Burt stood in his kitchen wearing only his boxer shorts, which bulged in the front.
"Frank!" Burt called out.
"In here," Frank replied from the living room.
Burt walked across to the arch that led into the larger room at the front of the house. There, he found Frank naked and sitting on the sofa. His arms were behind his head, and between his spread legs, Gimp was swallowing his erect cock.
"I'm heading out to the Club shortly," Burt replied, not even paying attention to what was happening.
Frank had his eyes closed and was biting his lower lip as he guided the slave up and down using his right hand on the back of Gimp's head.
"Uh-huh," the young man replied.
"Frank!" Burt growled.
"What?" Frank replied as he opened his eyes and looked over at his uncle.
"Look at me when I am talking to you," Burt replied. "You can play with your toy anytime."
"You are going to the Club," Frank said, slightly annoyed. "Sounds good."
Frank rolled his eyes.
"I won't be back for a few days. Do you think you can keep this place going while I am out?"
"Fuck yeah," Frank moaned as his feet curled. "Suck that cock, bitch."
"Frank!" Burl growled louder.
"I can handle things," Frank shot back. "It is not like there is much going on anyway."
"Yes, well, when I get back, we will need to discuss some things," Burt replied. "You are becoming lazy."
"And?" Frank replied. "We have slaves to do the work around here for a reason."
"There are still things that need to be done that require a master's hand," Burt said.
"I can handle it," Frank replied. "Just go have fun."
Burt grit his teeth and turned to leave the room. He then quickly dressed and got on the road before he let his anger get the better of him.
Frank had only been living on the farm full-time since the summer, though he had basically grown up there. Rodger, Frank's father, had been mostly absent from his life. Burt and Rodger could not have been any more different. Where Burt was business-minded and fiscally responsible, Roger was more apt to bounce from job to job and live paycheck to paycheck. Where Burt worked out and prized his strength and brawn, Roger was more gracile with a beer belly. The only thing they had in common, other than their parents, was a large set of balls and a ten-inch cock, and while Burt put that to good use over the years, Roger had been nearly celibate after knocking up his girlfriend and producing Frank.
Burt had tried to provide a nurturing environment for the boy, especially as he grew older. He had hoped to mold Frank into the type of hard Texan who could handle himself in any situation. But it was clear that he had too much of his father in him. He was scrawny. His red and blond beard was patchy and nearly always unkept. The boy would go days without showering and was normally rank, and his average-sized cock and balls were not going to impress anyone either.
Still, Burt appreciated having Frank around, though the past few weeks had become more difficult. Ever since he snapped and slapped Frank, the two had been distant. In truth, the incident had affected Burt more than he realized. Acting out in front of your slave property was to be avoided. Real men dealt with their problems one-on-one, in private. And backslapping Frank brought up painful memories of childhood. Visions of his own father beating him and Rodger for any infraction had begun to surface.
Burt had decided to spend some time away from the farm to decompress. The Angel's Club was a four-story building in the next town over. A former mercantile building, it had been transformed into a private space for members only. The lower floor had smoking rooms and places to play billiards and cards. They reminded Burt of the saloons of the Old West. And like those businesses of old, the upper floors were focused on pleasure.
Male slaves and ex-slaves, as well as women, were available for use by the members at any time. Rooms could be booked by the hour or by the day. There were even apartments that could be rented out for longer periods. It was a place to enjoy oneself, to talk business, to discuss the politics of the day, and to release the tensions of what could be a dismal life.
Burt had been a member for fifteen years. He occasionally gambled, but primarily went to lose himself in debauchery. One slave in particular was his favorite. It was a red-tag slave nicknamed Tank, who was in its thirties. It was hairless with a firm body and a large bubble butt. Its bright blue eyes sparkled even in the dimmest of rooms, and it was experienced in all forms of both pleasure and pain, both giving and receiving.
After checking in, Burt rode the lift up, watching his reflection in the gold-mirrored walls. He had dressed for the occasion. His work jeans were tight as shrink-wrap, we wore a pearl snap shirt open two buttons down, and his boots were rough and slightly muddy, perfect for a tongue cleaning. The outline of his muscles, the ones covering his chest and arms, was visible even through the shirt. The hair on his chest was so thick it cast a shadow up his neck, and his beard was dark and sharp, trimmed tight along the jaw. Years in the sun had stained his skin a color somewhere between pecan and rusted copper, and his hands had the look of a man who could choke out a steer with just a little incentive. He didn't mind aging, but he refused to get soft.
