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Chance, aka the one who got away, had always prided himself on somehow slipping out of every impossible scrape—police, debt collectors, even explosive money deals. He felt almost untouchable. That is, until today. Today, the great Houdini found himself stuck, face-down, ass-up, in a solid, impenetrable concrete wall. The world’s slickest criminal reduced to a human flagpole—completely, gloriously, humiliatingly stuck. No matter how hard Chance struggles, wiggles, or contorts his waist in ways he never thought possible, he remains tightly wedged, utterly unable to free himself from the shame.
So, how did the master of evasion end up stuck in a wall? Well, to make a long story short, he was doing what he does best—running. A brief chase from someone he may or may not owe a small fortune to, a run-in with some particularly unfriendly mobsters, and somehow, falling face-first into the worst decision of the year, trying to wedge himself into this small, narrow gap. Apparently, figuring “where there’s a hole, there’s a goal” does not always hold true—something Chance had learned firsthand.
Not that there were many options for this cornered convict. With spotlights sweeping the alley and scruffy voices hot on his tail, Chance was stuck choosing between a rock and a hard place. So, naturally, he chose both. When he spotted the small, reinforced hole tucked inconspicuously behind a discarded, moss-covered dumpster in the middle of an abandoned alleyway—just the right size to make his narrow escape—he thought he’d hit the jackpot; however, he hadn’t accounted for the possibility of getting stuck. At first, everything went smoothly. He sucked in his stomach and squeezed, front half slipping through the narrow opening without a hitch. But then his hips hit the sharp, jagged edges of the hole’s bumpy frame, and retreat suddenly became impossible. No matter how much he twisted or flailed his limbs—his muscles straining and fingers scraping against rough brick—he found himself utterly, embarrassingly stuck.
And that, my friends, is how the elusive master of stealth finds himself here: stuck in a wall down some random, run-down alleyway, thrashing around and knocking over any loose trash like a toddler throwing a full-blown temper tantrum. Thank god those goons chasing him either lost track or are just using him as an excuse not to go back to that arrogant boss of theirs—because if anyone saw him like this, Chance would probably drop dead on the spot from sheer humiliation of it all.
“Damnit all, come on already—fuck…” Chance curses through gritted teeth, trying everything in his power to free himself from this mess, but it’s no use. He can’t even begin to rack his brain around it. In his years of running from the law, he’s always made a great getaway, whether it be squeezing through impossibly small places and virtually disappearing, or just slipping away without anyone batting an eye. Yet, here he was, wedged, tight, and helpless. So how didn't he fit? Was it his clothes? No, impossible, this is the same getup he always wears. The hole? It’s small, surely, but Chance knows he’s made plenty of great escapes through much smaller and narrower places, easy peasy.
So that leaves… his physique? Ha! That got a good chuckle out of him, I mean, come on, Chance gaining weight? Sure, he’s been eating a little more lately since his excursion, and maybe he put on a few pounds… but that’s besides the point. Those goons must still be out scouring the area looking for him; he can’t just stay in one place for long. As he continues to kick over loose cans and whatever else might have been in his vicinity, he naturally attracts the attention of some big, arrogant alley cat. His failed attempt to escape left him vulnerable, so when he hears the sound of someone clearing their throat from the opposite end of the wall, he perks up like a startled rat. The anxiety of the situation outweighs any embarrassment he must have felt.
“Is—uh… is somebody back there? Hey, can ya give me a hand here? I’m kinda… stuck.” Chance swallows hard. The thought of the unknown, not knowing who might be on the other side of this oppressive brick wall, made his gut twist. And rightfully so. Just then, he heard it: a sharp, unmistakable chuckle, mocking and all-knowing, that made him freeze mid-struggle. His face heated, his limbs stiffened, and for a moment, he considered just pretending the wall had swallowed him whole. Fuck, why’d it have to be him of all people…
“Well, well… if it ain’t my lucky day. Things jus’ got a helluva lot more interestin’.” That voice—that cocky, smug bastard—of all people to find him like this, so defenseless, so vulnerable, it had to be the big boss man himself, leader of the mafia, Mafioso. Chance can feel the knot swelling in his throat, the shiver crawling up and down every lone vertebra of his spine. If he wasn’t fucked before, now he definitely was.
