Asya Stilkova
Vanilla Island

Every wonderland has its rules.

Some we follow. Some we write.

(Inspired by Lewis Carroll)

Overture

Oh God, I’m so scared! Deep down, I believe he won’t hurt me—he promised, after all—but I’m still trembling from head to toe. We’re going upstairs, not into some dungeon… but maybe his “red room” is on the second floor? Such an enormous door… What could possibly be behind it?

Scenes from films and books flash through my mind. He opens the door and… it’s just a room. A perfectly ordinary hall. Nothing terrifying at all. Though I do notice several more doors.

He opens one of them and tells me to go in first. I can’t see a thing—it’s dark, and only in the distance do I make out a vague white shape, enormous and indistinct.

Slowly, the lights come on, one by one, and I find myself standing in a pool of soft light. The floor beneath my feet is dark redwood—I can feel its warmth even through my socks.

As my eyes adjust, I realise I’m in a huge room. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a leather sofa—elegant, minimal—and a sideboard with glass doors, something glinting inside.

The mysterious white shape ahead of me turns out to be a giant bed—vast and likely deliciously comfortable. There’s nothing frightening or cruel here. Just space… and something else I can’t name.

But I don’t have time to take in any more before a barrage of commands hits me like a sudden gust of wind: “Back straight! Feet together! Hands at your sides! Look down!"

They come so quickly I can barely keep up—and then I feel a sudden smack below the small of my back. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it catches me off guard. I yelp and flinch, startled.

I snap to attention. Arms pressed tightly to my sides, eyes on the floor. And all the while, I feel the tension inside me coiling tighter and tighter.

It’s so hard to say those words—Slave… Sir… punishment—but each one makes my lower belly grow heavier, hotter, needier. My heart is hammering like mad!

He orders me to my knees! I can feel the rush of heat to my face, but my legs obey without hesitation. I lower myself—awkwardly, stiffly—and the position is immediately uncomfortable, even painful.

I clasp my hands behind my back as instructed. The moment my wrists touch my bottom, a fresh wave of sweet, aching tension sweeps through me. It’s as though I’m already shielding myself from the blows. There’s something devastating and exquisite in this one simple gesture. “Punishment position.” Even the phrase makes me shudder…

Prologue

“Every adventure requires a first step.”

(The Cheshire Cat in American McGee’s Alice)

He

Spring had dragged on—bitterly cold and slow to arrive. At night, muddy puddles froze over, forming sly, treacherous patches of ice. The street sweepers—never particularly industrious—had clearly switched into summer mode, and the city’s de-icing budget had melted away well before the first snowfall.

Morning. I step out of the car, planting my foot carefully on the slippery pavement.

“Oh!” Something—someone—slips right at my feet: a figure in a short grey jacket and worn jeans. A knitted hat has slid sideways, letting loose a messy tumble of russet curls. I reach out and effortlessly lift this almost weightless being. For a moment, she’s pressed against my chest—and tilts her face up to me in alarm.

“Sorry,” she says in a soft, pleasant voice. “There are steps here… it’s slippery.” She says something else, but her words fly past me. Those eyes—enormous, indescribable, the greenish-blue of seawater. Deep, bottomless. I’m drowning in them.

“Name,” I ask sharply.

“Sveta,” she replies immediately, and bites her lip. I know she’s already cursing herself for blurting out her name to some strange man. Every emotion flickers across her expressive face. She’s no child—early twenties, by the look of her. I like that openness.

“You should be more careful,” I say sternly, and with a slight turn, I briskly brush imaginary specks from her jeans. Her bottom is firm, pleasant under my hand. She gasps quietly and tries to pull away.

“Stand still.” At these words, she freezes and stares at me, wide-eyed. She blushes but doesn’t resist.

Obedient, I note with satisfaction.

A few light pats—and my little friend stirs below, trying unsuccessfully to see what had dared wake him at this hour.

Be patient, my friend. You’ll see her soon enough, I think with a smirk.

“Need a lift?” I offer, keeping my tone calm and deliberately neutral.

“No, thanks! I have my car.” She gestures towards a shape obscured by layers of grime. Clearly not keen on spending money on a car wash—or the time to do it herself. The number plate, though, is recently wiped clean and perfectly visible to me.

“Then goodbye.”

I release her hand. She says nothing, just nods with a hesitant, confused smile and hurries off.

I watch her reach the car. She’ll turn back—I know she will. And she does, glancing at me one last time before climbing inside.

The engine groans to life, and she disappears from sight—but not from my mind. A faint trace remains: coffee, and some warm, elusive spice.

Inside me, Shere Khan awakens, stretching lazily. He catches the sweet scent of prey and takes the trail. It leads to the café from which the little bird had flown. With a majestic air, the tiger enters, sniffs the stale jungle of mismatched tables and short-legged chairs. It’s early—no sign of other fauna.

“You need to salt the steps,” he growls. “Sveta nearly broke her leg just now.”

The waitress must have seen what happened. She mumbles nervously about grit being on the way, offers a discount card with a hopeful look—tigers like this don’t visit often.

“Fine. Bring me the same coffee she ordered,” Shere Khan purrs, graciously declining the offering.

Soon, Nagaina the Cobra, masquerading as a coffee machine, hisses and spits, producing a cappuccino—light on foam, dusted with cinnamon in what only a deranged abstract artist would call a heart. Shere Khan catches the scent, takes a careful sip—yes, vanilla syrup. Astonishingly and beautifully banal.

Out of courtesy, I drink half. Pay. Leave a generous tip and ask:

“Does Sveta come here often? Has she a loyalty card?”

The waitress brightens. “Yes, she does. Used to come a lot.” And she adds with a hint of defiance: “Our coffee’s really good.” She glances at my half-finished cup. “Lately not so much—her mum’s in hospital. Needs surgery. It’s a tough time.”

“Good. Add a bonus to her card next time she’s in.”

“Of course!” she replies, clearly relieved.

As she takes the cup, she adds with a touch of mischief, “She’s a good girl, you know.”

“We’ll see just how good,” I think as I leave.

