around two for coffee

The trek from the hallway into the kitchen felt like walking across shattered glass. My knees still trembled from holding the rigid posture on the rug, the heavy cylinder swung sluggishly between my thighs with every stride, and my lips still burned with the taste of the preceding minutes—salty, slick, and inextricably knotted with my own disgrace.

The kitchen smelled of freshly brewed filter coffee. Nadja sat at the wooden table, legs crossed in a silky morning robe, cradling a steaming mug in both hands. As we entered, she lifted her gaze slowly. Her sea-blue eyes traveled with amused mockery over my wet face, the heavy steel cage, and the way I braced myself unsteadily against the wall.

"Look who's back," she noted dryly, taking a sip and setting the mug down on the saucer with a delicate clink. "So, how does Sunday morning taste?"

I remained silent, my eyes glued to the floorboards.

Loona filled a tall glass with cold tap water and pressed it into my clammy hand. Condensation misted the glass immediately.

"Drink," she said with that calm, matter-of-fact care that disarmed me anew every single time. "Don't gulp it. Slowly."

The cold water ran down my parched throat like a lifeline. It rinsed away the bitter aftertaste, cooled the searing sensation in my chest, and restored the briefest illusion of control.

"And now make yourself useful," Loona continued, taking the empty chair beside Nadja and helping herself to a slice of bread. "Bread basket on the table, butter, the jam from the fridge. You know how we like it."

Setting the empty glass down, I moved mechanically between the refrigerator and the table. Naked, bearing the cold cylinder before me, I laid out breakfast for the two women who held my life in their hands. They spoke in hushed tones about a track the DJ had played at KitKat around four in the morning, laughed about an encounter at the coat check, and had me top up their coffee as if my presence were no more notable than the hum of the toaster.

Just as I set the butter dish down, a shrill, insistent vibration buzzed through the room.

Over on the counter, Loona's smartphone danced across the pale timber. The display flared bright. A name flashed in bold letters: **Mom**.

Conversation at the table died instantly. Nadja froze with her coffee mug halfway to her lips; Loona's features tightened with the precision of a snapping clockwork mechanism. The languid, decadent haze of the club night evaporated in the blink of an eye, replaced by a razor-sharp, cool composure.

Reaching for the phone, she swiped the screen and brought it to her ear.

"Good morning, Mom," she said, her voice suddenly pristine—bright, well-mannered, brimming with familial warmth.

A muffled, rapid stream of speech came through the receiver: the unmistakably brisk, melodious cadence of Vanessa.

"What? Today already?" Loona asked, her eyes drifting slowly toward me, fixing on my pale form with ice-cold calculation. "I thought your conference ran until this evening… Ah, let out early… Yes, of course that works. We're already awake anyway. John is in his room studying for his board exams… Around two for coffee? Perfect. We're looking forward to seeing you. See you soon."

She hung up. The screen went dark.

For five seconds, a silence hung over the kitchen so profound that the ticking of the wall clock sounded like hammer blows.

"Four hours," Loona said quietly, her tone shifting back to that of the unrelenting director. "She's on her way back and will be at the door by two. And she expects an immaculate pre-war Berlin apartment, her well-bred daughter, and her diligent stepson."

Nadja let out a low, amused scoff. "That's going to be tight. I'll clear out to my place before the picture-perfect family drama unfolds."

"You'll help me tidy up first," Loona countered briskly. Then she turned to me, catching my chin and forcing my head up. Her nails dug painfully into my cheeks.

"Listen to me very carefully now, John," she hissed. "Full alert starting right now. You go straight to the bathroom. You get into the shower. You scrub your face, your neck, every pore of your body. I don't want to catch the scent of a single molecule of last night on you—neither from Nadja nor from me. But this cylinder…" Her free hand struck the pipe between my legs with a dull, metallic slap, sending a piercing ache through my pelvis, "…stays sealed. It stays locked dead in place."

"Yes, Loona," I gasped.

"When you're finished, you put on the chinos. An ironed white shirt. Clean socks. You will sit at the coffee table this afternoon, you will smile at Vanessa, you will dutifully answer her questions about anatomy and physiology, and you will do everything she asks of you without a word of protest. If you hesitate for even a second, if you limp, or if you arouse any suspicion that something is amiss here, I will see to it that the key to this lock ends up at the bottom of the Spree Canal for the next three months. Do you understand me?"

"Yes… I understand."

"Move. Under the water with you."

I stumbled into the bathroom, shut the door behind me, and braced both hands on the sink. In the mirror, a stranger stared back: dark circles carved beneath the eyes, broken capillaries, the skin around the mouth still flushed and damp.

I twisted the shower handle. Steam billowed as hot water beat against the tiles.

Stepping into the stall, the first spray hit my shoulders, stinging the raw welts left by the restraints, washing down over my chest. But the moment the scalding water enveloped the solid metal of the cylinder, something sickening occurred: the heavy steel heated up relentlessly, expanding by a hair and clamping down on the raw, hypersensitive flesh inside with a blistering burn.

Reaching for the soap with trembling hands, I lathered myself from head to toe, scrubbing my face until the skin burned, scouring the bitter taste from my lips. Inch by inch, I washed away the traces of the night while the casing between my legs sat like a heated stone.

