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5. Aykut's break in
Aykut exploded into motion—every massive muscle igniting at once. Biceps ballooned to their full 21-inch peaks, shoulders rolling like boulders as he yanked against the manacles. The heavy chains clanked and groaned, links rattling violently, but the steel held fast, unyielding. His quads exploded outward, teardrop sweeps straining, hamstrings corded to the point of tearing, calves splitting into diamond-hard hearts as he tried to plant his feet and arch off the slab. The marble vibrated under the force of his thrashing; sweat broke fresh across his skin, gleaming under the amber light. He roared—a primal, guttural sound born of years of iron discipline now turned to desperate rebellion.
“I’m not your fucking plaything!” he bellowed, thrashing harder, wrists bleeding where the manacles bit into flesh. “I’ve squatted houses, deadlifted cars—I’ve broken my body and built it back stronger every time! You don’t get to own me! You don’t get to—”
His words dissolved into incoherent curses as exhaustion clawed at the edges of his fury. The chains didn’t budge. The slab didn’t crack. His legendary strength, the same power that had carried him through the most brutal training regimens of his life, was useless here—reduced to futile rattling and the burn of torn skin.
Efendi watched impassively, thin lips curved in faint amusement. Emir, Burak, and Kerem ignored the tirade entirely. Without a word, they turned away from the slab and began to prepare. One by one they shed their towels, letting the white fabric pool on the stone floor. Naked now, their thick, hairy bodies moved with silent choreography. From a shadowed alcove they retrieved black leather hoods—featureless, tight-fitting masks that covered their heads completely, leaving only slits for eyes and mouths. They pulled them on slowly, deliberately, transforming their familiar faces into anonymous, menacing shapes. Next came the harnesses: wide strips of gleaming black leather crisscrossing their broad chests, buckling tight over hairy pecs and thick shoulders. Metal rings glinted at the center of each harness. They threaded their engorged cocks through the rings, the heavy shafts now framed and presented like weapons, veins pulsing, heads already glistening. In the low light they looked less like the masseurs Aykut had known and more like ancient executioners—faceless enforcers from some forgotten dungeon ritual, bodies oiled and muscled, cocks rigid and leashed, prepared to mete out punishment or pleasure without mercy. Efendi stepped forward again, bare feet silent, towel still knotted at his narrow hips.
“You speak of breaking your body,” Efendi said softly, almost tenderly, as he gave a slight nod to Burak. Burak stepped closer to the slab in perfect obedience, his hooded form looming silently. “But you have never truly been broken, champion. Not until now.”
Aykut’s thrashing slowed, not from surrender but from the dawning horror of what he was seeing: three hooded figures closing in, cocks straining through metal rings, eyes gleaming through mask slits with cold intent. He was no longer facing three men who had seduced and overwhelmed him in steam and oil. He was facing executioners. Aykut—bound, spreadeagled, glistening with sweat—had never looked more vulnerable.
Emir and Kerem moved with silent coordination, stepping to either side of the marble slab like executioners taking their stations. From a small leather case one of them produced two gleaming steel tit clamps—industrial, cold, and far more menacing than anything Aykut had ever seen in the hammam. The jaws were lined with small, ridged teeth; each clamp featured a large, knurled adjustment knob on top, designed for precise, incremental cruelty.
Aykut’s eyes widened. “No—don’t you fucking dare—”
They ignored him completely.
Emir pinched Aykut’s left nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling the already swollen, hypersensitive peak until it stood rigid and erect. Then, without hesitation, he positioned the open jaws of the clamp and let them snap shut. The bite was immediate, vicious—sharp metal teeth sinking into tender flesh. Aykut gasped, back arching off the slab, a choked curse exploding from his lips.
“Motherfuckers—get these off me—!”