I call Edik. After the usual greetings, I read him the car’s number.

“Sveta. Level One. I need a ‘chance’ encounter. Check the hospital her mother’s in.”

I get back in the car in good spirits. The hunt has begun, and everything is falling into place.

Edik supposedly works in our firm as an IT guy. Supposedly—because his presence at the office is as rare as Halley’s Comet. Still, he’s always reachable—any time, any place. Where he actually is—remains a mystery. Occasionally, his sunburnt nose betrays some tropical corner of the world.

By nature, he’s a minimalist—and in spirit… somewhere between a Buddhist and an anarchist. Money doesn’t interest him; it just shows up when he needs it.

I once asked him why he chose to work for me. He shrugged: “Status. Low stress. I trust you.” That’s Edik—brief and to the point, a full embodiment of his Zoomer worldview.

The girls at the office tease him. He’s their fix-it boy—adjusts a glitchy programme, fixes a stuck key. They call him only “Edichka”, always drawing out the ‘E’ with a mock-sultry purr: “Eeeedichka!” He just smiles blankly. No one takes him seriously—and that’s a mistake. Edik isn’t just some tech whiz. He’s the type of Russian hacker cursed out around the globe. How and where he digs up his info is better left unknown.

‘Levels’ in his digital domain refer to depth of data mining. There are many—I don’t even know how many. Only once in all these years did I request Level Three—back when I needed to put some insolent raiders in their place. Level Two is for competitive intelligence, support for major deals, and the like. Level One is child’s play: background checks, education, work, basic social media scans for preferences, habits, vices. Everyday trivia.

She

I slip on a treacherous step outside the café and land squarely on my backside—right at the feet of a man stepping out of a car. I manage to tuck in mid-fall (thank you, years of gymnastics!), and let out a little yelp—more from surprise than pain.

A strong hand catches me so abruptly I bump into his chest. His short, stylish coat is unbuttoned, and for a split second my chest presses against a firm, muscular body. I catch the faint trace of expensive men’s cologne. His grip is like a claw, firm around my elbow.

Startled, I look up. A lean, serious face—almost handsome, marred by a scar that runs from his temple down across his right cheek, nearly to his chin. And those eyes: dark, narrowed, almost devilish. It feels like his gaze pierces straight through to the soles of my feet.

I start apologising, embarrassed, but he doesn’t seem to hear. Still staring straight at me, he asks in a low, commanding voice, “Name?”

Thrown off guard, I answer at once—“Sveta”—then instantly regret it. Too late now. He scolds me for being careless, not letting go of my hand. I’m about to snap back with something sharp, but then he spins me around and briskly begins brushing something off my jeans.

I try to wriggle free, but his curt command cuts through my will like a whip. There’s something about his tone—so forceful, so compelling—that I freeze, like a rabbit in front of a snake.

Methodically, almost professionally, he “cleans” my backside. Supposedly brushing away street dirt—but it feels like punishment, a firm spanking for a naughty little girl.

His expression remains utterly composed—emotionless. He’s solid, unyielding. Not a man, a monolith.

And the car he stepped out of matches him perfectly: enormous, black, with a glossy, aggressive grille. It looks like it’s been hewn from the same slab of stone as its owner.

At last, he releases his grip. The pressure lifts—his hold, and whatever spell had frozen my limbs, weakens. I manage to compose myself and politely decline his offer of a lift, then make a quick dash for my ageing Opel, feeling his heavy, all-seeing stare on me.

I swear I won’t look back—but at the door of the car, I can’t help myself. I glance over my shoulder. He’s still watching, calmly, as if nothing at all had happened.

Now that I’ve caught my breath, I study him more closely. Mid-thirties, tall, lean, broad-shouldered. His hair’s cropped short, a touch of silver at the temples. Dressed simply, but elegantly—and clearly expensively.

“Arrogant, smug, self-important peacock,” my inner voice supplies helpfully. “Sveta, steer well clear of men like that. Probably some mafioso.”

I firmly decide to get him out of my head, but that sharp, gunshot-like command—“Stand still!”—keeps echoing and my backside refuses to forget the feel of that firm, unapologetic hand.

“Honestly, what are you like?” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got a full day ahead: first the bank to beg for a loan, then the shop, and after that—Mum at the hospital.”

He

At home, I prepare dinner at an unhurried pace—a ritual I’ve developed over the years. I enjoy the quiet rhythm of it: time to reflect on the day and sketch plans for tomorrow. My mind returns to this morning’s little encounter. What was it about that girl that caught me? The extraordinary eyes? Or the way she froze, so obediently, at my command? Maybe it’s worth exploring—just a meeting, to begin with. I want to understand what it is that’s pulling me in.

Years ago, I made it a rule: no serious relationships in my home city. Here, too many people know me—and Shere Khan I now feed strictly on business trips, in vetted, discreet clubs in Moscow. A few times I broke my own rule, but only after setting clear boundaries. I always ended up regretting it. Almost every story came down to money. The longest one was with Angela—a charming brunette.

At the time, business was booming. Most foreign competitors had exited the market, and the demand for our equipment shot up. Our company was brought into a special federal programme, and for a while was even under high-level government oversight. We expanded production, opened branches in several cities.

With real money finally coming in—serious money—I decided to fulfil an old dream: build a spacious, comfortable house. I wanted it filled with life, music, joyful shouts of children and patter of little feet. A real family home, something like the old estates from Russian novels.

That’s when the crack appeared between us. Angela didn’t object to the house, per se—just not in this “boring provincial backwater”. No, it had to be Moscow, and not just anywhere, but a posh district. She already pictured herself as a rising star of high society.

Maybe I could’ve accepted that. But the final straw was her unwillingness to have children. Despite our efforts, nothing worked. Angela blamed health issues, travelled to Moscow for treatments—until I accidentally found out she’d been on contraceptive pills the whole time.

The breakup was ugly—tears, screaming matches—but as always, money settled everything. That’s all she really wanted. We agreed she’d vanish from my life. I bought her a flat in an elite Moscow development. She landed herself a husband, climbed where she wanted to be. I’m happy for her.

