5. LEO
FIVE
LEO
It was glorious.
The pain—the sharp, relentless kind—I accept it as part of this ordeal.
It's not what I fantasized at first; in fact, getting this hard with just my wrists bound wasn't the plan.
I thought I'd have a little more self-control.
But the adrenaline… fuck, it reminds me that real blood runs in my veins.
A heart still pumps blood through my body. After everything.
And that man…
Big. Strong, angry hands. A face that looked like he would break my neck for sport. Having him bury his fist in my skin, gripping my cheeks tightly, was an experience so far removed from my mundane daily cubicle.
The disgust he looked at me with shouldn't turn me on like this.
And then that wet, breaking sound, the sole of his shoe between my legs… Pressing. Twisting.
Pain never bothered me. Not like with most people. My tolerance has always been high, and that helps and hinders me in equal measure. Things that should scare most don't faze me. Daily, idiotic things. Getting beaten. Falling from high places. Being run over.
I don't look both ways before crossing the street.
I don't wear a seatbelt. I flirt with the edge of the balcony.
Everything seems like an old, desaturated, colorless movie.
The most that will happen is the nothingness of nonexistence.
Fear disappeared long ago—dulled by years of bRuslandiazepine use, blanking out the need to feel anything at all.
Then, suddenly, dopamine. My veins are liquid endorphin the moment that man steps between my legs.
First, the crushing pain. He really wanted to hurt me. Then, the notion that he was compressing me. Pressing. Touching.
My pants are damp. I can see a dark stain forming, and the torture of not being able to touch myself makes me even harder.
It's vibrating. My groin is too hot. It still hurts. The unalleviated vasocongestion doesn't help.
I try to slump forward and thrust my hips. Humiliating, like a bitch in heat. I almost wish the big man with the strong hands would come back here and see me like this. That he'd spit on me, kick me while telling me how ridiculously pathetic I am. Call me a freak again.
I grunt. The thought makes me hotter.
I try to rub against the floor. I shiver at the contact.
But I need more friction. I try again, and the chilly sensation of the floor against my pants makes me groan.
It's good at first—I imagine him. I recreate the scenario in my head.
His shoe pressing my cock, stimulating it like a humiliation.
Asking me if I get off on this. And yes, fuck. I do.
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, probably Dante, 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.
I laugh.
I laugh because this soul-deadening work, this endless routine, follows me everywhere. I don't want to fix other people's shit.
Mr. D looks even more confused by my laughter.
"What do I get for it?" I say. I recognize myself again, and that's bad. My usual self is just bored and fed up.
"You get to keep breathing, you little shit. That's what you get."
A shiver runs down my spine—small but significant. It's a crumb. I like that Mr. D threatens me, and I like that inflexible, grave tone of voice.
Right. Guess I owe him for the hard-on I haven't had in a while. I move my aching shoulders. My wrists are still tied behind my back.
"Aren't you going to untie me?" I say.
Mr. D's gaze thrills me again.
"No."
"Curious choice to print your codes."
"Why would we give a hacker a computer?"
I smile. He has a point.
Mr. D glares at me for another long moment, narrowing his eyes, then turns. "Luca."
So that's the tattooed guy's name.
Luca nods and follows his boss out. The door scrapes shut, and there's silence. Just me, the crisp concrete, and hundreds of useless, boring pages.
My wrists ache, the plastic zip biting into my skin. The dull throb between my legs is an annoying reminder of pleasure denied.
I'm alone.
Completely and utterly alone with my thoughts, and this mountain of dead trees. This is not what I signed up for. Not the kind of torture I craved. This is just… work. The same soul-crushing boredom I tried to escape.
I sigh. Loudly. Hoping some guard somewhere hears it and is annoyed. It's a pathetic act of rebellion, even for me.
I'll do their stupid work. If only to get back to Mr. D and demand real payment.
I clumsily crawl around the scattered sheets, sorting them by file names, squinting at the tiny fonts.
Network diagrams. Firewall logs. Backup scripts.
It's all there, a digital fingerprint of their operations.
My brain, despite the aching lack of stimulation, still solves the puzzle.
It's a habit. A reflex. A way to occupy the void.
Hours crawl by. Or maybe minutes. Time is meaningless here.
My neck cramps. My eyes sting from staring at the small print.
The faint smell of stale printer ink fills my nose.
No one comes. No one offers water. Just the frigid silence, and the monotonous drone of my own thoughts, sifting through lines of code.
This is what real hell feels like. Blandness .
Then, buried deep in a routine backup script, I see it.