The two captains stood in the uniform supply room, the air heavy with the smell of leather, polish, and steel. Shadows clung to the corners, broken only by the dim overhead light glinting off buckles, boots, and belts. They had been together for years—long enough to know exactly what they wanted, and long enough to know how to take it. Hans Jurgen, broad-shouldered and imposing, fastened the collar of his long black leather coat with deliberate precision. He was a man who didn’t ask. He commanded. He took. And he always got what he wanted. His partner, Peter, no less dominant, had just stepped into a new pair of riding boots. The leather groaned as he pulled them tight around his calves. They hugged his legs like restraints, stiff and unyielding. Perfect for today. Both men carried with them more than authority. Inside their breeches hung their true instruments: cocks of steel, forged in segments, heavy and obscene. Their balls, too, were locked away behind plates of dark metal. It wasn’t mere armor. It was weaponry. They had learned to use these steel monsters in ways that struck terror into anyone unlucky enough to fall into their hands. With the snap of a clasp, they could fit wiring to the shafts, feeding them with raw current. A small turn of the dial, and the steel came alive with power. They didn’t even need to undress. A hand to the fly, the wires connected, the switch thrown—then the real work began. Peter rose from the bench, stamping once, twice, in his gleaming boots. The sound echoed through the supply room like a warning. He adjusted his breeches, feeling the weight of steel straining inside, dragging against him with every step. A low, satisfied growl escaped his throat. Hans Jurgen’s eyes glinted under the dim light. “Time to work,” he said, his voice carrying the promise of violence. The two men left the supply room in step, their boots striking the corridor floor with heavy, resonant thuds. The sound rolled ahead of them like distant thunder. “How many today?” Peter asked, his tone sharp, eager. “Two,” Hans Jurgen answered.
Peter’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Good. Two will be enough. I want to hear them scream.” The corridor led them down into the lower levels, where the walls were lined with stone and the air grew cooler, damper, carrying the faint tang of oil and steel. Every step of their boots echoed like a drumbeat, announcing their approach.
The chamber awaited them. A bare space, stripped of comfort, with only the necessary fixtures: hooks, chains, and a long table laid out with precise order. The polished steel gleamed beneath the lamp, each instrument aligned as though part of a sacred rite. Hans Jurgen stepped inside first, his long leather coat sweeping the floor, the scent of hide and polish following him. He touched the table, fingertips brushing over steel clamps and coiled wires, as if taking inventory of his own power. Peter closed the heavy door behind them, the iron latch falling into place with a final, echoing snap. They prepared with the calm of men who had done this a hundred times. Ritual gave it weight. Peter adjusted his gloves, pulling them tight with deliberate snaps of leather, each one sharp as a gunshot in the silence. Hans Jurgen unfastened his coat, letting the thick leather fall open, revealing the hard outline of the steel bulge within his breeches. Neither spoke at first. The silence was part of the rite. The only sounds were the scrape of boots on stone, the creak of leather seams as their bodies shifted, the metallic clink of gear as it was laid out, tested, and arranged. At last Hans Jurgen broke the silence. His voice was steady, low, and absolute. “Everything is ready.” Peter stepped closer, boots shining under the lamplight, the rigid leather flexing as he moved. His gloved hand brushed against the steel at his crotch, the contact sending a faint metallic rasp into the air. His mouth curled in satisfaction. “They won’t last long.” Hans Jurgen didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Together, they turned toward the door that led to the holding cells, their ritual complete, their tools gleaming, the air heavy with the promise of what was to come.
The chamber was heavy with silence, broken only by the hiss of the lamps and the faint grind of boots against stone. Hans Jurgen stood with his coat open, the steel at his crotch pressing hard against the straining fabric of his breeches. Peter’s eyes locked on it, unflinching, as though daring him to move. “You wear it like a crown,” Peter said softly, almost taunting. His gloved hand pressed against his own bulge, the steel inside shifting with a dull metallic scrape. “But you forget—I wear the same.” Hans Jurgen’s eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, leather creaking, coat brushing the ground like a shadow. “You’ve always thought yourself my equal. And yet you know who takes command.”
