proud father

Sunday morning crept through the tall pre-war windows of the Steglitz apartment with unsparing brightness.

Every step across the parquet burned as a dull reminder in my flesh: the welts across my thighs smarted beneath the soft sweatpants, while the steel housing in front pressed unyieldingly against my perineum. In the kitchen, the coffee grinder hummed; I set the table with plates, silverware, fresh bread rolls, and orange juice, moving mechanically and soundlessly like a domestic servant in my own home.

Around half past nine, Timo shuffled into the kitchen. He was wearing a rumpled t-shirt and grey shorts, hair disheveled, but his eyes sparkled with undisguised energy.

"Morning, bro," he croaked, grinning from ear to ear as he clapped me boisterously on the shoulder. "God, you're a lifesaver. I've got a lethal hangover, but damn it… it was worth every second."

He dropped into one of the chairs, immediately reached for the coffee mug, and took a deep draught. There was no malice in his demeanor—Timo genuinely considered me his best friend, his loyal wingman. Yet it was precisely this clueless naturalness that lent his words a cutting edge.

"No joke, John," he began, shaking his head in disbelief as he leaned back with broad shoulders. "How you manage living here with two absolute bombshells without losing your mind is beyond me. Those two… man, that is a whole different league. With women like Loona, you simply have to deliver, you know? They demand everything. If you approach them with kid gloves or lose your head, they'll eat you alive."

He took a bite of a roll, studied me briefly, and laughed softly.

"You're just the intellectual type, John. The upright medic. And that's totally fine; everyone has their strengths. But in bed… bro, sheer assertiveness is all that counts. That's where you have to take the wheel and make it clear who calls the shots. I really gave it everything in there—and you probably heard Loona's screams all the way in your room."

I forced a faint nod, my hands buried deep inside the pockets of my hoodie. "Yeah. I heard."

At that moment, the kitchen door swung open. Loona and Nadja stepped inside, both freshly showered and draped in dark silk robes. Loona radiated complete, quiet contentment; her familiar vanilla scent instantly dispelled the stale morning air.

"Good morning, Timo," Loona purred, stepping behind his chair to stroke the back of his neck gently with both hands. Then her gaze drifted to me. It was crystal-clear, calm, and carried that familiar, possessive glint. "Good morning, John. How lovely of you to prepare the table so impeccably. You truly are a thoughtful host."

"He's a machine," Timo chimed in with a laugh, giving the tabletop another solid tap. "Thought of everything."

Nadja leaned against the counter with her arms folded. A subtle, mocking twitch played across her blood-red lips as she took in my rigid posture and the carefully concealed choker line at my neck. "Some men are simply built for the heavy lifting… and others shine behind the scenes in service. One has to know one's place."

Timo laughed innocently, entirely blind to the double meaning in her words.

Three-quarters of an hour later, he stood in the hallway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hugged Nadja first, then pulled Loona firmly against him and planted a lingering kiss on her cheek. Finally, he turned to me, gripped my upper arm tightly, and shook my hand.

"Thanks for the weekend, man," he said with genuine brotherly pride. "Best wingman in the world. I'll catch you soon; gotta head back to campus. Keep your head up!"

The front door clicked shut. The metallic latch of the bolt severed the deceptive facade of ordinary domestic life in an instant. Timo was on his way to the train station, Nadja heading back to Friedrichshain.

Sudden, dead silence settled over the Steglitz flat.

Loona turned slowly toward me. Every casual, social mask fell away from her features. Her dark eyes appraised me—not with coldness, but with that engaging, almost tender attentiveness that had cut off every avenue of escape for weeks.

"Come into the living room, John," she said softly. "Take off the shirt and sweatpants and sit with me on the sofa."

I obeyed without hesitation. When I sat down beside her on the cushions, clad only in the rigid surgical-steel cage and stay-up stockings, the cool room air washed over my bare skin. Loona reached for a tube of rich restorative balm and unscrewed the cap.

"Turn around," she instructed quietly. "Back to me."

I felt the coolness of the ointment as she smoothed it over my shoulders and down along my spine. Her hands were warm, her movements measured and careful. With circular strokes, she worked the tension from my neck, massaged the accumulated strain of recent days out of my shoulder blades, and glided slowly lower to the reddened welts across my hips and thighs. She blew gently against the stinging marks, cool and comforting.

"Tell me about it, John," she whispered behind my head, her thumbs tracing across my skin. "How was the weekend for you? Tell me how it felt. I want to hear your words."

