The Landlord Inspected Me Like an Animal

The elevator shot upward so fast my stomach stuck to my spine, that hollow feeling in my gut mixing perfectly with the balance in my bank account. Fortieth floor. The panel blinked with an aggressive red light, counting down the seconds I had left before I had to sell my dignity. Or at least try.

I straightened my shirt collar. It was cheap, polyester, tight across my traps and already sticking to my armpits with sweat. I’d showered twice before leaving, scrubbing myself with a scouring pad until my skin was red, but nerves have their own smell, sharp and metallic, that no supermarket soap can cover up.

I looked at my reflection in the polished steel of the doors. There was Bruno. Twenty-five years old, ninety kilos of chiseled muscle built on rice, chicken, and rage, and a five-figure debt breathing down my neck like a guard dog. I looked big, intimidating to anyone I’d cross in an alley. But there, in that rising metal box, I felt small. Ridiculous. Like a farm animal walking into a slaughterhouse.

Ding.

The doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. There was no landing or hallway: the elevator opened directly onto the penthouse.

The first thing that hit me was the cold. The air conditioning was set so low that the sweat on my forehead froze instantly, and a shiver raised the hair on my arms under my shirt. The second thing was the silence. A thick, expensive silence, the kind only top-tier soundproofing can buy.

—You’re two minutes late.

The voice came from the left, deep and without a hint of emotion.

I turned my head. The owner of the penthouse, Mr. Renard, was standing beside a floor-to-ceiling window with an obscene panorama of the city at his feet. He wasn’t looking at me: he was looking at his watch, one that cost more than my family’s entire life.

—The traffic… —I began to excuse myself, but my voice came out rough. I cleared my throat, trying to pull back that tough-guy façade I used at the gym—. Traffic downtown is a bitch.

Renard turned slowly. He was exactly as I’d imagined him and, at the same time, nothing like it. Tall, maybe a few centimeters taller than me, but without my bulk. His body was wiry, hidden under a tailored charcoal-gray suit that fell over him with liquid perfection. His dark hair was combed back with military precision, and his eyes… fuck, his eyes were two pools of tar. They looked at you and saw no person; they saw data, they saw utility. They saw price.

—Time is the only resource that never comes back, Bruno —he said, walking toward me. His steps made no sound on the black marble—. If you’re going to live here, punctuality is non-negotiable. It’s a dogma.

He stopped half a meter from me. Too close for a first meeting. He invaded my personal space with a natural ease that pinned me to the floor. He smelled like something complex: burnt wood, old leather, and a very subtle citrus note, probably bergamot. An intoxicating scent, clean and masculine, that erased my own smell of nerves and cheap deodorant.

—The ad said “rent in exchange for assistance” —I said, trying to hold his gaze even though instinct was screaming at me to look away—. It didn’t specify what kind of assistance. I’m a personal trainer, I can cook, I can handle maintenance…

Renard didn’t answer right away. He started walking around me, tracing a slow circle, like a buyer inspecting a used car for dents. I felt his gaze moving over my back, my shoulders, down to my legs.

I tensed. My muscles clenched involuntarily, stretching the fabric of my shirt and jeans.

—Personal trainer… —he repeated, with a tone that brushed against mockery—. I see. You’re a gym rat. You spend hours sculpting a perfect body. And the engine?

He stopped again in front of me. His eyes locked onto my chest, right where my pecs were pulling the shirt buttons to the limit.

—I need someone strong —he said, and for the first time his voice dropped an octave, becoming more intimate, more dangerous—. But brute force is useless to me if there’s no control. Do you have control, Bruno?

—I have discipline —I replied, clenching my jaw. It annoyed me that he was analyzing me like this, like a slab of meat hanging from a hook. But I needed the money. I needed the roof. I swallowed my pride and tasted the bitter sting of bile—. I do whatever it takes to get the job done.

—Whatever it takes?

Renard lifted his hand. His fingers were long, well kept, pianist’s or surgeon’s fingers. Without warning, without asking permission, he laid his right palm on my left bicep.

I froze.

The contact was electric. His hand was cold, but it burned through the cheap fabric. It wasn’t a casual or friendly touch. It was a grip. His fingers closed around my arm and squeezed with surprising strength for someone of his build. He drove his thumb into the insertion of the muscle, seeking the fiber, testing the density of my flesh.