He stepped out on floor three. The hallway ran straight and narrow, with doors every twenty feet. At the far end, a tall man in a double-breasted jacket stood sentry, as if the club needed protection from its own. Burt's room was 314, same as always, not that it mattered. What he liked about the place was that nothing ever changed.
The door opened at the touch of his card. Inside, the room was cool and dim. The windows were blacked out, the bed stripped to just a fitted sheet and a towel. There was a tray on the dresser with a glass bottle of water, two stacked tumblers, and a small tin of pastilles. On the low table, next to a wooden paddle and a coil of black cord, was his favorite: the leather flogger, the strands oiled and heavy, the grip cut to fit a man's fist. It had the club's initials stamped at the base.
And there was Tank. The slave was on its knees, back arched, arms behind in the posture they called the angel: shoulders drawn back, fingers interlaced, and head bowed. Tank's skin was pale, almost blue in the washed-out light, except for the thick red lines that crisscrossed its thighs and its ass, the marks left by sessions past. They had kept it hairless, not just shaved, but lasered down to the follicles. Its body was all muscle and tendons. The only softness on it was its cock and balls, which were huge and pendulous.
Burt watched Tank's chest rise and fall. The slave had a way of being perfectly still, but you could see in the eyes that it was always wound tight as a snare drum. Tank's eyes were neon blue, almost obscene in their brightness, and they never left Burt's boots.
"Been a while, Master," Tank said. The voice was flat, pleasant, with only the tiniest hitch of nervousness. "Room's yours for the next seventy-two hours. I can take it all if you need."
Burt grinned. "You'll take what I give, as always."
Tank's mouth twitched.
Burt sat down on the edge of the bed and reached down to pull off his boots. He watched the slave watching him. When the boots were off, he stretched his toes, showing off the filthy, sweat-stained socks.
"Down," he said, pointing.
Tank slithered forward and pressed its face to the feet, lips brushing the wool. It inhaled, and the breath caught in its throat. It pulled the first sock off and then the second. It started licking, soft at first, then with its whole tongue, slobbering down the arch of Burt's right foot like it was its first meal in a week. It went slowly, careful not to rush, lapping up the mix of salt and dirt, eyes closed, then open, then closed again. The slave got off on it. Burt could see its cock swelling, the head already leaking, just from the stink of his feet.
Burt slapped the slave across the cheek. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, just to remind it that this was about service, not enjoyment.
"You don't get to like it until I say so," Burt said.
"Yes, Master."
"Say thank you."
"Thank you, Master, for the privilege of cleaning your feet."
Burt let him finish, then kicked him back with a push of his sole. "On your hands and knees, slave."
Tank shifted position, palms flat to the floor, ass up and ready. Burt grinned as he slowly removed his shirt and threw it on the bed. He took the flogger and let it dangle from his fist, feeling the weight. He got up, moved behind Tank, and ran the tip along the line of the slave's ass, letting the anticipation build. He liked how Tank's skin shivered at every touch, the way the muscles flexed and then tensed for the blow.
The first strike was easy, more of a warning. The leather strands snapped across Tank's cheeks, leaving white lines that bloomed red after a second. Tank sucked in a breath but didn't make a sound.
"Count for me," Burt said.
"One, Sir," Tank said, voice tight.
Burt brought the flogger down again, harder. "Two, Sir."
The third blow left a small welt, and Tank's head jerked, but it kept the pose. "Three, Sir."
Burt kept it going, not fast, just methodical. Each strike landed a little harder, a little lower, then back up to the shoulders, and then across the thighs. By ten, Tank was gasping, sweat pooling at the base of its spine. By fifteen, its ass was raw, the skin so flushed it looked painted.
"Good boy," Burt said. "Stay still."
He let the flogger drop and ran his hand over the slave's ass, feeling the heat coming off it. He squeezed, digging his thumb into the welt, and Tank whimpered.
"Now thank me."
