duty in Kreuzberg

The following Friday evening, Loona and I drove to Kreuzberg.

The tattoo on my right pelvic crest had healed well after more than a week: the redness was gone, and the delicate, deep-black lines of the triangle and the Venus symbol lay calm and sharp against the smooth skin. Yet every movement of my legs beneath the tailored, charcoal-grey pleated trousers reminded me of the indelible presence of this mark—and of the fact that the Neukölln surgical steel ring right beside it nipped every impulse in the bud.

Nadja's flat was located in a spacious pre-war building with high ceilings, parquet floors, and discreetly dimmable lighting. In the drawing room, a low, minimalist downtempo beat played in the background. Arranged on the table by the front windows were ice buckets, crystal glasses, several varieties of gin, tonic water, and assorted liqueurs—an improvised bar that was to serve as my workstation for the evening.

In addition to Loona and Nadja, three other women from their closer Berlin circle were present. Elena, a poised architect in her early thirties, wore a minimalist charcoal silk jumpsuit, her hair combed back severely, her posture upright and detached. Saskia and Miriam, both from the club and fashion scene, lounged comfortably on the deep leather sofas. Saskia wore her dark hair down with a fitted, black silk long-sleeved dress, while Miriam wore a simple, high-necked turtleneck sweater with wide-leg trousers, legs crossed, having already slipped off her flat shoes under the table. Over wine and cigarettes, they chatted about gallery openings and an upcoming group exhibition.

My attire for the evening had been determined by Loona that afternoon in Steglitz: no respectable civilian cover, but functional service wear that unmistakably defined my status. I wore bespoke, form-fitting dark trousers sitting low on the hips and a simple black short-sleeved shirt of fluid fabric, its button placket starting just above the navel. The velvet choker with the padlock sat snug against my throat. The tattoo along my flank and the rigid contour of the steel were subtly, but for connoisseurs of the scene unmistakably, visible with every bend of my torso.

"He is exceptionally attentive, you will see," Nadja remarked casually to the group, taking a sip from her glass and signaling me with a curt wave of her hand to clear the empties. "And best of all: he only speaks when spoken to."

"A medical student as a bartender certainly has style," Elena noted dryly, leaning back and studying me with an analytical, almost dissecting gaze as I stepped up to her table to refill her glass. "The Charité usually demands so much inflated self-confidence from its junior doctors. Good to see that some are taught early on how to step back."

My hands were steady as I tipped the bottle and poured the tonic over the ice, but inside, the humiliation burned like cold fire. I stood in the middle of this elegant gathering, serving mutely like a piece of furniture, while these women discussed me as if I existed purely as a functional fixture of the room.

Before I could pick up the tray again, Miriam extended her foot slightly forward. Her shoe was already resting beside the sofa. She looked at me without breaking off her conversation.

"You can set those aside neatly while you are already standing there," she said calmly. "And while you are down there anyway, wipe down the soles quickly. Using your hand is perfectly fine."

I set the tray down, knelt onto the rug, and aligned the shoes. Then I brushed my palm across both soles until the fine dust clung to my fingers. Just as I went to rise, Saskia placed her foot onto my shoulder, keeping me pinned in position for a moment.

"These as well," she said offhandedly. "And Elena's, while you are at it. We do not want dirt on the parquet."

I obeyed, knelt again, and wiped down the soles of the remaining shoes. No one addressed me directly while I did so. The conversation about the exhibition continued uninterrupted, as if my presence on the floor were merely a convenient addition to the evening.

Later, when I mixed a gin and tonic for Nadja and placed it before her, she picked up the glass, inspected it briefly, and spat into it once, deliberately. She slid it back toward me.

"Taste it first to see if it is right," she said. "If not, make a fresh one."

I brought the glass to my lips and swallowed. The taste of her saliva was unmistakable. Elena, seated beside her, leaned forward, took the glass from my hand, and spat into it as well before handing it back to me.

