8. Milo
MILO
“Awwww!”
My legs kick wildly, heels drumming uselessly against the air as Maxim pauses, his broad palm resting hot and heavy on my bare ass.
The sting is everywhere, a deep, pulsing burn that makes my whole bottom feel twice its normal size. I’m still draped over his lap like a naughty brat, my briefs tangled around my knees, and the position is mortifying.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is the unmistakable, rock-hard length of Maxim’s cock pressing up through his suit trousers, right against my hip.
Before I know it though, a sudden, traitorous wave of heat crashes over me. My cock fully hardens and throbs in time with the ache in my ass, and I have to bite my lip hard to stop the whimper that wants to escape.
No.
Absolutely not.
I hate him.
I hate all of this. I’m not supposed to be getting turned on while the most dangerous man in the city spanks me raw. Yet my body doesn’t seem to care what my brain thinks. The hardness between my thighs gets more intense, and I squirm, which only grinds me harder against that thick ridge of his.
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.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Minutes crawl by. My arms start to ache.
My ass feels like it’s glowing. Every tiny shift of my weight makes the burn flare hotter.
I’m painfully aware of how exposed I am…
briefs still tangled at my ankles, legs slightly parted because I can’t quite close them without losing balance.
The cool air from the vent teases my erect dick and I have to fight the urge to grab my aching cock and wank myself hard and fast to climax.
I’m humiliated. I’m furious.
And I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
A little while later… it feels like forever but is probably only ten minutes…Maxim’s gruff voice carries down the corridor.
“Milo. Come here.”
My stomach flips. I lower my hands slowly, wincing as blood rushes back into my arms. Then I remember the second part of the order. Cheeks flaming, I leave my briefs exactly where they are, stretched around my ankles. The fabric hobbles me as I start to walk.
Every shuffling, waddling step is pure erotic torment.
The soft cotton scrapes against my calves.
My bright red ass jiggles slightly with each awkward movement.
I can feel the cool air kissing my exposed manhood with every tiny step.
By the time I reach the living area I’m trembling with a mixture of shame and desperate need.
Maxim is sitting in the big leather armchair like a king on his throne.
One ankle rests casually on the opposite knee.
In one hand he swirls a glass of vodka. In the other he holds a small white tub.
The lighting is low, just the city glow through the windows and a single lamp, casting dramatic shadows across his sharp features.
He watches me waddle toward him in complete silence. Then his gaze drags slowly over my bare legs, the patch of pubic hair that leads to my exposed cock, the mortified expression I can’t hide.
When I finally stop in front of him, he takes a slow sip of vodka.
“Turn around,” he says quietly. “Show me.”
I do, presenting my bare, cherry-red ass to him. The cool air feels like ice against the heat.
Maxim makes a low sound of approval. “Beautiful color. You wear my discipline well, malysh.”
I clench my jaw so I don’t say something stupid.
He sets the glass down. “I have cooling cream here. It will help with the burn. I’ll apply it myself… but only if you apologize properly for stealing the phone and manipulating Yuri.”
The words are out before I can stop them...
“I will never apologize to you.”
Silence stretches. I can feel him staring at my marked backside.
“As you wish,” Maxim says, voice calm and final. “Back to your room. Keep the briefs at your ankles until you’re in bed. You may reflect on your choices there.”
Humiliation crashes over me again, fresh and stinging.
I turn and waddle away, every awkward step a reminder of my defiance. I can feel his eyes on me the entire way down the corridor.
The second I’m inside my room I kick the door shut—carefully, because even that small act of rebellion feels dangerous right now—and flop face-first onto the bed.
I stay on my stomach, legs slightly apart, letting the air soothe the worst of the heat while Zoop watches me from the pillow with his stitched-on eyes.
I bury my burning face in my arms.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I should be plotting my next escape attempt. I should be furious. Instead all I can think about is the heavy press of Maxim’s cock against my hip, the calm authority in his voice when he called me a bad boy, the way my body lit up like a live wire under every single strike of that hairbrush.
I squeeze my thighs together and immediately regret it—the pressure on my cock only makes the dizzy desire I’m feeling worse.
