for my pet

The leather of the passenger seat felt like a red-hot griddle.

Every bump along Lietzenburger Straße shuddered mercilessly through the chassis straight into my pelvis. The asymmetric base ring hammered against my raw, scorched periosteum, while the thirty-five millimeters of seamless surgical steel compressed my shrunken flesh with unyielding force. Through the thin cotton of my trousers radiated the heat of my inflamed skin, and with the slightest shift in weight, the coarse weave sawed like sandpaper across my bare shins, my inner thighs, and the hairless perineal gap.

I stared stubbornly through the windshield at the grey convoy of traffic ahead, hands clenched tightly into fists to bury my high-gloss fingernails deep into my palms. Yet behind my eyelids, the events of the past hour replayed in an endless, searing loop.

I saw Chiara and Selin before me—their wide, incredulous eyes behind the protective goggles, the smothered chuckles, the snorting behind their black nitrile gloves. I saw Sophie with the rattling silver tray, her jaw dropping open before fleeing the booth, only to broadcast every humiliating detail to Jana and the others down the corridor in a breathless, hysterical whisper.

My stomach seized with such violence that nausea rose in my throat. What were the three of them doing at this very moment?

They were undoubtedly gathered behind the champagne-colored counter right now, leaning over the glass vitrines, nursing their coffees, and laughing until tears pooled in their eyes. Chiara would be gesturing with her hands, demonstrating to Sophie just how microscopic those thirty-five millimeters had looked against my body. Selin would be shaking her head, whispering to the ladies lounging in the velvet armchairs why Loona held her companion on such a ridiculously short leash. They all knew. Every single one of those attractive, elegant women in their powder-pink tunics now knew that I was not merely emasculated and stripped of agency, but that my pubic bone bore the indelible laser brand: *Loona’s Property*.

And the absolute worst of it—the thought that sent blood coursing like molten lead through my veins—was that this was merely the beginning. Chiara’s parting words echoed pitilessly in my ears: *See you for your next session in four weeks.*

In four weeks, I would have to walk back through those doors. I would step into that exact same reception area, forced to look those exact same women in the eye while they knew precisely what lay sealed beneath my trousers. I would have to strip down before them again, climb onto that same treatment bed, part my knees, and watch them coat my locked flesh with chilled gel while trading jokes about whether I asked for permission to breathe in the morning. There was no escape.

My breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. And while my pride burned to ash under this absolute exposure, something far more treasonous stirred deep within my frame: a dark, suffocating wave of arousal broke across my pelvis. The prospect of that inevitable, recurring surrender, of existing in a state of total, inescapable vulnerability, provoked a dizzying, illicit craving. My erectile tissue attempted to react on instinct—only to collide with cutting hardness against the flat front cap of the cylinder. A sharp, stinging strain tore through my spermatic cords, yanking me violently back to reality.

"Stop fidgeting, John," Loona’s cool, velvety voice sliced through the spiral of my thoughts.

She steered smoothly through the intersection with one hand on the wheel, while her other hand reached across the console to rest on my thigh. Even through the fabric, the light contact of her fingers on my freshly lasered skin burned like an open flame.

"My… my skin is burning like hell, Loona," I forced out hoarsely, beads of sweat tracking down my temple. "The cloth is chafing with every millimeter. And the girls at the salon… they know everything now. They're laughing at me. They know that I… that I'm completely locked away down there. Couldn't we… couldn't we just head back to the flat for an hour? I need a cold shower, some healing ointment… please."

Loona let out a low laugh, pressing her fingertips with calculated firmness deeper into my tender flesh. A strangled gasp escaped my lips.

"A break? Because your thighs are a little pink?" she purred with mock sympathy, casting me an amused glance from her emerald-green eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, my tool. The laser stimulates circulation. The fresh air along Tauentzienstraße will do you good. And as for Chiara and Selin: of course they're laughing. They just saw a grown man being disciplined by his stepsister like an unruly teenager. They find it delightful. Just as I do."

She lifted her hand from my leg, caught the gear lever, and swung the car briskly onto Tauentzienstraße. Ahead of us, the massive sandstone facade of KaDeWe loomed against the Berlin sky.

"And you'd better grow accustomed to the idea, John," she continued with offhand sharpness. "In four weeks, you will march right back through those glass doors with your head held high. You will greet the ladies politely, lie down on the table, and thank them for looking after you. You are no longer an unrefined, coarse brute. You belong to me—and I do not tolerate half-measures when it comes to my property."

She guided the car purposefully into the luxury department store’s multi-story parking garage. The barrier lifted, and we rolled into the dim, cool concrete labyrinth. Cutting the engine, Loona turned fully toward me in her seat.

Her gaze swept over my high-gloss nails, my clenched hands, and the sweet, powdery fragrance of lily and vanilla that saturated the car’s interior. An expression of uncontested dominion settled over her features.

"Right then, out you get. We're heading to the accessories department on the ground floor. You will walk precisely two paces behind me, carry my bags, and keep your mouth shut. Richard’s money is waiting to be spent. And I already have the exact piece in mind to adorn your throat to match your groin."

The harsh fluorescent light of the KaDeWe parking deck stung my eyes as I dragged myself out of the passenger seat.

Every fiber of my trousers felt like coarse grit against my raw, stripped legs. Straightening up, the flat cap of the thirty-five-millimeter cylinder drove sharply into my sensitized glans; the asymmetric Neukölln base ring bit with unyielding rigidity into the inflamed skin of my perineum. My body trembled under the twin burdens of mechanical confinement and the throbbing heat of the laser treatment.