"Thank you, Master, for disciplining me. I need it, Master."
Burt grunted, the sound guttural, the throat of a wild thing. "You do," he said, and let his palm crack against the slicked, welted ass beneath him. "You're a fucking animal, aren't you?"
Tank arched, forced to take the hit, and shuddered with something that was not quite pleasure, not quite pain, just need. "Yes, sir. Animal." It came out half-choked, half-triumphant, a slave's boast that it could take whatever was given.
Burt breathed deeply. His senses were on high alert as he felt the bulge in his pants. He unbuttoned and opened the fly to release his thick cock and balls. He spat into his palm, his gaze nailed to the spectacle in front of him. He liked to savor that moment, the split second where he made the rest of the world vanish, narrowing everything down to the trembling, canvas-white expanse of Tank's back. It was a ruined landscape, a study in color and texture: the crisscrossing blood-warm stripes swelling with edema, the big muscle slabs rippling under taut skin, the way the slave's shoulder blades twitched each time it caught sight of movement from the corner of its eye. Burt stepped out of his pants and worked his cock with his spit-slicked hand, slow at first, letting the pressure build, the head brimming with blood, angry and almost purple. He wanted to make Tank feel it.
The slave stayed frozen, just as it had been trained, mouth pressed to the wood of the bed's footboard, breathing fog patches onto the polished oak. Its training made it perfect: always ready, always hungry for it, always able to take whatever you gave.
Burt took in every detail: the blue traceries of veins, the way the skin seemed to pulse with the beat of the slave's heart, the smooth patch where the small of its back met the top of its ass. He squeezed, thumb digging into the head of his cock until it hurt, then let go, savoring the brief flare of pain.
He didn't move right away. He liked the anticipation, the knowledge that Tank was waiting for him to close the gap, to escalate. That was the point: the supremacy of will, the negation of everything else. He let the silence stretch, let the slave's mind run away with itself, imagining what was coming and when. Burt circled Tank, dragging the flogger's tails along the slave's ribs, up under its arms, across its neck. He watched the way Tank flinched, every muscle tensed and waiting, and he saw something like animal panic in the neon-blue eyes. It was raw and primal, nothing learned, nothing fake. For a moment, Burt almost pitied him. Almost.
He remembered what the club manager had said the first time he had chosen Tank: "The slave is rated for rough, but don't take it personally if it cries. Some of the slaves get stuck on emotional recall." Burt had laughed then, but now, looking down at the shivering, perfect animal, he wondered what it would be like to have nothing but recall. To be engineered for pleasure, but never to own any of it. To be branded with someone else's designation, to know you had been sold as a consumable. Maybe the slave was lucky, not being able to remember anything before the club.
Burt set the flogger aside and ran his hand down Tank's spine, slow, pressing into the welts as he moved lower. The slave hissed, but didn't move away. Burt gripped the base of Tank's cock, pulling it back to expose the slit, then lined himself up and pressed the head of his cock against the battered hole. The lube had been applied earlier, a service protocol, but Burt liked to pretend it was all spit and blood, that he was ripping something open, branding it as his own. He pushed in, slowly at first, then with a sudden, brutal thrust. Tank bit the wood, teeth leaving small half-moons in the varnish.
Burt slammed into Tank with the kind of violence that made his own vision shimmer at the edges. Feral, he gripped the slave's hips, digging his fingers so deep that he felt the thin subcutaneous layer shift, the memory of old bruises giving way to new ones. Every thrust was an exorcism. Each time he bottomed out, he was pounding away the faces and names of every asshole who had ever made him feel smaller, weaker, less than. He poured all of it, his disgust, his hunger, the bottomless well of spite, into the battered animal in front of him.
He kept a hand at the base of Tank's spine, splaying it out, pressing the slave's chest to the floor, while the other hand held the neck. He liked the way the skin responded, a living lever for control, the pulse so frantic he could feel it in his thumb. Tank's breath came out in little hiccuping moans, not quite crying out, but not silent either. There was shame in those noises, a kind of pride in not making a spectacle, and Burt respected it, so he made sure to squeeze just a little harder each time the sounds faded.