Yes, she played the part of a woman in love beautifully. Did I love her? At the time, I never asked. Angela seemed to have it all—beauty, intelligence, sensuality. I genuinely wanted “vanilla”—a normal relationship, a family. I even locked up Shere Khan and only fed him now and then at the clubs. Sometimes I allowed myself a bit of rough play with Angela. She liked it, but I never thought of bringing her into the Scene. Love? No. I’m not capable of it. Life has made me that way.

After dinner, I head up to the study and open my inbox. Edik’s message is already there with attachments. Level One data—perfectly safe to send by regular email.

I scan the bio: Svetlana[1] Sergeyevna Serova, 23.

“Serova—serenkaya[2]—little grey mouse, mousey” comes to mind at once. Small game for Shere Khan.

Mother: Vera Vasilievna, retired schoolteacher. Father: Sergei Alexandrovich, retired army major. Died of a heart attack three years ago. After leaving the service, he went into construction. It started well but then something went wrong. He had to sell their big flat to pay debts, and the family moved into a shabby flat on the edge of town. Probably what finished him—a typical story these days. I pause, Sergei… same name as mine. Coincidence, or a sign?

I skim the rest. Only child, born late. Nearly graduated school with honours. Music school, rhythmic gymnastics. No great achievements—they moved around a lot, probably didn’t have the conditions for serious training. Practices yoga. Curious detail: five years ago, she won first place in a shooting competition. Interesting—а multi-talented mousey!

Tried to get into Moscow State University, but didn’t qualify for a free state-funded place, so enrolled in the local university—Romance and Germanic Philology, English language. Studied steadily for two years, then her father died. Took academic leave, eventually dropped out. Completed bookkeeping courses, now works at a local housing maintenance company. Took a week’s leave two days ago. Applying for a loan. Mother is in the regional hospital—long diagnosis starting with “cardio”, urgent surgery needed.

Some minor details: dated someone named Igor, broke up a year ago. Rarely posts on social media; her VK profile—a Russian Facebook equivalent—hasn’t been updated in years.

The hospital floor plan attached shows her usual route over the last three days, even estimates the times she passes specific points. I’m not surprised—cameras are everywhere now, always watching, always recording.

I send Edik a short reply: nothing else needed for now. Shere Khan is pleased. Tomorrow promises to be interesting.

She

I come home from the hospital completely drained. I half-heartedly pick at yesterday’s pasta—dry and clumped together. My mood’s in tatters. Mum’s not doing well at all, and there’s a waiting list for her kind of operation. Quotas. The doctor offered a private option—no queue—but the sum he named left me stunned.

The bank finally refused the loan today. All we own is this little flat. And where would we live if I sell it? We don’t really keep in touch with any relatives, and those we do are old now—kind, maybe, but unable to help. There’s no way around it—we’ll have to wait our turn. But I’m not sure Mum has time to wait. She’s too weak for a shared ward, and at home, it’s impossible—she needs oxygen, IVs…

My last hope is a meeting with the hospital director. I waited three hours today, but he never showed. The receptionist said he’d be around late tomorrow. If I miss him again, I’ll camp outside his office if I have to—wait a week if need be.

The flat is cold and damp. The plumbing leaks, the tap in the bathroom drips nonstop. Since Dad died and we had to move, we never really settled in. Boxes are still piled up in corners. It’s not a home. It’s just… a place.

I glance over at our family plant—Dieffenbachia—Dad bought it when he was young, and it travelled with us from one garrison flat to another. Now it’s all but dead: the spotted leaves are brown at the edges, and the new ones stay stuck together, refusing to unfurl. And why would they? It’s warmer that way. I love that plant. It’s the last living piece of him. I really ought to re-pot it in summer.

Nothing to do. I half-read the news on my ageing laptop and decide to go to bed early. I burrow under the covers and slowly begin to warm up. Thoughts swirl.

Lately, I’ve caught myself feeling as though I’m dissolving. Like I’m becoming transparent. I’ve drifted away from the few friends I had at uni. At work, I’m just a polite ghost—do my job, vanish. Some days, I barely say a word to anyone. Every sentence feels like a drain on energy. Any attempt to get close—an invasion. The only person I still feel drawn to is Vika from the café. I don’t even know why. Maybe because she seems just as lonely as I am.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s my name that cursed me—Serova. My life feels grey and shapeless, just like it. A little grey mouse—that’s all I am.

Since I broke up with Igor, I haven’t wanted a new relationship. It’s not loneliness that scares me—it’s closeness. It’s too sharp, too vivid. And I’m no longer sure I can survive that kind of intensity.

It’s like I’m slowly fading. Not hurting, not bitter—just a quiet, dull emptiness. And in that emptiness, it’s easier to breathe when no one else is near.

I replay the day in my mind. The only thing out of the ordinary was that strange encounter with the mafia guy. Well, not really an encounter—more like a momentary collision. But that scarred face and tall, lean frame won’t leave my thoughts. Nor will that voice—low, commanding. Something in the tone reminded me of my Dad.

I brush my fingers lightly over my nipples—they recall that brief, accidental touch and have stiffened slightly. I stroke the curve of my backside, where his hand had been, and a shiver runs through me. My hand slips of its own accord beneath the waistband of my knickers—towards that little place that comforts lonely girls.

1. The hunt begins… but

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

(Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

He

I take the morning tea from my secretary Lida—no one makes it quite like she does. Coffee, I trust only to myself.

“Lida, would you ask Pavel to come in? And have him bring everything we’ve got going on with the regional hospital.”

“Of course, Sergei Alekseyevich.”

Pavel appears with a file of documents. He’s clearly nervous—he’s new, probably afraid he’s messed something up. He reports stiffly: we’ve won the tender. Here’s the equipment list. The contract’s signed, but the hospital’s got funding issues and can’t pay at the moment.

“Thanks, Pavel. All fine. I’ll handle this myself. Arrange a meeting with the hospital director for four o’clock. Tell him I’ve got an interesting offer.”

