Email: catgenie@gmail.com
Previous page
4. Aykut's Bodybuilding Contest
The weeks leading up to the national championships blurred into a dangerous cycle of discipline and surrender. Aykut told himself each visit to the hammam would be the last—just one more hit of that forbidden steam, one more hour of slick marble and rough hands to “release tension” before the contest. But the pull was magnetic, addictive. He’d finish a grueling leg day, quads still burning from endless sets of hack squats, only to find himself driving straight to the bathhouse instead of home. There, Emir, Burak, and Kerem waited like silent predators, their hairy, powerful bodies glistening under the dim lanterns, ready to unravel him again and again.
His coach noticed immediately. “You’re flat, Aykut. Your separations are softening. What the hell is going on?” The man barked during check-ins, jabbing a finger at the mirror where Aykut’s once-razor-sharp quads now looked slightly blurred at the edges, his vascularity muted, his conditioning slipping just enough to cost him points. Aykut trained harder than ever—double sessions, forced carbs, endless posing practice under bright lights—but his mind was elsewhere. Every time he closed his eyes during rest periods, he saw thick fingers twisting his nipples, felt the crushing squeeze of Burak’s thighs on his arms, tasted the salty flood down his throat. His cock would twitch traitorously in his shorts, forcing him to turn away and adjust, cheeks burning.
Contest night arrived like a sentence.
The auditorium lights were merciless, spotlighting every imperfection on stage. Aykut’s body was still massive—those legendary 21-inch arms, the sweeping quads that had once been his pride—but it lacked the crisp, peeled dryness he’d fought for. Water retention from too many late-night “recovery” sessions had softened the edges; his abs, usually a brutal eight-pack grid, looked merely impressive instead of carved from stone. He oiled up backstage, hands shaking slightly, trying to summon the Hercules he used to be.
Then he stepped onto the stage for prejudging.
And saw them.
Emir, Burak, and Kerem sat dead center in the front row, legs spread wide, arms draped casually over the backs of their seats. They weren’t clapping politely like the other spectators; they watched with slow, knowing smiles, eyes locked on him like they already owned every inch of his body. Aykut’s heart slammed against his ribs. The routine began—mandatory poses, quarter turns—but his mind fractured.
Double biceps: his arms peaked beautifully, but he couldn’t hold the flex long enough; the memory of Burak pinning those same arms between his thighs made his biceps tremble prematurely.
Side chest: he expanded his pecs, thrusting his massive chest forward in the classic pose, but his nipples—still hypersensitive from weeks of relentless torment—hardened instantly into stiff, aching peaks under the bright lights. The thin, oiled skin of his pecs stretched taut, every ridge and separation glistening, but the sudden jolt of sensitivity shot straight to his groin like a live wire.
Most muscular: he crunched down hard, veins exploding across his delts and forearms, every muscle fiber popping in brutal detail, but his eyes darted involuntarily to the front row. Emir licked his lips slowly. Burak adjusted himself openly through his jeans. Kerem leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring straight at Aykut’s crotch with predatory amusement.
And then it happened.
The erotic floodgates opened without warning—flashes of marble slick with oil, two thick cocks stretching him to breaking, the searing stretch of double penetration, the muffled screams around Burak’s shaft. His cock surged, thickening rapidly against the tight, inadequate pouch of his posing trunks. He felt the head push past the edge of the fabric, the thick ridge of his corona creeping out, then more—half his shaft now obscenely visible, straining upward, veins pulsing under the merciless stage lights. Panic clawed at him. He shifted his stance, twisting his hips to angle his body away from the judges, crossing one massive thigh in front to shield the growing bulge. But every movement only made it worse—the friction of the thin posing-trunk material against his swollen cock head, the slide of oiled skin, the knowledge that the three men who had broken him were watching it all unfold. His erection throbbed visibly now, tenting the front of his posers so aggressively that even from the back row people began to murmur.
The routine ended in disaster. He missed transitions, held poses too short, failed to hit peak contractions. The judges’ faces remained impassive, but his coach stood at the side curtain looking like he’d been gut-punched. Fans who’d followed his journey online whispered in confusion and disappointment. Aykut exited the stage on unsteady legs, cock still painfully hard, leaking precum that darkened the front of his trunks. He ducked into the dim corridor behind the curtain, chest heaving, humiliation burning hotter than any workout. Aykut’s arms crossed tight over his still-oiled chest as if he could hold himself together that way. The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, calm and professional, calling out the finalists one by one. Each name landed like a punch to the gut. His wasn’t among them. Not even close. The crowd’s polite applause felt like mockery.
