in your father’s bed

The shrill blare of my alarm ripped me from a restless, shallow sleep at precisely 06:00.

The morning chill in the room seemed to pierce through the duvet instantly. With the slightest stir, the heavy, mute ache at my throat and between my thighs served as an unceasing reminder of what this Thursday demanded of me. Kneeling before the mirrored cabinet in the bathroom, I performed the daily routine: with trembling fingers, I opened the *Kidslox* app, aimed the camera lens at the intact miniature padlock on the velvet choker and the taut surgical-steel cage.

*“Ring intact, no chafing, obedience maintained.”*

The green checkmark flared, yet the suffocating weight in my chest did not lift. The matte-black case sat beside the basin. Flipping the latches, the sweet scent of lilies drifted up, mingling with the crisp smell of fresh nylon.

Stepping into the stay-up stockings felt like an insidious betrayal of myself. The cool silicone bands gripped my shaved thighs with unrelenting friction, while the delicate lace cuffs framed the hard contours of the steel cage. The strapless lace bustier pulled taut across my bare ribs, compressing my chest with every breath. When I finally pulled my stiff denim and dark sweatshirt over the lingerie, the contrast was grotesque: on the outside, a neat medical student; beneath, the delicate feminine weave rustling with a faint, unmistakable whisper along my inner thighs at every step.

In the corridors of the Charité, this reality escalated into an agonizing gauntlet.

During the morning lecture in the packed hall, simply sitting was pure torture. The wooden bench offered no padding whatsoever; the rigid cylinder ground deep into the sensitized perineal tissue with every shift of my weight. I barely dared to breathe, clamping my knees together, terrified with every minute adjustment that the student beside me would hear the dry friction of nylon against denim.

In the afternoon, during exam prep in the ward office, the noose tightened further. Over my clothes, I wore the mandated white clinical coat.

"John, could you reach that patient chart from the top shelf for me?" Mira asked, eyes remaining on her monitor.

Stepping up to the wall unit, I reached upward. In that very second, the thin fabric of my coat pulled taut across my back. The firm, structured band of the lace bustier pressed through the white cotton as an unmistakable ridge.

Mira swiveled in her chair, reached for the folder—and froze. Her gaze traveled from my waist to my ribcage with a perplexed frown.

"Tell me… are you still wearing that lumbar support brace?" she asked, pointing her pen toward my back. "The outline is completely visible. And you smell so intensely of lilies again. Are you using that stuff by the gallon now?"

Adrenaline flooded my veins with such violence that my vision blurred for a heartbeat. Instinctively hunching my shoulders, I pressed my collar tight against my throat, where the metal padlock of the choker burned hot against my skin.

"The… the ointment absorbs terribly slowly," I stammered, my voice cracking as I stepped back, burying my hands deep in my pockets to conceal my manicured nails. "The dermatologist told me to apply it thick. And I still need the brace for my lumbar spine."

Mira studied me for a long moment, lips pursed in skepticism. She parted her lips to press the inconsistencies, but right then a chime echoed over the intercom, announcing ward rounds.

"We need to move," she said curtly, giving her head a slight shake as she turned away. "Just don't overdo it with that lotion. It smells like a boutique perfumery in here."

I exhaled in ragged bursts, my knees like rubber.

The moment the clock in the hallway struck 16:15, I hung my coat in the staff locker room and left the building in a hurried rush. Every step across the asphalt courtyard stung; the silicone bands on my thighs rubbed against the raw zones, and the wind bit cold through my jacket. At 16:25 sharp, I stood at the south exit.

True to schedule, the dark town car glided silently to the curb. The rear window slid down a fraction. Vanessa did not look up; she remained engrossed in her tablet.

"Get in, John," her cool voice sliced through the afternoon air. "We have no time to squander."

Opening the heavy passenger door, I sank into the pristine leather. Throughout the drive across the city toward Schöneberg, absolute silence prevailed. Vanessa did not utter a single word; she did not spare me a glance, checking me only once in the rearview mirror where I sat with knees pressed together and head bowed. That corporate chill was sharper than any spoken reprimand.

By the time the car pulled up before the pre-war building in Schöneberg, dusk had already settled over the street. My father, Richard, was away on a multi-day medical conference outside Berlin—this time in Frankfurt, delivering lectures on clinical quality metrics. He didn't suspect a thing. To him, I was the driven, disciplined son following in his footsteps at the Charité, whose budding professional demeanor he proudly rewarded with generous merit bonuses. That this very capital had been funneled through Loona and Vanessa into my hair removal, bespoke surgical-steel cages, and women's lingerie lay entirely beyond his comprehension. That his own master bedroom was to serve as the staging ground for my complete subjugation while he gave lectures from a hotel was a betrayal so monumental it seized my throat with every step up the stairs.

