a taste of your best friend

The ward rounds on Station 14 dragged on like stiff rubber. Every time I leaned over a hospital bed to inspect a surgical drain or check a pulse, my freshly sealed nails caught the glare of the fluorescent lighting. I could feel Mira’s amused, probing gaze boring into my back. The constant terror that the stiff collar of my coat might shift and expose the black velvet choker with its miniature chrome padlock drove cold sweat across my freshly lasered, burning chest. With every stride through the endless corridors, the fabric of my trousers grated mercilessly over my bare thighs, while the Neukölln steel ring pressed my pubic bone into absolute numbness.

When the shift finally ended and I returned to the flat, no respite awaited me.

The days leading up to the weekend blurred into a grueling routine of submission and digital surveillance. At 07:00 sharp every morning and 22:00 sharp every night, I stood before the bathroom mirror. Phone in trembling hands, I aimed the camera at my bare pelvis, focused on the tiny cylinder lock, and keyed the mandated phrase into the notes app: *"Ring intact, no chafing, obedience maintained."* A few seconds later, the silent checkmark appeared on the display—Loona’s clearance. A single misstep, a delay of merely five minutes, and *Kidslox* would have crippled my entire academic existence.

On Friday evening, the front door swung shut with a heavy, jarring rattle.

Heavy boots clattered through the hallway, accompanied by booming, cheerful laughter.

"Yo, John! Open up, man, my hands are full!" Timo’s familiar voice echoed through the apartment.

My stomach seized instantly. Instinctively hiking the turtleneck higher to cover the choker entirely, I stepped out of my room.

Timo filled the hallway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a black leather jacket. In both arms, he was hauling a surprisingly large, heavy cardboard box wrapped tight in layers of brown packing tape. The shipping label came from a specialized manufacturer of medical equipment and studio supplies—addressed to Timo’s student apartment in his university town.

"Holy shit, what on earth did you order here?" Timo wheezed with a grin, dropping the parcel onto the sideboard with a heavy, echoing thud. He wiped his brow and clapped me firmly on the shoulder with his open palm—squarely against the freshly lasered skin that was still throbbing with heat. I flinched involuntarily, clamping my jaw shut.

"I swear that thing weighs five kilos easily," Timo bantered on, looking me up and down with a smirk. "Some new anatomy model for your Charité exams? Or why are you redirecting your junk through my place? Be glad I was heading to Berlin for the weekend anyway, otherwise I’d be charging you postage, bro."

"Yeah… thanks, Timo," I managed hoarsely, staring transfixed at the box.

I knew with absolute certainty what rested inside that parcel: the new, massive silicone prosthetic with its matching M10 thread—larger, heavier, designed for far more punishing utility. And my best friend had personally carried it to my bedroom door without the faintest suspicion, convinced he was doing his buddy a harmless favor.

"Well now, look at that, the courier has arrived," a velvety, cool voice purred behind us.

Loona leaned against the kitchen doorframe. She was wearing a form-fitting black knit dress, her emerald eyes glittering with sharp malice. Gliding toward us with measured steps, she rested a hand on Timo’s chest and planted a casual, intimate kiss on his cheek.

"Hello, Timo," she cooed. "Punctual as ever. We’ve been waiting for this delivery."

Timo grinned broadly, visibly flattered by her attention. "Anything for you two, Loona. But first I need an ice-cold beer. The motorway was pure hell."

"John will bring one right to the living room," Loona decided smoothly, not bothering to look at me. "He takes care of everything. Don't you, little one?"

The moniker cut straight to the bone, but Timo didn't even register the venom beneath it. Flashing me a wide grin, he clapped my back once more and strolled into the living room, collapsing onto the sofa.

The instant he was out of sight, Loona’s expression shifted to ice. Stepping close, she hoisted the cardboard box and drove it hard against my chest with both hands. The dense weight bore down brutally onto my pubic bone; the steel ring dug deep into my perineal seam.

"Into my room with it," she whispered into my ear with cutting hardness. "On the rug by the foot of my bed. And then get Timo his beer. We have major plans for you tonight, my loser."

Her words turned the blood in my veins to ice.

Later that night, when the apartment was swallowed by absolute darkness and the adjoining room vibrated with the rhythmic creaking of Loona’s bed—Timo sleeping with her, completely oblivious, celebrating himself as the sovereign conqueror—I lay wide awake in my room. My body burned. The thirty-five millimeters of surgical steel pulsed against my pelvis with every heartbeat.

Hours dragged on as the pre-war flat sank into leaden silence.

The rhythmic thumping and the hoarse gasps from Loona’s bedroom had long faded away. Sometime around two in the morning, I had heard Timo pad heavily down the hall to the bathroom, the pipes rattle, and moments later the sound of him collapsing back into the pillows with deep, sated snores. For forty-five long minutes, dead quiet held the apartment.

I lay motionless on my back, the duvet pulled tight to my chin. Beneath the sheets, the Neukölln steel cage pulsed against my irritated pubic bone; the bare, treated thighs still throbbed like an open burn.

Then my bedroom door cracked open with a barely audible click.

A thin sliver of light from the hallway spilled across the floorboards. Loona slipped inside, closed the door soundlessly behind her, and turned the key. She was wearing only a short, unbuttoned silk slip. Her hair was tousled, her lips flushed, and as she stepped toward my mattress, a wave of her perfume washed over me—mingled heavily with the unmistakable, musky scent of Timo’s sweat and fresh semen.

