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This isn't the first time Mafioso has found himself on the receiving end of gunfire. Over the years, he has endured his fair share of bullets and blade wounds, although none of his former assailants were this enticing. Amidst the shimmering shards of broken glass and the remnants of an abandoned champagne bottle, two bodies lie entwined on the cold, hard floor. Their chests rise and fall in ragged breaths, the tension thick with unspoken words. The scattered petals, once vibrant hues of red, now mingle with the fragments, creating a haunting tapestry that reflects both beauty and despair.

The evening, formerly thought to be a relaxing getaway accompanied by a desirable escort, took a rather unforeseen twist. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the last thing Mafioso envisioned on this ripe evening was finding himself staring down the cold, metallic barrel of a loaded handgun. The man on top, a one-time fling, which he willingly allowed into his vacation sweet, lazily dangled the muzzle of the gun against his target's chest.

"Gotcha!" Chance, the alias that concealed his true identity, exclaims as he perched himself atop his unsuspecting target. Despite achieving his pursuit, a scowl still lingers on his face, casting a shadow over his triumph. "Honestly, I thought it would take more than a male escort to get you to lower your guard, Mafioso. What a letdown." His voice bubbles with both mockery and a hint of disappointment.

Despite the dire circumstances surrounding him, Mafioso found an unexpected source of amusement in his predicament. A sly smirk plays across his lips as he surveys the weapon directed at him.

"This gun really doesn't suit my taste." he remarks, his voice dripping with confidence. "Honestly, ya could've chosen somethin' a bit sexier to kill me with." The playful challenge in his tone belied the gravity of the situation, revealing a man who, even in the face of death, refuses to show fear.

"I would've opted for a Beretta or—" he began, but then abruptly fell silent, biting his tongue with such force that a sharp metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. The sudden sting is a grim reminder of the strain in the air, the cold, weaponized hilt of the handgun making contact with his skull.

"Is this sexy enough for you?" Chance hisses, nudging the muzzle against Mafioso's temple. Gazing up at the alluring figure, he laughs, knowing the only acceptable answer is yes.

"What's with you?" Chance recoils the gun instinctively, "You were just shot in the leg, have you finally lost it?"

"Perhaps..." Mafioso muses, a low chuckle vibrating lowly in his throat. His eyes gleam with a combination of mischief and confidence as he lies back slightly. "...or maybe it's the fact that you won't kill me that's keepin' me so thoroughly entertained."

Chance's irritation flares, his pulse quickening as the adrenaline of the moment surges through him. He grips the hilt, his knuckles turning pale under the pressure. "Oh yeah? And what makes you so sure?" He shot back, his voice taut with barely suppressed anger, ears ringing with the weight of Mafioso's provocative words.

"You enjoy the thrill of the hunt, not the bloodshed, ain't that right?" Mafioso assures, his tone certain and steady, as if he weren't mere inches away from the weapon capable of ending his life. This assertion only adds fuel to the already raging blaze scorching within Chance's veins, this boiling blood making his fingers trigger-happy as it taps against the firing mechanism. The barrel, now positioned at the blunt mouth of his target, pushes the iron, metallic taste against the blood-soaked cavern.

"What nonsense are you spouting?" Chance spat, his voice laced with a mix of irritation and defiance. "One more word and I'll—"

But before he could finish his threat, Mafioso interrupts with a sly grin, "We've met before, ain't that right?"

As he leans in closer, feeling the icy muzzle of the gun press against his chapped lips, it sends a cold shiver down his attacker's spine. Chance sat frozen for a moment on his target's lap, a wave of unease washing over him as the realization sank in. He's been unguarded, allowing this enigmatic man a glimpse of his face all those nights ago. With countless pawns at his disposal, this figure could easily have unleashed a relentless pursuit for him, tracking him across cities and hiding places. And yet, fate brought them together again, under the same disconcerting circumstances, but in a starkly different hotel room.

"Ya didn't kill me then, and ya most definitely ain't gonna finish the job now."

Mafioso calls his bluff; Chance didn't consider that his target would remember his face. The order from the recipient is to bring him in alive, but how is that going to work if threats of violence are off the table?

"Dammit, fuckin' mafia..." Chance curses under his breath, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface as he watches that arrogant grin spread wider across Mafioso's face. The sight only serves to intensify his irritation. Taking a deep breath, Mafioso gives in, throwing his hands up in a gesture of submission. "Listen, if ya give me a good time, I swear I'll go quietly."

The unexpected request threw Chance off balance for a brief moment, leaving him momentarily mute. This would certainly be a much simpler alternative than dragging him in against his will. Raising an eyebrow, Chance bows forward, curiosity piqued.

"Oh really? What exactly do you have in mind?" He asks, willing to hear him out; after all, what did he have to lose?