"Now once more," she said evenly. "We want to be certain it suits all of us."

Saskia and Miriam followed suit. Each of them spat once into the very same drink without genuinely pausing their conversation. I drained it, set the empty glass down, and began mixing the next round while the women were already back to discussing Milan.

"Hold still for a moment, John," Loona directed with quiet, sovereign authority.

I froze instantly, holding the tray firmly before my chest with both hands.

Loona sat at the center of the gathering, dressed in a dark-grey sheath dress that accentuated every line of her posture. She set her wine glass on the marble tabletop, turned toward Elena and Saskia, and pointed two fingers at my right flank.

"Ben did exceptional work a week ago," Loona said smoothly. "The linework is absolutely precise. Show them briefly."

With a practiced, silent motion, I pushed the hem of my shirt up with my free hand and drew the waistband down a fraction. The light from the floor lamp fell squarely across the crest of the bone: the flawless, downward-pointing triangle with the integrated Venus element, razor-sharp, resting right against the rim of the steel base ring.

Elena tilted her head forward slightly, her eyebrows lifting in approval. "Very fine work. No shading, no unnecessary flourishes. A clean seal. And how does he handle it in daily life?"

"He carries it with the requisite discipline," Loona replied calmly, tapping my cheek lightly with the flat of her hand—a casual gesture of ownership that sent the blood rushing to my ears. "During the day in his white coat, no one at the university has any idea what lies underneath. But he feels it with every step. It keeps his head clear of foolish ideas."

"And the lock?" Saskia asked with a teasing smirk, glancing at the taut contour beneath the dark fabric. "No more excuses?"

"Not a single millimeter of leeway," Nadja confirmed cheerfully, clinking glasses with Saskia. "He knows full well that he may only voice his own desires again when Loona deems it appropriate. Until then, there is only service."

A quiet murmur of amused understanding ran through the room. The women received the demonstration with absolute naturalness—not with shrill mockery, but with that relaxed, cool superiority characteristic of the Berlin scene. To them, I was neither a scandal nor a breached taboo, but a successful, well-disciplined arrangement of female authority.

Elena reached out, took hold of the steel through the cloth of my trousers, and turned it once, slowly, looking up at Loona. "He remains composed," she observed. "That is worth something."

"Good boy," Loona said at last, looking at me. "Shirt back down. Bring us fresh ice and fetch the bottle of vermouth from the kitchen."

"Right away, Loona," I replied softly, bowing my head and smoothing down the fabric.

As I turned and walked with steady steps into the hallway, I felt the women's eyes on my back. The steel cylinder pulled cold and unrelenting against my pubic bone, the fresh mark burned mutely on my flank, and a clear realization formed in my mind: this was no longer an exception. The circle had seen me, inspected my branding, and accepted me for what I had become under Loona's guidance—a servant who had crossed fully and permanently into this world.

When I stepped back into the drawing room with the ice and the bottle of vermouth, I still felt the women's gazes on my back. The steel between my legs seemed to have grown heavier, and the tattoo on my flank burned beneath the cloth as if the brief demonstration had re-sensitized the skin. I placed the bottle on the sideboard and topped up the glasses, my breathing shallower than before.

In my mind, the scene replayed itself: Elena turning the steel through the fabric, Saskia and Miriam spitting into the same drink, Loona tapping my cheek with an open hand as though verifying the condition of an object. The shame of it sat deep in my chest, hot and stifling, while at the same time I felt the flesh inside the cage push against the bars. It was not a clear arousal, but rather a dull, humiliating throb that gathered strength with every minute I spent standing there while the women spoke over my head, as if the exhibition were already concluded.

"The next gin and tonic for me," Miriam said casually, sliding her empty glass across the table. "And this time, you can add something to it yourself before serving."

