Visit 3

Saturday morning broke over Berlin with unforgiving light. I had barely slept a wink all night; the acoustic echoes from the room next door had drilled themselves into my brain like white-hot needles. Shortly after eight, I was standing in the kitchen, functioning on mechanical auto-pilot.

The coffee machine gurgled hoarsely, while scrambled eggs with chives and bacon sizzled in the cast-iron skillet. Outwardly, I presented the familiar picture of the attentive flat host in a comfortable grey sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants. Yet beneath the soft cotton lurked the uncompromising reality: the burgundy lace cut taut between my buttocks, and the heavy cylinder chafed with every step against my shrunken, feverish flesh. The small padlock swung in time with my movements, an unceasing reminder of the steel cell that denied me every physical response.

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

The kitchen door flew open. Timo stood in the frame—clad only in a pair of rumpled grey boxer shorts. His hair stood wildly on end, his broad torso still bore the red marks of the night, and his face beamed with that brazen, sated satisfaction that a man possesses only after hours of uninhibited conquest.

"Morning, bro!" Timo boomed hoarsely, stepping up behind me at the stove and slapping my back with his flat palm so forcefully that the cylinder was driven deep into my pubic bone. I had to grit my teeth to keep from groaning in pain and nausea.

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

"Sleep? Man, are you kidding me?" Timo laughed uproariously, dragging a chair over and dropping into it with his legs sprawled wide. He leaned back, laced his muscular arms behind his head, and grinned at me. "Bro, I swear to you 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 begin to 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—and by four in the morning I thought my hips were going to fall off, but she just wouldn't quit! Grabbed me by the neck, dug her nails into my back… Bro, I fucked her half the night until the whole bed squeaked like a rusty swing! You were dead to the world, 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 shouted, taking a greedy gulp and shoveling a forkful of hot scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Seriously, John, thanks for being so damn relaxed about it. Any other stepbrother would make a massive drama out of it, but you… you're just the best wingman of all time!"

At that moment, the kitchen door glided fully open.

Loona stepped inside. She wore a floor-length, pearl-colored silk robe, tied only loosely around her narrow waist, falling open with every stride to reveal her smooth thighs. Her long, jet-black hair was tied back into a high ponytail; only a single fine strand had come undone, falling softly past her temple. Her features appeared rested, cool, and untouchable. Her lips were slightly swollen, and behind her penetrating, emerald-green eyes lay that dangerous, crystal-clear alertness that had pulled the ground out from under my feet the very first time we met.

"Good morning, boys," she purred softly.

Timo’s gaze locked onto her instantly. Reaching out as she passed, he grabbed her by the hem of the silk fabric and pulled her briskly toward him. "Well now, did the wildcat sleep in?"

Loona giggled, brushed the loose strand from her forehead with an elegant motion, and let herself be pulled briefly onto his lap. She planted a loud, 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 sleeping in with you, Timo. You completely wrecked me."

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

No more giggling. Not a trace of mercy. The look she leveled at me was of a cutting, absolute sharpness. Her brows lifted by a millimeter; the vivid green of her irises bored into my face, then traveled appraisingly down my sweatshirt, seeking the concealed contours of my groin, demanding silent, unconditional submission. *Posture*, her eyes commanded. *Do not waver. You are the piece of domestic furniture.*

She disengaged smoothly from Timo, sat down at the table, and crossed her bare legs. Beneath the wooden tabletop, her foot glided forward. Her delicate, bare toes found my shin with unerring accuracy, traveled slowly upward, and pressed with palpable force against the steel housing beneath my sweatpants. The cylinder rammed deep into my irritated pubic bone.

"Coffee for me, John," she commanded in a honeyed voice, 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 serving the plate. Under the table, her toes maintained the steel pressure, forcing me into a constant, agonizing brace while Timo shamelessly held forth on his sexual conquests and Loona nodded along with a mocking smile. I stood beside them, dishing out food, wiping away crumbs—the castrated houseboy laying out a feast for his best friend.

After the late breakfast, Loona changed into her white tennis outfit, packed her sports bag, and saw herself off toward Grunewald with a fleeting, radiant smile. A brief, appraising glance from her piercing green eyes caught me in the hallway—a silent order to maintain my composure before the front door clicked shut.

For Timo and me, her departure signaled the welcome return of old buddy rituals.

"Finally got the place to ourselves, man!" Timo cheered, throwing himself onto the wide living room couch, propping his bare feet up on the coffee table, and grabbing the PlayStation controller. "Come on, John, fire up the console! Time for a thrashing in FIFA!"

