its chastity cage glints under the pendant lights, the metal polished to a dull sheen against its pale thighs.
I pluck a piece of meat from the plate, the juices running dark over my fingers before I pop it into my mouth. The slave doesn’t move, but its eyelashes flutter when I tear off another strip with my teeth. The flavor blooms rich and iron-heavy on my tongue. On the counter beside the meat, a small bowl of chilled mango chunks sits waiting, their golden flesh glistening.
"Closer," I say, and the slave drops to its knees instantly, its head level with its owner's hip. I take a slice of mango between my fingers, letting the juice drip onto its collarbone before holding it out. Its lips part—no teeth showing, just the wet heat of its tongue as it takes the offering from my hand. The sound it makes is barely audible, a muted click of its throat as it swallows. I feed it another piece, this time dragging the fruit slowly over its bottom lip before letting it have the rest.
The slave's eyelashes flutter again as juice from the mango drips down its chin. My cock twitches, already half-hard from the sight of its pink tongue darting out to catch the sticky sweetness. Its chest gleams, catching droplets of fruit. I toss the last slice onto the plate with a wet slap and grip its chin, forcing its gaze upward. Its pupils dilate instantly—black swallowing blue—but it doesn't resist as I drag my thumb over its bottom lip, smearing the juice.
"Bedroom," I say, my thumb still pressed against the slave's juice-stained lips. A subtle quiver passes through it, but it doesn't move until I release its chin. "On my bed. On all fours. Ass up. Hole open."
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