Kerem mirrored the action on the right nipple, the second clamp closing with the same merciless click. Pain lanced through Aykut’s chest like twin lightning bolts, radiating outward in hot, nauseating waves. His cursing resumed, louder, more frantic, chains rattling as he thrashed uselessly. But the clamps were no ordinary toys. Emir and Kerem each took hold of a knob and began to turn—slowly at first, then with deliberate, incremental twists. The jaws tightened further, squeezing Aykut’s nipples with progressive, excruciating pressure. The cursing fractured, words dissolving into sharp, involuntary yelps. Each quarter-turn ratcheted the agony higher; the ridges inside the clamps dug deeper, crushing the sensitive tissue until Aykut’s voice cracked and rose into full-throated screams.
“Stop—fuck—STOP—!”
Across the slab, Burak stood beside a small black box—matte-finished, no larger than a hardcover book, with a simple dial, power switch, and two coiled red-and-black wires tipped with alligator clips. He worked methodically, attaching one clip to each of the tit clamps’ built-in terminals. The wires snaked across Aykut’s heaving chest like venomous snakes, connecting the steel jaws directly to the generator. Efendi approached from the side, bare feet silent on the stone, the generator cradled in his thin arms like a sacred relic. He stopped beside Aykut’s head, looking down into the sweat-streaked, furious face of the bound champion. The old man’s eyes gleamed with quiet, sadistic delight.
“My dear Hercules,” he murmured, voice soft and almost affectionate, “I have waited so long for this moment. All those videos… they were merely appetizers. Now I have the honor of being the one to truly break you in.”
He rested one gnarled hand on Aykut’s sweat-slick forehead, thumb brushing a damp lock of hair aside in a parody of tenderness.
“After tonight,” Efendi continued, “you will be my obedient slave. Stronger than ever in body… and perfectly submissive in soul.”
With a final, lingering look into Aykut’s wide, terrified eyes, Efendi’s thin lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.
He flicked the power switch.
The generator hummed to life—low at first, a soft vibration that traveled up the wires and into the clamps. Then Efendi turned the dial. A sharp, electric jolt stabbed through Aykut’s nipples, searing straight into his chest. His entire Herculean frame convulsed—muscles locking, quads and abs clenching into brutal definition, biceps straining against the chains until veins stood out like cables. A strangled scream ripped from his throat, raw and animalistic, as the current pulsed in rhythmic waves: on, off, on, off—each surge twisting the pain into something deeper, something that radiated down his torso and pooled hot and unwanted between his legs.
Efendi watched, unblinking, as the invincible bodybuilder writhed and screamed beneath his hand.
“Welcome to your new life, champion,” he whispered.
And he turned the dial higher.
Aykut’s defiance burned hotter than the pain searing through his chest. Even as sweat poured down his temples and his Herculean frame shuddered under the relentless electric pulses, he bared his teeth and snarled through clenched jaws.
“Never… you old fuck… I’ll die before I bend for you…”
His voice cracked on the last word, but the fire in his eyes never dimmed. Massive biceps and triceps corded to bursting, quads and hamstrings flexed into grotesque, veined slabs as he threw every remaining ounce of strength against the chains. The steel manacles groaned; the marble slab vibrated beneath him. Blood trickled from his wrists where skin had torn, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Not yet. Aykut clamped down harder, forcing his pecs into a brutal, marble-hard contraction—each thick slab of muscle swelling outward, striations deepening into razor-sharp cuts that looked carved from stone. His abs followed suit, clenching into an armored eight-pack that rippled and locked, every ridge etched so deep it cast shadows across his midsection. The effort was total, desperate: chest and core flexing with the kind of power that had once won him titles, veins popping across his delts and traps like blue rivers under the skin. He pushed against the pain in his nipples with raw will, trying to muscle through the searing electric jolts, as if sheer mass and definition could shield him from the torment. Yet every convulsion only made the clamps bite deeper, the shocks sharper, turning his Herculean defiance into a beautiful, futile spectacle of muscle straining against unbreakable agony.