A soft, miserable whimper escapes me.
This man is going to ruin me.
And the terrifying part is… some deep, secret part of me wants him to.
I hug Zoop tighter and close my eyes, ass still throbbing, cock harder than ever, heart racing with equal parts fear and forbidden excitement.
Maxim Kovalev has only just begun and there’s nothing I can do to stop him…
An hour later, I’m still lying on my stomach, Zoop tucked under my chin, when a firm knock sounds on the bedroom door.
My heart jumps. I don’t answer right away.
Another knock, patient but commanding.
“Come in,” I mutter, voice muffled against the pillow.
The door opens. Maxim steps inside carrying the small white tub of cooling cream.
He’s removed his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his forearms, looking unfairly composed while I’m half-naked and thoroughly punished.
His eyes scan me once … bare ass still glowing, legs slightly parted on the bed…
before he closes the door behind him with a quiet click.
I push up onto my elbows, suddenly self-conscious. “I… I thought you were done with me.”
“I was,” he says simply. “But I don’t enjoy leaving my boy in unnecessary pain.” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Do you have something to say to me, Milo?”
I swallow. The burn in my ass has settled into a deep, relentless throb, and the idea of relief is suddenly more tempting than my pride. I take a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For stealing Yuri’s phone.”
Maxim watches me for a long moment, then nods once. “Good boy. Turn over and lie flat.”
I do as I’m told, pressing my face into the pillow as he shifts closer.
The cap of the tub clicks open. A moment later, cool, silky cream touches my overheated skin.
I jolt at the first contact, but Maxim’s hand is shockingly gentle.
His palm glides over my right cheek in slow, careful circles, spreading the cream with tender precision. The relief is immediate and heavenly.
A soft, involuntary moan slips out of me before I can stop it.
Maxim works the other cheek next, thumbs pressing lightly into the sore flesh, kneading the cream in until the worst of the fire dulls to a warm glow. I’m stunned by how careful he is, nothing like the ruthless Pakhan who just lit up my ass with a hairbrush. Maxim’s touch is almost reverent.
“You took your punishment well,” he murmurs, voice low. “Even when you were fighting me.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay quiet, letting the cool cream and his strong, surprisingly tender hands do their work. By the time he finishes, my ass feels soothed and my whole body has gone heavy and warm.
Maxim caps the tub and sets it on the nightstand. “I’ve ordered dinner. It should be here soon. The finest steak, crisp French fries, and cold beers.”
I twist my head to look at him, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s my favorite meal.”
“I know.” A faint smile touches his lips. “I know a lot of things, Milo. But what I want now is to get to know you. Face to face. No games. No stolen phones. Just the two of us seeing if we can come to an understanding.”
Something tight and wary in my chest loosens a fraction.
I search his face for the trap, but all I see is calm intensity and something that might actually be patience.
“I… I would like that,” I admit softly.
Maxim nods, satisfied. He stands, towering over me again, but the energy between us feels different now—charged, yes, but not purely adversarial. “I’ll leave you to put some clothes on. When you’re ready, come through to the living area and join me.”
He walks to the door, then pauses. “And Milo?”
“Yes?”
“Leave the briefs off tonight. I want to know that sore little bottom is still bare under whatever you wear.”
Heat floods my face, but I nod. Maxim leaves without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
I lie there for another minute, ass tingling pleasantly from the cream, heart doing weird little flips in my chest. Maxim Kovalev just spanked me within an inch of my life, put me on display like a punished brat, and then rubbed cream into my skin like I was something precious.
Maybe he’s not entirely bad after all.
The thought scares me almost as much as it intrigues me.
I roll carefully onto my side, grab a soft pair of lounge shorts, and slide them on commando. The fabric brushes against my tender skin and I shiver.
Dinner with the man who just disciplined me.
This should feel like defeat.
Instead, for the first time since I was handed over like a bargaining chip, it almost feels like the beginning of something else.
I take a deep breath, hug Zoop once for courage, and head toward the living area.
I’m hungry now. Ravenous in fact.
Who knew that being made to submit by a Pakhan could bring on such an appetite?