The garage had been silent for two days.
No women.
No orders.
No collars.
The mechanic sat on the cold floor where they had last left him — the rope burns still faintly etched around his wrists, his body sore from hours of denied pleasure and double control. His c**k hadn’t risen since they left. Not from fear. Not from shame. From waiting. Starving. Whatever they broke in him — it had stayed broken.
So when the door opened on the third night, he didn’t rise.
He stayed still. Naked. Kneeling. Eyes down.
But the footsteps were different this time.
He heard boots. Heavy. Measured. Controlled.
And then — a man’s voice. Rich. Calm. Almost amused.
“So this is the one they’ve been playing with.”
The mechanic looked up.
The man stood tall. Military posture. Black leather gloves. No ex