I sat down next to him, taking care not to clamp my knees together too tightly so as not to arouse suspicion. Yet every movement on the soft upholstery was a high-wire act: the heavy cylinder drove into my pubic bone with every shift of weight, 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 didn't suspect a thing. To him, my reserve was simply the height of hospitable care.

"Bro, you really are the most laid-back host of all time," he remarked after two hours, leaning back comfortably and pointing to the empty bottles beside the console. "Grab us another two lagers from the kitchen, would you? And do you have any more of those salted pistachios?"

"Sure, on it," I replied, standing up carefully and stifling a groan as the cold metal knocked 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 prime flat-share service among friends; to me, every movement burned as a mute reminder of my actual role in this apartment.

In the afternoon, we headed out. Timo needed fresh air and wanted to wander through the streets around Winterfeldtplatz, grab a döner kebab, and watch the crowd. I wore loose cargo trousers and a thick down jacket to obscure any revealing outlines. While Timo made loud jokes about girls on the sidewalk and companionably bumped his fist against my bicep, every step demanded deliberate composure. The padlock swung in time with my stride, an unseen, ice-cold anchor between my legs, as passersby walked past two seemingly carefree students without a second thought.

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

She had traded her tennis gear for tight black jeans and a dark green silk top that made her eyes glow. Her long black hair was freshly washed, falling sleek 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 voice, setting the bags on the kitchen counter.

"Outstanding, 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 like a wolf now."

Loona chuckled softly, leaned into his embrace for a moment, and stroked his stubble before her green eyes shifted past his shoulder onto me. The look was sharp, precise, 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 rest."

"I'm on it," I managed, stepping up to the counter.

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

The second he was out of earshot, Loona stepped close. Her hand slipped 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 pressed her fingernails squarely against the bulge of the steel housing. A dull pain shot 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 now. Hang in there, John. Only a few more hours…"

Dinner in the living room played out like another round of that bizarre parlor game.

I carried in the bowls of warm olives, the cured ham, and the aged cheeses, arranged the plates and cutlery, and filled the glasses with heavy red wine. Timo sat sprawled out on the couch, popping olives into his mouth and loudly praising the Italian delicacies to the skies.

"Man, John, this prosciutto is out of this world!" Timo exclaimed, chewing with relish as he raised his wine glass to toast me. "And you’re serving it up like a five-star hotel! Bro, you honestly have what it takes to be the perfect butler. When I open my own law firm later, I’m hiring you on the spot!"

"I'll make sure to send over a formal application," I replied through a dry throat, forcing a faint laugh as I cleared the empty bread basket.

Diagonally behind him, Loona leaned against the arm of the chair. Her piercing green eyes glinted in the warm candlelight. She took a sip of her wine, tucked a stray lock of hair from her forehead with an elegant motion, and studied me with that cool, triumphant smirk that dismantled every fiber of my resolve. She was enjoying Timo’s clueless jokes far more than the food itself. To Timo, it was playful teasing between friends; to her, it was pure reality, celebrated right before the eyes of my best pal.

When the plates were cleared and the second bottle of wine was nearly drained, Timo yawned heartily and stretched his arms wide.

"God, this day out in the Berlin air completely wrecked me," he muttered, standing up and patting his stomach. He stepped over to Loona, brazenly planted his hands on her hips, and pulled her close. "And what about you, beautiful? Got any energy left for a rematch, or are you calling it a night?"

Loona laughed softly, looped her arms around the back of his neck, and playfully nipped his chin. "Don't flatter yourself into thinking you can wear me down that easily, Timo. Go on ahead to the bedroom. I'm just going to finish my glass."

Timo grinned from ear to ear, gave her a resounding smack on the backside, shot me a wink on his way out—*"Catch you tomorrow, wingman!"*—and vanished down the hall into her bedroom.

The second the door latched shut, the jovial atmosphere died in the apartment. The bourgeois charade was terminated in a heartbeat.

Loona turned toward me slowly. Her piercing green eyes glittered in the dim light of the living room like cut glass. The playful, flirtatious charm she had displayed for Timo evaporated completely from her features; in its place stepped that uncompromising, possessive chill that shook me to the core every single time.

She set her wine glass on the side table, walked over, and halted right in front of me.

"On your knees, John," she whispered with velvety firmness. "Now."