What exactly that offer will be, I’ve no idea yet. Depends on the mood. A small discount is always an option.

Half an hour later, Pavel reports back—the director confirmed the meeting and seems very interested. Perfect. Everything’s going to plan.

I open the safe and, after a brief hesitation, take out a small flat box. Probably won’t need it—but just in case.

I leave a little early to get a look around. The weather’s warming up, a light mist hangs over the road. I drive at an easy pace, in excellent spirits.

Not far from the hospital turnoff, I spot a familiar car by the roadside—that dirty brown Opel. Tail-to-nose with it, a shiny new Haval sits at an awkward angle, and some agitated man is flailing his arms, clearly shouting at my little Mousey. She stands by her car, shoulders slumped, with a dazed, defeated look.

Good. I pull over quietly and let Shere Khan out. He knows what to do.

Shere Khan strolls over, calm and slow, and stops a few paces from the shouting man. He’s not interested in the noise—just picks out the key words: “cow”, “if you can’t drive, don’t sit behind the wheel”, “my bumper”, “you’ll pay”.

“Sveta! What’s going on?! Who is this bloke?!” Shere Khan growls.

The “bloke” turns around, immediately deflates—not so much from the words as from the size, expression and general aura of Shere Khan and his imposing black car.

“Boss,” he mumbles, “it’s brand new, I just bought it, and this one… braked. Scratched my bumper.”

With slow, deliberate grace, Shere Khan pulls out his wallet. Without looking, he peels off a few brown notes.

“Apologise to the lady—and get lost.”

“Sorry! I overreacted, nerves, you know how it is… car’s on credit… sorry!” He backs away towards his Haval and vanishes into the damp haze.

She’s still standing there, stunned, in shock, staring at me, eyes wide, speechless. Then she stammers something about driving to the hospital, engine making a strange noise, pulling over, and then this guy coming from nowhere… The gist is clear.

Shere Khan pulls out his phone with a lazy swipe.

“Petrovich? There’s a… brownish heap by the hospital turnoff, ending in nine. Send a tow truck, see what can be done.” Then, addressing Mousey, “Put your hazards on, take anything valuable from the car, don’t lock the door. Tow truck will be here in twenty minutes.”

She flinches, then obediently heads back to the car and starts collecting her things. The hazard lights start flashing. Meanwhile, I set up the warning triangle—I’m fairly sure she doesn’t have one in the boot.

She returns, clutching her “valuables”: a scuffed handbag, a half-used pack of tissues, a blister strip of tablets that looks like paracetamol, and a small toy monkey on a string—clearly a travel talisman.

She sees my raised brow, freezes, bites her trembling lip. Her huge eyes glisten, and she shrinks a little, giving the tiniest, helpless shrug—like a child.

Something tightens in my chest. She’s so disarmingly sweet and fragile—standing there with her paracetamol and her toy monkey. I shove Shere Khan back into his cage.

“Hop in. I’m heading to the hospital too. Got a business meeting with the director at four. We’d better get moving,” I say gently.

Oh, how beautiful she is—when that smile lights up her face.

She

I left early—planned to stop by the café on the way. The car barely started. I know something’s wrong with the engine—there’s a vibration. I really ought to swing by the garage tomorrow.

I tell myself I desperately need a cappuccino today. Like, truly can’t live without it—a fix, like some hopeless addict. That’s the only reason I’m going. Definitely not because I hope to see that big black car parked nearby. And maybe… just maybe…

The café car park is empty. Vika greets me cheerfully—she loves a chat, and we’ve sort of become friends. She brings me my cappuccino.

“Oh, Svetka! You should’ve seen it yesterday! That sugar daddy of yours barged in, stomping, slammed the counter like he was going to break it in half. Face all twisted with rage. Yelling, ‘My Sveta nearly broke her legs out there! I’ll shut this damned café down and have it bulldozed!’ Absolute nightmare!”

“Vika, stop making things up. Just tell me what actually happened.”

“Well, maybe I slightly exaggerated,” she grins. “Right after you left, your sugar daddy walks in. All important-like, cold as an icebreaker. Gave us a dressing-down for not keeping the steps salted. Says: ‘Give me the same coffee Sveta had.’ Sniffs it, barely touches it. Asked how often you come in. I told him not much lately—your mum’s in hospital and it’s a tough time.

He told us to top up your bonus points next time you pop in—moral compensation, he said. So today, your cappuccino’s on the house. And here”—she sets down a slice of my favourite cake —“this one’s from us too.” I’d stopped treating myself to it lately—too expensive.

“Vika, don’t talk nonsense. He’s not my sugar daddy! I don’t even know him—we literally just bumped into each other.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure! I saw the way you were standing there all snuggly, and how lovingly he was brushing off your jeans. Come on—spill! Who is he?”

“Drop it! I told you—we ran into each other, that’s all.”

“All right, you’ll tell me later,” she says with a knowing wink.

“Vika! Why can’t you mind your own business? Why’d you have to bring up my mum and the hospital?”

“Oh, come on! It’s not like it’s a national secret. And he is hot. Top class! I hyped you up, by the way—told him how amazing you are.”

Suddenly, she turns serious and sits beside me.

“You know, he’s got his eye on you. I won’t give you advice—but I know that kind of men. Our usual tricks don’t work on them. Nothing works on them. They know exactly what they want—and they always get it. Just… use your head, yeah? So you don’t end up regretting it.”

There’s a flicker of deep pain in her eyes—so raw and real it unsettles me. A customer appears, and Vika instantly transforms back into her usual cheerful, slightly cheeky waitress self.

Funny how life works—we only ever see people’s outer shell, like a protective casing. But beneath it, every single person carries their own universe—joys, hopes, grief, disappointments, quiet heartbreaks.

I check the time—I’m running late!

Still, I can’t help feeling a little warmed. He thought of me. Stuck up for me. Got me free coffee. Will I see him again? I wonder as I jog towards the car park. But Vika’s words keep echoing: “They know what they want—and they always get it…”

On the way to the hospital, I try to rehearse what I’ll say to the hospital director. But what’s the point? What can I say? Plead and cry into his white coat?