Efendi watched the spectacle with quiet rapture, thin lips parted in a smile that never reached satisfaction. He reached for the generator’s dial and twisted it to “Auto.” A soft electronic chirp sounded from the box. The current immediately changed—random, unpredictable waves that rose and fell in jagged rhythm. Efendi’s gaze never left Aykut’s writhing form. Slowly, almost reverently, his free hand drifted downward—fingers trailing over the sweat-slick ridges of Aykut’s abs, skirting the deep V of his iliac furrow, until they closed around the champion’s half-hard cock. The shaft, still thick and veined despite the torment, twitched in his grasp, betraying a stubborn pulse of arousal beneath the pain. Efendi gave it a single, slow, deliberate stroke, thumb brushing the sensitive underside where the sounding rod disappeared into the swollen head.
“The irony, my dear Aykut,” Efendi murmured, voice soft and intimate against the crackle of electricity and Aykut’s ragged breaths, “is that you actually enjoy this torment. Your body knows the truth even if your mind still clings to denial. You harden for it… you leak for it… you tremble so beautifully under every lash of pain.”
He squeezed gently, coaxing another involuntary throb from the impaled length.
“Ever since I first saw you step into the hammam—still pumped from the gym, sweat clinging to every ridge of muscle—and then watched you submit so completely to my three masseurs, letting them unravel you piece by piece on that slick marble, I knew who the real Aykut was. Not the champion on stage, not the unbreakable muscle man of the gym mirrors. The real you—the one who moaned and begged and came untouched when they took control. That was the truth I had been waiting to see.”
Efendi’s eyes gleamed with dark fascination as he continued.
“You are like Hercules himself—not just physically, with this godlike frame forged in iron and sweat, but deep inside you are the same. The demigod who somehow enjoyed the twelve labors imposed upon him—because only someone as strong as him could withstand all the pain, the monsters, the endless fights that defined his very existence. He was born for trials that would shatter lesser men; he thrived in the crucible of suffering. I see the same Hercules in you, Aykut—someone born for pain, misery, and torments. These chains, these shocks, this violation… they are your labors. And deep inside, you crave them, just as he did. You were forged to endure, to break, and to rise again only more beautiful in your ruin.”
Efendi released the cock with a final, lingering pat, letting it fall heavily against Aykut’s lower abs—still glistening, still half-erect, a humiliating living proof of his words. He turned his attention back to the generator, thumb resting lightly on the dial once more, as if weighing whether to crank the current higher or grant the briefest mercy.
“Fight all you like, Hercules,” he whispered. “Your body has already surrendered. Soon, your soul will follow.”
Aykut’s sobs choked off into ragged gasps as fresh fury surged through him, reigniting the dying embers of his defiance. He wrenched against the chains with renewed violence, every colossal muscle exploding into full, vascular definition—biceps peaking like cannonballs, quads sweeping outward in brutal teardrops, abs clenching into a steel-plated grid that rippled with each futile pull. The manacles bit deeper into his wrists and ankles, blood trickling warm down his forearms, but he didn’t care. “You sick old fuck!” he roared, voice hoarse and cracking, spit flecking his lips as he thrashed. “You twisted, pathetic piece of shit—let me go! I’ll rip these chains apart and snap your scrawny neck myself!”
“Burak,” Efendi said calmly, never taking his gaze from Aykut’s writhing form. “The second generator, if you please.”
Burak—hooded, thick cock still straining through the metal ring—moved without hesitation. He retrieved an identical black box from the shadows and set it beside the first, uncoiling fresh red-and-black wires. Efendi stepped between Aykut’s spread thighs. In his gnarled hand he held a long, smooth surgical-steel sounding rod—slender and rounded at the tip, gradually thickening toward the base, polished to a mirror finish. He squeezed a thick dollop of clear lubricant onto the rod and coated it generously, then brought the rounded tip to the slit of Aykut’s still-half-hard cock.
Aykut’s eyes flew wide. “No—no—no—GET THAT AWAY FROM ME—!”
Efendi ignored the plea.