My first impulse, the macho one I thought I was, was to knock his arm away. Don’t touch me. But I didn’t move. My feet seemed fused to the marble. My breath stalled in my lungs.

—Good tone —Renard murmured, ignoring my stiffness, or maybe enjoying it. His other hand rose toward my chest.

That was too much. It crossed the line. But my brain had disconnected. I felt his flat hand over my pec, felt the muscle twitch under his palm in time with my hammering heart. His heat went through the shirt and marked me like a hot iron.

—You’re tense —he observed, sliding his hand slowly downward, brushing the sternum, dropping toward my abs.

—Hey… —my voice was a pathetic whisper. It should have sounded threatening; it sounded weak. Broken.

—Shhh. —Renard stepped closer, erasing the little distance that remained. His chest almost brushed mine. I had to tilt my head to look at him and even then, he seemed the giant—. I’m checking the merchandise. You wouldn’t buy a car without opening the hood, would you?

Fury and shame flooded through me. He was calling me an object to my face. I should have punched him and walked out. But his cologne filled my nostrils and made me dizzy. And there was something else. Something terrible and dark born at the base of my stomach.

As his hand kept pressing my abdomen, evaluating the hardness of my abs through the clothes, I felt a treacherous tingle running down my spine. It wasn’t fear. I knew fear: fear shrinks your balls and dries your mouth. This was something else. This was electricity, and it was going straight down to my cock.

My breathing sped up, heavy, noisy in that sepulchral silence. My pupils must have been dilated, because I could see Renard’s face with hyperreal clarity: the pores in his skin, the wet sheen on his lips, the unfathomable darkness of his eyes fixed on mine.

—You’ve got a body built for hard work —he whispered. His hand stopped right over the buckle of my belt. He didn’t touch it, but the heat from his palm radiated straight toward my crotch—. The question is whether you’re willing to sweat for me.

The blood abandoned my brain and rushed downward with the violence of a torrent. It was an immediate, stupid, uncontrollable physiological reaction. I felt my cock, asleep and frightened a minute ago, begin to fill, heavy and thick, responding to the domination, the contact, the humiliation of being inspected.

I tried to think of dead things, of bills, of anything. But the pressure in my jeans became undeniable. An erection growing every second, pushing against the fabric, looking for the heat of that hand hovering millimeters above it. I pictured those long fingers closing over the bulge and mentally punished myself for imagining it, but my dick gave another twitch, even more treacherous, and the tip began to dampen the cotton of my briefs.

I ran out of air. Then real panic hit me. Not because of him, but because of me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why does it turn me on when this guy treats me like livestock?

Renard didn’t move. He simply lowered his gaze.

His eyes traveled over my chest, my stomach, and came to rest with deliberate, cruel slowness on the bulge beginning to show in the fly of my worn jeans. He stared for several eternal seconds, letting the shame burn my face off.

I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. But I couldn’t stop looking at his mouth.

Slowly, Renard raised his gaze and sank his black eyes into mine again. A slow, predatory smile, loaded with smugness, curved the corner of his mouth. At first he said nothing, letting the silence and my own erection speak for me.

Then, in a soft voice that sounded like a whip crack, he declared:

—I see my proposal doesn’t disgust you as much as you’re pretending, Bruno.

***

I didn’t know what to answer. There was no answer. Anything I said —a denial, an insult, a bolt for the door— would sound like a lie, because the proof was right there, pushing the fabric out, betraying me better than any confession.

Renard took his hand away from my belt. The cold he left behind was almost worse than the touch itself. He walked to a low glass table, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a heavy glass, and handed it to me without looking at me, like someone giving a horse water after breaking it in.

—Drink. Your hands are shaking.

I accepted the glass because I needed to put my hands on something other than covering myself. The liquid slid down my throat and burned in my chest, and for a second the burn replaced the shame. Only for a second.

—I’m not… —I began—. Look, I’m not into guys…

—I didn’t ask what you are. —Renard leaned against the window, silhouetted against the city lights—. I don’t give a damn what label you use so you can sleep peacefully. What interests me is what your body just told me without your permission.

I clenched my jaw. I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to be right. But I’d spent half my life lifting iron to feel like I owned myself, and that man, without even really touching me, had shown me in five minutes that there was a lever inside me I didn’t even know existed. And that he knew exactly where it was.

