Page 18 of Mafia Devil

“Please—”

Dmitri finds how hard I am and makes a low sound that might be satisfaction and might be contempt.

“This,” he says, “is the truth you did not want to give me upstairs. ”

I do everything I can to hold it together as he strokes once, then grips hard, then strokes once more. Not enough to make me cum. Just enough to make my knees try to buckle.

Then he takes his hand away.

The Go button clicks.

The elevator shudders back to life.

“Leave them,” Dmitri says. I do not understand at first. “Your trousers. Your briefs. They stay around your ankles until I say otherwise.”

Heat floods my face. I am half bare in a private elevator in a building full of old money and I can feel my own pre-cum on my thighs.

But I nod. I keep them where he pulled them. The climb feels endless. Every floor ding is a reminder that I am standing here with my ass on fire and my clothes in a tangle at my feet like a boy who already agreed to something he cannot name.

The doors open. Not onto a hallway. Onto his apartment.

It’s huge. Quiet too. The kind of quiet that costs more than rent I have ever paid.

Baroque paintings crowd the walls in heavy gold frames. Saints and battles and pale bodies that look like they have been watching worse than me for centuries. The furniture is dark, carved, Russian in a way that does not apologize for itself.

Deep chairs.

A table that could seat a war.

Lamps that throw low light instead of welcome.

And the windows…

I let my mouth fall open. The views are truly panoramic. Black city and gold lights and a drop that would kill anyone stupid enough to think the glass is only glass.

I take one shuffling step after the other. The trousers hobble me. I feel ridiculous and exposed and so turned on I could scream as my hard cock bounces and sways.

“Here,” Dmitri says as he takes my hand.

The contact is almost gentle after the spanking. Almost. He walks me through the vast room like this is normal. Like a half-naked boy with his briefs at his ankles is just another thing that happens in a man’s home after midnight.

I keep my eyes on the paintings because looking at him feels more dangerous than looking at saints. The kitchen is all stone and steel and a copper pot that probably costs more than my last three hustles combined.

Dmitri lets go of my hand.

“Stay.”

I stay. What choice do I have?

I watch as he opens a drawer, takes out a small tin, and unscrews it. The smell is clean. Medicinal. Not perfume.

“Hands on the counter.”

I put them there. The marble is cold under my palms. My ass is still throbbing. Dmitri stands behind me and spreads the gel with slow, sure fingers.

I hiss. The cool is a shock after the heat. It sinks in and makes the sting sharper before it begins to ease. He does not rush. He covers every place he hit, and the care in it is its own kind of claim.

“This is not kindness,” Dmitri says, as if he can hear the thought. “This is maintenance. I do not damage what I intend to use. “