not an inch of mercy

Monday morning began without mercy. My entire lower abdomen was still throbbing from the aftershocks of Sunday when Loona pushed open my bedroom door shortly after seven.

She was already fully dressed to go out: slender, dark tailored trousers, a simple cashmere sweater, and a classic black wool coat over it. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a tight braid at the nape of her neck, and her emerald-green eyes appraised me with that crisp resolve that brooked no argument.

"Up, John," she said coolly. "Put on loose trousers. Something that comes off with a single tug. No belt. We have an appointment at eight-thirty."

I nodded silently, swung my legs out of bed, and stifled a groan as the heavy old stainless-steel temporary piece struck cold against my bruised flesh. I slipped into a pair of loose flannel pants with a drawstring and a baggy sweater. In the bathroom, I splashed cold water over my face. When I stepped into the hallway, Loona was already twirling her car keys around her finger. Her leather bag gave a soft jingle—the old cage key and the thick envelope stuffed with banknotes that Vanessa had handed over from Richard's funds.

The grey Berlin drizzle drummed rhythmically against the windshield as Loona steered through the sluggish Monday morning traffic toward the south with practiced ease.

I sat in the passenger seat, knees clamped tightly together. My entire groin felt like a single, dull smolder. The tremors of yesterday's Sunday—the two ruined releases, the overstimulation, and finally that convulsing, choked discharge—sent sharp pulses through my flesh against the casing with every bump along Hermannstraße. The heavy old stainless-steel model offered no forgiveness: the padlock dangled heavily between my thighs, and the edges of the base ring chafed raw against the tissue.

I glanced over at Loona. In the pale morning light, her profile seemed utterly unapproachable. Her sleek black hair lay in a neat braid over her dark wool coat; a single fine strand had loosened, swaying against her temple. Her piercing emerald-green eyes remained locked on the brake lights ahead.

The raw prospect of what awaited us at our destination tightened around my throat. Clearing my throat, I swallowed down the dryness and turned to her hesitantly.

"Loona…?" I began in a cautious, frail voice.

The faintest lift of her left eyebrow was her only reaction. She didn't take her eyes off the asphalt. "Yes, John?"

"Do we… do we really have to do this?" I asked tentatively, fingers digging into the fabric of my trousers. "I mean… this model here… it works. I'm keeping to every single rule. I played the wingman for Timo, I wait on you hand and foot in the flat, I didn't break the bro code. Why do we need a custom piece? Can't I just… keep wearing this one?"

Loona shifted into third gear before letting out an amused, quiet breath. She shot me a brief, cutting glance—rich with a calm that was far more lethal than outright fury.

"You still don't quite grasp it, do you, my dear John?" she remarked with velvety, offhand certainty. "That contraption between your legs is a cheap, clumsy stock item off the internet. It lacks precision. It clatters. It has slack, leaving you with the persistent illusion that something might stir down there if you only dwell on it hard enough."

She tapped her fingernails against the steering wheel to the rhythm of the indicator.

"Besides, it's a chronic hygiene liability in everyday life. Sitting through hours of lectures at the Charité or working alongside Mira in the lab, the wrong angle abrades the flesh. A medical-grade model forged from matte surgical steel is calibrated to the tenth of a millimeter of your anatomy. No pressure sores across the perineum, no shifting lock. Above all: it is a seamless micro-sleeve. It robs you of every spare millimeter. Nocturnal swelling is physically snuffed out at the root before your brain even registers the dream."

I swallowed hard. "A micro-model… that will barely be bearable…"

"You will adapt," she answered dryly, guiding the car through a sharp bend. "And the paramount factor: this scrap metal is far too crude and unreliable for my long-term plans with you. We require a permanent, millimeter-exact arrangement that sits immovable and yields nothing. We have no use for a provisional setup that slides around or hints at an independent existence. You are being upgraded from a crude captive into a dependable, functional fixture of our household. Consider it a privilege: Vanessa is footing a four-figure bill out of Richard's pocket for it."

