Visiting Mira 1

The days leading up to Friday had drifted past me as if caught in a silent haze.

At the Charité, the dynamic between us had settled into an unsettling, effortless rhythm: Mira remained my academic colleague, brilliant and precise in every case discussion, yet every glance over the rim of her rimless glasses carried an unspoken secret. Beneath the lecture hall benches, her smooth leather boot brushed idly along my shin, while her scribbles in the margins of my notes were invariably peppered with tiny, commanding notes. Back home in Steglitz, Loona kept the reins pulled taut. Slipping was out of the question; every household chore had to be executed without flaw, while the seamless surgical-steel micro-casing kept my flesh locked down without interruption. The flogger's welts across my back and buttocks had faded into dull, pale-pink shadows, yet the memory of Mira's hand burned indelible into every fiber of my nervous system.

On Friday morning, the alarm tore me from restless dreams at six o'clock sharp.

The Berlin autumn chill crept up the panes of the old building, a grey morning haze settling over the rooftops of Steglitz. As I swung my legs out of bed, the steel cylinder bumped hard against my pubic bone. My body was entirely accustomed to moving within the rigid boundaries of the metal, yet today my heart was running on a frantic, fluttering baseline rhythm from the very first second.

Today was the day.

After the final seminars in the afternoon, I was to head straight to Schöneberg—to Mira's flat. The evening together, the three of us, with her and Loona, before Saturday's surreal, classic date would follow—an upcoming reality that had been consuming my thoughts for days.

Stepping into the bathroom, I clicked on the warm vanity light above the mirror and slipped off my sleep shirt. In the glass, the lines of my torso stood out sharp: neck bare, the skin across my chest and shoulders quiet, yet along my left flank, the fineline tattoo—the inverted triangle with the Venus symbol (∇ + ♀)—sat deep black, fully healed, and permanent upon my pelvic bone. Directly beside it rested the matte base ring of surgical steel, seamlessly joined to the micro-casing whose tiny internal pin at the base permitted not a millimeter of play.

As I stepped under the hot shower, letting the water drum against my skin, my mind drifted to the dynamic awaiting me tonight. Mira and Loona had spent the entire week pulling strings in the background, texting and planning, with me standing dead center in their quiet arrangements.

When I entered the kitchen wrapped in my robe, Loona was already by the coffee machine. She wore a black silk kimono robe over her lingerie; her long dark hair was gathered loosely with a claw clip, a few stray locks framing her bare, cool features.

She did not turn around immediately as I walked in, but she registered my cautious pause on the threshold.

"Come inside, John," she said evenly, filling two mugs with black coffee.

Stepping forward, I lowered my head and stopped half a pace behind her. "Good morning, Loona."

Setting a mug down on the counter, she turned and leaned her back against the kitchen cabinets. Her piercing green eyes surveyed me from head to foot. She needed no words to register the tension wound tight in my shoulders.

"You are up early," she remarked with a faint, casual smirk. Reaching out, she slipped two fingers under my chin, lifting my gaze to meet hers. "Sleep poorly? Or is that little head of yours spinning again?"

"I… was thinking," I admitted softly, unable to pull away from her searching eyes. "About tonight."

Loona's smile deepened, sustained by that unshakeable, poised superiority that tightened my throat every single time. Her fingers drifted down from my chin, tracing across my throat, coming to rest precisely over the jugular notch where the velvet choker usually sat.

"Mira texted me late last night," she murmured. "She is looking forward to this evening. She has everything prepared in Schöneberg. You will get through your lectures with sharp focus today, John. No daydreaming, no slips during the case studies. You function up to the very last minute."

She took half a step closer. Her free hand caught the belt of my robe, pushing the soft cloth aside, settling flat against my lower abdomen. Her fingertips explored downward until they met the ice-cold metal of the micro-casing. Cupping the cylinder with light, demanding pressure, she tugged it down a fraction. The sudden jolt struck like an electric current through my loins; a strangled gasp caught in my throat.

"And at five o'clock, you retrieve your bag from your locker," she whispered, her eyes flashing dark. "We meet directly at her front door in Schöneberg. Tonight, John, she and I decide together how much of you remains intact before she takes you out tomorrow."

Releasing the metal, she gave my cheek a light, smooth tap with her open palm and handed me the coffee mug.

"Finish your coffee, get dressed. Your lab coat is waiting."

The walk across Campus Mitte felt like wading through dense fog. The wet November wind whistled between the red-brick heritage buildings and the concrete ward tower, while my hands remained buried deep in my coat pockets. Beneath the heavy wool trousers and the high-collared shirt, every stride served as a reminder of the cold cylinder secured between my thighs.