Loona shut the driver’s door with a solid, metallic thud. She wore her tailored wool coat unbuttoned, her designer handbag slung casually over her shoulder. Rounding the hood, her eyes surveyed me with cool appraisal.

"Posture, John," she instructed with quiet, unmistakable authority. "Shoulders back. Chin up. You're slouching like a beaten cur."

"Loona, please…," I murmured hoarsely, sweat prickling across my forehead. "The fabric is chafing with every step. And the scent… people are going to notice immediately."

"They will notice a man who is impeccably groomed and possesses the decency to serve his mistress," she countered coldly, stepping close to straighten the collar of my jacket with meticulous precision. Her red-lacquered nails grazed my throat, right where the heavy, sweet essence of lily and vanilla radiated from my heated skin. "Two paces back. Eyes forward. No complaints. We certainly aren't going to let Richard’s money gather dust in the bank."

Turning on her heel, her pumps clicking sharply across the concrete, she strode toward the sliding glass doors leading into the department store. Clamping my jaw tight to stifle a groan, I forced my legs forward. Exactly two paces behind her. With every stride, the fabric abraded my bare thighs, firing searing signals up my spine and stinging the corners of my eyes with tears.

As the doors parted to reveal the ground-floor perfumery and accessories hall, a wave of warm air, subdued jazz, and gleaming decadence washed over us.

The contrast was staggering. Polished marble reflected the warm halogen glow; around the counters of Chanel, Dior, and Saint Laurent clustered well-heeled shoppers, professionals, and tourists. And marching right through the center was me: inwardly shattered, unmanned, my body beneath my clothes a single burning abrasion, padlocked in surgical steel bearing the brand *Loona’s Property*. In every mirrored showcase we passed, I caught glimpses of my reflection. My arms hung stiffly at my sides, the fresh lacquer on my nails catching the overhead spotlights with an unmistakable, glassy sheen at the slightest turn of my wrists.

Loona navigated straight toward a high-end leather goods and women's accessories boutique. A sales associate in a sharp trouser suit approached with a practiced, elegant smile.

"Good afternoon. May I show you something specific?"

"Yes, please," Loona replied with effortless poise. "I'm looking for a narrow collar. Jet-black, velvet or very fine nappa leather. A snug, rigid fit is essential—and a closure secured by a discreet padlock. It's for my… pet at home. He is to wear it permanently."

The associate blinked for a fraction of a second, but polished retail composure asserted itself instantly. "Of course. We have just received an exquisite piece from Paris. One moment, please."

Stepping over to a glass display case, she used white cotton gloves to extract a flat velvet tray, setting it onto the counter. Resting upon it was a band barely a thumb's width wide, fashioned from midnight-black velvet and lined on the reverse with supple calfskin. The ends met at polished eyelets secured by a tiny, teardrop-shaped padlock of mirror-finished chrome steel, barely larger than a fingernail.

"A bespoke boutique piece," the clerk noted admiringly. "Adjustable, yet completely tamper-proof once locked."

Loona picked up the band, letting the plush fabric glide through her fingers before casting me a meaningful look. "It's perfect. We'll take it. And we'll fit it right now."

Turning to face me, she pointed a manicured index finger toward the floor directly before her feet. "Step forward, John. Jacket open, clear your collar."

My pulse hammered in my ears. All around us, other patrons were browsing leather totes and silk scarves. The sales associate looked on with an impassive, yet intensely focused expression. With trembling fingers, I lowered the zipper of my jacket and folded the collar of my shirt outward. The sweet, heady vapor of lily and vanilla billowed from my neckline, filling the space between us. In doing so, my buffed, clear-lacquered nails caught the direct glare of the vitrine lighting. The clerk's gaze flicked instantly from my glossy fingertips to my flushed throat.

"Lift your chin," Loona commanded with soft, accustomed authority.

Moving as if in a trance, I obeyed, lifting my jaw and baring my throat. Loona stepped in so close I could feel the warmth of her breath against my cheek. With cool fingers, she positioned the velvet band around my neck. The calfskin lining settled tight, almost suffocating against my carotid artery. It was drawn taut—so snug that swallowing required a deliberate, strained effort.

Aligning the eyelets, she threaded the miniature padlock through and snapped the shackle shut.

A crisp, delicate *click* carried through the air.

The lock had engaged. Loona withdrew the tiny key, letting it drop with a soft jingle into her handbag—straight into the compartment holding the radial key to my Neukölln cage—before tracing her thumb across the black velvet at my throat.

"Suits him wonderfully, don't you think?" she remarked casually to the woman behind the counter.

"Very… neat," the sales associate replied with a refined, professional smile that carried a distinct, knowing thread of amusement. "That will be three hundred and eighty euros."

"Card, please," Loona said without a moment's hesitation, reaching into her bag to draw out her sleek, black credit card.

With an offhand gesture, she tapped the card against the terminal. The device chimed with a crisp, confirming tone. Richard’s merit bonus—which she had drained in its entirety into her own account at the breakfast table—shrank by another three hundred and eighty euros: dedicated to the tight velvet band that now visually marked me as her property above the collar line.

The associate slipped the receipt and the empty velvet case into an embossed, glossy white bag strung with silk cords, passing it across the counter with a practiced nod. Loona took the bag and pressed it firmly against my chest with a cool, sidelong glance.

"Two paces behind me, John," she instructed softly, already turning her steps back toward the escalators. "And do not touch it. That collar stays exactly where it sits—day and night."

I swallowed with difficulty against the constricting band around my throat. Below, the diode laser throbbed across my bare, raw legs while the surgical steel held my pelvis in an uncompromising clamp; above, the locked mechanism pressed against my windpipe, as I trailed behind my owner, carrying her shopping through the bustling aisles of KaDeWe.