Her words sealed my fate entirely. Every rebuttal died on my tongue.

We turned off Sonnenallee, passing through a dilapidated entryway into a quintessential Neukölln commercial courtyard. Grimy brick facades, stacked pallets, the drone of an adjacent auto repair shop. At the far end, secluded from the working bays, Loona brought the car to a stop before a solid grey steel door. No business sign adorned the masonry, merely a small, discreet buzzer engraved with *Precision Mechanics & Manufacturing*.

Loona cut the engine. Pulling the key from the ignition, she turned fully toward me in her seat, cupping my cheek with her cool hand. Her thumb traced across my lips. Her emerald-green eyes pinned me with icy clarity.

"We are going in there for the fittings now, John," she whispered with velvety discipline. "Inside, you are no medical student. You are not a man. You are a client's specimen undergoing calibration. You drop your trousers the instant you are told, you stand upright, and you let the woman perform her work. No blushing, no stammering, no false modesty. The woman is an absolute professional; she fabricates bespoke apparatuses for clientele beside whom we look like choirboys. She will record dimensions, fit gauges, and determine the blanks. In one to two weeks, the piece will be milled, polished, and engraved, and we will collect it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Loona," I choked out.

"Good," she breathed, drawing her hand back and retrieving her purse. "Out of the car. Our appointment begins in two minutes."

The car door shut with a heavy clunk. The fine mist instantly coated my cheeks as Loona strode purposefully ahead across the wet cobblestones.

Beneath my loose trousers, the old stainless-steel temporary piece chafed with every pace. The small padlock swung heavily against my thighs, while the tender tissue reignited the ache of yesterday's releases with every stride. Lowering my head, I shadowed her.

Loona pressed the buzzer beside the steel door. A low hum sounded, the latch buzzed, and she pushed the door open.

We entered an antechamber bathed in muted, warm-white lighting. No garish display, no scent of cheap rubber or perfume. It smelled of machine oil, tanned leather, clinical disinfectant, and cool metal. The interior evoked a high-end orthopedic studio: a counter cast from raw concrete, walls hung with framed schematics of joints, rings, and hinges, and a glass vitrine showcasing hand-finished cuffs fashioned from matte surgical steel.

Behind the counter stood a woman in her mid-forties. She wore an unadorned, dark-grey workshop apron over a black turtleneck, her face framed by thin titanium spectacles. Her ash-blonde hair was pinned neatly at the back. Across her drafting surface lay sketchbooks, a digital vernier caliper, and metallic ring gauges.

As we walked in, she lifted her gaze. Her eyes held the dispassionate, clinical sobriety of a surgeon prepping for a procedure.

"Frau Loona?" she asked in a low, level voice.

"Good morning," Loona replied coolly, stepping up to the desk. "We have the eight-thirty booking for the fitting."

The woman's gaze traveled from Loona over to me. She took in my loose trousers, my stooped shoulders, the restless tension in my hands. There was not a trace of mockery or false discretion in her expression—only the objective appraisal of a machinist inspecting raw material.

"Very well. I am Carola," she said concisely, laying her pencil aside and opening a wooden partition beside the counter. "Follow me through to the measuring room, please."

We followed her into a smaller, white-tiled chamber. Dead center stood a broad stainless-steel examination table fitted with washable black leather upholstery, flanked by a low wooden pedestal before a full-length mirror. Wall-mounted racks held indexed fitting templates, rings spanning every imaginable gauge, and anatomical charts.

Carola stepped up to a dispenser, sanitized her hands with practiced motions, and pulled on a pair of black nitrile gloves.

"Remove your trousers and undergarments completely, please, and step onto the pedestal facing the mirror," she instructed in a strictly businesslike manner. "Stand straight. Heels shoulder-width apart."

A knot lodged in my throat. My pulse hammered in my temples. I shot a nervous glance toward Loona.

She remained positioned by the door with folded arms, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Her piercing emerald-green eyes bored into my face with unrelenting sharpness. Not a word, not a gesture—merely the absolute command to comply.