“Ah—hey, Mafioso… hah, funny runnin’ into you here. I’d say hello properly, but… ya know…” Chance wriggles and tugs at the hole, trying yet again to free himself. An arrogant scoff slips from those chapped lips, Mafioso’s sharp eyes trained on him—watching that pitiful little struggle, his ass shaking in the open air with not a single dollar to tempt.
“As if you ever bothered greetin’ me properly to begin with.” He snaps back, a scrape of amusement tugging on that cocky, unpredictable grin.
Chance knew getting out of here unscathed was slim to none. Best-case scenario, he’d lose a finger or maybe a toe or two. But as things stood now, he wasn’t leaving this wall a whole, standing man. He needed a plan, and turning up the charm was his only shot at survival with no way to flee and zero escape options.
“Aye… boss man, whaddya say? Between you and me… I might even let ya keep me for a night or two—yeah, that’s a promise.” A promise Chance had zero intention of keeping. The moment he wriggled free from this damn concrete wall, he’d be gone faster than a dime in a street hustle—Mafioso wouldn’t even have time to blink.
Chance could practically hear the smugness in that crooked, gold-toothed grin. “A few nights, eh? Gotta hand it to ya, you’re a real conman at heart. Even now, tryin’ to lowball me… get comfy with the idea, you’ll probably be stayin’ with me longer than just a few nights,” Mafioso taunts from the other side, voice thick with unbridled amusement, every word crawling under Chance’s skin as he nibbles his bottom lip raw. He needs to get out—and he needs to do it fast. God knows what a psychotic bastard like him would do if he got his grimy little hands on a beauty like him. Sell him off to some sleazy sex trafficking ring? Harvest a kidney or two? Either way, Chance isn’t about to stick around long enough to find out.
Although those intrusive thoughts were cut short when Chance, in a desperate attempt to free himself, started squirming again—using his hands for leverage, pulling, pushing, anything to get loose from this goddamn wall, then he felt it. Sharp. Unsettling. A sting shot up his spine as something smacked his ass, hard enough to make him jolt. A choked groan slipped past his lips when the hand refused to move, instead lingering, groping as much pudgy ass fat as he could fit in a palmful, feeling the taunt flesh rippling beneath its fingertips.
“What the hell d’you think you’re doin’?!” Chance hisses, his voice cracking somewhere between anger and disbelief. But that heat in his tone faded almost as quickly as it came, melting into something sly, desperate, a touch teasing.
“I—hah, I didn’t know you wanted me that bad... Jus’ get me outta here, and I’ll give ya the best damn night of your life…” But that touch didn’t move—firm, hot, possessive—it stayed, it lingers, nail beds squeezing deep into his supple skin like a silent warning. The sting flared again, and Chance could only imagine the mark it left behind, the flesh beneath the fabric burning a furious, fiery red.
Chance didn’t even get an explanation. Not a word. Nothing. And then the ghosting touch moved—slick, deliberate, sliding from his ass down his inner thigh, inching closer and closer. He tried to clamp his legs shut, panic flaring, but it was already too late. Mafioso presses a daring finger against the growing bulge in the crotch area, testing, teasing the erection.
“That’s quite a big… tool you got stashed in there,” he said, voice low, dangerous, and littered with a spark of amusement. “Gotta say… didn’t expect a conman like you to be packin’ this much.”
“Hey, wait—don’t… don’t touch it!” Chance yelps, wiggling his hips uselessly, trying to keep from bucking into the all-consuming warmth. There’s no hiding it, he’s turned on. No snappy comeback, no smug retort can save him now; he’s completely at the mercy of the merciless mob boss. He can’t help but grit his teeth, caught in this ridiculously degrading situation.