—The deal is simple —he continued, setting his glass untouched on the ledge—. You get a room, the big one, the corner room, with its own bathroom. You don’t pay a cent. In exchange, you do whatever I need, whenever I need it, no questions asked. We’ll start with the physical stuff: training, errands, call it whatever you want. And we’ll see how far this “whatever it takes” you promised me so quickly really goes.

—And if I say no?

—Then you go back down in that elevator, back to your debt and your shared flat, and in a month you call me asking whether the room is still free. —He smiled again, without warmth—. I can recognize someone who’s already decided, Bruno. I can see it in the fact you still haven’t left.

He was right. I’d spent too many minutes in that penthouse without moving toward the exit. Every second that passed without me fleeing was an answer, and we both knew it.

I set the glass on the table harder than necessary, as if the impact could bring back some of the rage that had slipped through my fingers. Renard didn’t even flinch.

—When do I start? —I asked, hating how rough my voice sounded. Hating even more that, beneath the anger, there was something dangerously close to eagerness.

—You’ve already started. —He left the window and came toward me again, slowly, measuring me with those black eyes—. Stay still. Let me finish checking the merchandise.

And I, ninety kilos of muscle and pride, stayed still. I lowered my gaze to the black marble and let him come closer, feeling the air-conditioning cold at the nape of my neck and a completely different heat rising from much lower down.

Renard stopped a hand’s breadth from me. This time he didn’t measure the distance: he set one hand on my hip and the other directly on the buckle of my belt. He opened it without hurry, with that same surgeon’s precision, holding my gaze the entire time, waiting for me to say something. I said nothing. I only clenched my fists at my sides and endured the metallic click of the belt giving way.

—Spread your legs —he ordered, quietly.

I parted my feet a few centimeters over the marble. He gave a low laugh, a dry sound, and tapped the inside of my thigh with the back of his hand, like someone asking a horse to show its hooves.

—More. Like at the gym, when you open the hip to lift. I want to see you planted properly.

I obeyed. I spread my legs until I felt the fabric of my jeans pulling tight over my crotch. Renard lowered his gaze and savored for a few seconds the bulge I could no longer hide. My cock was hard, jutting crooked against my right thigh, pushing the fabric enough to outline the shape of the glans.

—That’s not a fear erection, Bruno —he murmured—. That’s a cock that’s ready. And ready merchandise gets inspected properly.

He slid his hand down to the fly and grabbed the bulge through my jeans. He closed his fingers firmly, pressing the whole package against his palm, measuring me with the same confidence he’d used on my bicep. A grunt escaped through my nose and I tried to swallow it, but it caught in my throat.

—Good load —he judged—. Dense. Heavy. Big enough not to embarrass me when I use it. —He squeezed once more and let go—. Take your pants off.

My hands shook when I took hold of the button. The fly came open with a pull that was too loud in that silence. I shoved my jeans down over my hips and let them fall to my knees. The black briefs, worn and too tight, hid nothing: my cock pointed upward, swollen, the tip already drawing a wet, dark ring in the cotton.

Renard licked his lips without even trying to hide it.

—Keep going.

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and yanked my briefs down to my knees. My cock sprang upward, rock hard, throbbing in time with the pulse that had moved to my ears. It felt heavy. I felt it heavy, swollen, bigger than it had ever been in my life, and a dull shame burned from my chest to the tips of my ears.

Renard didn’t touch it right away. He bent slightly, never taking his eyes off it, and studied it like someone inspecting an expensive machine part. He cupped my balls with his open palm, weighing them, squeezing just a little. I arched without meaning to. He lifted them with two fingers and let them drop, watching them fall.

—Loaded —he noted—. Good. I hope you know how to cum hard. I’ve got no use for guys who only drip.

When he finally closed his fingers around my shaft, my knees nearly gave out. His hand was still cold. The ring of his fingers was firm, neither too tight nor too loose, exactly where it had to be. He started pulling my skin down very slowly, exposing the purple glans, measuring every inch with his eyes.

—Fuck —I blurted out.

—Shut up.

He didn’t hit me. He didn’t need to. He slid his hand down and up once, calmly, and I felt my whole body collapse forward, begging for another pass. He gave me one. And another. And another, always just as slow, always with the same clinical pressure, as if he were taking my pulse instead of jerking me off.

—Shirt —he said without stopping the movement of his wrist—. Off.

I ripped at the buttons awkwardly, pulling the cheap shirt over my head without fully undoing it. A button flew off and bounced across the marble. Neither of us looked at it. Renard ran his free hand over my chest, stopped at the right nipple, and pinched it between two fingers, twisting it, squeezing until a gasp escaped through my clenched teeth.

