Page 24 of Mafia Daddy

Before I can process the betrayal of my own arousal, Maxim’s hand leaves my skin. I hear a soft scrape—something being lifted from the nightstand—and my stomach drops.

Oh no.

The heavy wooden back of my hairbrush meets my right cheek with a sharp crack. The pain is instant and vicious, a bright explosion that drags a genuine yelp out of me.

“Awww! Fuck! Maxim!”

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Five merciless strokes in total land on the same cheek in quick succession, each one harder than the last. I buck and twist, but his arm across my lower back holds me down like steel.

“You’re a bad boy, Milo,” he says, voice low and calm, almost gentle, which somehow makes it worse. “Bad boys get punished. Thoroughly.”

The brush moves to my left cheek. Five more brutal cracks. The sound is obscene—loud, sharp, echoing off the walls. Tears prick my eyes. My ass feels like it’s on fire, tight and swollen and impossibly hot.

“I didn’t… ah!... I was just…”

“You stole a phone,” he cuts me off, delivering another measured set of five on the first cheek again. “You manipulated my nephew. You broke the very first rule I gave you. On day one no less.”

I’m panting, fingers clutching the edge of the bedspread, tears now slipping free.

The pain is real, but underneath it that awful, needy ache keeps building. Every strike sends little sparks straight to my cock. I hate how hard I am. I hate how part of me—the secret, shameful Little part—is drinking this in like it’s been starving for exactly this kind of firm, unyielding control.

Five more on the left. I’m sobbing quietly now, legs trembling.

Maxim sets the hairbrush down with a deliberate thunk. His palm smooths over my scorched skin, almost soothing, and I shudder at the contrast.

“Stand up,” he commands.

I hesitate half a second too long. His hand fists gently in my hair, not yanking, just guiding. I slide off his lap on shaky legs, briefs still bunched around my ankles. And my ass throbs so fiercely I can barely think straight.

Maxim rises, towering over me. His expression is stern, but his eyes are dark with something hotter than anger. He takes my wrist and marches me across the room toward the floor-to-ceiling window, my dick bobbing out in front of me as we move. The city skyline glitters below us, thousands of lights twinkling like they’re watching.

“Hands on your head,” he orders.

I obey, cheeks burning hotter than my backside as I lace my fingers behind my head. The position pushes my chest out and makes my red, punished ass fully on display. Anyone with binoculars in another building could theoretically see me like this: bare from the waist down, freshly spanked, standing in the Pakhan’s apartment like a naughty trophy.

Humiliation floods me.

My face is scarlet.

But my cock pulses again, twitching and swollen, and a line of pre-cum runs down my inner thigh. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“You will stand here on display like the punished boy you are,” Maxim says, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. “Think about what you did. Think about how easily I can strip you of every ounce of dignity and still make that pretty little cock hard.”

I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.

Bastard.

He steps back. I hear him moving around the room, probably straightening his sleeves or checking his watch like this is just another Tuesday evening task.

“I’ll call you through to the living area when I’m ready to see you again,” he says, voice already moving toward the door. “Do not move those hands. Do not lower them even an inch. Understood?”

“Yes,” I whisper, voice hoarse.

“Yes, what?”

I swallow. “Yes… I understand.”