In the seminar room for clinical pharmacology, Mira was already settled into her regular seat in the second row. Beneath her unbuttoned lab coat she wore an understated white silk blouse, her hair secured neatly with a tortoiseshell clip, the rimless glasses perched on her nose. Beside her laptop, her thermos was steaming with her usual tea. She looked the absolute picture of the ambitious straight-A student whose world revolved entirely around half-lives, cytochrome P450 enzymes, and bioavailability.

Yet as I slid into the wooden chair beside her, the hard seat pressing a dull ache into my still-tender glutes, she lifted her head.

Her dark eyes locked with mine. For a split second, that warm, mischievous glint flashed across her face, driving the blood straight into my cheeks.

"Morning, colleague," she said in her clear, clinical university voice, her hand sliding smoothly across the desk to push a freshly poured cup of coffee toward me. "I already corrected your cardiology sheet from yesterday. Zero errors. Your focus this week has been remarkable."

"Thank you, Mira," I managed to say, wrapping my fingers around the paper cup to steady their trembling.

She leaned in slightly, ostensibly to turn a page in her syllabus. Yet her shoulder grazed mine, and her lips drew so close to my ear that her warm breath brushed my temple.

"Loona texted me that you were particularly high-strung this morning," she breathed, keeping her voice so low that the student two seats down could catch nothing. "No need to be frightened, John. I don't bite… unless you ask me to."

A shiver lanced down to the tips of my toes. Beneath the bench, I already caught the familiar creak: the tip of her dark-brown smooth leather boot slid forward with millimeter precision, coming to rest against my shin with that steady, uncompromising pressure that had accompanied me all week.

When the final lecture concluded at two in the afternoon, Mira packed her bag with brisk efficiency. She was leaving early to head down to Schöneberg, run errands, and prepare her apartment for the evening.

"I'm off then," she had whispered as a parting remark, favoring me with one last searching look over the rim of her glasses. "You stay in the library for another two and a half hours working through the pharmacokinetics cases. No slacking off. Five sharp at the front door."

And so I spent the remainder of the afternoon alone in the quiet reading room of the Charité—hunched over textbooks, the throbbing of the steel casing between my legs setting a relentless pace, while my thoughts circled incessantly around what lay in store at five o'clock.

At half past four on the dot, the heavy doors of the library clicked shut behind me. In the locker room, I shed the lab coat, stowed my textbooks and stethoscope inside my satchel, and pulled on my dark wool coat. The lock at my throat remained hidden, the micro-casing locked down firm and immovable.

The U-Bahn ride to Schöneberg seemed to drag on indefinitely. At Kleistpark station, I climbed up into the cold, damp twilight, coming to a halt before a grand pre-war building with an ornate stucco facade.

Leaning in the dim shadows of the entrance archway was a slender figure.

Loona.

She wore a tailored, pitch-black leather trench that hugged her waist, dark fabrics beneath, and knee-high lace-up boots on slender heels. Her long dark hair hung straight over her shoulders, her piercing green eyes locking onto me the second my footsteps sounded on the pavement.

"Punctual to the minute, John," she said calmly, pushing off from the masonry. Stepping close, she scanned my face and rested her cool hand on the nape of my neck. Her fingertips felt through the collar of my coat for the lock resting at my jugular notch, applying a brief, firm press. "No incidents at the Charité?"

"No, Loona," I answered, my voice thick. "All quiet."

"Very good." Withdrawing her hand, she turned toward the intercom panel, pressing her finger to the brass plate reading *Lindner*.

A brief buzz, followed by the click of the latch.

We stepped into the sweeping, wood-paneled stairwell, ascending the flights to the third floor. Loona led the way, her leather rustling softly with every movement. I followed half a pace behind, keeping my eyes obediently fixed on her heels.

Upstairs, the apartment door already stood ajar. Warm amber lighting and the fragrance of fresh jasmine tea, mingled with notes of beeswax and heavy leather, drifted into the corridor.

"Come on in," Mira's voice drifted from within.

Loona pushed the door open and crossed the threshold. Following behind her, I froze dead in my tracks the moment I stepped into the hallway.

The flat was framed by soaring stuccoed ceilings, herringbone parquet, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with medical reference volumes. Yet what completely took my breath away was Mira herself.

She stood at the entrance to the spacious living room. The white coat and the neat bun from the lecture hall were gone. Her dark waves tumbled loose and soft around her shoulders. She wore a fitted black silk blouse with the top buttons casually undone, paired with sleek trousers of matte smooth leather—and on her feet gleamed the familiar dark-brown boots with the silver buckles. In her right hand, she held two crystal tumblers containing amber whisky.