Arissa opened the heavy double doors. Wearing her immaculate pencil skirt, she appraised me with a knowing smirk as I entered.

"The medical student arrives right on time," Arissa remarked dryly, latching the door behind us.

"He knows what is expected of him," Vanessa replied coolly.

Shedding her cashmere coat, her sheer presence left me paralyzed for a moment. Vanessa was in her mid-forties, yet she exuded an immaculate, severe sensuality that had overwhelmed me even as a teenager. Her ash-blonde hair was pinned into a severe chignon that accentuated her long, alabaster neck. She wore a tailored, dark-blue silk dress that hugged her slender frame, defining the narrow sweep of her waist and hips. Her features held an aristocratic hardness, her lips lined with perfection, her grey-blue eyes possessing a cutting chill that extinguished opposition at the root. She carried the scent of expensive iris perfume and cool leather—an aura of absolute sovereignty.

I had feared her my entire life, yet a dark fascination had long simmered beneath the surface. She was distant, untouchable, and so intimidating that the mere thought of her had always provoked a perverse knot of awe and desire. Now, standing here wrapped in the delicate lingerie she had financed, knowing I was exploiting my father's absence to kneel before her in his home, tore through my composure. Shame burned like acid on my tongue—while fueling a feverish, compliant surrender.

"Take him into the bedroom, Arissa," Vanessa directed, not sparing me another glance. "Richard will be calling from Frankfurt in half an hour. Prepare everything."

Arissa guided me down the long corridor into the master bedroom. In the center stood my father's massive, dark box-spring bed, dressed in smooth, white Egyptian cotton. On a console table nearby sat stacks of fresh white towels, disinfectant spray, and a polished silver tray. Along the walls hung framed diplomas and family portraits, where Richard stared proudly into the camera. I did not dare meet his gaze.

"Jacket off, trousers off. Move," Arissa ordered with condescending sharpness, leaning against the doorframe with folded arms.

With shaking fingers, I slipped out of my jacket, pulled the sweatshirt over my head, and unbuttoned my waistband. The denim dropped to the floor. I stood exposed: in black lace stay-up stockings with silicone bands digging into raw thighs, the strapless bustier wrapped around a hairless ribcage, and buffed, glossy nails catching the light. Between my legs projected the surgical-steel cage, its M10 front thread polished and bare.

Arissa stepped in close, letting her gaze sweep over my frame before tapping a manicured fingernail against the cold alloy.

"Look how pretty you are, John," she whispered mockingly. "Your father would surely be thrilled with your newfound discipline. On your knees by the mattress. Hands behind your back. Do not move until Vanessa enters."

I sank onto the hard parquet beside my father's bed. The timber bit through the lace at my knees. My breath was heavy, the padlock of my choker resting cold against my collarbone, while the ticking of the antique grandfather clock counted down the seconds until the double doors swung open once more…

The double doors parted without haste. The dense wool runner swallowed Vanessa's footsteps, yet her aura preceded her long before I dared lift my eyes from the floorboards: the dry elegance of iris mingled with cool leather, followed by the faint rustle of heavy silk.

"Look at me, John."

Her voice was never loud; it required no volume to command the room. When I raised my head, she stood framed in the doorway with the absolute authority of a woman who owned every corner of the residence. The navy dress hugged her hips and waist without a single crease, her hair swept into that severe chignon accentuating her throat. In her left hand she held her phone; in her right, a small tray lined with matte-black velvet.

Behind her, Arissa pulled the doors nearly shut.

"I will wait in the hallway," Arissa noted with that familiar, lingering mockery. "Should Richard call, I won't delay him. And you…," her gaze pinned me briefly, "do not make a sound until granted permission."

The latch clicked shut. The tap of her heels faded down the corridor. My father's bedroom belonged entirely to us—and the framed credentials along the walls.

Setting her phone display-up on the nightstand within easy reach of the mattress edge, Vanessa approached with measured steps. Her pumps glided silently until the tips rested inches from my bare knees. Her gaze cut across my frame: the black stockings biting into lasered skin, the strapless bustier over my ribcage, and the rigid surgical-steel cage, its padlock hanging cold against my throat.

"Stand up, John. I wish to see what you have become while Richard is away."

I rose to my feet, knees aching, the nylon pulling taut across my thighs while the cold metal hung rigid between my legs. Vanessa circled me with deliberate strides. Halting behind my back, two cool fingers slid beneath the elastic band of the bustier, drawing it back to test the tension before releasing it with a sharp snap against bare skin.

"Precise work," she observed clinically. "The feminine silhouette suits you remarkably well. Turn."