It wasn't just about inflicting pain. He wanted it to be something Tank would remember, a session the slave would measure all the others against, a misery so exquisite it bordered on worship. He thought of the old parable: you break a thing to make it yours, but if you break it just right, it gets stronger, sharper, and more beautiful. Tank, right now, was a masterpiece in the making.
He found an almost musical rhythm, each stroke punctuated by the slap of flesh and the soft, wet choke as the slave tried to take air. Sweat ran down Burt's hairy chest, matting the fur. He watched as his own cock disappeared, again and again, into the ruined hole he had made. He pictured the insides, the raw pink of it, the way it must sting and clutch and pulse. The more he worked Tank over, the more the slave's body seemed to open up, as if there was nothing left to hide or protect.
He switched hands, the right to the neck, the left gripping Tank's shoulder, and leaned in, bringing his lips close enough to brush the slave's ear. "You're doing better than the last one," he grunted, voice thick with pride. "They couldn't even take half this. Soft bitch, they were." He punctuated the words with another slam, watching the body shudder underneath him.
Tank bared its teeth, jaw tight, a string of spit hanging from the corner of its mouth. Somehow, even then, it managed: "Thank you, Master." Not a hint of sarcasm. Just pure, sick gratitude.
Burt's balls tightened, the ache building to something electric. He could feel the orgasm mounting, pressure rolling up his spine and into the base of his skull, but he fought it, wanted to prolong the agony. He looked down, watching the way the slave's back glistened, sweat pooling at the base of the neck, tracing the vertebrae, forming little rivulets that carried flecks of blood from the reopened stripes. The marks were beautiful. They were fresh and raw, overlaying the paler ghosts of older sessions. Somewhere in that mess, he found the cleanest stripe and brought his palm down across it, a sharp, echoing smack.
He felt Tank clench, almost involuntarily, and that was enough to tip him over. He rammed in one last time, cock swelling, and unleashed a brutal, guttural moan, the kind that emptied him out. He stayed buried, crushing the body beneath him, teeth bared, breath coming in ragged gasps. He saw stars, literal stars, as the blood pounded through his head.
He didn't let go, not right away. He wanted to make it last, to preserve the moment of absolute ownership, the point where the slave was no longer a person but an extension of himself: a vessel, a tool, a soft, broken animal built for nothing but his pleasure.
He collapsed forward, forearms pinning Tank in place, sweat and saliva and snot pooling between them. For a long minute, he just breathed. He could smell his sweat and musk. The unmistakable aroma of sex mixed in. Underneath it all, a hint of copper, the sweet note of blood. It was intoxicating, grounding, a sense memory that would last for days. He nuzzled his face into the back of Tank's neck, feeling the shudder of the slave's heart against his cheek.
He thought of nothing and everything. Here, in this rented room with its soundproof walls and locked windows, he was a king, a god, a thing that made the world bend to his will. Tank was the altar and the sacrifice, and the next three days would be a testament to that.
His cock softened, but he kept it inside, liking the feeling of fullness, the sense of plugging up something that would otherwise spill out everywhere. He reached for the back of Tank's head and pulled the boy's face until their eyes met in the reflection of the window, just visible in the dark. Tank's eyes were half-lidded, dazed, the look of an animal at the edge of consciousness. He saw fear there, and pain, and something even more dangerous: devotion.
He gave the slave's face a little shake. "You're not done," he said, soft but clear. "Not until I say so."
Tank blinked, tears finally gathering at the corners of those unnatural eyes, but it nodded, lips trembling. "Yes, Master."
He let go, finally, and rolled off, cock dragging free with a sucking noise. He watched as Tank collapsed, arms splayed out, legs shaking, the ruined hole dripping with semen and streaks of blood. There was a grace to it, a beauty that went beyond the grotesque.
Burt wiped his hands on a towel, then took a swig of water, letting the icy burn clear his throat. He sat on the bed, legs spread, cock still glistening, and watched the slave for a long time. He liked the aftermath almost as much as the act itself: the trembling, the slow return of breath, the way the slave's muscles knotted and relaxed as the pain faded and the body started to heal.
He remembered when they had handed him a catalog of available stock. He had picked Tank because of the eyes, because there was something in the squared jaw and the shape of the mouth that made you think of a dog that wanted to be good. The handler had told him, "That one's a lifer. Tried to run once, but came crawling back." At the time, Burt hadn't understood what that meant, but now he did: some animals don't just need a cage, they need a master to keep them from eating their own hearts out.