Little does Chance know—the more he thrashes about, the more he waves that tempting, plush ass around like a lethal weapon, the more Mafioso wants to take him right here and now. With one deliberate, smooth motion, Chance’s freshly tailored dress pants and boxers are yanked down, pooling around his ankles, leaving him exposed from the waist down. When Mafioso’s hand returns, he finds the swelling shaft twitching in his warm grasp, and a slow, dangerous smirk spreads across his face.
“Why not?” he murmurs, soft and brimming with a little too much excitement. “Seems like your little friend here is more than happy to see me.”
Chance winced and whined, the frigid nighttime air sweeping against his retracting scrotum, taut with tension and marking him as completely exposed. Just as he began losing his mind to the warmth of that relentless palm, he felt it—something wet, something slippery tracing the crescent crack of his ass cheeks. When Chance finally registered what was happening to him, his heart skipped: it was at his hole, running teasing laps around the puckered rim, making him shiver uncontrollably, shivering from what exactly? Chance couldn’t tell at this point—nervousness, fear, desire… maybe all of them at once. And yet, one thing is for certain: Mafioso has him exactly where he wants him.
His suspicions about what this foreign touch was proved correct—it was undoubtedly Mafioso’s tongue. The way it moved, the way it seamlessly teased and ran laps around his rim, the wet trail it left behind, the relentless prodding, licking, and tickling of his hole, it was maddeningly persistent, nerve-bending even… and, impossibly, almost felt good.
Where Mafioso had learned to be such a professional ass-eater, Chance couldn’t even begin to guess. As far as he knew, it came to him as naturally as breathing—effortless, commanding, untouchable. A god to those less fortunate, but right now? Right now, Chance’s entire world shrank to the man hidden behind this brick wall, and his life was entirely, terrifyingly, in the boss's hands.
He comes undone as the long, coarse tongue pries deeper and deeper into his rectal cavity, soothing the tense, plump walls as they mold to the shape of its intrusion. Chance clings on for dear life, his white-knuckled grip digging so hard that debris crumbles from the solid concrete wall.
He can’t tell why—is it because he’s disgusted by another man eating him out? Or, maybe it’s because he likes it. Perhaps he’s enjoying it a little too much. And that thought alone twists his stomach into dense knots, a mix of shame and disbelief, as he realizes just how undeniably wet he is—smearing his pre-ejaculate across the helping hand and the cold, chilly brick he’s been accustomed to for far too long now.
In the grand scheme of things, space was tight, but Mafioso didn’t miss a beat. He angled the needy shaft downward, palm sliding over it in steady strokes while his mouth traced Chance’s rim from behind. Each motion was perfectly synchronized, his heavy balls brushing and bouncing with the rhythm. Heat and friction pulsed through Chance, hips pressing back instinctively, breath hitching at every precise tease. The dual sensations washed over him, consuming and inescapable, as Mafioso’s deliberate rhythm left him trembling, utterly overwhelmed.
“Ha—ah… fuck…w-why are you—mmnh!” Chance cried out, unable to think straight with an insistent tongue slithering deep in his squeezable ass. It devoured him like a savage, lapping at every sensitive inch with pinpoint-like precision. He could feel every controlled breath, his nose pressing into his cheeks as if trying to sniff out barrels of gold.
The velvety tongue traced across the fine hairs, each touch sending sparks of goosebumps creeping across Chance’s skin by the hundreds. Every stroke, every teasing flick sent him into a spiral of unsure judgment, making his muscles tighten and release in ways he couldn’t control. His breaths came and went in ragged gasps, half from shock, half from pleasure he wasn’t supposed to admit he felt. The cold brick pressed against his skin contrasted with the heat of Mafioso’s hot breath, making every lick feel sharper and more intense. Chance tried to muster the will to clench, tried to twist away, but his body betrayed him at every turn, reacting before his mind could even catch up.
His train of thought scattered as reality snapped back—the tongue retreated suddenly from his tingling rectum, replaced by something new, something that could reach deeper and spread him wider, preparing him for something fatter and longer. Two fingers pressed at his rim. Of course, Chance couldn’t know for certain how many, but he could make a pretty accurate guess—but damn, they were thick. The way they entered and stretched him felt like three at least. Good god… Chance could only imagine how girthy, how long Mafioso’s full length would be, how it would fill him completely. How he’d be pushed to the edge, dumb with pleasure, babbling senselessly like some fucked-out whore.
