Persektor led blindfolded Viny to the open center of the living room, carpet warm beneath their feet.
He stepped back a pace, letting Viny stand alone, vulnerable, stomach already drawn tight in nervous anticipation.
“Hands behind your head, boy. Chest out. Show me what’s mine,” Persektor commanded, voice low and possessive.
Viny obeyed instantly, lacing fingers at the nape of his neck, ribs flaring, abs presented like an offering.
Persektor closed the distance, one palm pressing flat against Viny’s quivering stomach, feeling the heat and tension there.
Without warning his fist replaced the palm—driving deep into the soft center with a heavy, resonant thud.
Viny’s breath punched out in a sharp wheeze; his body rocked backward, but Persektor’s free hand on his hip steadied him.
The second blow landed slightly higher, knuckles sinking into the muscle just under the ribs—claiming every inch.
Each successive punch built a rhythm: slow, deliberate, powerful, the wet smack of fist on flesh filling the quiet space.
Viny’s abs contracted uselessly after the sixth strike, a low groan escaping as the burn spread like fire.
Persektor watched every flinch, every tremble, growling softly, “You take it so well because you know you belong to me.”
Finally he wrapped both arms around Viny’s shaking frame, one fist still buried possessively against the bruised, heaving core, whispering, “Good boy. All mine.”