Author's Note
Sorry for the long wait between Part 3 and Part 4. Since it’s been a long time in real life, I decided to include a 3-year time skip in the story.
I definitely want to continue this story with more chapters soon. I would really appreciate your feedback in the comments.
Three years.
One thousand and ninety five days had bled into the crushing weight of the past since the slave 52 once known as Max had walked onto the private dock of the island with a boarding pass in its pocket and a naive thrill in its heart. That man was dead. He had not died in a single dramatic moment of violence but had been eroded, grain by sand grain, until nothing of him remained. The memories of London, of a corporate job, of friends, of family, and of the simple autonomy to choose when to sleep or what to eat, had been scrubbed away by the relentless friction of his new reality.
The darkness in the basement was absolute. It was a heavy and suffocating blackness that pressed against the eyes and filled the lungs. In the life of slave 52, time did not exist as a concept of flow but as a series of rigid blocks defined by the whim of the Owners. The slave quarters were located deep beneath the foundation of the sprawling luxury villa, a concrete box designed for the storage and maintenance of human livestock.
There was a rack of weights and heavy gym equipment, for the Owners demanded that their property remain aesthetic and muscular. There was a hole in the tiled floor that served as a squat toilet. There was a simple shower head that protruded from the wall like a rusted finger. And in the center of the room, bolted to the concrete floor, was the cage.
The digital clock mounted high on the damp wall flickered in the dark. The red numbers cut through the gloom.
05:55 AM.
Inside the cage, 52 lay curled in the fetal position. Its knees were drawn up to its chest, pressing against the cold steel of the chastity device that had encased its genitals for three years. It did not sleep on a mattress. It slept on the metal floor of the cage, its body learning to find comfort in the unyielding hardness of the bars. It was naked, as it always was. Clothing was a privilege for humans, and 52 had long since lost the right to that classification.
It was awake before the alarm. Its internal clock had been calibrated by fear and repetition. It lay there in the silence, breathing shallow and controlled, waiting for the signal that would allow its existence to begin for the day. It did not dream of escape. It did not dream of the past. Its mind was scrubbed clean of hope, waiting only for the next command to be written upon it.
06:00 AM.
The sound was sharp and sudden. A harsh electronic buzz echoed off the concrete walls, followed immediately by the mechanical click of the magnetic lock disengaging on the cage door.
The day had begun.
52 did not hesitate. It pushed the cage door open, the metal hinges silent due to its own diligent maintenance, and crawled out onto the cold floor of the quarters. It stood up, joints popping slightly as it stretched its muscular frame. It was 27 years old now, in the best physical shape of its life, sculpted by forced exercise and a strictly controlled diet.
It moved immediately to the squat toilet in the corner. It relieved itself quickly, eyes fixed on the gray tiles of the wall. There was no privacy here. A camera mounted in the corner watched its every move, a blinking red eye that reminded the slave it was never truly alone.
Next was the shower. It stepped under the nozzle and twisted the handle. The water was freezing. It hit the skin like a physical blow, shocking the system awake, but 52 did not gasp or flinch. It scrubbed its body with a block of unscented soap, cleaning every inch of skin, every crevice, ensuring it was odorless and sterile.
Then came the most important part of the morning ritual. The enema.
It had to be clean inside and out. It had to be ready. If the Owners decided to use it, there could be no mess, no imperfection. It performed the task with a detached, clinical efficiency, voiding itself until the water ran clear. It was a daily humiliation that had long ago ceased to be humiliating.
It brushed its teeth and dried its body with a rough towel.
Naked, wearing only the heavy collar around its neck and the steel cage around its crotch, it ascended the stairs, leaving the darkness of the basement for the soft, ambient light of the main villa.
The kitchen was a masterpiece of modern design, all marble countertops and gleaming stainless steel appliances. It smelled of lemon polish and sea air. Downstairs, it was stored cargo. Upstairs, it was a functioning appliance.
It moved to the refrigerator and began to gather the ingredients. The Masters, Theo and Nikos, preferred a traditional Aegean breakfast. It was a meal that required fresh ingredients. 52 selected three large tomatoes, their skins tight and red. It found the jar of green olives, marinated in olive oil and oregano, the scent of the herbs filling its nose as it unscrewed the lid. It took out a carton of organic eggs and a block of feta cheese.
Its stomach contracted. A violent, hollow cramp twisted its insides. It had not eaten since the previous afternoon, and its body was screaming for sustenance. The smell of the fresh food was a torture designed by experts. It could smell the earth on the tomatoes. It could smell the richness of the cheese. Saliva flooded its mouth, but it swallowed the fluid down. It did not dare to touch a single morsel for itself. To steal food was a crime punishable by the correction room, and the memory of the last correction was enough to kill any appetite.
It chopped the vegetables with a sharp knife, the blade flashing in the morning light. It whisked the eggs in a ceramic bowl. It set the frying pan on the stove and added a knob of butter. As the butter melted and began to foam, the aroma was intoxicating. It cooked the omelet perfectly, folding it over the cheese, ensuring it was fluffy and golden, not brown.