A shudder ran through my frame. The balm soothed the fire on my skin, yet the memories surged back with crushing weight. Staring down at my hands in my lap, I spoke in a cracked voice:

"It was… absolute hell, Loona," I confessed, every syllable requiring an act of will. "The club out there… that relentless bass vibrating right through the cylinder and the plug while Timo danced with Nadja right before my eyes. And then back here in the flat. Crouching in the kitchen last night listening to the two of you… and later lying on the bed across the hall while Nadja used me and you were screaming for Timo in the next room. It tore me apart inside. I lay there, completely defenseless, locked in steel, my entire body burning with shame and arousal without the slightest release. I have never felt so completely unmanned… and at the same time, never so alive."

Loona paused briefly in her motion. Her hands slid forward along my flanks, coming to rest gently against my chest, easing me back until my head rested against her soft shoulder. The sweet vanilla fragrance of her robe enveloped me entirely.

"You see, little one," she breathed softly into my ear, trailing her fingertips across my cheek. "That is precisely what you wanted. Do you still remember the list you gave me back then? All your secret desires and fantasies that you never dared to utter aloud? That exact point was right at the top: being forced to watch other men take what remains forbidden to you; feeling your own masculinity slip away while a woman assumes total control. I am fulfilling all of it for you, step by step. Just look how attentive I am to you."

She scratched the nape of my neck, cool and soothing.

"Timo is a good lad," she continued softly, one hand drifting down toward the struts of the cage, testing and offhand. "And he really fucks me well. Hard, demanding… he fills me completely. Far better than you ever could have. Especially now—just look at it. After weeks in steel, your little cock has grown even tinier, practically atrophied. You couldn't offer anything to a woman like me anymore."

I closed my eyes and leaned deeper into her embrace as tears of relief and total surrender dampened my cheeks.

"But do you know what, John?" she murmured, turning my face toward hers to meet my eyes with a sincere smile. "You proved something yesterday. You've actually become remarkably skilled with your tongue. Truly. You are attentive, you endure… better than quite a few women I've shared a bed with in the past. That is your talent. You aren't an operator like Timo. You are my delicate little servant, laying the world at my feet with his mouth. And for that, I love you."

She pressed a soft kiss to my forehead, brushed the hair from my face, and tapped my cheek lightly.

"And now go freshen up," she said, rising to her feet. "I've enabled the Kidslox prompt for your log. Send me the photo of the intact lock, clean the flat until it's spotless, and put on a clean shirt. Richard returns from his conference this evening, and we are all having dinner together in Schöneberg. We wouldn't want to disappoint him, would we?"

On Sunday evening, the grand Schöneberg apartment welcomed us with aristocratic composure. High ornate molding, heavy oak furniture, and the familiar scent of expensive beeswax and red wine.

At the long dining table sat Richard, my father. Dressed in a tailored blazer, sipping his Bordeaux, he appeared thoroughly relaxed following the successful presentations of the weekend. Beside him sat Vanessa, cool and immaculate in a dark sheath dress, her ice-blue eyes dissecting my every movement with millimeter precision. Arissa poured water soundlessly in the background, her lips betraying a faint, mocking twitch as she noted my guarded gait.

I sat upright on the firm dining chair. Beneath the dark pleated trousers and stay-up stockings, the cage ground into my perineum with every shift in posture, the velvet choker pulling taut beneath my buttoned collar.

"Richard, I must say, your son has developed phenomenally over recent weeks," my father remarked, cutting into his tenderloin. He looked at me with genuine pride. "The evaluations from the Charité are spotless. You've shed that nervous restlessness entirely, John. You appear disciplined, composed, almost ascetically focused. That maturity will serve you immeasurably during your clinical rotations."

"Thank you very much, Father," I replied in a quiet, measured tone, keeping my eyes respectfully lowered. "I strive to meet expectations."

Loona took a sip from her wine glass, leaned back, and traded a loaded glance with Vanessa.

"He truly makes a tremendous effort, Richard," Vanessa corroborated with velvety, aristocratic chill. "At home as well. John is finally learning to submit and fulfill his responsibilities without complaint. One can tell he appreciates a firm hand."

"Precisely," Richard chuckled warmly, entirely blind to the cruel web woven around him and me alike. "Order and obedience are the bedrock of any competent clinician. I am proud of you, my boy."

Underneath the table, the heel of Loona's pump slid forward, grinding against the steel housing between my thighs with deliberate, dragging force. A searing jolt of pain lanced through my pelvis. Catching my breath, I forced my expression into a flawless, dutiful smile and thanked my father once more, while the padlock at my pubic bone remained cold and concealed in the dark.