Club Night 1

I remained lying there for a single heartbeat, tasting the bitter leather on my tongue, and then pushed myself slowly forward on hands and knees, following the two women into the dim light of the room.

The heavy door to the hallway remained half open behind me. In the living room, only the large floor lamp beside the bookshelf was lit, its warm, muted glow casting long shadows across the rug. But the pungent, harsh scent of cleaning supplies and damp street leather suddenly receded into the background, displaced by a dense, heavy cloud of powdery fragrances, hairspray, and the intoxicating notes of expensive perfumes.

Within minutes, the coffee table resembled a battlefield of compact powders, makeup brushes, and slender perfume flacons.

"Up straight, John. And don't you dare wobble."

Nadja’s voice was offhand as she leaned forward on the edge of the sofa. I crawled right up to her knees, tucked my heels firmly beneath my backside, and straightened my upper body. With both hands, I took the heavy, silver-framed vanity mirror she held out to me, holding it at eye level with outstretched arms. After only a few seconds, my shoulders burned from the static strain; faint tremors ran through my forearms.

"Two centimeters higher," she commanded dryly, without taking her eyes from the glass.

I corrected the height at once.

Before me unfolded a sight that nearly shattered my composure. Nadja had taken off her coat and was wearing a backless, form-fitting top of black silk satin that covered barely more than absolutely necessary. Every breath lifted her ribcage; the slender straps dug paper-thin into her delicate shoulders. Her blonde hair fell over her back in heavy, glossy waves, and whenever she leaned a fraction closer to the mirror, the sweet warmth of her skin washed over me—vital, intoxicating, and unimaginably out of reach.

A little further to the left, in front of the floor lamp, Loona smoothed the hem of her outfit. She had chosen a dark grey mesh dress, semi-sheer, worn over nothing but simple black lingerie that mercilessly accentuated every curve of her hips and the arch of her back. She moved with that cool, self-evident eroticism that had driven me to distraction for months. Two immaculate, breathtaking women intoxicated by their own beauty, ready to plunge into the night and draw every eye—while I, naked, stiff, and mute at their feet, served as the pedestal for their makeup mirror.

In my pubic bone, the steel throbbed like a glowing branding iron.

The sheer proximity of those two bodies, the fragrance, the quiet rustle of silk against bare skin—my body desperately wanted to react, to surge in an instinctive wave of lust. Yet every millimeter of expansion collided violently with the unyielding walls of the cylinder. The steel bars bit mercilessly into the flesh, crushing every stir in its infancy and transmuting the flaring arousal into a dull, pounding pressure that brought tears to my eyes. My mind burned with fascination for their beauty, while my flesh suffocated in freezing metal.

"You're shaking again," Nadja remarked coolly. Holding the eyeliner in her right hand, she applied the fine tip to the outer corner of her eye with absolute precision. "If my hand slips, John, you're spending the rest of the weekend out in the hall on the tiles. Keep the mirror still."

"Yes… Mistress Nadja," I wheezed, clenching my teeth and tensing every muscle in my neck to keep the glass surface frozen in mid-air.

Loona stepped over, holding a glass of gin and tonic in which the ice cubes clinked softly. Her bare legs glided past within an inch of my shoulder. Leaning over Nadja, she inspected her makeup in the mirror and nodded approvingly.

"The wing is immaculate," Loona said casually. "It's dark in the club anyway. The main thing is that eyes linger."

"They will," Nadja replied with a self-assured, almost cruel smile as she capped the eyeliner. She reached for a dark cherry-red lipstick. "I'm in no mood to go home early tonight. Let's see who buys the first round at the bar."

"And who has the stamina," Loona added with a low laugh, taking a sip of her drink and letting her gaze drift casually down my bowed back toward the cylinder. An amused glint flickered across her features. "After all, we need someone who knows what he's doing. Not like our little medic here, who buckles at the slightest touch."

A chill brushed over my bare skin. The conversation flew over me, cutting like glass. To them, I did not exist as a man in that moment; I was a useful prop, the silent witness to their triumph as they prepared to be touched by the hands of strangers out in the city.

Nadja finished lining her lips, pressed them together, and appraised the result. Then she tilted her head slightly, looked at me directly over the top edge of the mirror, and let her fingers glide down to the undersides of my arms.

"Put the mirror away, John," she purred with a velvety, cutting voice. "Very carefully onto the table. And then onto your stomach. It's time we put you down for the night."

With trembling fingers, I placed the heavy glass mirror onto the clear corner of the table, right next to a powder brush. My breath came in ragged bursts; my shoulders burned with exhaustion.

"Putting the mirror down isn't quite all, John," Nadja noted offhandedly. She stood up, smoothed down the tight silk top, and picked up her drink. The heels of her boots clicked softly against the parquet as she circled the table and leaned against the arm of the chair next to Loona.

I remained motionless on my knees, head bowed, the cylinder resting like a glowing lump of steel between my thighs.

