Page 10 of Filthy Little Fix
The floor doesn't sustain me for long. It's not enough. It provides a crude rub that only made my spine shiver with the temperature shock, and nothing more than reigniting his memory.
If he had kept his shoe there, if he had moved it just a little more… what would he say if I came in my pants because of him? What face would he make?
My cock hurts.
I turn on the floor, lying on my side on the same cold tile that gave me shivers, now warming up with my heat.
Yes. He'll be back. And I'm still hard for him. So hard.
I stare at the door. Until he returns, I can't keep rolling around and reliving those sensations. There's a chance I could come just from this, and I can't, not now. Not away from his eyes.
To distract myself, I think. I try to make connections.
He wanted to know about the Malakovs. Mafia family I worked for a while ago. They paid well, I remember that, and they were screwing over a rival family. Must be this one; these men must be the Volkovs.
And the big one… the boss, I imagine. Which of the Volkov brothers? Dante or Dmitry? I don't remember which one is older—just that one of them, probablyDante,was born to an Italian mother—and I've never seen their faces before. I knew them by names and the information I leaked at the time, and that doesn't matter to me anymore. They weren't interesting. They were purely about business—deals and transactions devoid of emotion.
I lose track of time, the minutes stretching into an indefinite silence. I press my face against the textured floor and focus on its roughness. The erection doesn't fade, doesn't go away while his eyes—Mr. D—flash unfairly through my head. They are dark, hateful, enraged eyes, under thick eyebrows that slant down forcefully. His arms must be the size of my thighs.
The scraping of metal on the floor pulls me back. I look up to see Mr. D and his tattooed assistant looming over me.
Mr. D is annoyed. It's obvious in everything; he exudes hatred, and I hope he'll pour it on me. I don't try to stand. I'm where I want to be.
He looks down at me.
"Get up," he says, with a nervous growl that scrapes his throat.
I push myself forward onto my knees once more. I spread my legs to minimally relieve the burning between them, which pulses as I see Mr. D again. I enjoy that he gives me orders.
"You said you'd tell me everything," he says, approaching.
"I will," I say. I want to be useful and reward him for bringing me back to life again. "Just tell me what to do, mister."
I like how the contempt in my voice when I say 'mister' only fuels his anger—so fucking hot. The jaw clenched, with even more prominent curves; the dark eyes, furrowed in hatred; the veins that jumped from his muscular arms as he clenched his fists.
"Don't play games with me, fucker."
He doesn't understand what I want or who I am. That's obvious. But he's trying to decipher me, to find which buttons to push to break me.
The subordinate behind Mr. D has a wary expression. I see the half-open door from where they came and the curious heads peeking at us, and I hope I'm being a good show to pull them out of the inherent monotony of a routine. It's curious that I like this. I like being a piece that doesn't fit.
Mr. D turns to the flunky. Only then do I notice he's holding a folder. His gaze, full of hateful intent, pinpoints me again with menace. A delicious shiver sweeps through my body. I watch his rough hands unfastening the folder's security latches and the prospect of violence testing my limits elevates me.
A weapon? I hope so. Pliers. Something that shocks. An iron bar, a machete, a saw, restraints…
I have to suppress a moan.
He opens the folder. I bite my lip, trying to steel myself for what's to come. But then his hand reaches into the folder, takes something out, and doesn't pull out a weapon. No variation of that. He pulls out a thick stack of papers, and simply throws them in my direction. A few hundred sheets of sulfite paper float in the air before falling disordered onto the floor.
I peek at them. What the hell is that, code?
The burning between my legs diminishes. Less vibrant. Codes.
"You want to be useful?" says Mr. D, "Analyze these. Tell me where the Malakovs hit us. Tell me how they got in. Every single vulnerability you find."
I stare at the papers, then at him. He's not going to touch me. He's not going to hurt me. He's giving me work. Codes to review, the same fucking thing from that gray cubicle, and it's disappointing. This is true torture. Looking for more commas and open brackets. More faulty logic.
The adrenaline drains away.
