Visit 1

I charged up the stairs of the apartment building two at a time, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Beneath my jeans, the cold steel cylinder chafed against my sensitive groin with every single stride; the small padlock knocked dull under the heavy denim. The academic safe zone with Mira had vanished in an instant. My key trembled in the lock of the flat door.

No sooner had the door latched behind me than Loona was already standing in the hallway.

She had styled herself to perfection: a softly draping black wrap dress that accentuated her silhouette, her hair falling glossy over her shoulders, subtle makeup that made her features appear even more arresting. In her hand, she held two chilled bottles of beer. Her gaze traveled down me in an instant—appraising, cool, calculating, entirely in command.

"Right on time, John," she noted softly, closing the distance between us.

Setting the bottles down on the console table, she caught my collar, smoothing the fabric of my shirt before resting her hands against my cheeks. Her gaze bored demandingly into my eyes.

"Listen to me very carefully," she whispered in a velvety, unyielding tone. "Out there, you are the cool roommate. The easygoing medic, the loyal bro. When Timo walks through that door in a moment, I want to see no hesitation, no flinching, not a single false move. To him, you are the supportive buddy, the best wingman in the world. He must not even dream of what you're wearing down there. Do you understand me?"

"Yes… I know," I managed with difficulty, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Loona’s expression softened into that sweet, almost maternal smile that routinely cost me my sanity. Gliding one hand down my chest, she traced over my belt and pressed with gentle, deliberate force squarely against the hard protrusion beneath the fly. The steel ring dug into my pubic bone; a suppressed groan escaped my lips.

"Very good," she breathed, leaning forward to press a tender, warm kiss to my lips—a fleeting, tantalizing promise. "Hold on, sweetheart. If you get through this weekend without a single slip-up, Sunday night belongs entirely to you. That's when I make good on my promise."

At that very moment, the intercom buzzed shrilly through the hallway.

Loona drew back with a knowing smile, pressed the buzzer, and handed me the two beer bottles. "He's here. Show me what you've got."

Down below, heavy footsteps clattered over the wooden stairs, followed by a loud whistle. The apartment door practically flew open, and Timo filled the frame.

Tall, broad-shouldered, a heavy leather duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, his leather jacket unzipped. My best friend radiated that unbroken, effortless masculinity he had possessed since our school days.

"Berlin, ladies and gentlemen!" Timo’s voice boomed through the hallway. He dropped his bag carelessly onto the floorboards, threw his arms wide, and pulled me into a solid bro-handshake. Yanking me close, he clapped me on the back with the flat of his hand with such force that it knocked the wind out of me. "Bro! Look at you! The Charité clearly agrees with you, man! Straight-backed, broad shoulders… you look damn good, brother!"

"Timo… great to have you here," I forced out, willing my face into a wide, companionable grin, even as the jolt drove the cylinder deep into my soft tissue. I clamped my jaw shut to keep from wincing.

An instant later, Timo released me, his eyes drifting past me toward Loona with easy familiarity. There was no need for formal introductions between the two of them; they had known each other for ages. On his previous visits to the capital, they hadn't wasted any time, ending up in the same bed on more than one occasion—a fact Timo had always celebrated to me with unvarnished bro pride.

"Well, if it isn't the dream woman," Timo said with that brazen, disarming grin that let him get away with murder. Without the slightest hesitation, he stepped up to her, casually threw an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. His hand trailed conspicuously low over the black wrap dress. "Did you miss me, or did my best bro here have to endure your moods all on his own?"

With a soft sigh, Loona leaned against his broad chest, looping her arms around his neck, shooting him that intimate, challenging look that made my stomach turn over. "As if you gave me any choice, Timo. Good to finally have you back. The train ride wasn't too grueling, I hope?"

"For a weekend with the two of you, I'll take any delay the railways can throw at me," Timo laughed, giving her hip a firm pat before turning back to me. "So, bro, where's my welcome beer? The AC on the ICE was a disaster; I'm parched here!"

"Right here, man," I said hastily, handing him one of the cold bottles.

He struck his bottle vigorously against mine, the glass ringing clear. "To the weekend, brother! To the Charité, to the capital, and to always having each other's backs!"

He tipped the beer back in long, greedy swallows. I forced myself to take a drink as well. Over Timo’s broad shoulder, I caught Loona’s eye. She stood behind him, leaning against the hallway wall, watching me—her eyes glittering with absolute power and mocking amusement.

I stood there in my own flat, beer in hand, celebrated as an untouchable operator and best friend. Yet beneath the tailored denim, my flesh lay sealed in cold steel, incapable of the slightest response. A schizophrenic trial of unbearable weight: to my best friend, I was the loyal companion—while the woman whose hip his hand still rested upon reminded me with every breath that in a matter of hours, I would be listening silently through the wall as he took what remained strictly forbidden to me for weeks to come.

Friday afternoon slipped by with a surreal ease that constricted my chest.

