Chapter 4: The Training Session
The leather collar was no longer a stranger. It lived against Min’s skin, a persistent, low-grade truth. He slept with its weight. He woke to its pressure. In the quiet moments, his fingers would stray to it, tracing the cool band, the solid D-ring, before snatching his hand away as if burned.
Two days after the bathroom, Jung wordlessly led him from the penthouse’s plush interior down a private elevator to a lower floor. The doors opened not to an office or lobby, but to a vast, hollow space that echoed with a deep, rhythmic thud.
The air was cool and carried the scents of leather, ozone from ancient fluorescent lights, and the sharp, clean sting of industrial disinfectant underneath a base note of male sweat. It was a gym, but unlike any public one. Polished steel racks held bars lined with heavy plates. Thick mats covered portions of the concrete floor. In one corner, a heavy bag swayed from a chain. In another, a full-sized fighting cage stood, its mesh door open like a silent invitation.
“You’re too slight,” Jung said, his voice cutting through the rhythmic noise of a treadmill that wasn’t on. He walked to a rack, selecting two comparatively small dumbbells. “Strength isn’t just for fighting. It’s for enduring.”
He placed the weights on the mat before Min. “Kneel.”
Min’s eyes flickered to the mats, then to Jung’s impassive face. The memory of the vanity, of his own reflection, flashed behind his eyes. His knees bent, lowering him onto the unforgiving vinyl. The position felt sacred and debasing all at once.
Jung circled him slowly. The soft squeak of his trainers on the floor was the only sound. “Obedience is rewarded. Hesitation is corrected. You understand?”
Min nodded, his throat tight. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Jung stopped in front of him. “Crawl to me.”
A hot wave of shame flushed Min’s skin. He was naked save for the collar and a pair of soft grey shorts Jung had given him. He dropped his hands to the mat, the texture rough against his palms. He moved forward, one knee then the other, a slow, awkward shuffle until his forehead nearly touched Jung’s shoes.
“Look up.”
Min lifted his chin. Jung’s expression was unreadable, a commander assessing a new recruit. He reached down, his hand curling in Min’s hair, not yanking, but holding with definite ownership. “You learn fast. That’s good.” He released him. “Stand. Over there.”
He pointed to a padded weight bench. Min rose, his limbs feeling clumsy, and approached it.
“Bend over it. Grip the other side.”
Min complied, leaning over the cold vinyl padding, his fingers finding the steel frame underneath. He stared at the floor, at a stray piece of protective tape curled on the concrete. Then he saw their reflection, distorted and fragmented, in the chrome plating of a weight rack nearby.
Jung moved behind him. The shorts were pulled down in one efficient motion, baring him. The gym’s cool air kissed his exposed skin. He heard the rustle of clothing, the tear of a packet. The lube was cold as Jung applied it, his fingers working him open with a brisk, practical familiarity. Min bit his lip, stifling a sound.
“You see us?” Jung’s voice was low, close to his ear. He wasn’t looking at Min; he was looking at the distorted chrome reflection. “See what we are here?”
His cockhead pressed against Min’s entrance, a blunt, demanding pressure. He didn’t push in. Not yet.
“Here, you work. You take what I give you. You don’t break.” Then he sheathed himself in one deep, relentless stroke.
Min cried out, the sound swallowed by the cavernous room. The bench dug into his hips. The position was deeper, more penetrating than before. Jung set a pace that was immediately punishing, each thrust snapping Min’s body forward, his grip on the bench frame the only anchor.
“Look at it,” Jung grunted, his own eyes locked on the blurred reflection. His hands, rough and powerful, gripped Min’s waist, fingers splayed possessively. “Watch yourself get fucked.”
Min forced his gaze up. In the warped chrome, he saw a disjointed image: Jung’s powerful back flexing, his own pale body jolting, his face a mask of strained pleasure. The collar was a dark band, the center of the entire chaotic image.
Jung’s thrusts became harder, more rhythmic, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the high ceiling. The clinical smells of the gym mixed with the musk of sex. Min’s cock, hard and neglected, rubbed against the rough vinyl with every drive.
“Who do you belong to?” Jung demanded, his voice ragged with exertion.
“You,” Min gasped.
“Say it.”
“I belong to you!”
“Again.”
“I belong to you, sir!” The words were torn from him, each declaration punched out by a deep, rolling thrust. Something was coiling tight in his gut, a terrifying pressure. The shame was still there, a sour note, but it was being drowned out by the sheer physical ferocity of his claiming. His body was learning a brutal grammar where this violation meant safety.
Jung’s hand left his waist and snaked around, grasping Min’s leaking cock. The touch was rough, almost cruel, a tight, fast stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual assault was overwhelming.
“Please,” Min sobbed, his reflection’s mouth contorted. The word was a white flag. “Please, Daddy… harder.”
The effect was electric. Jung roared, a raw, approving sound that seemed to shake the very air. He hammered into Min, his rhythm fracturing into pure, carnal instinct. The bench creaked in protest.
“That’s it,” Jung growled, his breath searing Min’s neck. “That’s my good boy. Now thank me. Thank me for every fucking inch.”
Min’s mind splintered. Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto the vinyl below. “Thank you, Daddy,” he whimpered.
“Again.”
“Thank you, Daddy.” The thrust pistoned into him.
“Again.”
“Thank you, Daddy!” Louder, mingling with a sob.
He chanted it, a ragged prayer, with every earth-moving drive. “Thank you, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy.” Each “thank you” was a brick in the wall of his old self, tumbling down. His orgasm ripped through him with no warning, violent and silent, streaking the bench and the floor beneath as Jung’s ruthless hand and pounding cock wrung it from him.
Jung followed seconds later, his final thrusts turning shallow and erratic. He buried himself deep, his body a rigid, shuddering weight atop Min’s. The hot flood inside was a familiar, claiming seal.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the hum of the lights. Jung’s weight was immense, pressing Min into the bench. Slowly, Jung softened and pulled out. Min’s legs gave way immediately, buckling. He would have collapsed onto the soiled floor if Jung hadn’t caught him, swinging him up into arms that felt, in that moment, like the only solid thing in the universe.
He was carried, boneless and trembling, past the weights and the cage, into a stark tiled shower room. Jung turned on a spray of water—hot, but not scalding—and stepped under it, still holding Min close.
The water washed over them, rinsing away sweat, lube, and release. It pooled in the hollow of Min’s collar before overflowing. Jung’s hand smoothed over his back, over his hair, saying nothing. The tenderness was more disorienting than the violence.
Min’s head rested on Jung’s shoulder. His body hummed with exhaustion and a strange, shattered peace. He felt clean. He felt used. He felt, for the first time in his living memory, unmistakably claimed. The words were a faint echo in his mind, matching the rhythm of the water.
Thank you, Daddy.