It set the table on the terrace. It laid out the crystal glasses, the silver forks, the linen napkins. It arranged the olives in a small decorative bowl. It sliced fresh bread, the crust crackling under the knife, revealing the soft white interior. Every movement was measured. Every placement was symmetrical.
When the table was perfect, it glanced at the wall clock. It was time to wake them.
52 left the kitchen and walked down the long, silent corridor toward the master suite. Its bare feet made no sound on the expensive hardwood floor. It reached the double doors of the bedroom and pushed them open gently.
The room was cool, the air conditioning humming softly. Heavy blackout curtains kept the Mediterranean sun at bay. In the center of the room lay the massive king size bed, a sea of white linens.
Theo and Nikos were asleep. They lay tangled together, Theo's arm draped over Nikos's waist. They looked peaceful, almost innocent in their slumber. It was a jarring contrast to the cruelty they inflicted when they were awake.
52 walked to the side of the bed. It did not stand. A slave does not tower over its Masters. It dropped to its knees on the plush carpet, folded its hands on its thighs, lowered its head, and announced "The breakfast is ready, Masters."
Nikos stirred. The younger of the two Masters, blond and striking, shifted under the sheets. He groaned softly and rolled onto his back, stretching his arms over his head. He blinked his eyes open and turned his head.
"Good morning, Masters," 52 whispered. Its voice was rough, unused to speech.
Theo groaned from the other side of the bed. He did not open his eyes. He simply rolled away, pulling the duvet over his shoulder, rejecting the morning for a few more minutes. He ignored 52 completely. To them, the slave was as relevant as the nightstand or the lamp.
Nikos, however, smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a man who owns something and intends to enjoy it. He kicked the sheet down to his waist. He was naked, and his morning erection was hard and prominent against his stomach.
"Come here," Nikos said, his voice thick with sleep. "Suck it."
52 moved instantly. It crawled on its knees across the carpet, and stopped at the edge of the mattress.
It leaned forward. It did not hesitate. It did not think. It opened its mouth and took its Master' cock. The act was devoid of intimacy. It was mechanical. 52 was a receptacle, a tool used to relieve a biological urge. It worked with a rhythm it had perfected over three years, using its tongue and throat to please the man who held the keys to its cage.
Nikos lay back, his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. Within minutes, Nikos's breathing hitched. He tensed his hips.
52 felt the change in tension. It continued its work, increasing the pace as commanded by the subtle movements of the Master's body.
"Good," Nikos muttered.
When the release came, 52 accepted its Master's seed into its mouth. It swallowed dutifully, ensuring that nothing was spilled, nothing was wasted. It was the final act of submission for the morning.
Nikos exhaled and pushed 52's head away with a careless hand. He swung his legs out of bed and stood up, walked out of the room.
52 retreated to the center of the room and knelt again, head bowed, waiting for the next instruction.
"52!" Nikos's voice boomed from the kitchen moments later. "Terrace. Now!"
It scrambled to its feet. It ran. It did not walk. It sprinted from the waiting spot to the terrace and skidded to a halt. It immediately assumed the position with its hands clasped behind its back, its feet apart, and its eyes fixed on the floor tiles.
"Command me, Sir," 52 said, its breath steady despite the exertion.
Nikos was sitting at the head of the table, scrolling through news on his tablet. He looked fresh, his hair damp from the shower, his skin glowing with health.
"Coffee," Nikos said without looking up.
52 moved to the sidebar. It lifted the heavy silver pot of coffee. The heat radiated from the metal. It approached the table and poured the coffee into the china cup in front of Master Nikos. It poured steadily, ensuring the stream was consistent, stopping exactly when the liquid reached the rim.
It stepped back. It resumed the position.
Theo entered a moment later. He was dressed in a crisp linen shirt and beige shorts, looking every inch the wealthy island owner. He smelled of sandalwood and sea salt. He walked behind Nikos, leaned down, and kissed him on the neck before sitting opposite him.
For the next thirty minutes, 52 was forced to witness the consumption of the meal it had prepared. It stood like a statue in the corner. It watched Theo slice into the fluffy omelet, the yellow yolk spilling out onto the plate. It watched Nikos bite into the crusty bread, slathered with butter and jam. It heard the crunch of the cucumbers and the clinking of forks against porcelain.
The sensory overload was agonizing. 52's body was trembling with hunger. The smell of the coffee alone was enough to make it dizzy. Its stomach growled, a long, low rumble that echoed in the silence of the terrace.
Theo paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. He looked over at 52. He did not speak. He just raised an eyebrow.
52, terrified, squeezed its abdominal muscles, trying to silence its own internal organs. It stared at the floor, burning with shame.
Ignoring the slave, they continued to eat. They laughed about a friend's party in Mykonos. They lived their lives in vivid color while 52 stood in grayscale.
Finally, the meal ended. Nikos wiped his mouth with the linen napkin and tossed it onto the table. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
Nikos returned with a dented metal bowl in his hand. It was scratched and old. It was a dog bowl. In his other hand, he held a plastic scoop. He dropped the bowl onto the terrace floor with a loud, ringing clatter that made 52 flinch internally.
Nikos scooped a large mound of gray, gelatinous paste into the bowl. It made a wet, slapping sound as it hit the metal.