The fingers inside his ass scissored, spreading him nice and wide, precise enough to hit every sweet spot dead on, the ones that made him feel like he could cum from ass play alone. Each prod, each poke, drew sharp, involuntary whimpers from Chance, and Mafioso knew he’d found the spot when his back arched, straining against the unyielding concrete as a slutty moan trickled like water from Chance’s lips.
“Ahh—there… fuck—right there, mmnh… don’t stop, I need your fingers all the way in me… please!” Chance gasped, mind spinning a mile a minute, drunk on pleasure, floating on some impossible cloud nine. Who’d known this precarious situation would be such a massive turn on—Chance for sure had no idea. He hadn’t imagined this could turn him on as much as it did, and now he was a mess; teetering on the edge of blissful delight and humiliation.
Mafioso worked that bundle of nerves like a master of his craft, teasing, massaging, coaxing every tremor like he was trying to rub out a genie. Every deliberate movement carried authority, a silent reminder that Chance’s fate—and his pleasure—was entirely in the hands of this extremely dangerous, irresistible man.
Chance could feel it—his impending orgasm hurtling toward him like a speeding freight train. Hard to miss, especially with how his body was betraying him, hips buckling desperately like some horny lunatic chasing a fix. He tried humping against the balled-up fist, which turned out to be more awkward and ridiculous than he’d imagined, but somehow… somehow it kind of worked. In that moment, he didn't care how ridiculous he must’ve looked, how desperate. The wall was holding him captive, and he was throwing himself at it like a heated animal, mindless in his pursuit of sweet, fleeting release.
And then—nothing. Just nothing. The scorching, swelling heat that had nested inside him, the tension that had him teetering on the edge of something great. It all evaporated into nothingness the moment Mafioso withdrew his gracious hands. Chance slumped against the wall, still rubbing his sore, raw dick against the cold concrete, smearing precum in some pathetic attempt to reclaim what had vanished.
“Why—why’d you stop…?” he whimpered, voice trembling, tears threatening to spill. Thank god Mafioso couldn’t see him right now: pleasure-drunk, flustered, and looking like a pathetic excuse for the man he once was less than five minutes ago.
“Maybe I oughta jus’ leave your sorry ass here as punishment,” Mafioso threatens, voice dripping with menace. His low throaty chuckles clean cut through the crisp night air, sharp and amused. “Maybe this’ll teach ya not to jump into random holes.”
No. No… no! He couldn’t. Not like this. Leaving him exposed, vulnerable, and looking utterly ridiculous—like some used public toilet. His reputation, his pride, all of it would be gone in an instant. Chance wouldn't be able to handle the shame. “No—ha, please… don't stop… jus’… jus’ get me outta here, and you’ll never have to see me again… I swear it… mmnh, please…”
Seeing him like this—the man who once conned millions from rich saps including the one behind him—bent over, ass-up, helplessly begging the man he’d stolen millions from for help, brought a wicked grin to the mobster's face.
“Ah… so you do know how to ask for help after all? Could’ve jus’ said so from the start,” Mafioso said. For a brief second, Chance felt relief.
But it soon vanished the moment he heard the all-too-familiar sound of a belt buckle being undone, carried by the wind. The distinctive click cut sharply through the quiet, hanging heavy in the suffocating air. Mafioso’s thick, veiny cock sprang free, nudging firmly against Chance’s ass and landing a few sharp, punishing slaps against the tender meat. Each smack made him jerk against the wall, heat blooming across his body as Mafioso leaned in, letting his hard, throbbing, insistent shaft grind and press against Chance’s exposed muscles with a deliberate weight.
“What d’you say… we make a little deal, huh?” Mafioso murmured, enjoyment lacing every word as his cock rubbed against Chance’s reddened cheeks, teasing, punishing, and marking him. “You help me… I help you,” he added, pressing harder, letting Chance feel every pulse and inch of dominance straight through his warm, trembling ass.