When I shut off the water and stepped out of the stall, a fresh stack of clothes was already laid out on the closed toilet lid, left there by Loona: the pressed white shirt, the dark blue chinos—and resting right on top, neatly unfolded, the delicate black lace panties from the boutique.

As I froze with the towel in hand, the bathroom door cracked open. Loona leaned against the frame with folded arms, looking at me with unyielding resolve.

"Put them on, John," she commanded coolly, gesturing with her chin toward the lace. "No arguments. The panties go directly over the steel before you step into the chinos. You will feel what you're wearing underneath every single second Mom is sitting at that coffee table. And you had better not flinch later."

With shaking fingers, I picked up the sheer scrap of fabric. The material felt cool and obscenely delicate as I stepped into it and eased it upward. The narrow waistband bit deep into my hipbones, while the elastic mesh stretched taut and translucent over the rigid surgical steel tube.

Then I stepped into the chinos. It was pure agony: the heavy cotton pressed the lace waistband and the top ring of the cylinder with brutal force against my pubic bone. The small padlock lay flat, a hard obstruction wedged against the inside of my thigh.

The slightest bend, every ordinary step sliced like a blade into my groin. I had to force myself to stand erect, square my shoulders, and bury the pain behind a motionless mask.

Buttoning my shirt, I returned to the kitchen to find the table already cleared. The lingering aroma of the late-morning breakfast was gone, replaced by the pungent sting of glass cleaner and wood polish.

Loona, now dressed in an immaculate high-necked blouse and dark jeans, took me in from head to toe. Stepping close, she smoothed the collar of my shirt and patted my cheek with an open palm—firm, warning, merciless.

"Very nice, John," she whispered with a smile that chilled me to the bone. "A proper model medical student. Vanessa will be delighted. Now: grab the vacuum. The clock is ticking."

The next two hours passed in a mechanized, fast-forward blur.

While Nadja gathered her things, poured herself a quick espresso, and saw herself out with a knowing, mocking wink toward my rigid trousers, Loona and I transformed the apartment into a clinically spotless showcase of bourgeois propriety. Every empty bottle, every shot glass, every stray ashtray disappeared into dark bin bags that I had to haul down the stairwell.

Every step down the stairs was a masterclass in composure. The stiff chino fabric rubbed mercilessly against the edges of the cylinder, and the heavy little padlock clacked with a dull thud against my inner thigh with every second pace. I had to force an even gait, keep from limping, hold my spine rigid—driven by the panicked certainty that Loona was monitoring every motion from the top landing.

By half past one, the chaos of the night was completely erased. The windows were cracked open, letting fresh late-summer Berlin air sweep out the sweet residue of makeup, sweat, and alcohol. The living room coffee table no longer held an unruly arsenal of powder compacts; in their place sat a white porcelain pot, delicate cake plates, and a bowl of almond pastries I had fetched on a dead run from the corner bakery. Across my desk in the adjacent room, anatomy atlases lay conspicuously open beside handwritten flashcards on the nervous system.

"Come here," Loona commanded softly as the wall clock clicked to ten to two.

She stood before the living room mirror, hair freshly styled, makeup understated, the smile of a blameless university student already rehearsed to perfection. I stepped up before her. My hands were freezing, my heart hammered, and cold sweat clung to my ribs beneath the white shirt.

Loona stepped close, taking my lapels in both hands, drawing me down a fraction. With her right hand, she traced seemingly casually down my stomach, pressing her thumb through the heavy trouser fabric squarely onto the top ring of the steel cylinder, bearing down with calculated force.

The pain shot like a needle into my pubic bone. My jaw clamped shut, but I swallowed every sound.

"Very good," she whispered, without easing the pressure. "You know exactly who pulls the strings here, John. Vanessa loves hearing you talk about the university. You will answer her. You will smile. You will pour her coffee without letting the cup rattle. And when you sit, you sit up straight. No restless fidgeting just because the steel is pinching your flesh."

Releasing the metal, she brushed down my shoulder and stepped back.

"If she notices a thing… if you break character for even a second, I swear last night will feel like a walk in the park compared to what's waiting for you tonight."

At that exact second, the intercom in the hall buzzed with a sharp, double ring.

The sound shot through my limbs like an electric shock.

Loona leveled one final, razor-sharp look at me, spun on her heel, and walked with light, springy steps toward the intercom. She pressed the buzzer, slotted the handset back into its cradle, and pulled the heavy apartment door open to the stairwell.

From below, the brisk, familiar click of elegant heels echoed up the stone steps, accompanied by the rustle of a coat and the faint chime of heavy bangles.

"Loona, darling!" Vanessa's rich, melodious voice rang out from the stairwell, echoing and impatient. "Open up, this Berlin parking situation is going to put me in an early grave!"

Loona leaned against the doorframe with a winning smile. "We're all ready, Mom! Come on up!"

I stood rooted to the floorboards in the center of the hallway, arms pinned to my sides, fingers locked straight. My breath was shallow, my pulse thudding in my throat, as the footsteps climbed closer step by step—and with them, the woman before whose discerning eyes I would have to conceal an entire double life in chains for the hours ahead.