Reaching for **my** smartphone on the nightstand, she unlocked it with a fleeting glance into Face ID and stepped to the edge of the mattress.

"Blanket off, little one," she whispered with velvety hardness.

I pulled the sheet aside. From the pocket of her slip, she drew out the gossamer burgundy lace thong, tossing it over my knees with a cool flick of her wrist.

"Put it on. Immediately."

With trembling fingers, I worked my legs into it. The elastic lace snapped taut across my pelvis; the narrow bridge hugged the contour of the 35-millimeter cylinder, leaving the hairless, raw thighs completely bare.

"Knees up, part your legs slightly," she commanded.

Raising my phone, Loona framed the lens directly on my feminized groin and stripped thighs. The display lit her face in cold light for a brief second. *Click.* The angle was calculated to perfection: from this perspective, it showed immaculate, hairless legs framed in red lace spread across tangled sheets.

Without hesitation, she opened my WhatsApp, navigated to the lads' group—the exact chat where Timo and his schoolmates routinely bragged about conquests—and sent the image directly from my account. Not a single word of commentary. A silent, arrogant trophy of a supposed midnight conquest right under the roof of the shared flat.

"There," she breathed, setting the phone down onto the nightstand with a solid click. Her emerald eyes glinted in the pale streetlight with dark, unsparing malice. "Tomorrow morning Timo will rub his eyes at what his quiet flatmate is supposedly getting up to. The silent operator. But now for you, my loser."

Climbing onto the mattress with slow, deliberate grace, she gathered the silk slip upward with both hands and straddled my face.

The heat of her body hit me like a wall. The heavy, damp stench of Timo’s climax—musky, sharp, laced with Loona’s sweet lily perfume—filled my mouth and nostrils with suffocating intensity. It was the scent of raw, unbridled consumption.

"Tongue out," she ordered with velvety resolve, locking her thighs around my temples like a vice. "Timo was exceptionally generous tonight. He unloaded deep inside me, with real conviction. And I will not have a single drop wasted on my sheets. Clean me up, little one. A taste of your best friend."

Her red nails dug into my scalp, gripping my hair to haul my face upward until my lips met her slick center.

As the tip of my tongue grazed her folds, the viscous, warm fluid spilled against my skin. The bitter, salty tang of Timo’s release flooded my mouth instantly. My stomach seized in an automatic gag reflex, bile rising in my throat—yet Loona tightened her thighs immediately, cutting off my air, denying me the slightest retreat.

"Swallow it, John," she hissed down at me, a low, carnal sigh trembling through her frame. "Every single drop. You want to be a good little girl, don't you? Taste what he did to me while you were lying awake over here waiting. Taste how a real man fills me."

Her words scorched through my pride like acid. The sheer inescapability of the moment dismantled me from within. Moving my tongue, I swept across her swollen lips methodically, driving deep into her folds to catch the heavy threads of fluid. Every swallow forced against the tight velvet choker around my windpipe was pure physical strain that brought tears to my eyes.

Loona tilted her head back. Her eyes half-closed, lips parted, she let out low, broken moans as she rolled her hips, grinding herself deeper into my face. She savored every drop of her triumph: absolute dominion over two men at once. One asleep two doors down, basking in the illusion of being the undisputed stud of the night—and the other broken beneath her, locked in steel, lapping up the conqueror's leftovers from her flesh on command.

Deep within my frame, the most treacherous response took over: instead of choking on revulsion, my nerves fired an overwhelming pulse of raw arousal. The absolute perversity of the humiliation drove my erectile tissue to push desperately against its constraints. It collided with brutal force against the interior of the steel cylinder; the spermatic cords pulled taut with sharp pain. The asymmetric base ring bit into my raw perineum, while the burgundy lace pinned the metal hard to my pubic bone. I was utterly powerless. A compliant, chaste servant forced to swallow his best friend’s seed to keep his mistress clean.

Feeling my frame twitching helplessly beneath her knees, a low, throaty chuckle broke from her lips.

"Look at that…," she whispered, sliding a hand down my stomach until her fingers met the chilled curve of the surgical steel beneath the lace. She tapped a fingernail mockingly against the M10 thread. "My little loser is getting restless down there. Do you like Timo’s fluids that much? Does it excite you to eat his scraps? You really are good for nothing else anymore."

She kept my face pinned firmly against her for another agonizing minute, until she felt my tongue had cleaned her folds completely. Not a trace remained against her skin.

Only then did she release the iron grip of her thighs, sliding down off my face. Breathing heavily, she sat straddling my thighs, brushing a dark lock from her forehead, studying my damp, flushed features with absolute gratification.

Running her thumb over my lower lip, she collected the final sheen of moisture, wiping it across my burning cheek in reward.

"Good job cleaning up, my loser. Down to the very last trace. Exactly as it should be for my property."

Rising smoothly, she straightened her silk slip and stepped silently toward the door. Pausing at the threshold, she turned the key in the lock without a sound and glanced back over her shoulder.

"Now sleep. We have breakfast in a few hours. And when Timo brings up that photo, you play the coy stud. One wrong word, and I show him the video of how you just washed my lap."