Slave Chow.
It was a scientifically formulated nutrient mash. It contained all the vitamins, proteins, and carbohydrates a human needed to survive and build muscle, but it possessed absolutely no flavor. It was gritty, cold, and utterly dehumanizing.
"Eat, 52," Nikos said.
52 dropped. It fell to its hands and knees. The stone of the terrace was hard against its skin. It crawled toward the bowl. It was not allowed to use its hands. Its hands remained behind its back.
It lowered its face to the bowl. The smell of the chow was faint, like wet cardboard and vitamins. It opened its mouth and began to eat. It lapped at the paste, using its tongue to scoop it into its mouth. It ate with the desperation of a starving animal. The texture was revolting, slimy yet grainy, but it swallowed the mush greedily. It chased the food around the bowl with its nose, licking the metal sides, ensuring not a single calorie was wasted.
Theo stood above it, watching. He sipped his coffee, observing 52 as it licked its bowl clean.
When the bowl was licked clean, 52 remained on all fours, panting slightly.
Theo leaned down and picked up the empty bowl. He walked to the outdoor tap near the planters and filled the bowl with water. He did not use the filtered water from the pitcher on the table. He used the garden tap.
"Drink, 52," Theo said, placing the bowl back on the floor. "You must be thirsty."
52 was incredibly thirsty. The chow was dry and salty. It lowered its head again and drank. It lapped the water up, splashing it over its chin and onto the floor. It drank until the bowl was empty, gasping for air between gulps.
When it was finished, it sat back on its heels, face wet, dignity non-existent.
"Clean this up," Theo ordered, gesturing to the breakfast table. "Wash the dishes. Scrub the floor where you ate. Then wait on the lower deck. We have a guest arriving at noon."
"Yes, Sir," 52 said, its head bowed.
The next few hours were a blur of labor. 52 cleaned the kitchen until the stainless steel was like a mirror. It scrubbed the terrace floor on its hands and knees. It polished the glass doors. It worked with a feverish intensity, driven by the fear that a single smudge would result in punishment.
At noon, the sun was high and fierce. The Aegean Sea was a blinding sheet of turquoise.
52 stood on the lower deck, near the private dock at the base of the cliffs. It was still naked, skin gleaming with sweat in the heat.
"Master Adrian is here," Nikos said, standing above on the balcony, looking down through binoculars.
52 felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Master Adrian. The man who had broken it. The architect of its current reality.
A large, sleek white yacht motored around the headland. It was a magnificent vessel, cutting through the water with power and grace. It slowed as it approached the private pier, the engines rumbling deep in the water.
Theo and Nikos descended the stairs to the dock. 52 stood a few steps behind, keeping its eyes on the ground.
The yacht docked, the crew securing the lines. The gangway was lowered.
Master Adrian stepped off. He looked exactly the same as he had three years ago. He was a tall man with silvering hair and eyes that seemed to dissect everything they looked at. He wore a black polo shirt and dark sunglasses.
"Greetings," Adrian said, shaking hands with Theo and Nikos firmly. "Good to see you both. You look well."
"And you," Theo said.
"I brought gifts," Adrian said, turning back toward the boat. "I was going to send them to a labor camp, but I thought you might want to take a look before I discard them."
He whistled sharply.
Two figures stumbled down the gangway. They wore heavy leather collars and were connected by a thick chain leash held by one of Adrian's deckhands. They were naked.
52 risked a glance. It lifted its eyes for a fraction of a second.
The first slave was a towering monolith of rugged flesh. It was Turkish, and its human name, 52 would later learn, was Murat. It appeared to be in its early forties. It stood over 6'3" tall, with a chest thick with dark, matted hair. It had the stern, heavy brow and the broad shoulders of a man who was born to lead companies, manage teams of subordinates, sit at the head of a family dinner table as the unquestioned patriarch. It was designed by nature to be an alpha, a provider, and a protector whose deep voice once commanded silence in a boardroom.
But here, stripped naked, collar around its neck and locked in a chastity cage, that potential energy was rendered pathetic. The creature that looked as though it should be commanding armies or disciplining subordinates was now trembling at the feet of men younger than it. It was not a leader, far from it; it was the lowest form of life, a slave.
The second slave was a stark contrast. It was a boy. It was Ukrainian. It looked barely twenty years old. It was slim, pale, and hairless. It was shivering violently, despite the scorching heat. Its eyes were wide with terror, darting around frantically.
"Greet the Masters, slaves!" Adrian snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.
The reaction was instantaneous. Murat and the boy dropped to the hot wooden planks of the dock. The heat must have been burning their knees, but they did not flinch. They crawled forward. They moved past 52, ignoring it, and approached Theo and Nikos.
They lowered their heads.
The older Turkish slave kissed Theo's leather loafer. The boy, trembling, kissed Nikos's shoe.
They assumed the slave waiting position, on their knees open wide, hands clasped behind their backs.
52 watched them. And it felt a strange, twisted sensation in its own chest. It was not pity. It had no capacity left for pity.
"Welcome to the island," Theo said, his voice filled with a dark amusement.
