My Landlord Made Me Strip to Sign the Contract

The silence that followed his phrase weighed more than the loaded barbell I lifted every morning at the gym. I felt it settle over my shoulders, dense, impossible to shake off.

“I see my proposal doesn’t bother you as much as you pretend,” Adriano said.

The words hung in the cold air of the penthouse, mocking me. My face burned. I could feel my blood pounding in my temples, a dull throb trying to drown out the reality of what had just happened. The logical thing, what the Bruno from an hour earlier would have done, was to turn around, tell him to go to hell, and get the fuck out of there. But my feet stayed planted on the black marble floor.

He turned before I could invent an excuse. He walked over to a huge desk of glass and steel at the other end of the room, completely ignoring the obvious bulge in my crotch, as if having given me an erection were as banal as opening a window.

“Sit down,” he ordered without looking at me, pointing to a designer chair in front of his desk.

I adjusted my jeans, discreetly tugging the fabric to accommodate my cock, which was still only half hard, trapped against the metal zipper. I felt dirty. I felt exposed. And even so, I walked to the chair and sat down. The leather was ice-cold.

Adriano slid a black leather folder across the glass. The scrape was harsh, final.

“The contract,” he said.

I opened the folder. My hands trembled just enough to make the paper quiver between my fingers. The figures jumped out at me in the first clause. The monthly salary was obscene. Enough to wipe out my debt in six months. I could get my life back. I could stop sleeping on my brother’s living-room sofa.

But then my eyes dropped to the conditions.

Clause four: absolute availability. The tenant shall not have set hours. His time belongs to the landlord. Clause seven: within the home, the tenant shall dispense with all unnecessary clothing when requested by the landlord. Clause nine: the tenant consents to tasks of a physical and personal nature, without prior limits of intimacy.

I swallowed. The knot in my throat was dry, painful.

“This…” My voice came out strangled. “Clause seven. ‘Dispense with unnecessary clothing’?”

Adriano interlaced his fingers on the desk and rested his chin on them. He was watching me with that clinical, devastating calm.

“I like beauty, Bruno. I surround myself with art, with perfect lines. Why would I tolerate cheap polyester in my house? Your body is aesthetic. What you wear is not.”

“Are you asking me to work naked?” The outrage tried to break through, but it was mixed with that treacherous heat still pulsing beneath my fly. The very idea of being naked there, under his gaze, churned my stomach in a way I refused to name as desire.

“I’m offering you a way out of your ruin,” he corrected, his voice dropping lower, turning soft as velvet. “A roof and a salary that no neighborhood gym will ever pay you. The only thing I ask in return is that you leave your modesty at the door. Is your pride really worth that much, Bruno? More than your debt?”

He knew exactly where to hit. He knew I was cornered.

I picked up the pen. It was heavy, cold metal. My hand was sweating so much I feared I’d drop it. I looked at the paper. Sign and you’ll be free of the debt. But by signing, I was binding myself to something far worse.

I signed.

The stroke was quick, abrupt. I let go of the pen as if it burned.

“Done,” I said, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “When do I start?”

Adriano didn’t pick up the contract. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other with elegance. His eyes flashed with a new spark, something that was no longer just calculation, but hunger.

“We’re not done with the inspection yet,” he said calmly.

I frowned.

“What inspection? You’ve already touched what you wanted to touch.”

“I’ve checked your torso. But as you yourself said, you’re a trainer. And I’ve seen too many guys like you who live for the mirror, for showing off in the club, and forget the foundations.”

He paused, letting the silence make me nervous again.

“Stand up. Take your pants off. I want to see whether you’ve really got legs or whether you skip leg day like everyone else.”

The comment was childish, but spot-on. My gym pride flared at once. Nobody questioned my legs. I killed myself with squats; I had quads that could crack walnuts. The insult eclipsed my embarrassment for a moment.

I sprang to my feet, jaw clenched.

“I’ve got better legs than any magazine model you could hire,” I snapped.

“Prove it.”

My hands went to my belt. My clumsy fingers fought with the buckle. The metallic snap as it opened echoed through the empty room like a gunshot. Clack.

I hesitated for a second. My head was screaming: stop, he’s manipulating you. But my body wanted to prove what it was worth. It wanted him to see the hard work, the hours of pain under the bar. And deep down, in that dark, damp corner of my mind, I wanted him to look at me again.

I pulled down the zipper. The noise was obscene in that silence.

I shoved my jeans down. For a moment my hand dragged the boxer waistband with them, but I stopped. Just the jeans. I let them fall to my ankles and stumbled a little as I stepped out of them, ridiculous, with my sneakers still on and the fabric bunched up on the floor.

I stood in the middle of the room in a cheap T-shirt, black socks, and gray cotton boxers that had seen better days.