Chance bit down on his hollowed cheek, a sharp sting mingling with the churn of anticipation and nauseating fear. He’d expected a man of Mafioso’s stature to be well-hung, but he hadn’t imagined just how accurate that assumption would be. He was massive—not just in length. Chance instinctively pressed back against him, feeling the overwhelming size of this goliath mashing into him, warm, insistent, and pulsing with need, every vein radiating the urge to be thrust inside.
“Oh, don’t worry… ’ll give ya exactly what you want,” Mafioso purred, his voice low, dangerous, and heavy with that unmistakable dominance.
Chance couldn’t see him, but he could hear it—the slick plop of spit hitting Mafioso’s outstretched palm, followed by the wet, deliberate slaps as he slicked himself into readiness. Even in this, there was control, a teasing restraint. At the very least, Chance can appreciate him not shoving it in raw… and maybe, just maybe, behind that stone-cold heart lies a shred of twisted care.
Chance couldn’t hold back the sob that trickled out. The frenum snaps into place, past the taut, unyielding ring, sliding with surprising grace—guess all that preparation wasn’t entirely wasted. But that was just the tip; the rest wasn’t far behind. And follow it did, stretching Chance beyond what he thought possible. His rim strained, threatening to tear as the girth pressed along his tight little walls. “Oi… loosen up, will ya? Tighten any more, and you’re gonna snap my dick clean in half.”
Chance’s breathing became sparse, uneven, lodged deep in his throat as his hole stretched and molded around every vein on the masterpiece of a cock. He could feel everything—from the heat it radiated to the slick pre-cum his insides milked with each deliberate clench. Mafioso groaned, irritation lacing the sound. “Stop draggin’ this out,” he muttered like a man used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. Every time Chance’s body tightened, it felt like being squeezed to death in the most unpleasant, cruel way possible.
It wasn’t until the fifth pass that he finally lost it.
“Must I repeat myself?” Before Chance could even think of a response, an open-palmed smack landed on his stinging cheek, turning whatever nonsense he was about to squeak into incoherent, slutty moans, tumbling out from deep within his throat. Another smack followed, then another, each one punctuating Mafioso’s control with sharp, deliberate precision.
“Ha—ah… I’ll stop… I’ll stop!… jus’ please, fill me with your cock… I promise I’ll be good f’you,” Chanc blurted. He couldn’t see it, and he was glad he couldn’t. That cocky grin surely plastered across the smug boss’s face was enough to fuel that man's already bloated ego. Getting a conman to apologize? Priceless. Right now, though, Chance didn’t care how utterly pathetic he looked in the face of his enemy, how humiliating it was to be practically begging at the mob boss’s feet for, of all things, his cock. He looked like a cock-slut, willing to do anything just to get his fill. And in that moment, he was no longer the proud man he once was. No. He was nothing but a mindless, desperate cock whore.
Mafioso could hear those little sounds playing like a broken cassette tape—whimpering, whining, sucking in his breath—while the protruding ass swayed like a taunting reminder that he wasn’t fully inside. Each tiny movement, each strained gasp, seemed to egg him on, daring him to push further.
“Please… move… I wanna feel you buried deep inside—ahh!” Chance’s cry cracked into a moan as Mafioso drove forward, forcing past the barrier of his curved colon. The sudden, harsh snap sent the rest of Mafioso’s cock fully home, jamming him in with shocking force, leaving Chance completely unprepared. His mouth fell open in a silent O, too terrified to breathe for fear he’d scream into the dark alley below. It wasn’t just an intrusion—it was thick, much more than fingers, wobbling on the edge of pain before melting into a pleasure so intense that Chance feared it might ruin him forever, the grip on his hips is iron-tight, keeping him perfectly still. Even through the wall, Mafioso’s low, amused growl drifted to him, equal parts warning and promise, claiming him entirely.