I mixed the drink, placed it before her, and waited. She spat into it once, then passed the glass along to Saskia, who spat as well, before Elena and Nadja did the same. When the glass returned to me, I brought it to my lips and finished it, while the women had already resumed their conversation about the exhibition. The taste of their saliva lingered heavy on my tongue, and I felt the heat rising in my face. Beneath the steel, something clenched—an involuntary, mortifying twitch I was powerless to suppress.

"Hold still once more," Loona said after a while, gesturing with her chin toward the open space before the sofa. "Everything off. Shirt, trousers, underwear. Only the cage remains. And then you kneel and kiss the ladies' feet before you continue."

I set the tray down and worked open the buttons. The shirt slipped from my shoulders and dropped to the floor. As I pushed down the trousers and underwear, I stood in the warm light, bare save for the steel and the tattoo. The cool air of the room settled against my skin, making my nipples tighten. The humiliation of standing entirely exposed before these women, who barely glanced at me as they continued talking, sent heat flaring to my ears. At the same time, the cage throbbed harder, as if my body were claiming the exposure as something of its own.

I knelt onto the carpet. First, I bent toward Elena's feet—she had already slipped out of her shoes—and kissed her instep and toes. She allowed it without pausing her conversation, brushing the sole of her foot across my cheek once before drawing it back. Saskia and Miriam were next. Each held still as I kissed her feet, and Nadja even rested her sole on the back of my neck for a moment, forcing me lower. Loona was the last. Her toes brushed my lips, and I kissed them slowly, feeling the steel between my thighs press unyieldingly into my skin. The degradation was caught in my throat, yet I could not deny that the throbbing in the cage had sharpened since sinking to my knees.

As I went to rise, Elena opened a small case and withdrew two slender silver clamps. She tested the tension briefly between her fingers and fastened the first to my left nipple. The bite was instantaneous, sharp and unrelenting. The second followed on the right side. I drew shallow breaths through my nose and held my hands behind my back while the clamps dug into the sensitive tissue. A stinging pain radiated through my chest, and I felt the muscles in my thighs lock tight. Beneath the steel, my body answered with another humiliating twitch.

"He stays like this," Loona said, looking me up and down. "You may continue serving. The clamps stay on until we leave. And you remain standing for as long as you are in here."

I picked up the tray once more. The clamps tugged with every motion, the steel hung heavy between my legs, and the cool air washed over my bare skin. As I set a fresh glass before Elena, I felt her gaze linger on my chest where the clamps were fixed. The shame was still lodged in my throat, hot and oppressive, while at the same time I felt my flesh press against the bars again, as though my body were accepting the humiliation as something it could no longer resist. The women were already back to discussing Milan, as if the brief interlude had been nothing more than a routine practical detail.

Over the next few hours, I continued bringing drinks, refilling bowls of olives and nuts, and fetching fresh ice whenever a glass ran empty. No one addressed me directly unless necessary. I stood or knelt depending on what was required, feeling the bite of the clamps and the weight of the steel with every step. The degradation of being entirely exposed yet completely invisible rested like an even pressure on my chest, yet I could not keep the throbbing inside the cage from persisting.

At one point, Loona stretched out her legs and nodded toward the floor before her.

"Kneel down," she said calmly. "And massage my feet. The soles and the toes. Slowly."

I set the tray aside and knelt before her. My hands cupped her right foot, and I began working my thumbs across the sole. She leaned back, sipped her drink, and continued speaking with Elena as though the massage were merely a casual convenience. While I worked, Miriam draped her legs over my shoulders, resting her feet against my back. The weight bore me down a little lower onto my knees, and I felt the clamps bite deeper into my chest with the change in posture.

Elena leaned forward, took hold of the left clamp, and twisted it once, slowly, between her fingers. A sharp line of pain cut through my chest, and I exhaled shallowly without breaking the rhythm of the massage. Releasing the clamp, she brushed her thumb once across the tender skin beside it and leaned back.

"He remains composed," she said to Loona without looking at me. "That is worth something."

