Bro-Code and stainless steel

The morning unfolded in a thick, numbing trance.

At the gym, every single repetition on the leg press had become an exercise in pure torment. With every descent of the sled, the narrow stainless-steel ring bit deeper into the raw skin of my pubic bone—rigid and sharp—while the miniature barred cage ground compressed flesh without mercy against the fabric of my training shorts. Then came the trek home through the city with two overloaded grocery bags, their handles cutting into my palms—a mechanical routine under the indifferent gaze of pedestrians who saw nothing more than an ordinary student walking back from the supermarket. None of them suspected what lay concealed beneath the dark denim, secured with a padlock whose key rested in Loona’s nightstand drawer.

By afternoon, the flat had settled back into that spectral quiet. Loona was out, somewhere in the city or catching up with friends, leaving behind only the spotless order I had spent the morning assembling for her.

I sat at my desk, monitor on, headset pulled over my ears. Cool air from the open window brushed across my forearms while the familiar game interface glowed on the screen.

A sharp chime in the voice channel announced his arrival.

"Yo, man!" Timo’s voice boomed through the headset, loud and energized, punctuated by the rapid click of his mouse. "You already in the lobby? Hold on, joining your party now."

"Already in," I replied, forcing my tone into that casual, indifferent register he was used to hearing from me. Leaning forward in the desk chair sent a dull jolt through my pelvis, where the steel gave not a fraction of an inch.

"Man, I'm telling you, I've been walking on air all day," Timo launched straight in, his in-game character loading in beside mine. A deep, raspy chuckle rattled through his mic. "I just have to say it again: you're the absolute best, John. Dead serious, an absolute legend. Ducking out so discreetly the other day… that's bro code on a whole different level."

My fingers tightened imperceptibly around the controller. "Don't sweat it, man. It was nothing."

"Nothing? Bro, you have no idea what you lined up for me," he pushed on, riding high on his triumph. "I mean, I always knew she was gorgeous, but yesterday? Unreal. I've rarely seen a girl lose her mind like that when you take charge. Zero hesitation, just completely raw and insanely intense."

Every word landed like a dull strike against my temple. My pulse kicked up, purely involuntary, driven by a toxic blend of sheer helplessness and that perverse, illicit heat that began to throb deep within the cold metal. I could see the faint impressions on the sofa cushions, could smell the ghost of sweat in the living room that I had wiped down with my own hands.

"Sounds like… you two had a good time," I muttered dryly, eyes fixed on the crosshair.

"Good time doesn't begin to cover it," Timo chuckled. The rustle of clothing came through the feed, followed by the familiar glare of a phone screen in his room. "And the best part is just starting. She's not letting me breathe. Earlier, while I was sitting on the train, she just dropped a couple of photos on me out of nowhere."

My breath hitched for a fraction of a second. "What kind of photos?"

"Man… she's stretched out on her bed, just in these black lace panties, legs slightly pulled up, looking dead into the camera with that look… you know the one, practically telling you to get over there right this second. Completely filthy. I was sitting there on the subway having to seriously watch how I stood up." He laughed—smug, coarse, entirely intoxicated by the validation. "I swear, Friday is going to be a riot. She already told me to be punctual and come loaded with energy."

I sat frozen before the display. Beneath the denim, the tight ring cut ruthlessly into my flesh, as if punishing my body for daring to respond to his words.

Loona was sending him photos from the very room I tiptoed past every single day. She was fueling his desire while choking mine off in millimeter-thin stainless steel. And there sat Timo at his desk, considering me his most trusted confidant, without the faintest inkling that the best friend he was gaming with existed merely as silent, shrunken property in the exact same apartment.

On the screen, a grenade went off, tearing my avatar apart and washing the edges of the display in a harsh, pulsing crimson. I had completely missed the callout, hands frozen over keyboard and mouse.

"Bro, John! Heads up, you walked straight into the grinder," Timo’s laughter rolled through the headset, punctuated by a rapid burst from his rifle. "Lock it in, I need cover fire. Or is your head already on Friday?"

"Just… a little beat from leg day earlier," I forced out. My voice sounded thinner than intended, raspy from the tension winding tight around my ribs like a clamp.

"Leg day? Good man. Gotta stay in shape in case you ever want to get back out there yourself," he bantered, entirely oblivious, queuing up the next match. The crisp click of his mechanical keyboard filled the silence between us. "Though honestly… once you see how Loona operates, ordinary girls almost lose their appeal. She texted me earlier saying she picked up some new pieces for Friday. Something in black leather, was all she said. I'm telling you, that girl knows exactly what she's doing."

Every detail, every passing remark settled like a tightening cord around my windpipe. I sat back in the chair, thighs parted slightly to ease the sharp edge off my pubic bone for a split second, but the stainless steel offered no quarter. It remained cold, stiff, unyielding. A mute reminder that all these fantasies—every visual and every sound Timo savored so casually—were pure torture for me. And for that very reason, they exerted an unnatural, searing grip.

A soft vibration beside the keyboard cut through the gunfire in my ears.

I looked down. Kidslox had forced the screen into grayscale restriction, yet across the upper third, the notification lit up in stark white type.

Loona: *Don't game for much longer. I want dinner ready when I get home. Wrap it up in 30 minutes and start cooking.*

A chill ran down my arms, cold and definitive. The words were phrased with the casual certainty of the morning's grocery list—no please, no question, merely the precise choreography of my routine under her direction. She didn't need to be in the room to own it completely. A single line of text on a screen was enough to reduce an easy gaming session with Timo into a countdown.

"Hey, John? You still there?" Timo’s voice boomed through the headset, backed by a quick mouse click. "Come on, match is starting. Let's take the win."

I swallowed dryly, fingers resting on the keys while the tight steel ring dug deep into my pubic bone with every flex of my thighs. The thirty minutes were already running down.

"Yeah… ready," I murmured into the mic, forcing an even tone. "One more match. Then I've gotta log off—got some stuff to take care of in the kitchen."

"Right on, bro, let's wrap it up quick," he laughed easy into the mic, without the faintest clue for whom the pans would be hitting the stove.