Mafioso’s harsh grunt rumbled through the opposing side of the brick wall, as the compact hole seemed to greedily swallow him, closing around his unnervingly large shaft like it was trying to gobble him whole—a jackpot if there ever was one.
“Fuck… feels s’ damn good,” he bellowed, voice unnervingly possessive. “Been a minute since I got some real action.” He tugged his fluid-soaked cock from the narrow opening, testing the limits as he tried to slip back in, deliberate and unrelenting. Chance moaned in protest, each inch sliding out like torture, every nerve on fire from the craving he’d been holding back for so long… and fuck, did it feel unreal having that monster buried balls-deep inside him. He didn’t care who heard his pathetic mewls—shamelessly letting the floodgates open, his moans spilling free without a lick of restraint. He whimpered, desperate, throwing his ass back, craving to feel him fill every inch once more.
“Jus’ look at you, Bunny… guess I’m not the only one cravin’ some action…” Mafioso’s rough voice is thick with amusement. “Ain’t even tryin’ to hide the fact you’re gettin’ worked open by my cock, huh?” Each word pressed into him like a claim, no doubt who ran the show.
Mafioso hit the mark perfectly. Chance, the so-called international Playboy, had been slacking, to put it mildly, chasing pleasures that weren’t worth the risk. Sleeping around like some reckless teen? Not the brightest idea when you’ve got someone like Mafioso watching your every move. And now, with the cock pressing deep in a tight cavity, all Chance could manage was whines and muffled moans, no clever comeback brewing in his cock-drunk mind. Every thrust stole his breath; bottoming out on his persuader's cock was not how he’d expected this evening to pan out.
“You're nghh—s…so big…” Chance mewled, clenching tightly around Mafioso’s fat shaft, feeling every pulse, every subtle twitch as it completely rearranged his insides. He whimpered at the snail’s pace, the slow, shallow pumping that made his breath hitch with every tiny thrust. Not being able to see what was happening only made it worse—maybe better, hell, Chance for sure couldn’t tell. All he knew was that every time he thought he couldn’t take any more, Mafioso went beyond his shallow-minded expectations.
“We should’ve been doin’ this ages ago,” Mafioso murmured, voice low as he watched his cock disappear into Chance’s eager hole. Both hands gripped those fatty hips like he owned them, occasionally landing firm, punishing spanks on his flushed asscheeks.
“You got no idea what you look like right now. Bent over. On display,” each word dripping with ownership. Every syllable hit like a punch, pressing down on Chance as he tumbled headfirst into his orgasm again. His body tensed, eyes fluttering shut, and sounds spilled out like an unforgiving typhoon. It came on fast, relentless, and he’d be damned if some prick tried to ruin this—he was way too far gone for that.
“Chance?” Shit.
Thank fuck Mafioso’s snapping hips came to an abrupt halt upon hearing the approaching voice, leaving the cock firmly lodged deep within his spongy, hot, moist walls. And shit… if it didn’t feel like heaven.
“Hey there, Elliot… fancy meeting you here of all places, hah… what—what are you doing here?” Chance stammered, panic threading through his words. Elliot’s eyes narrowed, confused but not entirely shocked. Seeing his friend half-stuck in a brick wall like some pathetic animal caught in a snare, face flushed crimson, drool trailing down his chin, and cracked concrete pressed against skin, was… well, unsettling, to say the least. And yet something didn’t quite add up.
“I was looking for you…” Elliot pipes up, voice dry but amused. “Lucky I heard your little… performance, or you’d still be stuck hanging on that wall like some sad sculpture.”
Chance’s stomach twisted. Shame flooded him hotter than the heat pressed against his ass. Every moan, every whimper, had been heard. Fuck, he knew if he opened his mouth now, he’d moan again. Mafioso’s rolling hips were working every angle of his prostate with maddening precision, leaving Chance barely able to keep his vision straight. All he could do was bite his cheek and pray to whatever higher power was listening that he didn’t make a sound.