I executed a half-turn. She opened the velvet case. Resting on the dark fabric was the flesh-toned silicone prosthetic, subtly veined, its base fitted with the solid M10 metric fine thread matched to the front plate of my cage.

"Loona adhered to the specifications," she remarking casually, turning the piece beneath the lamplight. "Medical-grade silicone, proportional dimensions. Richard would take it for an anatomical model in passing. Mount it."

My palms were slick with sweat. As I attempted to align the stud, the fine thread slipped across the polished faceplate, scraping audibly over the steel. A soft, disparaging sigh slipped from her lips.

"Your hands are shaking, John. I believed the Charité trained its students to maintain steady hands during dissection. Hand it here."

Taking the silicone from my grip, she aligned the threads with a single practiced twist and drew it down flush. Every turn transferred through the steel as an unyielding lever against the base ring at my perineum. Once fully seated, her lacquered nail tapped against the artificial shaft.

"A fitting surrogate for a body that has surrendered its autonomy to me. Look at yourself: your father is in Frankfurt giving lectures on clinical excellence, while his prize pupil stands in his matrimonial bed, adorned like a parlor maid, bearing a mechanical fixture before his wife. How do you imagine Richard would react if he walked through that door right now?"

The velvet choker tightened around my windpipe. "He… he would despise me."

"Contempt requires that one still perceive you as a man," she countered with cruel serenity. "He simply wouldn't recognize you. Richard values conviction and civic discipline. He does not allow himself to be padlocked and dressed in women's lace. On your knees by the bed."

I sank back onto the hard parquet. Stepping back, Vanessa caught the concealed zipper of her dress, letting the heavy dark silk pool onto the floor with a soft rustle.

Her frame revealed that immaculate, severe aesthetic I had feared and craved in secret for years: her pale skin appeared untouched by time, her silhouette slender and taut. Her breasts sat firm and high, her waist narrow, hips cleanly curved. Stripping away her sheer silk briefs, she seated herself on the white edge of the box-spring bed, exposing her hairless, immaculate center—pale pink and slick with a thin film of moisture.

"Come forward, John. Between my knees. Hands behind your back. You operate exclusively from the pelvis, and your eyes do not leave mine."

I shuffled forward across the boards. Guiding the shaft with one hand to adjust the angle to the millimeter, Vanessa used the fingers of her other hand at the nape of my neck to draw me in. There was no pretense of intimacy; it was the fitting of a sterile instrument.

"Now. Even rhythm. Maintain the depth."

I pushed forward slowly. The medical-grade silicone slid inside her with distinct resistance, warm and unyielding. A storm of shame and dark intoxication detonated in my mind: I was penetrating my father's wife, right across his white linens—yet remained entirely excluded from the act. My own flesh remained locked fast inside the Neukölln cage, the pressure of the base ring biting deeper with every thrust.

Vanessa exhaled evenly through her nose, her thighs locking around my flanks, dictating the stroke with absolute precision.

"You are tense," she noted, her eyes locked onto mine. "Is it the dread of exposure, or the realization of how willingly you allow yourself to be utilized?"

"Both… Vanessa," I forced out hoarsely. "It's… tearing me apart."

"A predictable response," she replied coolly, guiding my hips with minimal, demanding shifts. "Richard moves with an entirely different authority. He requires no consensus; he commands. You, however, resemble a petitioner begging for indulgence with every movement."

Suddenly, the harsh vibration of the smartphone shattered the quiet.

*Richard.* The name glowed brightly on the screen beside her pillow.

My pulse spiked violently; my hips froze. Vanessa brought her left palm down flat over my mouth with crushing force, casually answering the call and engaging the speaker with her right. Her eyes signaled absolute stillness.

"Richard. Good evening. Did you arrive safely at the hotel?"

Her tone shifted instantly into the very picture of domestic composure—the exact cadence she used over dinner. Through the speaker came my father's deep, familiar voice, ringing clear through the room:

"Good evening, darling. Yes, prep for the conference ran late, but the room is decent. Is everything alright at home? No issues?"

"Everything is in perfect order," Vanessa answered without a tremor, drawing her heels tighter against my hips, forcing me silently to resume the rhythm. "I was just winding down for the evening."

I felt her warm breath against my cheek while her palm sealed my lips. Every breath had to be forced through my nostrils; the parquet beneath my knees could not yield a single creak. The rigid M10 thread transferred every internal contraction of her body straight into my pelvis.

"Excellent," my father continued. "I just wanted to check in on John. Mira mentioned in passing that he seems focused during practicals, but looks terribly pale. The boy has a tendency to run himself into the ground."

The word *boy* burned like an iron brand. I moved my hips mechanically back and forth, my body reduced to an appliance in his wife's hands while he held forth on my future from miles away.