—Sensitive —he noted, satisfied—. Better. A body this big and nipples this delicate. It’s almost unfair.

He switched to the left and repeated the pinch, harder this time, never stopping his hand on my cock. My vision blurred. I was standing in the middle of his penthouse, with my jeans and briefs around my knees, my shirt hanging from one wrist, my dick in a stranger’s hand and my nipples stained red. It should have been the worst moment of my life. And somewhere in my brain, it was. But my body was somewhere else, in a hot, thick place where the only thing that mattered was that cold hand kept moving.

—Turn around.

I turned. He looked at my back, ran his palm over my shoulder blades, followed the spine down to the base of my ass. There he stopped. He slid his open hand between my cheeks and squeezed them, one after the other, with the same firmness a butcher uses to weigh a cut. I felt his thumb tracing my crease from top to bottom, finding the tight little pucker and pressing just enough to let me know he knew exactly where it was.

—Good ass. Firm. Worked. Shut tight like a safe. —His voice came right over the back of my neck, closer now, almost brushing my hair—. It’ll do. It’ll do very well.

Everything clenched. Not just my ass. My balls, my thighs, my throat. A quick jolt ran down my spine and I felt my cock twitch toward the ceiling without anyone touching it.

—Turn back around.

I obeyed. Renard had stopped smiling. Now his expression was focused, almost serious, the face of a man who’s decided to close a deal. He grabbed my cock again, this time with more intent, moving his hand up and down in a steady rhythm, neither fast nor slow, a rhythm meant to last and to break me.

—Look at me —he ordered.

I lifted my eyes to his. It was worse than any touch. Those two black pits held me without blinking while his hand dry-fucked me with unbearable efficiency. I felt the heat gather at the base of my balls, felt my cock swell even more, felt the glans shine with pre-cum every time he bared it again.

—You can’t even last five minutes —he remarked, with calm contempt—. A body that worked and a cock with no manners. We’re going to have to teach you control, Bruno. We’re going to have to teach you a lot of things.

—No… —I gasped, and I didn’t even know what I was denying.

—Yes. —He suddenly sped up, a sharp change, loose wrist, tight palm, giving short, firm strokes right under the glans, where it hurts most and feels best—. Cum. Here, on my floor. I want you to see what you handed to a stranger on your first day in this house.

My knees buckled. I held on as best I could, quadriceps trembling, while that cold hand ripped the orgasm out of me like squeezing a ripe fruit. I felt the first wave climbing through my perineum, rising through the inside of my dick, and I had no time for anything else. I let out a guttural, animal groan, mouth open, and came in three, four, five thick spurts that shot out and slammed against the black marble between our feet. One splattered on his patent-leather shoe.

Renard didn’t let go. He kept milking me with his hand until the last of my semen dribbled down my shaft and smeared his knuckles. Only then did he pull away, straighten fully, and examine the mess with the same calm he’d used for everything else.

—Liters —he murmured, almost to himself—. Good. A horse. A horse that comes from nothing. We’ll have to tame you.

He wiped his fingers leisurely on the hem of my hanging shirt. He used it like a rag. I still couldn’t move, legs like jelly, cock still hard and dripping, a white puddle glistening on the floor between my shoes.

Renard stepped back. He looked me over from head to toe, naked from the waist up, half naked from the waist down, soaked in my own cum.

—Pull your pants up. The room is at the back of the hall, on the right. Leave the floor like that. Someone will come mop it in the morning. I want you to walk past it when you come out for breakfast and remember how fast your cock dropped the moment I squeezed it a little.

He didn’t look at me again. He went to the table, took his untouched glass, and stood once more facing the window, his back to me, as if I were no longer there.

I bent down, trembling, pulled up my sticky briefs and jeans over my still-sensitive cock, slung my stained shirt over my shoulder, and crossed the marble barefoot, leaving my shoes and my pride somewhere along the way. I don’t know how I found the room. I remember a long hallway, a heavy door, a huge bed with cold sheets, and the echo of my own breathing when I finally closed the door behind me and sank down against the wood.

That night I slept in the penthouse. And although nobody touched me again until the following morning, I didn’t get a wink of sleep: I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the city humming forty floors below, trying to understand what kind of man I had just become from the simple brush of a cold hand.