The Heavy Bag.

The Heavy Bag

Three nights later.
The bruises on Lukas’s wrists have turned the color of storm clouds. He wears a long-sleeve rashguard to morning class, but the moment the last student leaves he peels it off like it burns.

1:17 a.m.
The main floor is almost black. Only one work-light burns above the far corner, throwing a cone of yellow over the oldest heavy bag—the one that’s cracked and taped a hundred times, the one no one uses anymore.

Viktor is already there, arms folded, leaning against the steel beam the bag hangs from. He doesn’t speak when Lukas steps into the light. Just looks. Slow. Possessive.

Lukas stops two meters away. Bare feet. Black compression shorts again, but tonight they’re cut higher on the thigh, the fabric clinging to new bruises blooming across his hips like spilled ink. His hair is damp from the shower he never quite finished.

Viktor finally moves. He lifts a pair of leather suspension cuffs—thick, padded, the kind climbers use on big walls—and dangles them from one finger.

“Wrists,” he says.

Lukas raises his arms without hesitation. The cuffs buckle tight, the D-rings clinking softly. Viktor threads a short length of chain through both rings, then clips it high on the beam so Lukas has to rise onto the balls of his feet. The bag hangs directly in front of him now, swaying a few centimeters from his chest.

Viktor walks behind him. Pulls a black silk blindfold from his pocket. Slides it over Lukas’s eyes, knots it firm.

Darkness swallows everything.

He hears Viktor’s boots on the mat. Feels the air shift. Then nothing.

Minutes crawl.

The bag creaks on its chain. Lukas’s shoulders start to burn. Sweat beads along his spine.

A gloved hand (Viktor’s sparring glove, thick red leather) lands flat between his shoulder blades and shoves.

The heavy bag swings forward and slams into Lukas’s torso. Once. Hard enough to knock the breath from him. The chain rattles; his body jerks, toes scraping for purchase.

Again. Harder.

Each impact drives a sharp grunt from his throat. The blindfold keeps him blind; he never knows when the next hit is coming. The bag is merciless, old leather splitting at the seams, thudding into ribs, sternum, stomach. The pain is bright, clean, perfect.

Between blows, Viktor’s voice drifts in, low and calm.

“Color?”

Lukas’s answer comes out ragged, almost laughing. “Green. So fucking green.”

Ten strikes. Fifteen. Lukas’s head falls forward, blond hair plastered to his forehead, mouth open, drooling against the bag that keeps punishing him. His cock is straining against the shorts now, obscene and obvious.

Viktor stops the bag with one hand. Steps in close. Lukas feels gloved fingers hook under the waistband of his shorts and drag them down just enough to free him. Cool air hits overheated skin.

No warning. The glove wraps around him—rough leather, chalk-dusted, still warm from Viktor’s hand—and strokes once, slow and clinical.

Lukas cries out, hips bucking into the grip.

Another stroke. Another. Then nothing.

The glove disappears.

The blindfold stays.

Lukas is left hanging, trembling, cock slick and aching in empty air, chest heaving against the battered bag that smells of old sweat and blood.

He hears Viktor’s footsteps circle once. Twice.

Then the work-light clicks off.

Total darkness.

The cuffs stay locked. The bag still touches his chest like a sleeping animal.

Somewhere in the black, Viktor’s voice, soft as a promise:

“Stay right there, pretty boy. I’m not done looking at you yet.”

The door never opens.
The lock never clicks.
Just the slow creak of the chain and Lukas’s own ragged breathing, counting heartbeats in the dark.

He smiles into the leather, tasting salt and vinyl.

He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t want to.