Visit 2

Saturday morning broke over Berlin with unforgiving light. I had barely slept a wink; the acoustic echoes from the adjoining bedroom had driven themselves into my skull like white-hot needles. Shortly after eight, I was standing in the kitchen, running on mechanical reflex.

The coffee maker gurgled hoarsely, while scrambled eggs with chives and bacon sizzled in the cast-iron skillet. Outwardly, I presented the familiar picture of the attentive host in a relaxed grey sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. Yet beneath the soft cotton lurked the uncompromising reality: the burgundy lace was drawn taut between my buttocks, and the heavy cylinder chafed with every step against my shrunken, fevered flesh. The small padlock swung in time with my movements, a constant reminder of the steel cell denying me any physical reaction.

Behind me, heavy, bare footsteps scuffed across the floorboards.

The kitchen door swung wide. Timo filled the frame—clad only in a pair of rumpled grey boxer shorts. His hair was standing on end, his broad torso still bore the red marks of the night, and his face beamed with the brazen, sated smugness of a man after hours of uninhibited conquest.

"Morning, bro!" Timo boomed hoarsely, stepping up behind me at the stove and clapping me on the back so hard that the cylinder was driven deep into my pubic bone. I had to clamp my jaw shut to keep from groaning in pain and nausea.

"Morning, Timo," I forced out, willing myself into a wide, companionable nod as I turned the eggs with the wooden spatula. "Coffee is almost ready. Sleep well?"

"Sleep? Man, are you kidding me?" Timo laughed out loud, dragging a chair out and dropping into it with his legs sprawled wide. Leaning back, he laced his muscular arms behind his head and grinned at me. "Bro, I swear on everything holy: your stepsister isn't just a woman, she’s an absolute force of nature! A goddamn volcano!"

My stomach seized so violently that cold sweat broke out across my forehead.

"Crazy, huh?" I feigned, setting two mugs onto the counter.

"Crazy doesn't even cover it, man!" Timo boasted shamelessly, his eyes glittering with triumphant lust. "The way she moves… how insatiable she is! We barely had the door shut after nine last night and it was on—by four in the morning I thought my hips were going to give out, but she just wouldn't quit! Grabbed me by the back of the neck, dug her nails into my back… Bro, I fucked her half the night until the whole bed frame was squeaking like a rusty swing! You were out cold, though, right? Hope we didn't wake you!"

"No, no… all good," I lied through a thick throat, pouring the steaming coffee and setting a full mug down before him. "I… I'm a heavy sleeper."

"Legend!" Timo declared, taking a greedy swallow before shoveling a forkful of hot scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Seriously, John, thanks for being so damn cool about it. Any other stepbrother would make a massive drama out of it, but you… you're just the best wingman a guy could ask for!"

At that moment, the kitchen door glided fully open.

Loona entered. She wore a floor-length, pearl-colored silk robe, tied loosely around her narrow waist, falling open with each stride to reveal her smooth thighs. Her long, jet-black hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, save for a single delicate strand that had escaped to frame her temple. Her features looked well-rested, cool, and untouchable. Her lips were slightly swollen, and behind her penetrating, emerald-green eyes lay that dangerous, crystalline focus that had knocked the wind out of me the very first time we met.

"Good morning, boys," she purred softly.

Timo’s eyes locked onto her immediately. Reaching out as she passed, he caught the hem of her silk robe and tugged her briskly toward him. "Well now, did the wildcat get enough rest?"

Loona giggled, smoothing the loose strand from her brow with an elegant motion, letting herself be pulled briefly onto his lap. She planted a wet kiss on his lips and ran her cool fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "There's no such thing as catching up on sleep around you, Timo. You completely wrecked me."

Over Timo’s broad shoulder, her piercing green eyes found mine.

No more giggling. Not a shred of sympathy. The look she directed at me carried a razor-sharp, absolute authority. Her brows arched by a fraction of a millimeter; the vivid green of her irises bored into my face, then traveled down my sweatshirt, mapping the concealed contours of my groin, demanding silent, unconditional submission. *Posture,* her eyes commanded. *Do not waver. You are the domestic prop.*

Disengaging smoothly from Timo, she took a seat at the table and crossed her bare legs. Beneath the tabletop, her foot glided forward. Her delicate, bare toes located my shin without missing a beat, traveled slowly upward, and bore down with noticeable force against the steel housing beneath my sweatpants. The cylinder rammed deep into my irritated pubic bone.