Despite his mature age and scrawny frame, Efendi gripped Aykut’s half-hard cock with surprising firmness—thin, wiry fingers wrapping around the thick shaft like a vise, holding it steady and upright as if claiming ownership of the very organ that had once defined Aykut’s masculine pride. With slow, deliberate pressure he began to feed the sounding rod into the urethra. The violation was immediate and profound—cold, unyielding metal pressing against the tiny slit, forcing it open with a sharp, stinging stretch that made Aykut’s entire pelvis clench in reflexive horror. Even though the rod was mirror-smooth and heavily lubricated, the friction against the ultra-sensitive inner walls generated a sickening, electric tickle—a maddening, crawling sensation that danced along every nerve ending inside his urethra, like thousands of tiny needles scraping and teasing at once. It drove Aykut insane, hips jerking uncontrollably, a guttural whine escaping his throat as the alien intrusion crawled deeper.
Each millimeter felt like an eternity: the tip burrowing forward, dilating the narrow channel with relentless insistence, the delicate mucosal lining yielding unwillingly around the expanding girth. A burning pressure built behind the head, then radiated outward in hot, nauseating waves as the rod stretched tissues never meant to accommodate such invasion. Aykut’s abs locked into brutal, quivering ridges; his thighs trembled with the effort to resist; sweat poured down his sides. The chains rattled uselessly, the electric torment at his nipples stripping away any chance of real fight.
The rod glided in—two inches, three, four—each incremental advance accompanied by a fresh surge of that nauseating tickle and a deeper, more intimate burn. When it could go no further—nearly eight inches buried inside, the flared base pressing flush against the slit—Aykut felt an immense, crushing pressure at the very end of his urethra, right where the rod nudged against the sensitive prostatic junction. It was as if a fist had been rammed into the core of him from the inside out: a throbbing, distended fullness that made his bladder feel impossibly full, his prostate swollen and trapped, every heartbeat pulsing against the unyielding steel. His cock twitched helplessly around the intrusion, veins bulging grotesquely along the shaft as conflicting signals—agony, violation, unwanted arousal—fried his nerves and left him gasping, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Aykut’s screams turned ragged, almost sobbing. “You… fucking… pervert…”
Efendi only smiled. He accepted the second rod from Burak—this one much thicker, easily the girth of three fingers, smooth and unyielding. Another generous coating of lube, then he pressed the blunt end against Aykut’s clenched hole. Aykut instinctively tightened every muscle in his powerful glutes, trying to deny entry. His ass became a fortress of iron—years of heavy squats and deadlifts forged into unbreachable resistance. Efendi simply turned the nipple generator dial up a single notch. The shock hit like a sledgehammer. Aykut’s entire body seized—back arching violently off the slab, every muscle locking in tetanic contraction. His glutes spasmed open for one helpless second. That was all Efendi needed. He pushed. The thick rod breached the ring of muscle and sank deep—slow, inexorable, filling Aykut from the inside with cold, unyielding steel until only the flared base remained visible between his cheeks.
Aykut’s scream fractured into a high, keening wail. But the true horror was only beginning.
Burak knelt again, methodically attaching alligator clips: one to the protruding end of the urethral rod, the other to the base of the thick anal plug. Fresh wires snaked across Aykut’s trembling thighs and connected to the second generator. Efendi lifted the new control box, thumb resting lightly on the main knob. He leaned close—so close Aykut could smell the faint mint on his breath—and looked straight into the champion’s tear-streaked eyes.
“Will you obey me, Aykut?” Efendi asked softly. “Will you be my toy Hercules? My perfect, obedient slave?”
Aykut’s lips trembled. Tears streamed freely now, carving clean tracks through the sweat on his cheeks. His voice came out raw, shattered, but unbroken.
“Never.”
Efendi’s smile widened—slow, almost tender. He turned the knob.