He watched Tank try and fail to get upright, the body refusing for a moment, then slowly, painfully, finding the will to kneel. The slave's hands shook as it wiped its face, smearing snot and tears into a wet mask. Still, it managed to look up, eyes meeting Burt's with something like pride.
"Good boy," Burt said again, softer this time. He meant it.
Burt lit a cigarette and took his time. He inhaled deeply, letting the tobacco relax him and give him a buzz. When he finished, he crushed it out on a glass tray. Then he grabbed the leather paddle and flexed his hand, already feeling the ache in his knuckles.
"Back in position, slave," he said.
Tank obeyed, face pressed to the floor, ass up and waiting.
Burt's world narrowed to the sound of the paddle striking flesh, the rhythm steady as a drumbeat. Tank took the beating like a show horse, eyes forward and mouth open for whatever came next. Burt admired that.
The paddle left Tank's ass purple and swollen. Burt traced the mottled flesh with his fingers, then let his hand slip lower, cupping the heavy sack between Tank's legs. The slave's testicles had been enhanced. They were twice the size they were before he was sold. Each one was the size of an extra-large egg, tight and hot and meant to take abuse. Burt squeezed until he felt the slave tense up, then squeezed harder. He liked to test how much pain a slave could take before it gave out.
Tank's breath hissed through its teeth. "Thank you, Master," it said, voice breaking.
Burt spat on the cum-covered and abused hole, lined himself up, and shoved his hard cock back in again to the hilt. Tank didn't cry out, just groaned and arched its back, rocking on its knees to take the thrust.
Burt put his weight behind it, fucking hard and fast, lost in the heat of the moment. He gripped Tank's hips and pounded until his own thighs burned, sweat slicking his chest and pooling in the hair under his arms. Every now and then, he reached around and jerked the slave's cock, just to watch the way it drooled. The Club had left Tank's dick uncut, but the head was fat and purple, and the veins bulged like they were about to split. With every pump, it spattered the floor with precum.
He went until his balls ached, then pulled out and turned the slave around to force its face into the mess. "Open up, slut," he said.
Tank obeyed, mouth wide, tongue flat, ready to be used. Burt shoved his cock in and fucked the slave's throat, holding its head in place. He could feel the spasms in Tank's neck, the desperate swallow and retch as the cock went in deeper, then deeper again. The slave gagged, eyes watering, spit leaking down its chin. Burt came in its mouth, then yanked out, spraying the last of it across Tank's cheeks and lips.
"Don't waste a drop," he said, then laughed as Tank licked the spunk from its face.
Burt fell back onto the bed and let the slave kneel between his legs, cleaning him up with a careful tongue. The feeling of total exhaustion washed over him, a dull satisfaction that left him heavy and loose.
"Massage," Burt ordered as he lay back.
Tank crawled to the end of the bed, lifted Burt's feet, and began to knead the arches and calves. The slave was good at it, strong hands working the knots out of muscle and tendon. Burt closed his eyes, listening to the silence, broken only by the occasional muffled sound from the floors below.
The next thirty minutes passed in a dream. Burt drifted, letting his thoughts wander. He thought about the farm, the endless rows of dust and grain, the relentless sun. He thought about Frank, how soft the boy had turned out, and how it wasn't really Frank's fault. Roger had been a shit father. Burt had tried to toughen the kid up, but there was only so much a man could do. Maybe it was genetic. Maybe some men just weren't built for anything but getting by.
He lit another cigarette and looked down. Tank was still working his feet, hands strong and steady, face blank except for the fading handprint on its cheek.
"You ever miss it?" Burt asked.
Tank looked up. "Miss what, Sir?"
"Freedom. Or whatever you had before."
The slave shrugged, but it was a real answer, not rehearsed. "Don't remember much. It's easier not to."
Burt nodded. "You are good at what you do."
"Thank you, Sir."
He felt the urge to fuck again, but it was fading. His thighs hurt. His balls were tender. The room stank of sweat and blood and sex, and for a moment, he wanted nothing more than to lie back and sleep for a week.