"Good evening, Loona," Mira greeted her with a radiant, confident smile, offering one of the glasses to my stepsister. "Glad you made it."

Loona took the tumbler, brought it to her lips, and measured Mira with a narrow, appraising look. Her eyes drifted casually across the room before settling on Mira's leather trousers and heavy boots.

"You dressed for the occasion," Loona observed dryly, devoid of any conventional social pleasantries. She took a slow sip. "He has been wound up all week. I trust you did not go too easy on him."

"Not for a second," Mira replied smoothly, a faint, predatory smile touching her lips. "In the library, he did precisely what he was told."

Then her eyes drifted slowly down from Loona to me.

The smile on her face did not waver, yet in her dark eyes flared that hungry, commanding spark I had both dreaded and craved since KitKatClub. She took a step toward me. The leather of her boots creaked softly against the parquet as she came to a halt directly before me.

"And there is our star student," she murmured with velvety warmth, lifting her free hand to settle her cool fingertips against my cheek. Her thumb traced over my lower lip with deliberate pressure—the exact spot she had kissed in the library four days ago. "Did you leave your manners behind at the Charité, John? Or do you still recall proper protocol when entering a home?"

"On your knees, John," Loona commanded from behind me with cool, detached authority. "Coat and shoes off. And then greet your host as she deserves."

My coat and shoes were set silently onto the bench in the foyer. My knees met the cool herringbone parquet on instinct. Bowing my upper body low, I laid my forehead against the supple, balm-scented leather of Mira's right boot, pressing my lips firmly against the silver buckle at her ankle.

"Good evening, Mira… thank you for having me," I whispered hoarsely against the leather.

A quiet, approving sigh slipped from Mira. She did not withdraw her foot, but shifted her weight marginally, increasing the pressure against my brow. Her fingers threaded into my hair, tugging gently at the roots, guiding my chin upward.

"Very good boy, John," she murmured, her eyes dark beneath the living room lighting. "Strip. Completely. And fetch us some refreshments from the kitchen."

Under the warm glow of the pre-war apartment, the last fabric fell away. The lock at my throat was laid bare; on my left flank, the nabla and Venus symbol (∇ + ♀) stood out starkly against the bone, while the steel micro-casing gave off a dull sheen between my thighs. Naked, vulnerable, moving on the balls of my feet, I slipped into the kitchen, topped up the tumblers with fresh ice, and balanced the tray on my knees as I returned to the living room.

Loona and Mira were seated across from one another in two deep wingback armchairs upholstered in dark-green velvet. Between them, a broad scented candle burned on a low side table. Loona had draped her leather coat over the chair back; wearing a form-fitting black knit dress, she sat with her legs crossed, the slender point of her heel aimed straight at me.

"Set it down. And sit on the floor between us, John," Loona instructed.

Setting the tray aside, I eased down onto the rug between the two armchairs, drawing my knees up. Mira lifted her right foot without missing a beat, resting the heavy sole of her leather boot across my left thigh, while Loona settled her heel over my right ankle. I was their living footstool, pinned fast between the two women who commanded my entire existence.

Mira picked up her glass, her eyes scanning my locked flesh with that searching, clinical assessment, before taking a sip of the whisky.

"He is in remarkable shape, Loona," Mira noted evenly. "At the Charité, he ran like clockwork all week. Not a single slip during the case presentations. Yet you can tell how the pressure is eating away at him from within."

"Of course it is," Loona countered with a cool, faint smile. Her green eyes wandered from Mira's face down to my hairless, steel-bound groin. "He was granted a release on Sunday so he would remain receptive to you. But he understands perfectly well that he must not grow accustomed to that state. Control functions only when he grasps just how replaceable his own manhood truly is."

Mira tilted her head with curiosity, slowly trailing the toe of her boot up my thigh until the leather bumped against the edge of the casing. "What do you mean by that?"

A low, amused laugh escaped Loona. Leaning back in the velvet armchair, she looked Mira directly in the eye.

"Have you never wondered why John yields to this steel so completely without resistance, Mira? Why he does not merely endure this status, but begs for it deep down?"

Mira's brows lifted behind her rimless glasses. "I assumed it was his disposition. The strain of medical school, the desire to surrender control."

"That is only half the picture," Loona said quietly, each word falling like a scalpel across the room. "You have certainly heard of Timo, haven't you? John's best friend since childhood. They have known each other practically their entire lives."