kicked out

Dinner was steaming on the kitchen counter when the deadbolt turned in the latch.

Loona entered with soundless strides. She wore her long wool coat unbuttoned over a dark blouse, her bag slung casually over one shoulder. She spared no glance for the laid table, nor for the pans I had scrubbed down to a mirror finish. Her eyes locked straight onto my face, a cold, amused smirk curling her lips that chilled the blood in my veins.

Slipping her smartphone from her pocket, she flashed the display toward me for a heartbeat before locking it again. The screen had displayed the wide-angle security feed of the living room—the exact frame where Vanessa’s stockinged feet rested across my bare thighs, the thin tea towel slipped dangerously out of place.

"Keeping busy while I was away, I see," she whispered, easing the front door shut behind her. She closed the distance until her perfume crowded out the air around me. "Well? What do you owe me?"

My hands trembled as I reached into the pocket of my sweatpants. Drawing out the creased twenty-euro note, I dropped slowly to my knees and pressed the money flat onto her upturned palm with both hands.

"She… she gave it to me for the massage," I forced out hoarsely, keeping my gaze anchored to the tips of her boots. "And… she said my father is away constantly. She said… that she’s starved for touch."

A cutting laugh broke from her throat. She smoothed the bill out, folded it with deliberate care, and tucked it away.

"Of course she is," she mocked, taking a step closer and gripping my chin to haul my head upward. "And who does she pour her misery out to? A naked, compliant wreck on the floor who has to hide behind a dishcloth. She doesn't see you as a man, John. To her, you're the exact same thing you are to me: an appliance. A handy dispenser for tired feet."

Releasing my chin, she bent low and clamped her full hand between my thighs without a second of warning. Her fingers tightened hard around the freezing stainless tube, giving it a sharp, vicious tug that slammed the padlock brutal and direct into my pubic bone. A strangled cry lodged in my throat; the piercing shock brought tears rushing instantly to my eyes.

"Tight as a drum," she noted coolly, tracing a fingernail along the rim of inflamed flesh before straightening up. "And that's where it stays. Tomorrow morning, it will be the only thing holding you together."

She walked into the bedroom, returning a beat later with a garment that she tossed straight onto the floorboards before my knees: a pair of deep blue, severely tapered slim-fit jeans cut from stiff, unyielding denim devoid of any stretch.

"You wear these tomorrow when you head over to Nadja’s. Every single step will remind you just how tiny you've become. You will haul furniture, lift boxes, cater to her every whim—and not breathe a single word about your situation. If she asks anything of you, you remain polite, silent, and useful."

The night dragged by in a fitful, fevered blur, driven by the persistent, throbbing ache of the metal.

Come Friday morning, there was no leg day on the schedule. Her agenda was entirely different—and far more cruel.

"Up, John," Loona ordered at eight o'clock sharp.

I had to put fresh linens on the large double bed: smoothing out the crisp, white satin sheets until not a single crease remained. On her nightstand, I was made to set a chilled bottle of water, two glasses, and an unopened box of brand-name condoms—placed with absolute precision, right beside the silver lamp. Every motion seared itself into my consciousness like a branding iron. With my own hands, I prepared the bed where another man would wipe my existence completely off the map.

By the time eleven struck, I stood fully dressed in the hallway. The skin-tight denim pinned the stainless cage so mercilessly against my bone that every step drove a sharp, radiating jolt through my pelvis. My palms were freezing cold.

Loona emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a short silk robe, hair lustrous, lips painted a deep, striking crimson. She looked me over with cutting satisfaction.

"Keys on the console," she said quietly.

I laid down my set of keys. The sharp tap of metal sounded like a final sentence.

At that exact second, the buzzer tore the apartment's silence to shreds. Two long, demanding rings. Timo.

A cruel smile spread across her features. Stepping in close, she laid a palm flat against my cheek and whispered so softly the words were meant for my ears alone:

"He's here. Out the door, John. And don't you dare come back before tonight. The flat belongs to us now."

She unlatched the front door, buzzed the street entrance open, and with a cold, offhand shove nudged me onto the landing before the heavy wood clicked shut behind me with a solid, definitive thud.