The question didnt require a verbal answer, Chance could already feel the half hard bulge against his ass cheek from the very instant they made contact. His hips instinctively grind in a clockwise motion, taking in the full size jabbing at his hole. Mafioso's breathless response, a brief yet suggestive grunt, is ear-piercingly disgusting, repulsive even. It's gross to hear a grown man groaning with pleasure, and yet, Chance somehow became captivated by this stomach-retching sound.

Perhaps it's the absence of his sex life that propels Chance to act on instinct, or maybe there's something inherently captivating about this man that keeps him lost in thought. Each subtle, calculated movement he makes suggests a complexity that intrigues the rogue assassin, compelling him to press the gun between those perfect, plush lips.

"No funny business, and don't think for a second that this will make me lower my guard," Chance growls, his voice low and edged with distrust. Eyes narrow as he observes Mafioso, who, with a willful calmness, takes the barrel inside his mouth. His tongue laps the barrel, licking up the cold, unforgiving nozzle that mingles with his blood-tainted taste buds, now left slick with a noticeable glossy sheen; how vile, yet somehow alluring.

Mafioso assists the efforts, his fingers skillfully removing the restrictive clothes covering Chance's hips while simultaneously fondling the perfectly warm, ashy skin beneath. The barrel of the loaded gun still lodged between those pearly canines, delving further into the caverns of Mafioso's mouth, gagging him. Slobber leaks from the cracks, blending with the faint hue of crimson.

"You look so much sexier with my pistol in your mouth," Chance coos, somehow getting off from this infamous man whom he holds at his mercy. Mafioso hums around the polished barrel, obviously wanting to speak his mind but being denied the opportunity.

Slobber seeps down Mafioso's chin, glistening under the dim light as it trails down his neck, pooling in the deep crevices of his collarbone. The warm, viscous fluid clings to his skin, a stark contrast to the crisp fabric of his neatly pressed shirt. The scent of yesterday's cigar mixes with the aroma of sweat, creating an oddly pungent perfume that hangs in the air around him.

The pistol recoils slightly, its owner's grip tightening just enough to maintain control, but not so much that it betrays complete trust in the mafia man beneath him. The tension in the air is palpable, as strings connect the swollen, cracked lips to the gleaming muzzle.

"I wanna tear those clothes off." Mafioso breaths out, his jaws watering like an unholy beast in an insatiable rut. "Now, be a good little slut and spread those thighs f'me."

Chance furrows his brow, a mixture of surprise and annoyance flickering across his face.

"Who gave you the right to bark orders at me?" He questions, his voice steady but edged with frustration. "Learn some manners and behave yourself. I'm callin' the shots now."

Something about the way Chance told him off made his engorged tent twinge, thrusting slightly against the plush thigh, begging for some much-needed friction to soothe this aching soreness. Chance teases, driving the mafia boss insane with the way he ridicules the imprint while enticingly whirling his waist like a belly dancer.

Mafioso grunts at the friction, bucking his hips upwards in a desperate plea for more; a cry that alas went unanswered.

"Give it up," Chance orders, caressing one hand down his back to expose his perfectly pink hole that's just begging to be stuffed. "You're at my mercy, let me ride your dick for my pleasure,"

Mafioso, given a front row seat, supervises this inticing performance, completely absorbed in this alluring spectacle unfolding before him. Each thrilling movement captivates him further, making it a truly unforgettable experience.

Chance slips a sole finger into his clenched hole, massaging the soft, fleshy tissue before plunging the second digit inside.

He holds in a sob bubbling on the tip of his tongue, rippling in his vocal cords, and begging to be let out. If Mafioso truly desires to escape, now would be a prime time to do so; even with the barrel's sights still set on him, it would be pretty easy to disarm his attacker. And yet, he held no desire to do so, solely looking forward to seeing how this chaotic evening plays out.

Mafioso slants, his breath steady despite the danger, as he wraps a firm arm around his attacker's slim waist. The cold metal of the firearm pressed ominously against his forehead, the threat palpable and raw. With a calm demeanor that belied the intensity of the moment, he locks eyes with his assailant, drawing their hands to one another as he adds another two fingers into the pulsating, stretched hole.

Chance's repressed sobs come forth in sober waves, sturring the still air with their alluring symphony.

"Did ya know that you're incredibly sexy right now?" Mafioso inclines, his body now in an upright position, exuding an air of confidence and power. With his free hand, he began to methodically trace the contours of the sleek, flushed skin hidden beneath the dress shirt, as if savoring both the texture and the moment. His fingers glide across the fabric, raising it above his attacker's head.

He sucks sprouting roses onto the ash skin, skimming over the sensitive chest while simutaniously adding another finger to the mixing pot. Relishing in the clenching and unclenching each time he grazes his damp tongue over the perky bud.

