air draft

Tuesday began with the shrill blare of my alarm and the pitiless reminder of my reality. On my knees before the bathroom mirror right on time, smartphone trembling in both hands, I took the verification photograph for *Kidslox*. The lens captured the smooth, shaved skin, the unyielding surgical steel, and the intact miniature padlock at my throat.

*“Ring intact, no chafing, obedience maintained.”*

The green checkmark appeared, yet no sense of relief followed. The turtleneck sweater I pulled on to completely conceal the velvet choker was far too warm for the mild temperatures outside.

At the Charité, every step through the lecture hall became an agonizing test of mental endurance. While the lecturer projected cross-sectional diagnostic scans at the front, I sat with my knees clamped rigidly together. The hard fold-down seat pressed the edges of the base ring directly into the still-irritated skin of the perineum.

“You’re awfully fidgety today, John,” Mira whispered beside me, pushing her pen aside. She leaned in closer to glance at my blank notepad. In doing so, her shoulder brushed my arm, and her gaze immediately locked onto my neck. “Tell me… aren't you sweltering in that thick knit? It feels like twenty-five degrees in here.”

Before I could react, she casually reached out a hand to tug the snug collar of my sweater down slightly.

Adrenaline surged into my veins with such violence that my pulse hammered against my temples. I jerked my upper body backward, slamming hard against the backrest, and in the process banged my knees so violently against the edge of the desk that the metal between my legs struck audibly against the underside of the bench. A dull, metallic clonk echoed down our row.

Two students in front of us turned around, visibly annoyed.

“What on earth has gotten into you?” Mira asked, her eyes wide with total bewilderment as she pulled her hand back.

“I… I caught a draft,” I stammered in a hoarse voice, clamping both hands defensively over my neck. “My neck is completely inflamed and stiff. It hurts like hell if anyone touches it.”

Mira studied me for a long moment, her expression a blend of skepticism and genuine concern. “You look terribly pale. And you smell like that strange cream again.”

“Dermatological ointment,” I repeated mechanically, curling my hands into tight fists to hide my polished nails from her view. “For the irritation.”

The subsequent study session in the department library proved scarcely more relaxing. We sat at one of the large tables in the reading room, surrounded by heavy anatomy volumes. Mira repeatedly leaned far over the handouts, pointing out vascular pathways and demanding answers. Every attempt I made to adjust my posture to ease the pressure of the cylinder caused the leather of my shoes to squeak against the floor.

“We need the ultrasound sequence down cold by Friday,” she urged in an undertone, tapping vigorously on a diagram of the upper abdomen. “The examiner won’t grant us an extra second during Friday's sonography practical. When we scan each other and I have to palpate your abdomen, I expect you to lie still on the examination table and call out the anatomical landmarks. None of that fidgeting like back in the lecture hall.”

The realization that on Friday she would guide her transducer across my lower abdomen and inevitably press her thumb close to the waistband of my trousers made my throat run completely dry. While I still had a three-day reprieve until then, the mere prospect of that examination tightened my stomach into a knot.

“Yes. Of course. It will be solid by Friday,” I managed to get out with effort.

To escape the pressure, I headed to the university sports center late that afternoon. Yet the workout was an absolute disaster: every revolution of the ergometer pedals forced the edges of the ring to grind against the raw laser burns. In the locker room, I waited on the bench for a full twenty minutes, pretending to scroll through my smartphone until the other students finally filed out toward the showers. Only once the room had emptied did I change under the cover of a locked toilet stall—hounded by the panicked fear that someone might glimpse the metal struts of the cage or the choker.

Wednesday morning was devoted to chores around the apartment. I scrubbed the bathroom tiles, vacuumed the rugs, and polished the kitchen counters. With every bend of the knees, with every reach toward the upper cabinets, the steel pulled unyieldingly against my flesh.

Around 3:30 PM, I sat down at my desk and logged into Discord.

Instantly, Timo’s voice boomed through the headset: “There you are, bro! I’ve got exactly forty-five minutes before I have to hit the lecture slides again. Jump into the lobby!”

The familiar clicking of my mouse and the laughter of my best friend served as the only anchor to a normality that had long since slipped away from me. For forty minutes, I fired at virtual targets, provided cover, and pretended to be the carefree companion from next door. Timo suspected nothing. To him, I was the dependable flatmate who restocked the fridge on the weekend.

“I’m standing on your doorstep Friday morning, man!” he called out just before the match wrapped up. “Let’s hit the town properly that evening. It’s been far too long since you told me about your girls.”

“Sure… let’s do that, Timo,” I managed to say with effort.

Once I disconnected, absolute silence fell over the apartment. Seconds later came the familiar, quiet scrape of heels across the floorboards.