Peter’s jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth curved. He stood taller, boots shining under the lamp, and pushed his hips forward so the heavy steel outline was unmistakable. The bulge swelled, obscene and unyielding, his arousal clear even beneath the armor of metal. “Command,” Peter said slowly, “is a matter of who pushes further. Who endures more.” He leaned in close, until the tips of their coats brushed. “And you know damn well I can outlast you.” For a long moment, neither moved. The air between them throbbed with tension—rivalry, hunger, the raw charge of two men who could not back down. The steel cocks inside their breeches seemed to swell against each other in silence, their bulges heavier, harder, as though feeding on the challenge itself. Hans Jurgen’s breath came low, deliberate, almost a growl. He closed his coat halfway, but not enough to hide what was pressing beneath it. “Perhaps. But tonight, you’ll follow my lead.” Peter’s eyes flashed, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a smile. He let his hand linger against the steel weight in his breeches, rubbing the leather over it in slow, deliberate strokes, knowing Hans Jurgen was watching. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see who really leads when the screaming starts.” Their eyes locked again—steel against steel, will against will. The chamber itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for which man would yield first. Neither did. And in that perfect stalemate, their arousal only deepened, their heavy steel bulges straining bigger, sharper, more alive with every passing second. The prisoner stood unsteady in his chains, head bowed, breathing shallow. The silence was unbearable. Peter broke it first, circling like a wolf, his boots grinding against the stone floor. Every step was deliberate, meant to echo in the prisoner’s skull. He let his gloved hand trail across his own thigh, brushing the outline of the steel bulge locked within his breeches. The metallic rasp was soft, but loud enough in the tense chamber to carry like a warning. Hans Jurgen moved slower, measured. His long leather coat swayed as he approached, every buckle and seam gleaming in the lamplight. He stopped just in front of the prisoner, tilting his head, letting the man feel the full weight of his stare. Then, without a word, he opened the coat wider. The heavy folds parted, revealing the rigid outline of his steel cock pressing against the fabric of his breeches, thick and unmistakable. The prisoner’s breath caught. Peter smiled at the reaction. He came to stand at the prisoner’s other side, so that both captains framed him—two towering silhouettes of leather and steel, their bulges swollen, ready, daring the man even to look away. “Do you see?” Hans Jurgen’s voice was low, deliberate, every word like iron dropping into water. “This is discipline.” Peter leaned in close to the prisoner’s ear, his gloved hand gripping the man’s shoulder with enough force to make the chains rattle. “And this,” he whispered, pressing his hips forward so the steel bulge dragged against the prisoner’s arm, “is power.” The captive shivered. Both captains smiled, sharing a glance over his bowed head. Rivalry forgotten, they were now united—two predators feeding off each other’s presence, their heavy steel cocks straining within their breeches, swollen with the thrill of domination. The ritual had begun.
The prisoner stood rigid between them, chains clinking softly with every shallow breath. He didn’t dare raise his eyes. Hans Jurgen reached to the table, his gloves whispering over the polished steel laid out in precise rows. He selected a length of wire, coiling it slowly between his hands, the metal catching the lamplight. He didn’t attach it—yet. That wasn’t the point. The sound alone, the suggestion, was enough to thicken the air with dread. Peter watched, a faint grin curling his mouth. He tugged his gloves tighter with sharp snaps of leather, then spread his legs slightly, thrusting his hips forward so his breeches stretched tight over the heavy steel bulge beneath. He let the prisoner see it, let him know it, before stepping closer, boots echoing like hammers on the stone. “You understand,” Peter said softly, his voice like a blade drawn across glass, “this is not for us to prove. It is for you.” His hand stroked the leather of his thigh, brushing the outline of the rigid steel beneath. “We already know.”
Hans Jurgen set the coil of wire down with deliberate care, then reached inside his open coat, adjusting himself, the dull metallic scrape of his steel cock audible in the silent chamber. His eyes never left the prisoner. “Watch,” he said. “You’ll learn what discipline looks like.” The two men moved with ritual precision, checking each buckle, each strap, each connection, their gestures slow and exaggerated. They weren’t just preparing their gear—they were performing for each other, feeding off the sight of leather stretched tight, steel bulges straining harder, boots grinding against the floor. Their rivalry had transformed into a shared arousal, sharpened by the fear radiating from the figure caught between them. By the time they finished, the prisoner was trembling openly, his chains rattling with each uneven breath. Hans Jurgen closed his coat with a heavy snap of leather. “Now,” he said, his voice low and final. “We begin.”
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