With unsteady hands, I caught the drawstring of my trousers. The knot gave way. Shoving the heavy fabric down, I stepped out of both pant legs, standing exposed beneath the glare of the ceiling spotlights.

Only the clunky, gleaming steel frame still bound my flesh, secured by the narrow burgundy lace strap stretched absurdly across my pale hips. The small brass padlock dangled limp beneath. Standing before this stranger—reduced to a powerless subject, bound in lace and steel—burned like raw acid in my cheeks.

Carola approached without batting an eye. Bending forward slightly, she inspected the makeshift rig, offering a barely perceptible shake of her head.

"Standard import from China. Punched edges, excessive clearance, incorrect rake on the baseplate," she observed flatly. Looking up at Loona, she added, "Whoever fitted this was fortunate the perineal tissue hasn't turned necrotic. Unlock it, please."

Loona stepped up. Reaching into her bag, she produced the small key and slotted it home. With a metallic snap, the shackle popped open. She stripped the cylinder and locking pin away with practiced detachment, slid the lace strap down my legs, and tossed the assemblage onto a side tray with a sharp clatter.

My shrunken flesh was laid bare in the bright room. After weeks in the cage and the previous day's ordeals, it presented a pathetic sight: pale, hypersensitive, ringed with deep red indentations at the base, and contracted to a fraction of its former self.

"As you can see, Carola, there is precious little male dignity remaining anyway," Loona interjected with velvety, offhand malice. She took in the sight with a condescending smirk. "Only yesterday he spent hours begging for every drop, while our guest put him thoroughly through his paces. He is in desperate need of something that extinguishes this ridiculous posturing once and for all."

My stomach lurched. Blood surged into my cheeks and ears with searing heat. To be laid bare so comprehensively before a complete stranger as a pathetic beggar tightened around my windpipe. In my mind, the scenes from yesterday flared up: crawling through the dust at Loona's feet while Timo's laughter carried through the plaster; licking her skin clean from her soles. In the wide mirror before me, I saw myself—pale, trembling, rounded shoulders, completely unmanned. The horrific realization was that while part of me recoiled in humiliation, a darker, deeper layer hungered for it. I needed the finality of being stripped down to an object. I wanted to be worthless in her eyes, so that every shred of clemency she granted felt like pure gold.

Carola did not even look up from her tray. Her face remained as smooth as the tiled wall.

"The current state of arousal is irrelevant to proper calibration. We record the anatomical baseline as a rule," Carola replied entirely dryly, picking up a heavy, matte metal vernier caliper and stepping up to the pedestal.

"Breathe evenly. Do not clench," she directed.

Her cool, gloved fingers reached down without hesitation. Lifting the flaccid tissue, she slid the jaws of the caliper directly behind the scrotal sac against the perineum, drawing the sliding scale flush. The cold alloy against my sensitized skin made me flinch instinctively.

"Hold still, John," Loona's voice sliced through the room, quiet but icy.

I froze instantly. My eyes locked onto the mirror, where Carola's gloved hands manipulated my flesh like a piece of pipe fitting.

"Base ring: forty-one millimeters internal diameter," Carola dictated, reading the vernier scale and sketching on a clipboard. "We require an asymmetric contour. His anatomy demands a urethral relief notch along the inferior margin, otherwise the ring will abrade the perineal raphe while seated."

Taking a slender stainless-steel rule, she positioned it against the base of the shaft and extended it to the tip of the glans.

"Flaccid length: five and a half centimeters. In a state of absolute non-stimulation." She looked over at Loona. "What is the directive for the capsule? We can allow four centimeters to provide the glans minimal clearance, or absolute zero-tolerance."

"Do not grant him a single millimeter of mercy," Loona mocked, stepping close to the pedestal, looking down at my lap as though appraising vermin. "He is prone to imagining himself a whole man at the mere thought of it. A thirty-five-millimeter micro-sleeve in matte surgical steel. When soft, the glans must abut the front wall. If he dares to even contemplate a reaction, the housing must choke off the swelling instantly at the root. Zero engorgement. Absolute stagnation."