Just before the hospital turn-off, something starts clattering under the bonnet. The engine cuts out and I roll onto the verge. A jolt. The sound of impact…

“That’s it. Game over,” I murmur in resigned despair.

I already hear shouting. No—swearing. Premium-grade cursing. I get out. A balding, furious man is storming towards me, his face contorted in rage. Of all the names he hurls at me, “stupid cow” is probably the most polite. He jabs a finger at his bumper—barely a scuff, really. It was a soft, glancing bump.

No point explaining about safe distances. No point calling him “stupid jerk”. Misery and hopelessness wash over me. I know what comes next. I know I’m about to lose money. Worse—my car’s finished. How will I get to Mum now?

“Daddy, please—help me. Do something!” I beg the heavens.

And suddenly—miracle of miracles—a familiar black slab of steel looms through the mist, all snarling chrome. Him! He steps out, calm and deliberate. Yesterday, I only saw him standing. Now he’s walking. Fluid, controlled, powerful—like a great cat. I notice a slight limp in his left leg.

He approaches and growls, deep and loud, “Sveta! What’s going on? Who’s this bloke?!” Like we’ve known each other for years. The “bloke” shuts up instantly.

I watch, stunned, as he casually pulls out cash. The “bloke” stammers an apology and vanishes.

Mobster, I think. Not just a mobster—a don or a kingpin, whatever they call it. I’m doomed!

I try to explain, but I’m shaking too hard. It comes out as a jumble. He listens, stone-faced, and makes a call. My mind’s whirling—I think he’s calling a tow truck.

Then the words hit me like a slap: “That brownish heap.” That’s what he called my poor old Opel! I know what he meant. It stings. If the car’s shit—what does that make the one who drives it?

Still, I obey his commands without resistance. What else can I do? I turn on the hazard lights—thank God, they work. Stop—valuables!

What do I even have that’s valuable? My bag with documents—driving licence, insurance, car title. Though what’s the point now? The boot’s full of junk. No use even opening it. In the glove box—old utility bills from Dad, some sweet wrappers.

Oh—and a pack of tissues. Just what I need for the tears and snot. I find half a blister of paracetamol—might be useful. I unhook my lucky monkey charm.

That’s it. I shuffle back.

He’s already set up the warning triangle—so thoughtful. I think mine’s somewhere… but I’ve no idea when I last saw it.

I approach, and he gives me a strange look. Oh right—valuables. God, I should’ve at least hidden them in my bag. Now I’m standing here clutching all this pathetic junk like a lost idiot. Tears sting my eyes.

That’s right. This is me: Sveta the screw-up. Do whatever you want—just please, shoot me out of my misery after and bury me right here, by the roadside…

Suddenly something shifts in his dark, piercing eyes. The cold edge melts slightly. Softly, without a trace of command, he says I should get in his car. Then adds the words that nearly make my brain explode: “Meeting with the hospital director.”

For a split second, relief blooms: Mobsters don’t go to business meetings with hospital directors. But that’s not even the point.

The point is the magical word: hospital director. Hope flares inside me—and I grin like the world’s daftest Pinocchio.

God, how ridiculous I must look right now!

He

We drive in silence—I need to think. Shere Khan’s plan, brilliant in its vulgar simplicity—bribery, pressure—has gone straight to the bin. A new one is needed. The Mousey will be mine, but only if she chooses it herself, willingly. I don’t want her any other way. I realised that back there on the roadside. I’ll pay for the operation regardless.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see she’s deep in thought, wanting to speak, but hesitant. At last, she ventures timidly:

“Sorry… what’s your name?”

“For now, you can call me Sergei.”

I put weight on ‘for now’, but she doesn’t pick up on it.

“Sergei!” She stumbles slightly—she wants to use a patronymic, clearly. “Please… I need your help to speak with the hospital director. It’s very important.” She looks at me, pleading.

“What happened?”

She starts explaining the situation with her mother—everything I already know.

“Alright. I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything,” I reply flatly.

They’re already waiting for us at the entrance.

“Mr Nikolaev! Hello, let me show you in,” says a pleasant-looking young woman in a white coat. She glances at my companion, a little puzzled—clearly, this girl in faded jeans doesn’t look like a personal assistant. We make our way down a long corridor toward the director’s office.

“What’s your mum’s name?” I ask.

She tells me a name I already know well.

“Sit here and wait,” I instruct. She obediently perches on the edge of a chair.

The director—a bit heavyset, with thinning grey hair—comes into the waiting room.

“Sergei Alekseyevich! So glad you haven’t forgotten about us.”

We shake hands and head into his office. I like this man—we’ve met a few times before, and I know he genuinely cares about his work and fights tooth and nail for funding for the hospital.

After the usual pleasantries, I tell him I’m aware of their current financial difficulties with the equipment order, and propose the following: our company offers a sponsorship donation, and in return, the hospital performs urgent surgery on one Vera V. Serova, currently a patient here. He looks surprised. Hesitates. But we won the tender fairly long ago—everything by the book.

“You realise, of course, that in this case it won’t count as charitable sponsorship and won’t lower your taxes.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “It suits us.”

He’s not quite aware of Serova’s condition, so he calls in the attending physician. While we wait, he asks how I’m related to her.

“I’m the cousin of her aunt’s nephew,” I say with a straight face.

He nods slowly, retreating into thought, trying to untangle that impossible family tree.

Tea arrives, and we chat a while. He tells me about plans for refurbishment and a new ward.

The doctor appears with her file. Apologetically explains that no operation date has been set yet: there’s a queue, and no quota for high-tech care just yet—funds are expected next quarter. The director dismisses her and starts flipping through the notes.

He names the cost of the operation—not excessive. We’re not in Miami, after all, just an ordinary regional hospital. Still, what’s a modest sum for me is astronomical for Mousey. I offer a donation about 50% higher. He accepts, calls in his secretary, gives instructions.