"Fuck..." Chance moans, his body bowing slightly as his dick slaps against the other man's stomach with each spasm of his hips. He can't wait any longer.

Chance, fueled by a sudden surge of determination, removes his fingers. The metallic sound of the zipper slicing through the stillness seems to resonate louder than ever, breaking the heavy silence that envelopes them. It didn't take long for Mafioso to catch on; the generous hand now palming his throbbing erection was a dead giveaway.

Mafioso can't repress the groans, his face conrorting with discomfort as his weeping cock is exposed to the fridged air. Chance stroking a hand against this twitching dick energies a assult on his chest, licking, sucking, biting, wherever Mafioso could reach to null the intense pleasure. His teeth latch onto the hard bud, suckling on the tit like he's trying to suck milk out of this man's dry nipple.

"Open up f'me," Mafioso gently pries the asscheeks apart, his grip firm and resolute. Each of his calloused fingers glides over the delicate, ashy man's skin, evoking a sense of care amidst the roughness.

Chance gulps down the dire words that threaten to escape his lips, suppressing them with a tense resolve.

As Chance navigates the hardened mass to tickle against his puckered hole, he curses through clenched teeth, plowing the cock head into the chasm with a few loose moans floating free from imprisonment. His whole body trembles, each muscle quaking as he struggles to regain his composure. A chill runs through him, making every nerve ending feel alive and on edge.

At this point, Mafioso's cock is aching with need to pump this tight ass full of his cum. As it descends deeper, the cock seems to grow considerably, creating a widening fissure that splits him open. Chance feeds the length into his tight cavity, arching his back at the sudden intrusion.

He chews his lip, suppressing the rush of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him. A sensation akin to warmth bubbled inside him, and he could feel the crimson flush of blood oozing to the surface of his plush, delicate skin.

Mafioso admires the way the plump, swollen hole puckers around his needy cock. "Dat's it.. just like dat, baby."

Chance whines, mouth lazily agape as he focuses intently on the sharp, stabbing pain radiating from his backside. He desperately rocks his hips, needing this just as badly as Mafioso does, and he thanks god the friction of his cock slapping on Mafioso's stomach was keeping him so throughly entertained. Both men were untamed and feral, their spirits pushed to the brink of madness, each consumed by an insatiable hunger for something just beyond their grasp. The fire in their eyes mirrors the desperation that claws at their insides, an unrelenting need that drives them deeper into disarray.

The piercing, unrestrained whines reverberate off the opulent walls, mingling with the choked-back sobs soaked in anguish. Chance mutters through gritted teeth, frustration and anger boiling inside him. He could feel his insides split, blood oozing from the fresh gash as he forces the length inside.

"Ah fuck...!" Mafioso drags out, gradually sinking his throbbing cock deeper and deeper inside. "You're s' damn tight, holy shit..."

He tightly grips the straining ass muscles as a source of moral support, seeking solace in its familiar company during moments of hesitation. The cold metal of the pistol presses firmly against Mafioso's cheek. In that fleeting moment, he leans into the icy touch, finding relief in the cool, polished texture.

"Ahh, you fucker," Chance gasps, each word punctuated by heavy puffs of breath. His chest heaved from the exertion, and he shot a glare at the man in front of him. "Even now, you're still grinning," he adds, exasperation lacing his voice.

Mafioso truly has nothing to rebut; no words can capture this moment or describe the pure ecstasy he is feeling right now. The silence became suffocating, both continuing to say nothing but moan as Mafioso began drilling himself into the bloody, wet mess.

Despite the overwhelming difficulties, Chance continues to bounce himself in spite of the massive pain in his ass; no pun intended.

Every lone vein of the man's cock is bolded against his walls like a forbidden text. Mafioso's balls lewdly slap against his ass cheeks, echoing off the walls with each rut as he strains to hit harder and deeper. Nothing could be heard over the loud, restless moaning and rough slapping of skin.

Mafioso's eyes glaze over, the world around him blending into an indistinct blur. Focusing solely on the taut muscles of his opponent's abdomen, rippling with tension like a coiled spring. Each breath is charged, and the air crackles with a palpable fit of longing. The dim light outlined the contours of their bodies beautifully, revealing the blissful, focused expressions on both his and Chance's faces.

"Such a good fuckin' slut for me, you're takin' me s' well," Mafioso slurs, his free hand grips the fat of Chance's hips to grind himself against the sweet spot.

Chance doesn't have the opportunity to respond sharply as he has in the past. No, instead, a loud, throaty combination of moans and screams emerges when Mafioso continues to abuse the spot deep within his ass, the knot in his stomach growing tighter.

"Oh, fu— you're so big..." Chance musters together the only knowledgeable sentence in his star-strewn thoughts."No—! Wait ahh... imma cum..!"