Carola smoothed the rule flat and jotted down the figure, neither blinking nor indulging Loona's derision.

"A three-point-five centimeter sleeve imposes continuous compressive load on the erectile tissue," Carola noted with clinical detachment. "With every nocturnal tumescence, hydrostatic pressure within the shaft is transferred directly to the anterior dome. Erections are physiologically obstructed and will provoke acute tensile pain at the retaining pins. The tissue will atrophy further over the coming weeks."

"That is precisely the objective," Loona returned with a cool smile.

Blood pounded in my ears. Thirty-five millimeters. Thirty-five millimeters of cold, unyielding alloy. I imagined that device clamped to my frame day and night. At the Charité, seated beside Mira typing lab protocols; while Timo sprawled on our couch boasting; while Loona paced the flat without sparing me a glance. Beneath my jeans, I would be entirely flat. A sexless, padlocked specimen whose anatomy was crushed down to the width of a thumb. And perversely, the prospect of being so thoroughly possessed that my own body was forced into anatomical retreat provoked a dizzying, illicit ache in my lower abdomen.

"Understood," Carola said, pulling a heavy, matte steel ring from the rack to gauge the circumference directly on my frame. Sliding the chilled ring over the flesh, she checked the fit against the cords and hand-tightened the retaining screws temporarily. "Now regarding the faceplate. You inquired about a mechanical interface during our initial consultation."

"Correct," Loona confirmed. "A precision-tapped M10 metric fine thread, dead-center in the dome. Fully recessed into the stock so it catches on nothing during daily wear, but robust enough to sustain axial tensile and compressive loads."

Carola crossed to a vitrine, retrieving a sample component featuring an identical fitting.

"The M10 fine thread milled from 316L stainless steel withstands up to eighty kilograms of leverage. Once we weld the cap to the cylinder and blend the seam, any future attachment will sit completely rigid before the pelvis. We will need to thicken the front cap by four millimeters to ensure sufficient thread engagement." She met Loona's gaze. "Do you require custom marking?"

A subtle, dangerous gleam surfaced in Loona's eyes.

"Yes," she murmured. "Along the superior aspect of the sleeve, just forward of the ring: *Loona's Property*. In fine laser engraving."

An icy shiver raced down my spine, followed by a surge of scorching humiliation. My existence was being measured by the millimeter in this clinical room, certified, and branded as property. I stood naked between two fully clothed women—one a technician, the other my mistress—bargaining over my registration like livestock.

Carola logged the specifications, loosened the sizing ring from my frame, and set the tools down. Peeling off the black gloves, she tossed them into the step bin.

"Good. I have all parameters," she stated briskly. "I must turn the blank from solid stock, laser the sleeve, tap the thread, and hand-polish the piece to a mirror finish before applying the matte treatment. Pure precision tooling. It will take roughly ten to fourteen days."

"Splendid," Loona said, unzipping her handbag. She drew out the thick white envelope carrying Richard's cash, counting out ten crisp one-hundred-euro notes onto the table. "Here is the deposit. Call me the moment the piece is ready for the final fitting."

"Will do," Carola replied, sweeping the cash into a drawer and writing out a receipt. She glanced toward me on the pedestal. "You may get dressed."

Loona picked up the rattling old provisional piece from the side table. With rough, careless efficiency, she guided my chilled, trembling flesh back into the old pipe, pushed the pin home, and snapped the padlock shut. The heavy cylinder hung from me once more, yet the knowledge of what awaited me in fourteen days weighed infinitely heavier than the steel.

I pulled my flannel trousers up, knotting the drawstring tight. My knees felt hollow.

Once we were back inside the car and Loona started the engine, she brushed the loose strand from her forehead and looked at me sideways.

"Two weeks, John," she whispered with velvety satisfaction, shifting into reverse. "Two weeks left in that clattering toy. And then… then you will truly belong to me."