Our company’s details are already in the procurement contract so ten minutes later she returns with a standard sponsorship agreement. We sign. I make the payment straight from my phone—I’ll sort it out with accounting later.

“Of course, we’ll still need the patient’s consent and a few formalities,” the director reminds me.

“Tomorrow, at this time, the patient’s daughter will come by and help with that.”

We return to the waiting room. Mousey leaps up—hope and questions written all over her face.

The director instructs the secretary to arrange her mother’s transfer to the special unit, start pre-op prep, and coordinate a surgery date with the surgeon—next week, at the latest.

She glows with happiness, looks at me like I’m some kind of real-life Robin Hood. No need for her to know the operation’s being paid for.

The director insists on escorting us to the ward. We’re given white coats. It’s a long walk through corridors and stairwells.

A nurse approaches. Visiting hours are over, but they let Mousey in for a few minutes. The director carries on talking about equipment and budgeting. I nod along politely.

Mousey returns, but I want to see her mother myself.

She’s lying there with an oxygen tube under her nose. Pale lips, weary face—but her eyes are huge, just like her daughter’s. I like her. I take her hand, gently stroke it, and say the usual phrases: everything will be fine, your daughter is wonderful. Her eyes light up with joy—a light I now recognise well.

I step out of the ward. The director is explaining the surgery process to Sveta. We head towards the exit. Suddenly he says, at just the wrong moment:

“Post-op recovery will be covered by her insurance, so no further costs. And we’ll place her in a single room in the special unit—it’ll be more comfortable.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you,” I reply, and catch the look of horror on the Mousey’s face. Oh, how I want to strangle this well-meaning old man.

We say our goodbyes and walk silently to the car. Suddenly she stops.

“Sergei Alekseyevich… Thank you. But you didn’t have to… I’ll pay you back. Not right away, but I promise I will.”

She’s on the verge of tears—her eyes full of anguish and guilt.

“Sveta, we need to talk. There’s a restaurant nearby. We’ll have dinner, and we’ll talk.” I say it not as a question, but as a calm, firm statement. No ifs, no maybes.

Another of those hopeless, cornered-little-mouse glances. Shere Khan would be purring with delight.

“Yes, of course, Sergei Alekseyevich,” she agrees in a strangled voice.

She can’t say no—that would seem ungrateful. But she’s not expecting anything good from this dinner. She’s not a child—she knows how these things go.

She

I’ve been sitting in the waiting room for almost an hour. I see the doctor who’s treating Mum go into the office, holding what looks like a medical file. I hope it’s her chart, but no one calls me in. The doctor leaves, the secretary pops in and out a couple of times. I’m dying of thirst, but I don’t dare ask for water.

At last, the director and Sergei Alekseyevich appear—I now know his full name, even his surname. I leap to my feet. Could it be? Did he actually help?

The chief gives some instructions to the secretary, and to my delight I realise it’s all sorted: they’ve moved Mum up the list, and the surgery will be next week!

I could kiss this stern Sergei Alekseyevich, the hospital director, the secretary—everyone! Even the street sweepers who don’t salt the pavement. Even that “jerk” who rammed into me this morning. What a joy! What a relief!

I practically skip—like my monkey talisman—after the chief and Sergei Alekseyevich to Mum’s ward. I share the wonderful news and promise to come again tomorrow.

I’m pleasantly surprised when Sergei Alekseyevich goes in to see Mum as well—I’ll ask her tomorrow what they talked about. Everything’s turning out like a fairy tale!

On the way out, I’m thinking about how I’ll get home without a car, when—right in the middle of all this happiness—I hear: “no further costs.” It takes a moment to register, but then the realisation hits: he paid for the surgery! Just like that. He didn’t even ask me. Now I’m in his debt. Now I owe him. And that’s terrifying!

I trail after him like a zombie and finally work up the nerve to speak. I promise I’ll repay it all. Sure. How on earth would I repay a sum like that? How many years would I have to work for peanuts to even get close?

I may be a fool, but I’m not a total idiot—I know exactly where this is heading. I’m not surprised when he suggests a restaurant—classic move. Why is it always me? Why am I so hopelessly unlucky?

He politely opens the car door for me. The white lettering on the ribbed doorsill catches my eye: KOMENDANT[3]. I get in. He presses a few buttons near the seat, and it adjusts to fit me perfectly. Warm, soft, comfortable—but none of it helps. The door closes with a quiet click.

That’s it. I’m caught.

I sit in silence the whole drive to the restaurant, feverishly composing some firm, dignified line in my head. Something like: “Dear Sergei Alekseyevich, you’ve done so much for me. Thank you, truly, but…” God, this is all so awful, so humiliating, so vile!

He drives in silence, eyes fixed on the road, as if I’m not even sitting beside him. That’s good—gives me a moment to pull myself together and figure out what to say. Thoughts are darting everywhere, tangled. He hasn’t actually done anything bad to me yet… but he’s put me in a horribly dependent position.

I admit it to myself—I like him. I’ve been thinking about him constantly since that first ridiculous encounter. If he’d simply started courting me, I wouldn’t have minded. But now, these damned money matters have planted themselves between us! Why did he have to do that? If I end up in his bed now, it’ll feel degrading. Revolting.

Although… courting? He doesn’t even seem capable of it. From the start he’s been barking at me, treating me like some stray that accidentally wandered into the path of this rough-cut Superman.

A selfish manipulator! Blackmailing me while I’m trapped with no way out. Courting—why bother, when you’ve got money? Why spend time and energy when you can just buy yourself a new toy, have a little fun, and toss it in the bin afterwards? “They always get what they want,” as Vika once warned.

God, I’m so thirsty. Why on earth didn’t I ask for water while we were at the clinic? Fool.

I have to think of something. The main thing is to get there first—say what needs saying before he can start his mind games. He’s got that commanding voice, the sort that hypnotises. No doubt about it, he’s a skilful manipulator. But I won’t let him work on me—I’ll speak first, get it out before he starts. And if he tries anything—I’ll tell him exactly where to go, stand up and walk out!