Hearing this, Mafioso snap his hips to meet the man's taunt ass muscles, bringing him back to reality. Chance renounces a spew of slutty wails, his swollen hole leaving a white and red ring around the base of Mafioso's cock.

"Cum for me." That, and the restless abuse his prostate endures, sends Chance toppling over the edge of orgasm, smearing noticeable white stripes against the man's tailored suit.

"Hah..." Chance exhales slowly, his gaze fixed on the breathtaking sight before him. The man beneath him lay sprawled on the ground, a blend of strength and vulnerability captured in the moment as a thick milky liquid paints Mafioso's face; Chance, for one, would call this an improvement. As he descends from his momentary high, a soft whine escapes his lips, a contrast to the euphoric intensity that had been building within him just moments before. The tight knot in his abdomen begins to unravel, leaving behind an unsettling emptiness.

Meanwhile, Mafioso accelerates his pace, moving with a relentless energy that Chance hadn't thought possible. The sudden surge of speed catches him off guard, now pounding into him so hard that Chance begins to see entire constellations through his eyelids.

His hand instinctively shot up to cover his slightly agape mouth, a surge of unease washing over him at the unexpected sounds that escaped. A flush crept over his cheeks as he realized the discomfiting noise he had previously made. Sensing his discomfort, Mafioso snappily slaps the hand away, redirecting it firmly to rest against his lower stomach. A gesture that is both commanding and intimate, leaving him feeling exposed yet oddly reassured by the other man's boldness.

"Ya feel dat?" Mafioso grunts, pressing their hands into the large, protruding mass bulging right beneath his attacker's navel. "God—you're squeezing me s' fuckin' tight..."

Chance mouth slacks open, dick bouncing up and down, slapping eagerly against the pelvic bone of the person he's supposed to bring in for questioning.

Mafioso cares less and less about relishing in the moment, now jackhammering into Chance like he held some deep, personal grudge against him. He relishes in the way the hole tightens and unclenches around him like Chance is made for him alone, and he's sure of that. All perfect, pretty, and stupid just for him.

"My stomach... It's too much!" With a sudden burst of burning pleasure, Chance's voice rises in a shrilling scream, slicing through the tension in the air. His hand reaches out instinctively, fingers curling tightly around the man's powerful bicep, feeling the taut muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. The grip is both frantic and desperate, a silent plea.

"So cute when you cry f'me, keep doin' that I'm gonna cum inside." Embarrassed, Chance turns his head away, shaking it as the squelching sound and sight of his hole become so sloppy and incredibly messy.

Mafioso grips Chance's jaw, locking his fingers and forcing their gazes to mingle. "Open your eyes, sweetheart, keep lookin' at me,"

His fingers, calloused and rough against Chance's ashy skin, made their way down to his throat, latching down and squeezing. Chance whines, a sole curse leaking from his lips. Mafioso has every right to massacre him right there, cut off his airway, and toss him off to the side like some discarded fuck doll; there's no reason not to. But Chance swore through blurred vision that's the hottest Mafioso has looked all night.

He feels an unexplainable pull, a force he can't quite identify, urging him forward until their lips finally meet in a desperate embrace. The gun, once his only source of protection, slips from his grasp, hitting the floor with a jarring thud that echoes in the charged ambiance. Chance wraps his arms tightly around Mafioso, their bodies curving together as he kisses him fervently, pouring all of his longing into that moment. Their breaths intertwine, warm and ragged, as their tongues entwine passionately, igniting a fire between them that momentarily blots out the chaos surrounding them.

"'m gonna cum inside, can i cum inside?" Mafioso breathlessly begs between kisses, his thrusts upwards becoming sloppy and less controlled.

"Yes fuck...! I need you to fill me right now. I wanna see your cum dripping out of me," Both men were aware of their mutual whining, faces beaded with sweat as Chance's legs spasm beneath him.

"Shit, you are so perfect.. this holes so p—perfect." Mafioso's body is worn, rutting into the tight, spongy pit like he's nothing more than a fleshlight. His tip twitching inside before he came deep into Chance's sore intestines, making sure to push every ounce of his seed inside before pulling out.

Shortly after, Chance shrugs his jacket back on, the fabric sliding over his shoulders with a familiar weight. He stands tall as clear, milky liquid oozes from his raw hole.

Chance takes a moment to steady himself, his knees trembling beneath him, betraying the toll the recent encounter has taken on his body. His breath comes in shallow gasps as he tries to regain his composure.

Mafioso watches him with a bemused expression, the tension that once hung in the air dissipating now that the immediate threat of violence has passed. The gun that had once been pointed his way is no longer in sight, leaving him momentarily disoriented. There's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he processes the sudden shift in their dynamic, unsure of how to react to this newfound stillness.

"Change your mind?" Mafioso can't repress the scoff.

Chance glares as he fastens his buckle around his waist "don't get cocky, next time you won't be so lucky."