The door was pushed open. Loona stood in the frame, one hand resting on her hip, her gaze cold, detached, and entirely imperious.

“Enough playing games, John,” she said softly, pinning me with her eyes. “It is five o'clock. Come through to my room. We have preparations to make for tomorrow.”

I stood up without a word and followed her down the corridor. In her room, the matte-black case lay on the bed, flanked by a tailor's tape measure and the glass bottle of lily lotion.

Loona turned to me, pointing an index finger at the floor before her feet.

“Trousers down, John. On your knees. Starting tomorrow morning, you will not simply wear these items—tonight you will learn how to carry yourself in them without your little fellow student at the Charité growing immediately suspicious.”

I lowered myself slowly onto the floorboards before her bed. Every muscle protested the stance, yet the conditioning of compliance took hold immediately. With unsteady fingers, I unfastened the button of my jeans, drew down the zipper, and shoved the heavy denim along with my boxer shorts down past my knees.

The chill of the room struck the bare, lasered skin of my thighs like a mild shock. The surgical steel pulled at the sensitive perineal folds, while the M10 thread on the front cap caught the dull glow of the desk lamp.

Loona leaned forward, resting her elbows casually on her thighs, regarding me with a look that made me shrink by the second. An amused smile played at the corners of her lips.

“Look at me, John,” she instructed in a velvety tone. Reaching into the matte-black case, she drew out the sheer nylon, letting the gossamer weave glide slowly through her fingers. “Trembling already, are we? Is tomorrow already running through your head?”

The mere mention made my pulse throb in my throat. My imagination had been running wild for hours: the smell of disinfectant at the Charité, the crowded lecture hall, and that persistent, panicked image of the lab coat shifting or the fine weave rustling beneath my trousers at the slightest pivot. I could already picture myself freezing before my peers—exposed the moment someone brushed against the lace border or discovered the cold padlock at my neck.

Loona tilted her head slightly, as if she could read every one of those images off my forehead without effort.

“Do you honestly believe I care what some petty student or your mates at the Charité think of you?” she purred with pure condescension. Leaning in further, she trailed the edge of her fingernails mockingly across my cheek. “They can whisper until they run out of breath for all I care. But I see exactly how it works on you. You're driving yourself entirely mad right now, aren't you?”

A faint, throaty chuckle escaped her lips.

“You imagine yourself sitting in the lecture hall. How the silicone band clings to your shaved thighs with every breath. You picture Mira studying you, reaching for your neck again—and how the blood freezes in your veins because you know you are utterly defenseless. You are terrified of being found out, and at the exact same time… that very disgrace makes you feverishly on edge, doesn't it, little one?”

The shame burned hotter across my temples than the fresh welts from the crop. She saw straight through to my core. The prospect of walking the corridors of the institute outfitted like this was pure horror—yet her derisive display provoked a paralyzing, stifling arousal in my mind that immediately strained against the unyielding contours of the steel.

“Put the stockings on. Both of them. Pull them all the way up. I want to see how you feel for tomorrow.”

With clammy hands, I took the black mesh. The fabric slid smoothly over my ankles, drew taut across my calves, and hugged tightly against my thighs. The cool silicone band adhered firmly just below the groin. Once the lace top was seated flush, it framed the cold cylinder and the massive base ring like a grotesque display piece.

“Shirt off,” she commanded curtly.

I pulled the garment away. Loona stepped before me, opened the strapless lace bustier, and wrapped the elastic band around my ribcage. The hooks caught with soft clicks along my back. The fabric pulled tight over my bare ribs, brushing against the hairless skin and chafing with every unsteady breath.

Stepping back a pace, she folded her arms across her chest and let her gaze drift with agonizing slowness over my frame.

“Look at yourself,” she mocked softly. “A prospective physician, packaged in silk and lace. And that is precisely how you will walk the clinic tomorrow. With every ward round, with every flight of stairs, you will feel the stockings pull at your thighs. You will despise every inch of fabric—and you will not be able to forget for a single second who reduced you to this.”

Reaching out with two fingers, she took hold of the padlock on my velvet choker, turned it slowly on its axis, and used gentle pressure to force me to meet her eyes directly.

“And once you have endured that, Vanessa will be waiting at the south exit. Then you will shed the doctor's coat and perform your function in Schöneberg. Do you believe you can manage that, John, or will your fragile pride collapse during the very first lecture?”

“I… I will obey, Loona,” I managed to get out, my throat constricted tight.

“I should hope so,” she whispered, letting the lock fall back against my collarbone with a faint clink before patting my cheek twice with condescension. “Now: take them off. Fold them neatly. Back into your case. Tomorrow morning at six, I want to see the report on *Kidslox*.”