Though, truth be told, he hasn’t exactly done anything deserving of insults. He did help with the operation—even if it wasn’t entirely out of the goodness of his heart. And I do like him—no use pretending. He reminds me so strikingly of Joffrey de Peyrac—the limp, the scar, the brooding charm. Just the sort of man I always dreamed about, straight out of the Angélique novels.

I need to come up with a polite but firm refusal. But what if he takes the money back and the operation gets cancelled? What would I tell Mum? Maybe he hasn’t even paid yet? He’ll set conditions—we both know what kind.

How would I live with myself if Mum didn’t make it to surgery? But how will I live with myself if I become a prostitute? Oh God, why is the restaurant so close? We’re already pulling up, and I still don’t know what to say!

And the name of the place—Bonjour. What a daft name for a restaurant! It might suit a café, but not a proper restaurant. Imagine walking through Paris and seeing a Russian restaurant called Good Day—or worse, Good Morning. Ridiculous! The thought makes me smile—and I relax, just a little.

I slip off to the loo—I need a moment alone to gather myself. It’s decently clean in here. I freshen up, try to breathe. I’m dying for a sip of water from the tap but can’t quite bring myself to do it. I haven’t sunk that low yet, have I? Or maybe I already have? Soon I’ll be a whore, drinking from the toilet in full right.

My tired face stares back at me from the mirror. My hair’s a mess. A proper fright. Well, good—the worse I look, the better. Maybe it’ll put him off.

I rehearse a polite but firm speech in the mirror. Once more, I remind myself: beat him to it, say it first. Deep down, I know it’s pointless. He’ll just take me by the elbow, like last time, pin me with that hypnotic stare, lead me away—and make me his whore. Maybe I should run now? But Mum…

I steel myself and head back to the dining room. He’s waiting calmly, tucked into a corner behind some decorative greenery. So casual. So patient. A blackmailer. And still, so painfully attractive.

2. Game of cards

“we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

(Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

He

The restaurant is small and cosy. The owner—also the head chef—is known around here as “Uncle Vova”. He’s heard of French cuisine and christened the place Bonjour, although it only opens in the evening and is shut during the day.

I’ve never tried anything from his so-called French menu, but the steak—made from locally farmed meat—is always excellent. I’ve also heard good things about his salmon in white sauce and his côtelettes à la française. But tonight, food isn’t the main thing. What matters is that, at this early evening hour, the restaurant is empty, and no one will disturb us.

Monsey’s gone to the ladies’ room. I have time to wash my hands, greet the owner—but she’s taking a while. Buying time, or rehearsing her speech. I saw her lips moving in the car. The gist isn’t hard to guess.

I walk into the dining room and take in the surroundings. Quiet—no music. Our table is tucked behind a green partition. Good. The tablecloth is green too—fitting for the game I intend to play.

At last, she returns. I beckon over Stasik, our waiter—a handsome lad with an earring. I suspect he’s got a bit of a thing for me, judging by the jealous glance he throws at my little Mousey. He hands her a menu, but I’ve already decided.

I place the order without fuss. No starters. Steak for me, salmon for the lady. No wine—I need her mind clear—just water. No dessert. A cappuccino with vanilla syrup and cinnamon for her, and a double espresso for me. Mousey, confused, hands back the menu without having looked at it. The game is on.

She says nothing—eyes fixed on the tablecloth. I don’t rush either. Stasik brings the water. Pours mine first, then hers—a small act of spite.

She gulps down half the glass immediately, then, embarrassed, puts it down. Won’t look me in the eye—nervous, or shy. The food arrives quickly.

“Bon appétit,” I say, slicing into my steak.

I like it rare. I notice the way her face twitches at the sight of the red juice bleeding across my plate.

She timidly separates a piece of baked salmon, nestled in a pool of white sauce beside boiled potatoes and green asparagus. She tries it—and then tucks in, quickly. She’s genuinely hungry.

I give her time to finish and study her. It’s the first time I see her like this—not on the move, but still. I’ve seen her surprised, desperate, pleading, hopeful, happy, frightened. Now, for the first time, she’s simply serious.

I admire her delicate face, her slender neck. Her hair’s slightly undone, which only adds to her unguarded charm. She’s beautiful. So wonderfully, achingly feminine. I find myself wondering—how long have I even known her? A couple of minutes yesterday, a few more on the road. The hospital, two short car rides. An hour at most.

Of course, I already know quite a lot about her from the dossier Edik sent, while she knows nothing about me. She only learnt my surname by accident. And here I am, wanting her to give herself to me completely—to a man with whom she’s exchanged barely a dozen sentences.

Do I even have the right to decide her fate? All I know is this: I’ll never break her. I’ll play with open cards. And the decision must be hers alone. I’m sure—well, almost sure—that she is the one I’ve been looking for all these years. After some hesitation, I set myself a time frame: seven days to be sure, and to win her heart. I suspect it won’t be easy, but I have no doubt I’ll manage.

She’s finished her meal and finally lifts her eyes.

“Was it good?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you. Really good—the… asparagus… or is it asparagi?”

“At the table, just asparagus,” I say with a smile. “Asparagi is more botanical.”

She blushes at what she thinks is ignorance. After a pause, she cautiously plays her first card.

“Sergei Alekseyevich… do you come here often with your wife?” The phrase with your wife is ever so slightly stressed. Bravo, Mousey! A clever gambit. Hoping I’ll suddenly remember I have a conscience and back off.

“I’m not married.”

A flicker of surprised interest, tinged with disappointment. My move now.

“Sveta, I have a proposal…”

She doesn’t let me finish. Lifting her chin and straightening up, she blurts out the speech she’s clearly practised many times:

“Sergei Alekseyevich! You’ve done so much for me. You’ve really helped me. I’m so grateful, thank you! You’re a very kind man, but… I’m sorry, this is hard to say… I can’t become your…” she falters, “your… your mistress.”

Brave girl! I wasn’t wrong about her. I was counting on her playing that card now. Proud little Mousey. I feign genuine surprise.

“I wasn’t asking you to be my mistress.”

“What? But I thought —” she trails off.