The three of us sat in the spacious pre-war kitchen. Empty bottles, bottle caps, and the smell of hops and roasted nuts quickly accumulated on the solid wooden table. Timo was entirely in his element: leaning back in his chair, legs stretched wide, gesturing animatedly as he reeled off one anecdote after another from his university town. He railed loudly against senile civil law professors, reminisced about booze-soaked freshman parties, and repeatedly clapped me companionably on the thigh.

Every one of his casual touches, every loud laugh sent a jolt of pain through my pelvis. Beneath the denim of my jeans, the damp lace strap cut mercilessly into my flesh; the cylinder clamped down on my shrunken anatomy like an icy vise. I had to grin, nod, volley jokes back and forth, and play the hardened Charité student. A grotesque charade: while Timo toasted me as an unshakeable big-city player, Loona sat diagonally across from me, sipping her wine nonchalantly, trailing the tip of her foot up my inner calf seemingly unnoticed. Her looks were pure poison and absolute promise all at once—a relentless reminder of who held the leash at that table.

Around nine in the evening, Loona finally rose with a slow, languid motion.

Smoothing down her black wrap dress, she let her fingers glide deliberately over her hips, casting Timo a glance that left no room for interpretation.

"I'm going to head in and freshen up," she purred, tilting her head and offering him a suggestive, sinful smile. "Don't keep me waiting too long, Timo."

Spinning on her heels, her hips swaying with the rhythm of her strides, she walked out, and the door to her room clicked shut behind her.

The door had barely closed when Timo leaned across the kitchen table with glittering eyes. He nudged my arm with his elbow, his broad face beaming with brazen anticipation.

"Bro," he whispered conspiratorially, shooting me a wink. "Don't take this the wrong way, man… but your stepsister is an absolute knockout. That dress, those looks… you don't mind if I take what's waiting for me in there tonight, do you?"

My stomach seized with such violence that the breath caught in my throat for a second. The words choked in my windpipe. My best friend was asking for my blessing to sleep with my owner—completely oblivious to the fact that I was her locked-up plaything. In my temples hammered Loona’s command from the hallway: *Stay relaxed. The perfect wingman.*

I forced the corners of my mouth upward into a crooked grin and lifted my beer bottle.

"Course, bro," I managed through a parched throat, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible. "Go get it. Have fun in there."

"You're the best, man!" Timo boomed, springing up, downing the rest of his bottle in one go, slamming the glass onto the table, and clapping me triumphantly on the shoulder once more. "See you in the morning, player! Sleep well!"

With springy steps, he marched down the hallway. I heard Loona’s bedroom door swing open, a brief, low giggle, and then the heavy wood clicked firmly shut.

I remained behind alone at the kitchen table. The silence of the apartment collapsed over me like an avalanche. With shaking fingers, I cleared away the empty bottles, washed the glasses with mechanical precision, and crept into my own room next door.

I undressed in the dark. The jeans slid to the floor, leaving me standing in the pale wash of the streetlights outside. The burgundy lace strap pulled damp over my hip bones; the steel cylinder dragged cold and uncompromising against my shrunken flesh. I lay flat on my bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin, staring fixedly at the white stucco ceiling.

And then, the auditory torment began.

The wall dividing Loona’s room from my bed was old, the plaster hairline-fractured. At first, it was only muffled whispering, followed by Loona’s bright, flirtatious laugh. Then the dull thud of discarded shoes. A zipper yanked open in haste.

Suddenly, a heavy groan—the solid timber of her bed frame began knocking loud and rhythmic against the baseboard.

"God, Timo…," Loona’s voice carried crystal-clear through the wall. It was no muted sound; she deliberately made sure every single syllable reached me. "Harder. Take me properly…"

Timo’s guttural, throaty groan answered her. The creaking of the bed frame accelerated, locking into an unrelenting, heavy cadence. The wet slap of bare skin meeting bare skin echoed through my room as if it were unfolding right on the edge of my own mattress. Loona moaned without restraint—deep, demanding, entirely surrendered to the raw, unbridled force of my best friend.

A searing, unbearable heat detonated in my lower abdomen. My body desperately wanted to respond, wanted to swell, wanted to rebel against this bottomless humiliation—yet the metal held firm without mercy. The steel ring dug deep into my pubic bone, the narrow sleeve snuffing out every impulse at the root. The physical pain was numbing, but the sheer helplessness paralyzing me was infinitely more destructive: my best friend, who had just jovially clapped my shoulder, was currently driving with full force into the woman who owned my entire existence. He was permitted everything. And I lay trapped in women's lace inches away, shivering with unquenchable desire.

Tears of rage, shame, and a disturbing, illicit arousal tracked down my temples and into the pillow. I clawed my fingers into the mattress while on the other side of the wall, Loona’s cries reached their peak and Timo’s triumphant roar tore through the plaster. I was their cuckold, their mute witness, locked in my own cage—and deep within that torment, only her promise kept me anchored: that I had to endure this weekend to finally be released by her hands.