"Coffee for me, John," she ordered in a honeyed tone, without looking at me. "And put the toast on the table. Timo has an appetite like a bear today, after all."

"Right away," I replied submissively, filling her cup and setting the plate down. Under the table, her toes maintained the steel pressure, locking me into a constant, agonizing brace while Timo uninhibitedly expounded on his conquests and Loona nodded along with a mocking smile. I stood beside them, clearing plates, wiping away crumbs—the castrated servant laying out a feast for his best friend.

After our late breakfast, Loona changed into her white tennis outfit, packed her sports bag, and saw herself out with a bright, fleeting smile toward Grunewald. A brief, appraising glance from her piercing green eyes struck me in the hallway—a silent directive to maintain the facade before the apartment door clicked shut.

With her departure, Timo and I settled back into old habits.

"Finally got the place to ourselves, man!" Timo cheered, throwing himself onto the wide living room sofa, kicking his bare feet up onto the coffee table, and grabbing the PlayStation controller. "Come on, John, boot it up! Time for an absolute beating in FIFA!"

I sat down beside him, taking care not to pinch my knees too closely together so as not to arouse suspicion. Yet every shift against the cushions was a high-wire act: the heavy cylinder drove into my pubic bone with every lean, and the burgundy lace straps chafed against my hips with every turn. Whenever my face tightened, I passed it off as frustration over a missed shot on goal.

Timo suspected nothing. To him, my attentiveness was simply hospitality.

"Bro, you really are the chillest host on earth," he remarked after two hours, leaning back comfortably and gesturing toward the empty bottles beside the console. "Grab us another two beers from the kitchen, would you? And do you still have any of those salted pistachios?"

"Sure, on it," I replied, standing up carefully, suppressing a groan as the cold metal struck against my sensitive flesh. In the kitchen, I poured drinks, uncapped bottles, arranged nuts into small bowls, and carried everything into the living room on a wooden tray. To Timo, it was great service between friends; to me, every movement burned as a mute reminder of my actual role in this flat.

In the afternoon, we headed out. Timo needed fresh air and wanted to stroll the streets around Winterfeldtplatz, grab a kebab, and watch the crowd. I wore loose cargo trousers and a heavy down coat to obscure any revealing outlines. While Timo made loud jokes about girls on the sidewalk and companionably bumped his fist against my bicep, every stride demanded deliberate composure. The padlock swung in time with my steps, an unseen, ice-cold anchor between my legs, as passersby walked past two seemingly carefree students.

Around seven in the evening, we returned to the apartment. Shortly after, Loona unlocked the front door.

She had traded her tennis gear for tight black jeans and a dark green silk top that brought out the color of her eyes. Her long black hair was freshly washed, falling smooth down her back. In her hands, she carried two heavy paper bags from an Italian delicatessen.

"Well, did you two have fun?" she asked in a honeyed tone, setting the bags on the kitchen counter.

"Incredible, dream girl," Timo grinned, immediately stepping up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist, and kissing her neck. "John took care of everything. But I'm starving now."

Loona chuckled softly, leaning into his embrace for a second and stroking his beard, before her green eyes shifted past his shoulder onto me. The look was sharp, exacting, and laced with absolute command.

"John, help me unpack," she said with casual authority. "Put the antipasti on the large platter, warm the olives, and set the table in the living room for the three of us. Timo should relax."

"I'll get it done," I managed, stepping up to the counter.

"Man, you spoil me way too much," Timo laughed, clapping my shoulder in passing before wandering back into the living room with a fresh beer.

The second he was out of earshot, Loona stepped close. Her hand slid beneath the hem of my sweatshirt, traced up my back, and glided forward until her cool fingers ran with deliberate force across the waistband of my cargo trousers. She drove her nails firmly against the bulge of the steel housing. A dull pain radiated into my groin.

"Good boy," she breathed into my ear, her warm breath skimming my cheek. "You played the part to perfection today. Just dinner left. Hang in there, John. Only a few more hours…"