"Where are we heading first, anyway?" Nadja asked, taking a sip. Her eyes sparkled in the warm lamplight, full of anticipation for the night. "Watergate doesn't open until late, and the queue at Kater is always absurd by eleven."

Loona sipped her gin and tonic, the ice clinking faintly. She smiled, amused and nonchalant. "Let's do KitKat. Tonight is the night for it. I have no patience for bored tourists standing around looking stupid in the corner. If we're going out, let's do it properly."

Nadja let out a low laugh—a smoky, rich sound that sent a hot shiver down my neck. "KitKat? Bold choice with that outfit, Loona. That mesh dress leaves practically nothing to the imagination as it is. You won't be able to shake off the stares at the bar."

"Let them stare," Loona replied coolly. She let her gaze wander slowly over my crouching form, taking in my lowered head, pale skin, and the sealed cylinder. "As long as there's someone in the room who has more to offer than embarrassed silence and immediate surrender. Tonight, I want to see someone who knows how to handle a woman. Someone off the leash."

A sharp pang tore through my chest—sharper and more cutting than the metal against my pubic bone. They talked over me as though I were merely a piece of furniture, negotiating without shame whose arms they would spend the night in.

"Oh, you can bet on that," Nadja purred, tracing the rim of her glass with her index finger. "I certainly don't intend to go home alone tonight. There are plenty of guys out there dying to buy my drinks—and eager to make sure I don't forget their names by morning."

She tilted her head and shot me a mocking glance.

"Quite unlike our little student here, who starts whimpering after a few hours on the floorboards."

Loona set her glass down on the side table. The soft clinking broke my daze.

"Exactly. And that is precisely why he is staying right here tonight," she said with that businesslike hardness that brooked no argument. She studied me for another moment, then let her gaze drop to my hips. "Before you get locked down, though: into the bathroom with you. On your knees. Empty your bladder—sitting down, and God help you if you spill a single drop. No water on your face, no washing your hands. Just relieve yourself. I don't want to hear any whining tonight because you feel like you're about to burst."

"Yes, Loona," I forced out.

I turned around clumsily on all fours and crawled the short distance to the bathroom. Under her strict supervision—the door remained wide open—I relieved myself under the dull, restrictive pressure of the cylinder. The edges of the metal burned relentlessly, but my discipline held. Not a single drop of water touched my skin; the dried seal on my cheeks remained untouched.

When I crawled back into the living room, Loona was already waiting with a broad strip of soft black Velcro and two heavy leather straps with buckles.

"Onto your stomach, John. Dead center on the rug."

I sank from my knees, stretched my legs out behind me, and lay flat before the sofa. The cylinder pressed hard between my pubic bone and the floor, a rigid foreign body keeping me from lying completely flush. I turned my cheek to the side, feeling the rough wool fibers against the dried mask on my face, and stared at the women's ankles.

Loona crouched beside me. "Hands behind your back."

I crossed my wrists over the small of my back. The coarse Velcro band closed tightly around my joints, followed by the leather strap, its prong pulled through the very last hole. The click of the buckle cut through the silence. My arms were immovably pinned behind my back; any attempt to push myself up was snuffed out at the root. With the second strap, she cinched my ankles firmly together.

Nadja stepped forward. The fresh leather of her boots creaked softly with every step. She straddled me so that her heels rested to the left and right of my thighs, looking down from above.

"So he stays right here?" Nadja asked, her eyes glittering.

"Right in the middle of the room," Loona replied, tapping my cheek twice in a dry, dismissive gesture before stepping up beside Nadja. She smoothed her mesh dress over her hips and checked herself in the mirror.

"The rules for the night, John: You stay in this exact spot. No squirming, no calling out. The lights stay off. When we return, I expect to find you precisely as we left you."

Loona leaned down once more, her voice velvety, cool, and merciless:

"And prepare yourself to be exceptionally quiet later. It's very likely I'll be bringing someone home with me. And when I take him into my bedroom, I don't want to hear a single sound from you down here. You will lie here, mute, locked away, and simply listen to how a real man takes care of me."

A shudder ran through my entire body. The words struck me like a fist to the gut.

"Yes… Loona," I breathed, my voice thick and strangled.

Loona walked to the wall switch. With a distinct click, the floor lamp went out.

The room was instantly plunged into deep, suffocating blackness. Only the pale glow of the Berlin streetlamps cast a few dull stripes across the ceiling through the window.

I heard the click of heels on the hallway parquet. The opening of the apartment door. The muted laughter of the two women, brimming with anticipation for the club.

Then the door shut.

The deadbolt engaged with a hard, metallic snap.

Silence.

A complete, oppressive stillness settled over the apartment. Not a sound remained except my own shallow breathing in the dark. The cylinder dug mercilessly into my pelvis, the straps bit into my wrists and ankles, and my dried face pulled tight like a mask of stone.

They were gone. Out into the city, free, beautiful, and desired—while I lay on the floor like a forgotten piece of furniture, trapped in leather and metal, abandoned to the long hours of waiting and the spiraling thoughts of what morning would bring.