I continued the massage, my thumbs circling over Loona's soles while Miriam's feet rested heavy on my shoulders and Elena reached out periodically to adjust one of the clamps with a brief twist. The steel between my legs pulsed in a steady, shameful rhythm, the heat in my face and across my chest mingling with the cool air of the room. The women discussed the exhibition, and I remained on my knees, stripped bare save for the cage and the clamps, as the evening wore on. In me, the shame of being so completely exposed and utilized merged with a dull, involuntary ache within the steel that I could no longer view as foreign. It was the same sensation that had accompanied me for weeks: the deep, almost addictive relief of no longer having to decide anything, paired with the quiet certainty that Loona knew precisely how far she could push without truly breaking me.

Eventually, Nadja stood up and nodded toward the hallway.

"Come along," she said evenly. "The others are staying here. You come with me to the bedroom."

I got up, the clamps pulling sharply with the motion, and followed her down the hall into her room. The door remained cracked open. Nadja sat on the edge of the mattress, hitched up her skirt, and parted her thighs. She placed a hand in my hair and drew my head between her legs.

"You stay until I am finished," she murmured. "And you do it properly. The others should not have to wait."

I knelt before her and began to attend to her with my tongue. Through the open door, I could hear the voices of the other women in the drawing room, the quiet laughter and the clinking of glasses. Nadja's hand remained in my hair, guiding the rhythm, and I felt her breathing shift. The steel between my legs pressed hard against my thighs with every movement, and the clamps pulled whenever I tilted my head. The disgrace of kneeling here while the others sat in the living room and talked weighed heavy on my chest. At the same time, I felt my flesh strain against the bars inside the cage, a shameful, uncontrollable pounding that mounted with every breath. It was the same feeling as before with Loona: the complete surrender that brought a deeper calm than I cared to admit, and the certainty that I was exactly where she wanted me to be.

When her release arrived, it came without much sound. A sharp intake of air, a firm clamping of her thighs around my head, and then the easing of tension. She pushed me back, smoothed down her skirt, and stood up.

"Good," she said. "Now back to the drawing room. The others want something more before we leave."

I followed her back. The women were still seated on the sofas, their glasses empty once again, and the conversation about the exhibition had settled into a quieter, casual register. Nadja rejoined the group, smoothed her skirt, and took a sip as if nothing had happened. I took my place by the sideboard, refilled the glasses, and felt the unrelenting tug of the clamps on my nipples with every shift of weight. The weight dragged at the tender skin, while the steel cage between my legs kept pace in the same shameful rhythm. The flush in my cheeks had barely subsided: that mixture of humiliation at having been used completely while the others chatted away, and that deep, hypnotic quiet that settled over me whenever I simply functioned.

Until now, my service had been strictly formal—filling glasses, maintaining posture, acting as mute, lifeless furniture in the space. But as I made the rounds with the tray, the atmosphere in the drawing room shifted.

Loona set her glass on the table with a soft click and reached for the riding crop that had been resting beside her. Standing up, she stepped directly before me and looked deep into my eyes. Her expression held no fleeting cruelty, but an intense, almost physical proximity—a silent understanding that struck me straight to the core. A surge of profound attachment ran through me; in that single moment, there was no doubt that I was entirely in her hands and that she knew every impulse within me. She brushed the tip of the crop softly across my cheek, held my gaze for a heartbeat longer, and then turned toward the group with a faint smile.

"He belongs entirely to us tonight," she said, her voice carrying an inviting warmth that made the intent all the more absolute. "Before we leave, I want you to feel how willingly he accepts every mark from us. Back and scrotum. Whoever wishes to step forward may do so. He will not move, and he will remain silent."