He hated himself—deep, bone-crushing hatred that burned hotter than any contest prep ever had. Years of sacrifice, dawn workouts, meal-prep Sundays, the endless grind to sculpt himself into something unbreakable, all undone because he couldn’t say no to the steam, the marble, the rough hands that knew exactly how to break him. Lust had cost him the pro card, the international stage, the dream he’d bled for since he was eighteen. Now he was just another disappointed heavyweight who couldn’t keep his dick in check. Eyes stinging, he shoved away from the wall and hurried toward the changing room, trainers squeaking on the concrete. He needed his coach—needed the gruff voice that had pulled him through injuries, plateaus, bad water cuts. The man who’d believed in him when no one else did. Maybe a harsh pep talk, maybe just a hand on the shoulder. Anything to stop the tears threatening to spill.
The changing room was empty. Lockers stood open, gear bags half-zipped, but no coach. No note. No sign he’d ever been there. Aykut’s throat closed. He stood frozen in the middle of the room, chest heaving, the metallic tang of tanning oil and dried sweat thick in his nostrils.
Then the door creaked open.
Emir, Burak, and Kerem stepped inside—casual, unhurried, like they belonged there. Aykut’s stomach dropped. He expected smirks, taunts, something cruel to match the humiliation still throbbing between his legs. Instead, Emir’s voice came low and surprisingly gentle.
“Rough night, champion. We saw it all.”
Burak nodded, arms folded across his broad, hairy chest. “You were still the biggest man on that stage. Judges are blind sometimes.”
Kerem stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that Aykut caught the familiar scent of eucalyptus soap and faint musk. “You’ve got the genetics. The experience. One bad show doesn’t erase that. You’ll come back stronger.”
Aykut blinked, mind blank, words refusing to form. Their sympathy felt wrong—too kind, too sincere after everything. He didn’t trust it, but he didn’t have the energy to question it either. All he wanted was to disappear.
“I… I need to go,” he muttered, voice hoarse. He turned toward his bag, hands fumbling for his street clothes. The tanning oil still clung to his skin in dark streaks; he didn’t care. He’d shower at home. If he could even get there.
No car. Coach had driven them both. The realization hit like another missed pose.
Emir tilted his head. “You’re stranded?”
Aykut didn’t answer, just stared at the floor.
“We’ve got the van outside,” Burak said easily. “We can drop you home. Or…” He glanced at the others. “If you want, swing by the hammam first. Not for anything else—just to rinse off that oil properly. Hot water, soap. You look like you could use it.”
Aykut’s thoughts spun—suspicion warring with exhaustion, shame warring with the desperate need for any kind of relief. The hammam. The place that had ruined him. But right now it sounded better than standing here alone, covered in failure and stage oil.
He nodded once, numb.
Without another word he shoved his feet into his trainers, put on his street clothes, slung his duffel over one massive shoulder, and followed them out the back exit. The night air hit cold against his overheated skin. Their old van waited in the loading zone—dented panels, faded paint, the kind of vehicle that had seen too many late nights. Aykut climbed into the back seat without looking at them, legs splayed wide, head tipped back against the headrest.
Burak slid into the driver’s seat. Emir took shotgun. Kerem settled beside Aykut, close but not touching.
“Here,” Kerem said, pressing a plastic bottle of water into Aykut’s hand. “You’ve been fasting hard. Drink.”
Aykut was parched—days of water manipulation, the heat of the lights, the adrenaline crash. He twisted the cap and gulped half the bottle in seconds, cool liquid flooding his dry throat. It tasted faintly sweet, almost medicinal, but he was too wrecked to care. He drained the rest, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and let the empty bottle roll to the floor. The engine rumbled to life. The van pulled away from the venue, headlights cutting through the dark. Aykut stared out the window, watching the city lights blur. His eyelids grew heavy. The seat seemed softer than it should. His limbs felt distant, liquid.
He didn’t suspect a thing.
Not yet.