"You are tense, Sir," the slave said matter-of-factly.
"Been a shit few weeks," Burt replied as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"Do you want to talk about it, Sir?"
Burt almost laughed. "To a slave? What? Are you my therapist now?"
"No, Sir. But I'm good at listening. And I won't talk back. You can even beat me if you need a stress release."
Burt laughed, but then eyed the slave for a moment before putting out the cigarette. He thought about Frank: the way the boy had flinched when Burt raised his voice, the distance that had grown since the slap. He thought about all the days at the farm, the monotony of his life.
"Do you ever get sick of it?" Burt asked. "Serving men like me?"
Tank didn't blink. "Never, Sir. I accept it. I have a purpose. Not everyone does."
"That is good," Burt replied.
"Your nephew again?" Tank asked.
Burt laughed. "You do remember a lot, don't you?"
"A good slave knows how to please."
"That is true," Burt replied. "Frank's soft, but he has potential. The problem is, he just didn't have a firm hand growing up. I keep hoping to mold him better."
Tank tilted its head. "Maybe he's not meant to be like you, Master."
Burt stared at the ceiling. "My old man would've just broken him in half," he said.
"Did your father break you?"
Burt clenched his jaw, but he didn't lash out.
"Maybe that's why you're here, sir," Tank said, softer now. "Because you know what it's like to lash out. You saw that in yourself, and you don't want to do it to someone you care about."
Burt didn't answer. Instead, he pushed the slave back against the footboard with his foot.
"You talk too much for a slave," he growled.
Tank nodded. "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Forgive me, Master."
"Get me a drink," Burt said. "Bourbon on the rocks."
"Yes, Sir," Tank replied as it vanished into the hall.
Burt sat on the edge of the bed, legs dangling. He was still a hard man. He still took what he wanted. But the truth was that the slave was right, in more ways than it knew.
Within minutes, Tank returned with his drink. Burt accepted it as the slave knelt on the floor again. He scrubbed a hand through his beard and stretched, feeling the heavy ache of spent. He looked down at the slave. Tank had its eyes down, hands folded at the small of its back. His ass was still swollen and tender, and Burt could see a thin trickle of blood where the paddle had broken skin.
"We're showering," Burt said as he downed the rest of his drink and put the glass on the side table. "You know the drill."
"Yes, Sir!" Tank replied.
The shower was at the far end of the suite, a tiled wet room big enough to fit four men shoulder-to-shoulder. Burt stepped in, and Tank followed, kneeling by the drain while Burt adjusted the water. It came out hot, steaming the glass and fogging the mirrors, instantly turning the room into a wet sauna.
Burt stood under the spray, feeling it pound his shoulders and run down his chest, flattening the hair against his skin. He closed his eyes and let the water do its work, the heat loosening every knot, every sore spot.
Tank stayed kneeling, waiting for permission. When Burt finally turned, the slave rose, took the bar of soap, and began to lather Burt's body with slow, careful hands. It started at the neck, working over the shoulders, down the arms and chest, scrubbing in circles. It didn't miss a spot: soap between the fingers, under the nails, behind the ears, and along the curve of Burt's spine. The hands were professional, efficient, but never rougher than needed.
Burt let himself enjoy it.
"Make sure you get it all," Burt said.
Tank nodded. It knelt again, soaping up Burt's thighs, calves, and feet. It lifted each foot in turn, washing between the toes, paying special attention to the calluses and the heel. When it finished, it looked up, waiting for the next order.
Burt didn't even need to give the command. He just cocked an eyebrow and glanced down, and Tank knew. In another life, Burt would have marveled at how thoroughly the Slave Market's had broken these slaves, how fast they could read a master's mood in a single twitch of muscle. But here, now, it was just a baseline expectation.
He stood with his feet planted wide, water beating down his back, and watched as the slave shuffled closer, knees scuffing over wet tile. Tank's hands came up, reverent but unhesitating, one guiding the shaft, the other palming up his balls, marvelling at their size and weight. There was something mechanical in the way the slave worked the spit into a lather, but it was efficient, practiced, as if the muscle memory had long outpaced conscious thought.