A sudden, charged silence fell over the sofa. The casual conversation died instantly. Elena paused mid-gesture, her eyes narrowing with curiosity, an amused smile touching her lips. She assessed my bare body with an entirely altered perspective—no longer seeing a waiter, but someone opened completely to their discretion. Saskia and Miriam exchanged a quick glance before leaning forward in unison. Nadja set her glass down, leaned back, and folded her arms; her expression was one of pure, expectant anticipation.

With trembling fingers, I placed the tray on the sideboard and stepped into the center of the room. I forced my hands behind my back, interlacing my fingers. The posture threw my chest forward, wrenching the clamps with brutal leverage; the pain lanced deep into my flesh as I lowered my gaze in submission.

Elena was the first to reach out. "Hand it over."

She stepped behind me. I heard the faint rustle of her clothing, smelled her heavy perfume. She trailed the tip of the crop testingly across my shoulder blades—an agonizingly soft touch. Then she drew back her arm.

The strike cut through the silence with a cracking snap.

The pain erupted between my shoulder blades, stark and blinding. A strangled sound tore at my throat, which I swallowed down behind clenched teeth at the very last second. My whole body fought the reflex to stumble forward, but my arms drawn tightly behind my back and the burning clamps on my chest anchored me to the spot.

Elena passed the leather to Saskia. Stepping close, she delivered two rapid, precise strikes lower down along my spine. Before I could draw breath back into my lungs, she dropped into a crouch. The cool tip slid between my thighs, tracing along the sensitive underside, and tapped twice, hard, against the steel and the captive flesh beneath. The impact vibrated into my bones, followed by the biting sting on bare skin. My pelvis jerked back on instinct, but the pain pulled me instantly back to the reality of the room.

Miriam took over without a word. Her strike was heavier, calculated across the small of my back, followed by a deliberate blow that caught the tender skin directly beneath the base ring. Nadja took her time, stepping up intimately close, striking twice across the already glowing welts on my back before a third blow landed hard and squarely against the cage. My flesh surged in panic against the cold metal bars, only to be crushed deeper into confinement.

Loona delivered the conclusion.

The others stepped back. She circled me slowly, her hand brushing softly across the nape of my neck, only to bring the crop whistling down with full force an instant later. Two strikes, placed with absolute precision, stripping away my last reserve and wringing a raspy gasp from my lungs. Then she drove the tip between my thighs from behind, bracing it with unrelenting pressure against the steel cage, holding it fast.

My body shook. The welts burned, the weight on my nipples threatened to tear the skin, and the trapped pain pulsed beneath the cold pressure of the crop. Yet under the impact of this first trial, the final trace of resistance gave way. An overwhelming relief flooded through me—the complete release of personal agency.

Loona lifted the pressure and stepped in front of me.

Without hesitation, I sank to my knees, bowed low, and pressed my lips to the leather of her shoes, tracing across her insteps, lingering there in mute submission.

"Thank you, ladies. Thank you, Loona," I whispered against the cool leather.

A soft murmur of approval passed through the room.

Saskia stepped up before me, looking down with a gentle, almost tender smile, and reached for the clamps on my chest. With slow, deliberate care, she released first one, then the other. The sudden rush of blood into the compressed tissue burned like fire. Leaning down further, she rubbed her thumbs gently over the swollen, reddened tips to ease the stinging heat, then lowered her lips to cover each in turn with warm, soft kisses. An involuntary shiver coursed through my chest, traveling deep into my lower abdomen.

She straightened up and stepped back to rejoin the others, who were already reaching for their coats.

"You clean up in here," Loona said from the doorway, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Her tone had returned to being entirely calm and businesslike. "The glasses, the bowls, the floor. Everything is to be spotless by the time we return."

"Yes, Loona," I forced out, my voice rough.

The door clicked shut. The latch sealed the flat away from the outside world.

In an instant, silence descended over the drawing room. I remained kneeling on the parquet for a moment longer, bare save for the steel, the welts blazing across my back, my chest still warm from Saskia's touch. Drawing a trembling breath, I pushed myself to my feet and began clearing away the glasses.