“Where were you running from someone? And somehow… you got yourself stuck in a wall?” Elliot asked, tilting his head like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all day. Chance’s brain short-circuited. Of course, Elliot had to show up at the absolute worst possible time. If he could just figure out a way to get Elliot to leave… maybe he could deal with the one persistent pain in the ass, balls-deep problem currently tormenting him without adding insult to injury.
From behind him, Mafioso’s low chuckle cut through the tension like a warning bell; a reminder that ignoring him was an absolutely terrible idea. Clearly, Mafioso wasn’t fond of being ignored—or worse, being treated like some kind of cheap side piece. As Chance squirmed desperately, trying to negotiate with physics, dignity, and his own survival. Not doing much for himself, really.
Mafioso drove his girthy shaft into Chance with deliberate force. Teetering on the edge of his own orgasm, he thrust harder, each motion drawing choked whimpers from Chance, who was already halfway to dissolving into a puddle of shame.
“Do you need any help—” Without missing a beat, Chance shuts him down immediately.
“No! Haah… n-nope, everything’s… peachy here… jus’ uhm—why don’t you go on ahead, I’ll catch up…” He stammered, sweat beading, face heating, and voice cracking like a busted faucet. Elliot’s eyebrow arched, silent judgment in full swing. Too obvious. Way too obvious. And Chance couldn’t even ask Mafioso to stop without making things infinitely worse.
He clenched his legs repeatedly, trying to communicate a desperate “please, stop” without saying a word, but it only served to stimulate Mafioso further. Panic flared as Chance attempted to shut himself down physically. Not now. Not now. But Mafioso had other plans. His clothed legs pressed tighter between Chance’s, forcing him open, while Mafioso’s hands spread his cheeks wide like a boss marking his territory—and Chance, well, he was stuck somewhere between terror, ecstasy, and absurd humiliation all at once…
Elliot was just about to unload a dozen more questions, none of which Chance was remotely capable of answering. Having been edged twice tonight and reeling on an actual brain-meltdown, he couldn’t stop the whines that tumbled from his lips; pitiful, loud, and impossibly vibrant. Maybe, he admitted to himself through the haze of lust, he kind of… liked having an audience while he went dumb on Mafioso’s dick. Yeah, that sounded absurd even in his own head.
Elliot’s expression flickered between confusion and worry—obviously trying to piece together what the hell he’d walked into. “Chance? What was that noise… is someone—” He froze, eyes narrowing at Chance’s blissed-out, half-melted expression. And just like that, it clicked.
“Uh… yeah… I’ll go on ahead, and, once you’re done… ahem… doing that, we can catch up…”
Oh, great. Catch up. Shame tried to crawl through Chance’s veins, but there wasn’t a universe in which he could feel it over the relentless press of Mafioso filling him, owning him, and making sure he didn’t have the mental capacity to remember his own name. Bliss had taken over entirely, and all he could do was ride it, whimper it, and curse his luck… maybe enjoy every damn second. And now that Elliot is gone, there's no sense in holding back.
“You like an audience, huh, Bunny? Can’t keep those pretty little whines to yourself,” Mafioso teased through clenched teeth. He wanted to see Chance’s pathetic face, see how every bit of this was wrecking him. The tremble, the subtle gasps, the lip-biting like he was trying to hold himself together. “It's a real shame I can’t see you, bet you’re lovin’ this right ‘bout now…”
Chance was utterly gone—cock-drunk, mouth slack, tongue lolling, lost in a haze of pleasure. Every time Mafioso pulled back only to slam in again, words vanished from his lips. Each thrust pressed into his swollen hole stole his breath, and every lewd smack of his ass sent sparks racing through his veins. His cock bobbed helplessly, slapping against the cold wall with every merciless, relentless hump, leaving him trembling and consumed by the overwhelming rhythm.
“How’s it feel, huh… gettin’ your slutty little hole stuffed with my thick cock, jus’ like a good little whore?” Mafioso growled between thrusts, his hands tightly grasping Chance’s hips like he owned them, leaving shallow, crimson claw marks in the taunt flesh. Every hard, deliberate ram drove him deeper, stretching him so fully that Chance swore he could feel it all the way in his brain. His moans spilled out uncontrollably, raw and desperate, the kind of filthy sounds some would pay good money for.