The penthouse air conditioning hit my bare legs like a lash. The skin on my thighs prickled instantly, gooseflesh climbing up my quads. But the cold didn’t help with my other problem.

Quite the opposite.

With the pressure of the denim gone, my cock, which had been compressed and half-mast for a while, took advantage of the freedom. It wasn’t a full erection, hard as a rock, no. It was that in-between state, heavy and thick, pressing an unmistakable bulge against the thin, worn cotton. The head showed clearly against the gray fabric, wet, leaving a small dark stain at the tip.

It was impossible to hide. A lit beacon betraying everything I was trying to deny.

Adriano didn’t look at my legs.

He didn’t even glance at the definition in my thighs or the curve of my calves. His eyes went straight, like heat-guided missiles, to my crotch.

I stood frozen, arms rigid at my sides, fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. I wanted to cover myself. I wanted to put my hands in front. But his gaze had locked me in place. I could feel his eyes running over me, weighing my shameful erection, measuring size, shape, the involuntary response of my body to his authority.

The silence stretched for five, ten, fifteen seconds. The only sounds were my breathing, shallow and uneven, and the distant hum of the wine fridge.

I felt blood gathering in my ears, my neck, and, to my misfortune, lower down too. Under his scrutiny, my cock gave a slight jerk, almost imperceptible, but visible through the taut fabric. It swelled a little more. The wet stain of pre-cum on the cloth grew, a dark circle opening like a silent accusation. I felt the warm drip sliding down from the head, soaking the cotton, and I knew he was seeing that too.

“Nice… quads,” Adriano said, with sarcasm that dripped venom and honey in equal parts.

He lifted his gaze slowly, dragging it over my tense abdomen until it met mine. There was no mockery left on his face. There was power. Pure, simple power.

He got up from the chair unhurriedly, went around the desk, and leaned on the edge, right in front of me, keeping that safety distance that made me feel like a specimen on a laboratory table. Then he sat back down, turned the chair to face me, and, with maddening slowness, spread his legs. The suit fabric tightened over his thighs, and I could make out the shadow of his own package, tucked away, controlled, utterly in charge of the situation.

“That half-hard cock says a lot more than your résumé, Bruno,” his voice was a rough whisper that vibrated in my bones. “It says you like being exposed. It says you like another man deciding when you get dressed and when you get undressed.”

“I… it’s the cold… it’s a nervous reaction…” I tried to lie, but my voice came out as a pathetic thread.

Adriano smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a wolf watching the lamb stumble.

“Don’t insult me by lying to me. And don’t insult yourself by denying what your body is shouting. You want this job. You want to stay here. And that wet patch in your briefs tells me you want to serve me.”

He leaned back, relaxed, like a king on his throne, legs open, inviting my gaze, inviting my surrender.

“Prove it,” he ordered, pointing an imperious index finger at the marble at his feet. “If you want to sign that contract with something more than ink, get on your knees right now.”

The world shrank to that strip of cold floor between his polished shoes. I heard my own breathing, the fridge, the roar of my pulse in my ears. And slowly, while part of me kept screaming that this was madness, I felt my knees begin to bend.

I dropped onto the black marble with a dry thud that shot through my bones. My kneecaps screamed against the polished stone, but I didn’t move. I stayed there, in my underwear, with my cock flagging against the soaked fabric, my T-shirt falling over my hips, looking up at him for the first time.

Adriano said nothing at first. He only watched me, savoring the image. A big guy, a neighborhood gym bodybuilder, kneeling between his open legs like an expensive whore. His eyes gleamed with almost cruel pleasure.

“There. That’s your place,” he murmured. “Take them off.”

“What?” I stammered.

“Your briefs. Off. I want to see the cock that’s been giving you away.”

My hands trembled as I hooked my thumbs into the elastic. I pulled them down slowly, letting them fall to my knees. My dick sprang upward at once, freed, harder than I wanted to admit, throbbing in the cold air of the penthouse. The head shone, sticky, swollen, with a clear thread dangling down to the floor.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “Dripping for me, and you were still trying to lie to me.”

He stood up. He took his hands to his belt with the same infuriating calm with which he’d done everything else. The silver buckle jingled. He pulled down the zipper. The sound of his trousers sliding over his thighs was the most obscene noise I had ever heard in my life.

When he pulled out his cock, my mouth went dry. It was thick, long, dark at the head, with a vein throbbing along the shaft. It was already hard, pointing at my face. A guy like him, a man who spent his life controlling everything, had the cock of someone used to fucking without asking permission.

He gripped it at the base with one hand and brought it to his lips.

“Open your mouth.”

I didn’t think. I opened it. My tongue hung out, stupid, waiting. He ran the head over my lips, marking them with his pre-cum, painting my mouth with his warm, salty moisture. I closed my eyes.