"He is demonstrating remarkable discipline, Richard," Vanessa said smoothly, her voice level, though beneath her thighs I felt her internal muscles tighten around the prosthetic with mounting force. "He fulfills every demand placed on him, without objection."

"I am genuinely glad to hear that. He is building character. If he maintains this focus, he will make an exceptional clinician. Give him my regards."

"I will."

At that instant, her voice caught almost imperceptibly. Her thighs clamped relentlessly around my waist; her pelvis drove down hard against the silicone shaft. A wave of rhythmic contractions seized her, generated through pure mechanics, without permitting herself a single moan. Only a sharp intake of air through her teeth betrayed her climax.

"Vanessa? You sound slightly breathless. Everything alright?"

"Just a knot in my shoulder," she recovered instantly with polished elegance. "Strained it reading. Rest up for tomorrow, Richard. Good night."

"Good night, darling."

The call ended. The phone went dead.

Removing her hand from my mouth, Vanessa held me pinned inside her for two endless heartbeats, then shoved my chest back with both palms, dislodging the silicone with a slick sound.

"Onto the bed, John. Flat on your back. Head at the edge."

Scrambling onto the mattress, I fell back. The white Egyptian linen rustled beneath my shoulders, alien and unearned. Without hesitation, Vanessa straddled my face, planting her knees beside my temples and lowering her hips. The scent of iris, perspiration, and lubricant cut off my breath entirely.

"Mouth open," Vanessa commanded from above. "Clear the traces. Tongue flat, full contact. You know the value I place on hygiene."

I complied. My tongue swept across her sensitive, slick folds, her weight suffocating any resistance at the root.

"Richard was here this morning before his departure," Vanessa spoke with cutting indifference above me, hands anchoring my hair. "He took what was his—with natural authority, without prosthetics. And now you lie in his place, lapping up his remnants, imagining you hold a place in this household."

A muffled sound caught in my throat, swallowed between her thighs. Ignoring the tremor, Vanessa pressed down harder with clinical, unsparing precision, fracturing my breathing into ragged gasps. Saliva and slickness ran down my chin; the bustier dug hard into my ribs whenever I fought for air; and with every involuntary jerk of my hips, the surgical steel ground against the raw perineum—a sharp, mechanical ache that offered no relief.

"You breathe when I allow it," she instructed in a low, disciplined murmur. "Hold the tongue. Just like that."

She completed her movement across my face with the same detached necessity one applies to operating an appliance. The tendons of her inner thighs pulled taut beside my temples; her pelvis drove down with final, unyielding weight over my mouth and nose until my vision fragmented into dark shadows—and in that suffocated state, she found her second release. No cry escaped her. Only a sharp, controlled exhalation through her teeth, a sequence of rhythmic spasms against my lips, and that warm moisture sealing across my mouth, cheek, and nose.

I lay motionless across my father's bed, my face slick, the taste of iris and intimacy coating my throat. A thought formed with chilling clarity: that I had sought this exact debasement. Not out of pleasure, but because this silent utility in the space where my father belonged was the only form of recognition left to me in this house.

Vanessa did not lift her hips until her breathing had leveled entirely. Tracing two cool fingertips across my cheek, she surveyed the moisture like the clinical output of an assay, then glided off the mattress.

Only then did the heavy double doors swing open.

Arissa entered carrying the tray and disinfectant spray, that familiar, mocking smile on her lips.

"The student displays remarkable stamina in service," she observed dryly, stepping up to the bed.

"Towel, Arissa."

Arissa tossed a coarse terry cloth across my chest, spritzed the disinfectant over the prosthetic with a hiss, and unthreaded the M10 bolt from the front of my cage with a single practiced twist. The sharp stench of isopropanol and chlorhexidine erased the trace of iris and warm skin, returning the room to that familiar clinical sterility of the hospital wards.

"Dry the threads, off the mattress, get dressed, clear the premises," Arissa commanded with brisk detachment. "Vanessa requires rest before her Friday schedule."

Sliding from the bed to the parquet, I pulled my clothes on with numb fingers. Vanessa had already smoothed her navy dress back over her hips. Lifting her phone from the console, she reviewed the screen and cast me one final, cutting glance.

"Your father believes you to be a diligent clinician in the making. Ensure you maintain that facade outside these walls, John. Be gone in ten minutes."

Turning on her heel, she exited the room. Arissa flicked a lacquered nail against the exposed surgical steel once more—like checking a completed box on a ledger—and followed.

I remained kneeling on my father's floorboards, disinfectant on my hands, the bitter taste on my lips, and shame burning through my veins. Richard's warm, approving voice from the speaker seemed to linger in the air—miles removed from the reality of the son who knelt in lace stockings, wiping his stepmother's floor.