The first touch of the slave's mouth was surprisingly gentle: lips pursed, tongue pressed flat to the underside of his cock, moving in slow, savoring laps. Burt felt his cock pulse, the blood rising with the heat, his entire body tensing in anticipation. He let his head roll back and stared up at the ceiling, steam curling around the exposed pipes, his mind already a hundred miles away from this place and time.
Tank didn't rush. It worked the length of him expertly, alternating between taking him all the way to the root, nose mashed against the wiry mat of his pubes, and pulling back to tease the tip with a flick of its tongue. Each movement was measured and calculated to give maximum pleasure without upsetting the balance. Burt let his arms relax at his sides, then brought his hands to rest on the back of Tank's head, fingers moving over the smooth surface. He used the slave's skull like a handle, guiding the rhythm, sometimes holding it there at the bottom, forcing it to hold its breath and swallow around the girth.
The slave's eyes stayed fixed on his, unblinking even as it gagged or tears squeezed out at the corners. Burt wondered who the first man was who had trained it to behave as it should. Either way, he liked it. He liked the way it never looked away. He liked the way it silently begged for approval with every choke and sputter.
He let the pleasure build, delaying the inevitable. There was no reason to rush, not here, not with the whole night ahead and nothing else to do but use what he had purchased. He found himself thinking about the other men in this building, the strangers in neighboring suites, each with their own broken-in toy waiting to serve. He thought about the years he had spent bottling up every urge, every stray thought, just to get through another day, and how it all seemed so pointless now. Here he was, being worshiped by an object who barely remembered its own name, and for once, there was no guilt, no shame, only the primal satisfaction of getting what he deserved.
He let himself get lost in it. The slap of skin, the steady squelch of spit and precum, the rhythm of his own hips as he started to thrust in time with Tank's bobbing head. He could feel the coarse tile beneath his feet, the burn in his thighs, the itch in his scalp from a day's worth of sweat and sun. He gripped the slave's head harder, just enough to remind Tank who he belonged to.
"Take it all," he growled, voice raw even to his own ears.
Tank obeyed, opening its throat, relaxing every muscle so Burt could fuck its face without resistance. He used the slave like a machine, piston going in and out, each time slamming harder, until the pressure in his balls became unbearable. He wanted to hold out longer, to prolong the moment, but the need was too great, and he came in a rush, shooting deep into the slave's mouth.
Tank took it, every drop, barely slowing its rhythm. It didn't gag or pull away, just clamped its lips harder around the base and milked him through the aftershocks. When Burt finally let go, panting, the slave pulled back, a string of cum and spit dangling from its chin. There was a flicker of something in those dead-blue eyes, maybe pride, maybe relief, maybe just the satisfaction of a job well done, but it was gone in a second, replaced by the familiar blankness.
Burt was still breathing hard, chest heaving in the sauna heat. He looked down at the slave, at the bruises already blooming on its face, the welted marks on its back and legs, the way it stayed kneeling, hands at its sides, waiting for orders it already knew by heart. There was no defiance. There was no hope. There was only the simple, silent compulsion to serve.
He reached down, cupped the slave's chin, and wiped the mess from its lips with a thumb. "Good work," he said, almost gently.
"Thank you, Sir," Tank murmured. Its voice was hoarse from use, but steady.
Burt rinsed off, letting the hot water and soap take away the residue of sex, violence, and sweat. He felt lighter now, less like something wound too tight and more like a man who had finally gotten what he needed.
He stepped out and grabbed a towel. Tank stayed behind, waiting for instructions.
"Get yourself cleaned up," Burt said, lighting a cigarette. "Don't want you stinking up the bed."
"Yes, Sir." Tank stood, water running down its back, and began to soap itself. Burt watched for a moment, blowing smoke above his head. There was something oddly peaceful about the slave's careful movements, the way it worked over its battered flesh, not flinching even when the soap stung the open cuts.
Burt dried off and dressed, pulling on fresh clothes. The evening had just begun. He figured he would head down to the gaming area of the club first. He had friends here whom he knew he could clean out at the tables. The drinks were free, and he might even find another slave to fuck alongside Tank tonight before bed.
"Wait for me, slave," Burt called out to Tank as he turned to leave. "Have that ass and mouth ready for more."
"Always, Sir," Tank replied from the bathroom.
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