Aykut’s consciousness was dragging itself back like wet sand through his veins. His head throbbed dully—aftermath of whatever had been in that water—and his mouth tasted of metal and faint sweetness. He was lying on his back, skin warm against smooth, heated marble that radiated comfort even as dread coiled in his gut. This wasn’t the hammam. The air here was cooler, drier, laced with the faint tang of stone and old iron. He blinked up into dimness. Low amber sconces cast long shadows across vaulted brick walls. Chains glinted faintly. His wrists and ankles were encircled by wide, cold steel manacles—thick, unyielding, each one bolted to heavy links that disappeared beneath the edges of the marble slab he lay on. He flexed experimentally. The chains rattled softly but gave almost no slack. His arms and legs were spread wide in a perfect X—vulnerable, exposed, immobilized. He could lift his head a few inches, arch his back slightly, but that was all. The rest of him was pinned, spreadeagled, naked and clean. Someone had washed away every trace of the contest tan, every streak of oil and sweat and shame. His skin felt scrubbed raw, almost tender, every ridge of muscle and vein standing out in stark relief under the low light.
Panic rose sharp and sudden. He opened his mouth to shout.
“Help! Somebody—!”
His voice bounced off the walls, flat and lonely, swallowed by the darkness. No answer. No echo of footsteps. Just his own ragged breathing and the faint metallic clink of chains as he tested them again, harder this time. The manacles bit into his wrists; the links held fast.
Then, without warning, the dungeon came alive.
Two long rows of large flat-screen TVs—mounted high on opposite walls—flickered to life in perfect unison. The sudden blue-white glow flooded the space, harsh and clinical. Aykut’s eyes widened as the screens resolved into crystal-clear 4K footage.
It was him.
Multiple angles, multiple cameras—professionally edited, color-graded, cut like a high-end porn film. Close-ups of his face contorted in ecstasy, mouth open in a silent scream. Wide shots of his Herculean body writhing on the hammam marble, oiled skin gleaming under steam and lantern light. Extreme close-ups of his nipples being pinched and twisted, his thick cock leaking helplessly as Burak’s thighs crushed his arms. The double penetration—slow-motion replays of two thick shafts stretching him impossibly wide, his abs clenching, veins bulging across his quads as he bucked and sobbed. The final impalement: Burak’s fat cock forcing its way down his throat while Emir and Kerem flooded him from below, cum leaking from every opening, his own untouched orgasm painting his chest in ropes. Every clip had the masseurs’ faces meticulously blurred—smudged into anonymity—while Aykut’s own features remained razor-sharp: every grimace, every tear-streaked cheek, every wide-eyed moment of surrender captured in devastating detail.
He stared in frozen horror, breath hitching. Then the reality crashed in.
“No—no—no!” The word tore out of him, raw and desperate. He thrashed against the chains, massive biceps and deltoids exploding with effort, quads straining until the marble slab seemed to vibrate under him. The steel didn’t budge. The manacles only dug deeper, cold and implacable. His screams rose higher, frantic, echoing uselessly off the brick.
“HELP! Somebody—please—ANYONE!”
The screens kept playing. A new clip started: him on all fours in the hammam, back arched, ass high as one of the men mounted him from behind while another fed him cock. His own moans filled the dungeon—high, broken, needy—looped and amplified until they surrounded him. Aykut’s chest heaved. Tears burned tracks down his temples. His legendary physique—once a symbol of unbreakable power—now glistened with fresh sweat born of terror, every muscle locked in futile struggle. The chains clanked rhythmically with his thrashing, a cruel metronome to the footage of his own degradation.
He didn’t know how long he screamed.
He only knew that no one came.
And the screens kept rolling.
The screens snapped off in perfect unison, plunging the dungeon back into near-darkness. Only the low amber sconces remained, their faint glow carving long shadows across the marble slab and the heavy chains that held Aykut spreadeagled. Then, as if the walls themselves had parted, Emir, Burak, and Kerem stepped into the light. Each wore nothing but a thin white towel knotted low around their hips, just as they had in the hammam—hairy chests and thick arms glistening faintly with oil, bodies relaxed, almost casual. Aykut’s rage ignited instantly.
“You fucking bastards!” he roared, chains rattling violently as he strained against them. “You drugged me! Kidnapped me! I’m going to the police—every one of you is going to rot in prison! My coach will report me missing, people will look for me—you can’t just—”
“Shhh, champion,” Emir murmured, raising both hands in a placating gesture. “Breathe. No one’s hurting you.”
“Fuck you!” Aykut spat, biceps bulging, veins popping across his forearms as he yanked again. The manacles didn’t give an inch. “Let me go! Right fucking now!”
