It was not the mini-skirt mafia he was familiar with in the painting but real Mafioso—scary, intimidating types in sharp, dark suits, crisp white shirts, and sleek black ties. One of them even had a fedora tilted just right, like he'd stepped out of an old gangster film.
He stepped back—and promptly toppled over. Flat on his back, he stared at the ceiling, blinking. Then, slowly, his eyes scanned the lavish room around him.
Is this... is this house built on mafia blood money?!
A cold sweat formed. He was worried—mortified, even. He'd just rubbed his junk in front of a photo of terrifying Mafioso. Real ones. The kind with crisp suits, dead eyes, and probably a body count higher than Chad's female body count.
His head snapped around, scanning the corners. Were there security cameras?! What if they had seen him messing with his dongle in front of their sacred mafia shrine? What if they dragged him into some back room and chopped off his fingers?!
It'd be impossible to jerk off properly with a missing finger.
He'd have to start learning how to use his left hand to jerk off—urgh, that would suck, he thought.
But why… why did the caption say "Mini-Skirt Mafia"? He understood why Bibi and Vee were part of it—they always wore those innocent, sexy mini-skirts that caught everyone's eye. But these… these men were something else entirely. Men. Cold, ruthless Mafiosos—predators cloaked in menace, radiating brutal power and a violent, unforgiving intent. They belonged to a world far darker than any fashion statement.
Then, suddenly, he spotted something in the photo that had escaped his notice before.
Every single one of these terrifying gangsters was wearing a mini skirt!
One had smooth, shaved legs—almost porcelain—with a faint scar hinting at hidden danger.
Another's legs were a hairy jungle, wild dark hair twisting over thick muscle and bulging veins.
There were patchy, uneven stubble legs, marked with bruises and faded tattoos—halfway between cared-for and neglected.
Chad couldn't help but laugh at these so-called tough guys wearing skirts! "Even I could take these clowns down," he chuckled. Even my waifu could beat them up, he thought—and she was just a pillow, with no limbs to throw a single punch.
He remembered some old movie where somebody shoved a pillow right into another guy's face while he was sleeping. If someone tried that on him—with his waifu pillow—he'd be so fucking turned on.
But seriously, look at these guys... Chad stared at the photo of them again, stiff and awkward in tight pleated mini skirts with plaid patterns—trying way too hard to look hardcore.
Okay, enough staring at the portraits and photos—it was time to find the sisters and get things really moving. And by moving, he meant his thrusting. No longer afraid of this blood-money mansion, he stepped forward and spotted a notice pinned before the corridor: "Remove your socks before proceeding."
If this was Slenderman—or, like, a video game—he only had, like, six notes to find.
Odd, he said to himself. He understood taking his shoes off before entering a home, but now he had to take off his socks? Was this a dojo or something?
Taking off his socks felt like removing two weapons—his beloved socks, stiff with dried cum, practically deadly when kicked into someone's face. But sometimes, he ripped his trousers doing high kicks, and since he rarely wore underwear, it left his dongle out for all the horny girls to ogle at.
He started trying to peel off his socks, knowing this would trigger the next event—and then it'd just cut to the next scene or whatever once this action was completed.
Wow… these socks were so stiff, it felt like they'd been soaked in glue and nailed to his skin. It took forever to peel them off, like ripping hair from his ankles—plus maybe a bit of skin for good measure. Is this what leg waxing feels like? Because, ouch!
As soon as he slipped off his socks, he found himself in a completely different part of the Mini-skirt Mafia home.
Where am I now? Some kind of narrow side hall—definitely not the place he'd been before. Where had all the photos gone? And what about that weird sign telling me to take off my socks?
I really hope this isn't Corpse Party or something—where you get wrapped all over the place and moved around without warning. I better watch my bare feet carefully... who knows if there's broken glass or some other nasty surprise on the floor?
The next saw another sign that read, "Please remove all upper-body clothing—shirts, tops, hoodies, jackets, bras, crop tops—before processing."
Alright, let's get this over with—I want my dick sucked and my waifu on boobies. Without a hint of hesitation… or any unnecessary detours into masturbation, Chad yanked off his top and pressed on.
He still had no clue where he'd ended up—each step deeper into the Mini-skirt Mafia home felt like slipping further into some absurd fever dream. Then he spotted another sign, taped crookedly to the wall with pink glittery duct tape, saying, "Please remove all piercings, jewellery, and any visible nose hairs before proceeding. Yes, we're serious."
Chad blinked. Nose hairs? What kind of process was this? Were they worried Bobobo-bo Bo-bobo-like maniac would burst in and weaponise his nose hairs against them? What a ridiculous demand, he thought, as he began plucking his nose hairs with his poorly washed fingernails—still crusted with yesterday's fast food.
He yanked out every last hair and flicked them casually to the floor, unsure where else to put them. As he plucked, his nostrils caught the full, foul stench of grime and old fast food trapped beneath his fingernails. Suddenly, a sneeze exploded from him—immediately followed by an unfortunate fart. The sneeze left one eye red and watery, but whatever—no nose hairs left. That was sufficient, he figured.
Onwards to the next location...