“I—haaah… I wanna… I wanna cum… please, cum in me… I wanna be filled up like a worthless whore…” Chance cried, helpless and undone, completely at the mercy of Mafioso’s relentless pacing.
“Patience, Bunny… don’t you dare come before I say so.” Mafioso’s voice was low and thick with authority, each word punctuating a brutal thrust that left Chance choking, thighs trembling. He knows he needs to hold back, to keep his bladder under control—but shit. Every drive, every nudge against his ignited prostate made his cream-colored knuckles dig harder into the concrete. He knows he’s going to be punished, shamed for finishing without permission—but he can’t help himself.
A few sharp, cold taps against the wall send him plummeting into a realm of total, overwhelming bliss. “Ahh—haa! I’m cumming… ’m gonna cum…!”
“I said not yet.” Mafioso’s words snapped through the air, carrying with it a harsh undertone, as a firm hand wrapped around Chance’s painfully erect cock, twitching in the cold air like it had a mind of its own. He thumbed it, feeling the jizz threatening to burst, then slid his thumb across the slit, blocking the only exit. Chance jolted, a raw, needy shiver shooting through him, eyes rolling back as his brain went completely blank. His body arched slightly, but the pressure in his cock only built, desperate to escape.
“Mafioso… no, mmnh!… let go… your hand… inside… it hurts, I’m—” Chance blabbered incoherently, rambling on and on about God knows what, words tumbling out in useless waves as Mafioso drove that engorged crown straight into his sweet spot with the kind of precision that made Chance feel powerless. Warm tears free flow, streaking his rosy, burnt-out cheeks, leaving him in a pitiful state. He bit down on his plump bottom lip until it drew blood, swaying his waist against the cold concrete in a desperate chase of pleasure.
“Look at you hole twitchin’, Bunny… you’re lucky I’m feelin’ a tad generous tonight,” Mafioso sneers, a smirk hidden in his voice. His thrusts became sloppy, punishing Chance in all the right ways.
“I’ll fill you up nice and full with my cum… jus’ like you wanted…” Mafioso grunted, on the edge of losing his shit, as his thrusts turned careless, uncoordinated, and ruthless.
He rammed the full length of his cock into Chance in ways that had him screaming, his voice bouncing off the alley walls and echoing so loudly it could wake the entire neighboring town. The sounds of his name, shouted and panted, bounced across the alley, and Mafioso savored every blissful second of it.
When he came, he came hard. Mafioso thrust deep, every inch of his thick shaft curving into Chance’s colon, bottoming him out so completely it felt like his insides were being remolded. The pressure was brutal, stretching him impossibly wide, driving a heat so intense it seemed to set his gut ablaze. Each feverish thrust coated Chance’s insides in a scalding, slick white, the burning heat of Mafioso’s cum spilling relentlessly, filling him up to the brim. Chance’s back arched, his hands kneaded at the cold, unmoving concrete, letting out a choked, ragged sob. The thumb smearing cum against his slit slacked just enough to let him surrender to the pleasure completely, his own seed spraying across the cold brick wall, evidence of how utterly conquered he was. Every nerve felt set ablaze, every pulse sending shockwaves through him, and a fresh mess began to join the other droplets trickling down his inner thigh.
When Mafioso let his glistening cock spring free, Chance’s gaping, swollen hole looked impossibly pretty, still dripping with his fresh load. His legs were splayed in a way that almost made him look like some anime girl—helpless, exposed, and unbearably hot. Mafioso’s crooked grin, thinking he might just be tempted to go for a round two.
“Aye… you alive, Bunny?” Mafioso asked, but there was no response. Considering how far he’d pushed him, it was no surprise that Chance had blacked out. His backside hung limp out of the hole in the concrete, still twitching slightly despite his unconscious state.
“Looks like I might’ve overdone it, eh?” Mafioso muttered, giving a low chuckle as he tucked his dick away and zipped up his fly. “Let's get ya outta here.”