“Look at me while you suck it,” he ordered. “I want to see your face when you understand what I really hired you for.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him. Adriano shoved his cock into my mouth in a slow thrust, pushing until the head hit the back of my palate. I arched my back, coughed, but didn’t pull away. He didn’t either. He gripped my nape with one firm hand and started moving, fucking my mouth slowly at first, measuring my resistance.

“That’s it. Suck it. Like a good gym bitch.”

His cock tasted like expensive soap and male sweat, like clean skin and something deeper, more animal. I closed my lips around it and started sucking. I had never sucked a cock in my life, but my body moved on its own, driven by the hunger I had been denying for hours. I ran my tongue under the head, felt him swell more against my palate, heard a rough moan escape from deep in his throat.

“That’s it, trainer,” he panted. “Tighten those lips. Mmm. Your mouth was made for swallowing cock.”

He yanked it out of my mouth suddenly. A string of saliva hung from my chin to my chest. Before I could breathe, he shoved it back in all the way, and this time I gagged hard, tears springing to my eyes. He laughed, a low, filthy sound.

“Swallow it, asshole. All of it.”

With his other hand he grabbed my jaw and started fucking my mouth for real. Hard, dry thrusts that hit my throat again and again. I held on to his thighs with both hands, feeling the hard muscles under the open suit fabric, letting myself be used. My own cock throbbed between my legs, forgotten and drooling onto the marble.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered without stopping. “Jerk off while I fuck your mouth. I want to see you cum like a whore with my cock in your throat.”

I brought one hand down to my cock and took hold of it. It was so hard it hurt. I started hammering it with quick, clumsy strokes while he kept using my mouth. Saliva ran down my chin in streams, dripping onto my chest, soaking my cheap T-shirt.

Adriano pulled his cock from my mouth again, panting.

“Stand up. On the desk. Face down.”

I got up like an automaton, legs numb from kneeling, cock pointing at the ceiling, my T-shirt stuck to my chest. He yanked the briefs off my ankles and shoved me against the glass desktop. I lay down on it, cheek pressed against the freezing surface, ass raised, exposed.

I heard a drawer open. A bottle cap snap. Then two cold, slippery fingers made their way between my ass cheeks and found my hole. I tensed.

“Relax,” he whispered, leaning over my back, speaking into my ear. “You signed a clause. ‘Without prior limits of intimacy.’ Remember?”

His fingers went in. One first, pushing to the knuckle, twisting inside me. I cried out against the glass. I had never had anything up there, and the burn was brutal, but he knew what he was doing. He found a spot inside me that made my back arch and tore a rough moan from me that I didn’t recognize as my own.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That spot. Now you’re going to be mine forever.”

He slipped in the second finger. Then the third. He opened me, stretched me, prepared me. I trembled all over, braced on the glass, with my cock pressed against the edge of the desk, leaking pre-cum over the black wood of the lower cabinet.

When he pulled his fingers out, I felt the thick head pressing against my entrance. I held my breath.

“Ask me to put it in,” he said.

“Please,” I panted without thinking.

“Please what?”

“Please… put it in. Fuck me. Adriano, please.”

He pushed. Slowly, implacably, his cock forced its way inside me. The burn set my whole back on fire, but pleasure came behind it, attached to the pain, impossible to separate. When he had me all the way to the hilt, his balls pressed against my ass cheeks, he stayed still for a second. Then he started moving.

He fucked me slowly at first. Withdrawing almost all the way, then plunging back in. Each thrust tore a groan from me against the glass. My cheek slid over the surface with sweat. My hands searched for something to grip and found nothing.

“Look at you,” he said, pressing my nape down against the desk. “The macho trainer, the one who was going to tell me to go to hell. Bent over my table, with my cock inside you. And you’re still drooling.”

He increased the pace. The thrusts turned dry, brutal, the wet sound of flesh slapping flesh filling the whole room. He dug his hands into my hips hard enough to leave marks. I began to push back, moving my ass against his cock, seeking it, wanting it deeper.

“That’s it, move. Fuck yourself on it. Show me how badly you wanted it.”

I slid a hand under my stomach and grabbed my cock again. It took three hard strokes. I came over the black marble with a long, choked moan against the glass, blasting thick ropes of semen that splattered on the floor beneath the desk. My hole clamped around his cock as I came, and he let out a guttural roar.

“Fuck. Fuck, yes. That’s where I want you.”

He drove into me three, four more times, each harder than the last, until he buried himself all the way and went still. I felt his cock throbbing inside me, shooting his hot load deep in my body. One spurt. Another. Another. He was filling me, marking me, signing me far more than that cold metal pen ever had.

He pulled out slowly. The semen began to run down the insides of my thighs, warm, viscous. I stayed sprawled over the glass, drained, gasping.

Adriano ran one hand over my sweaty back, almost tenderly. Then he gave my ass a sharp slap.

“Welcome home, Bruno.”