Burak and Kerem exchanged glances but stayed silent, letting Emir take the lead. They stepped closer—slowly, deliberately—until they flanked the slab. Emir leaned in just enough that Aykut could smell the familiar eucalyptus on his skin.
“We’re not here to fight you,” Emir said quietly. “We just want you calm enough to listen. That’s all.”
Aykut’s chest heaved, sweat beading fresh along his collarbones. He glared, teeth bared, but the raw edge of panic was beginning to dull under exhaustion and the sheer futility of his struggles. Minutes passed. His screams tapered into harsh breaths, then silence. Finally—reluctantly—he stopped thrashing.
Emir nodded once. “Good. We’re not going to harm you, Aykut. Not one hair on that perfect body. We just need you to meet someone.”
From the shadowed archway at the far end of the dungeon stepped an old man—scrawny, wiry, skin like weathered parchment stretched over sharp bones. He too wore only a towel, knotted loosely at his narrow hips. His hair was thin and silver, his eyes dark and bright with something predatory yet oddly appreciative. He moved with the slow confidence of someone who had never needed to hurry. The ‘boss’ began to circle the marble slab, bare feet silent on the stone. As he walked, one gnarled hand reached out—gentle, almost reverent—trailing fingertips along the thick sweep of Aykut’s quad, up over the carved ridge of his hip, across the deep separations of his abs. Aykut flinched at every touch, muscles jumping involuntarily, but the chains kept him exactly where he was.
“Magnificent,” the old man murmured, voice low and gravelly, accented but precise. “All these months watching the videos… the way you writhe, the way you break… it was beautiful. But nothing—nothing—compares to seeing you in the flesh. This face. This body. A true masterpiece of male perfection.”
He paused at Aykut’s head, looking down into his eyes. “You may call me simply ‘Efendi.’ I own the hammam. I own many things in this country—businesses, properties, people. And now… I own you.”
Aykut’s stomach lurched. “You’re insane. My coach—”
“Your coach,” Efendi interrupted gently, “has already been taken care of. A very generous sum—enough to retire comfortably, enough to forget your name ever existed on his roster. He will not be calling the police. No one will. You have trained for years, lived in gyms, cut yourself off from family, from friends. There is no one left to miss you, Aykut. No one who will look.”
The words landed like cold steel. Aykut’s mind reeled. He thought of his parents—distant, long-estranged. Old gym buddies who’d faded away as competition prep consumed him. Followers on social media who only cared about the next progress pic. The coach—the one constant—was bought and gone.
Efendi continued his slow circle, fingers now tracing the vein that snaked over Aykut’s colossal bicep.
“I have arranged everything you need to keep building this body,” he said. “A private, state-of-the-art gym—yours alone. The best trainers when you want them. Unlimited food—steaks, vitamins, supplements, whatever your growing muscles demand. Even a secluded apartment with everything you need.”
He stopped at Aykut’s feet, looking up the length of the spreadeagled form with open hunger.
“But there is a price.”
Aykut’s voice came out hoarse. “What… what do you want?”
Efendi smiled—small, thin, satisfied.
“You disappear. No more social media. No more contests. No more public life. The world forgets the bodybuilder named Aykut. In return, you become mine. My personal plaything. My Hercules, chained and willing, whenever I desire. You will train, you will grow, you will be pampered… and when I call, you will come to this place—or wherever I wish—and surrender that magnificent body to me and my chosen few.”
He leaned closer, breath warm against Aykut’s ear.
“Or…” The word hung like a blade. “I release the full, unedited videos. Every scream. Every orgasm. Every tear. Your face, clear as day, to every federation, every sponsor, every fan who ever admired you. Your legacy ends not in glory, but in shame.”
Efendi straightened, stepping back to admire his captive once more.
“The choice is yours, champion. But we both know you have already made it.”
Aykut’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. The chains clinked softly with each tremor. His eyes—wide, wet, furious, terrified—locked on the old man’s face.
And in the silence that followed, the weight of everything he had lost—and everything he was about to become—settled over him like the warm marble beneath his back.
Aykut’s face twisted in fury, veins bulging across his neck and temples as Efendi’s words sank in. “You sick fuck,” he snarled, voice cracking with rage. “You think you can buy me? Chain me up like some animal and turn me into your toy? Fuck you! Fuck all of you!”