My body obeyed before my mind could even process the command. I dropped onto the rug before her, eyes pinned to the floor. The heavy steel cylinder pressed stiffly against my pubic bone, while the burgundy lace straps cut deep into my hips.

Loona gathered the hem of her dark green silk top in both hands and eased the waistband of her tight black jeans down with a fluid motion. Unfastening the button, she pushed the denim and her delicate lace underwear aside, stepping a pace closer until her lap hovered only inches from my face.

"Look at me," she commanded softly.

I lifted my head and met her gaze. Leaning down, she gathered my hair in a firm fist at the back of my head, pulling me forward demandingly. Her warm, intimate scent flooded my senses—an overwhelming, sinful heat that instantly drove the blood to my temples.

"Tongue out," she breathed against my face, a cruel, sugary smile curling her lips. "Warm me up for your best friend. Get me wet for Timo. I want him to slide right into me without any effort at all."

A strangled gasp broke from my throat. The sheer perversity of the order choked the breath in my lungs: kneeling before her, locked away and utterly helpless, condemned to prepare my mistress's body for the man waiting for her in the bedroom barely thirty feet away.

"Do it, John," she whispered sternly, pressing my face firmly between her thighs. "Serve me."

I parted my lips and extended my tongue. The tip brushed against her soft, damp petals. A shiver ran through her body, and she let out a long, ragged exhale. Driven by practiced desperation, I began to lick her. I circled her most sensitive nerve, swept along her wet folds, tasting her heat and drinking in the moisture that gathered with every breath.

Deep within my steel capsule, a fierce, agonizing heat flared up. My shrunken tissue strained to swell, wanting to rebel against this bottomless indignity—yet the ring held firm, biting into my skin and transmuting every impulse into sheer helplessness. I was tasting the woman I was forbidden to ever claim, acutely aware of who was about to reap the rewards of this groundwork within minutes.

Loona’s grip in my hair tightened; her breathing grew faster and hotter.

"Mmmh… yes, just like that…," she groaned hoarsely, rolling her pelvis demandingly against my mouth. "Make me nice and wet… Timo is going to love it…"

Just as my tongue found its rhythm and the intoxicating taste was threatening to unravel my sanity completely, she yanked my head back with a sharp, sudden jerk.

"That's enough," she breathed, catching her breath.

I was left kneeling there, lips wet, panting into the empty air.

Stepping back, Loona smoothed her lingerie back into place and fastened her jeans with absolute poise. Looking down at me, she ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, studying me with piercing, emerald eyes that glittered with bottomless, mocking triumph.

"Perfect," she remarked quietly, dragging her knuckles across my wet cheek. "Good servant. Now: clear the table, kill the lights, and get into your room. Not a single sound. You know what comes next."

Spinning on her heels, she smoothed her silk top and padded softly down the hall to her room. The door glided open; I caught the deep, eager rumble of Timo’s laugh before the wood clicked shut with a heavy latch.

Numb, I hauled myself to my feet. My knees were shaking so hard that the small padlock knocked against the steel cylinder with every step. I cleared the bowls from the table, washed the glasses mechanically at the sink, and turned off the living room lights.

In the dark of my own room, I stripped off my clothes. Clad only in the narrow lace thong and the cold steel capsule, I lay flat on my bed, pulled the blanket over my chest, and stared fixedly at the ceiling.

And then the wall collapsed over me.

The heavy bed frame in the adjoining room began pounding that very second in a hard, rhythmic cadence against the baseboard.

"God, Loona…," Timo’s rough, guttural voice boomed through the cracked plaster. "You're soaking wet… were you already waiting for me, you little tease?"

Loona answered with an uninhibited, loud moan that cut unfiltered straight into my ears: "Just take me, Timo… harder! Drive it all the way in!"

The wet, slapping impact of skin against skin broke out, fast and punishing, two bodies running at an all-out sprint. The wood groaned, the springs squeaked, and Loona cried out her pleasure into the room—louder and more unbridled than she had the night before. With every sound, she ensured that nothing was lost on me.

I pressed my palms against my ears, but the noise bored straight into my skull. The taste of her was still on my lips while my best friend took her right there with full, unrestrained force. The steel clamped around my shrunken anatomy burned like a band of glowing iron; every fiber of my body screamed with helpless frustration and a dark, consuming heat.

I lay motionless in the dark, a locked, humbled shell, while my friend's triumph vibrated through the floorboards—clinging only to the thought that I had to endure this crucible to finally be granted release by her hands on Sunday.