The current surged through both rods at once—urethra to prostate in a blinding, white-hot arc that felt like lightning forking straight through his core, a vicious, zigzagging bolt that scorched along the sensitive lining of his urethra before exploding outward into the deep, swollen gland of his prostate. Pain beyond anything Aykut had ever endured erupted inside him: deeper than the worst leg-day cramps, sharper than any pec tear, more consuming than the double penetration that had once broken his will in the hammam. It was a raw, invasive fire that started as a stinging, electric buzz right at the tip—sharp pinpricks dancing along the inner walls like needles scraping delicate tissue—then built into a throbbing, pulsing burn that radiated through his shaft, making every vein throb in protest. The sounding rod amplified it all; the current hugged the metal tightly, turning the smooth intrusion into a conduit of unrelenting torment, the prostate feeling crushed and milked simultaneously as waves of nauseating shock slammed against it from the inside out. Compared to this, every brutal training session, every contest prep, every forced rep to failure had been nothing—a gentle walk in the park.
His body convulsed in violent, rhythmic spasms—cock straining desperately around the sounding rod, the metal shifting with each involuntary twitch and sending fresh jolts of that sickening, intimate sting up his length; ass clenching uselessly around the thick plug, the current arcing straight through the prostate in relentless pulses that made his hips buck and his thighs quake. Every muscle fiber fired chaotically as electricity hijacked his nerves, locking his Herculean frame in tetanic contractions that left him gasping, sweat pouring in rivers down his sides. His screams turned wordless—high, broken howls that bounced off the dungeon walls, raw and animalistic, cracking into sobs as the random surges hit harder with every thrash.
Efendi watched, unblinking, cranking the dial higher still.
And somewhere beneath the blinding agony, in the deepest recesses of Aykut’s fracturing mind, a tiny, terrified voice began to whisper: How much longer can I hold out?
Aykut lost all sense of time. Minutes, hours, eternities blurred into one endless scream of sensation. The electricity didn’t just hurt—it revisited every brutal moment of his life as a bodybuilder and amplified them tenfold. The searing burn in his quads after a 30-rep failure set of front squats; the deep, nauseating ache in his lower back after max deadlifts; the fire in his delts and triceps from endless overhead presses, cramps in his pecs after brutal bench presses—all of it crashed back at once, layered over and over, as if a decade of grueling preparation had been condensed into this single, unending wave. Every muscle in his Herculean frame was locked in maximum contraction—harder, fuller, more vascular than any contest peak-out or posing routine had ever demanded. His huge arms bulged grotesquely against the chains, veins like ropes under sweat-slick skin; his quads swept outward in impossible teardrops, hamstrings and calves splitting into razor-cut definition; his abs clenched into an armored eight-pack that rippled with each involuntary spasm. Yet no matter how fiercely he flexed, how desperately he fought the current, the pain refused to relent. It only fed on his resistance, growing sharper, deeper, more intimate with every thrash.
His curses—once furious, venomous—fractured into broken gasps, then into ragged sobs. Tears spilled freely down his temples, mixing with the rivers of sweat that poured off his body, pooling beneath him on the warm marble. His chest heaved in great, shuddering breaths; his lips trembled around wordless whimpers. The invincible Hercules—the man who had stared down barbells heavier than most men could dream of lifting—was reduced to a weeping, sweat-drenched wreck, every proud inch of him trembling and defeated.
Efendi leaned close again, one thin hand resting lightly on Aykut’s sweat-soaked forehead, thumb stroking almost lovingly through the damp hair at his temple.
“My poor, magnificent boy,” Efendi murmured, voice soft as velvet over steel. “I can make it all stop. Just say the word. Yield to me… and the pain ends.”
Aykut’s sobs hitched. His body still jerked with residual spasms, nipples throbbing purple and swollen in the clamps, cock and ass impaled by cold metal that hummed with dying echoes of current. Pride, rage, the iron will that had carried him through years of sacrifice—they all cracked under the weight of unrelenting agony.
“P-please…” The word slipped out, barely audible, cracked and small. “Stop… please… make it stop…”
Efendi’s smile was gentle, almost paternal. He did nothing at first—deliberately letting the generators continue their low, teasing pulse for long, cruel seconds more. Aykut’s sobs grew louder, more desperate, body arching one final time in a useless, full-body convulsion.
Only then did Efendi reach for both control boxes. With slow, theatrical care, he flipped the switches off.
Silence.