I can see her brain scrambling. Surely this sort of man doesn’t drop to one knee, produce a basket of roses and a velvet ring box? So what else might I be offering? A job? A role in a film, perhaps? Something like: We’ve decided, with the late Tarkovsky, to co-direct a prequel to Poor Liza, and you’re perfect for the role. Of course, you’ll need to audition…

What else? Money?

I pause—let her imagination run—and play my trump card:

“You’ll become my slave,” I say in the calmest, most ordinary tone of voice, slipping the last rare morsel of steak into my mouth.

A silence so stunned it would make the writer Gogol tear up the page with his famous “the words struck like thunder”.

It had to be said like that: slave, not some ambiguous foreignism like submissive. No room for misinterpretation—slave says it all. And not you’ll be, but you’ll become—final, inescapable. She stares at me in wide-eyed disbelief. There’s a small chance she’ll throw the rest of her water in my face and storm off—but if that happens, I’ve misjudged her. That would make me a poor psychologist.

The shock begins to fade, and a wave of conflicting emotions washes over her face. I can’t catch them all, but at one point her gaze turns distant, and I sense tension in her body—tight thighs pressed together. I’ve struck a nerve.

“A standard contract,” I continue, not letting her gather herself, laying my next cards casually. “Nothing extraordinary. By the agreement, you’ll live in my house for seven days. You’ll obey all my orders and fulfil all my desires. You’ll be available, obedient, and compliant. In return, I’ll look after you and your dependants, teach you, guide you—and yes, I’ll have to punish you if you disobey or break the rules.”

“Are you a sadist?” she whispers, horrified. “You’re going to beat me?”

A good sign. The denial stage has passed—she’s already probing terms. Also telling—she doesn’t ask about sex. She’s read the books, so she knows what they do to slaves. But punishment—that worries her.

I leave a pause. She’s wound too tight. Time to lighten the tone a little.

“Mousey,” I say, calling her that for the first time.

“Please don’t call me Mousey,” she interrupts, slightly irritated.

I suspect the problem wasn’t really the nickname Mousey. What’s troubling her is the question she just asked—it truly matters to her. And here I am, playing the fool with that silly Mousey.

“All right,” I say calmly. “I’ll call you Ratling instead.”

She bites her lip in indignation.

“Fine then. Mousey it is.”

She falls silent again, waiting for an answer to the question that clearly weighs on her.

“Mousey,” I begin, “first of all, I’m not a sadist. I’m a Dominant. A Master.”

I stress the word Master—it carries a very specific energy. In our language, a master is first and foremost a skilled professional, a specialist, someone experienced and capable. That meaning overrides the potentially harsh connotations of the word dominant. I give her a moment to let it sink in before continuing.

“Second—who on earth beats little mice? You beat enemies, wild animals, maybe someone else. Little mice don’t get beaten. They’re punished and disciplined. That’s something else entirely. You were punished as a child, weren’t you? Denied sweets, made to stand in the corner, given a smack?”

She stays silent. I hope that part of the contract has now been clarified, because after a moment’s hesitation, she moves on to the next concern.

“So that’s why you paid for my mum’s operation? You want to buy me—like they bought slaves in the past?”

A clever card, and a promising sign. Legally speaking, we’re already approaching the financial terms of the deal.

“Mousey, I don’t want to buy you. I paid for your mother’s operation simply because I wanted to help her. If the director hadn’t mentioned the payment by accident, you wouldn’t have known at all. And besides, this arrangement benefits the hospital—it gets equipment from my company, and I profit from that. So I’m not at a loss, and you owe me nothing. Let’s leave that aside. It has no bearing on the agreement we’re discussing.”

Nice small cards: our agreement and we’re discussing. I emphasise those words —this is a discussion, a dialogue. No pressure. No compulsion.

“And anyway,” I go on, “on slave markets, they sold people who were already in captivity. They had no choice. That’s not the case here. You’re entirely free to decide. No one’s forcing you. I’m not offering you money. It’s your own decision—to accept or refuse the arrangement.”

It had to be put that way—you and I, in our case, our deal. She’s already involved in the negotiation. We’re working through this together.

I can see her calming a little. There’s more than fear and caution in her eyes now—there’s curiosity. She wants to understand what kind of creature I am. Maybe it’s all just a joke? A prank? I sense it—that flicker of interest and arousal has sparked in her.

I signal to Stasik to bring the coffee and begin to gently fan the flame.

“Mousey, I’m a Master. Over these seven days, I’ll teach you to understand your body, to embrace your sensuality. I’ll help you fulfil your deepest, most secret desires. You’ll become a real woman. And remember—it’s only seven days. Don’t miss this chance. Make the right choice.”

After a long silence, she finally speaks—with nervousness, and a hint of theatrical flair:

“You’re Mephistopheles! You’ll give me all this… and then take my soul!”

Well done, girl. She’s read Goethe. Good card.

“Mousey, the idea of an immortal soul is nothing more than a clever marketing move from priests and Jesuits. And if you recall, Mephistopheles didn’t manage to take Faust’s soul. The soul is our feelings, our memories, our emotions. You can’t buy or sell it. You can’t gift it or steal it. But you can entrust it to someone. You can open it.”

I’ve no idea where this sudden burst of philosophy came from. I can feel myself growing a long grey beard, about to say: Listen, my child… And that’s when she plays her strongest card:

“Yes, but a soul can be spat on. It can be trampled and destroyed!”

A powerful card. I know it well. Not everyone’s dealt that one by fate. It’s invisible, intangible, and has no suit—but people have fought duels for it, mounted the scaffold, walked to their deaths. It goes by many names, but the shortest is honour. It can indeed be taken, it can be destroyed—but without it, a person becomes a mere shadow.

I’m sure my Mousey holds that card. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have started this game. I don’t respond immediately—this is a turning point in the conversation, and it needs to be separated from everything that came before. This is no longer a game. No more “Mousey”.

At last, I speak, quietly, seriously, sincerely:

“Sveta, I promise you—that will not happen. I promise I will never harm you.”

There’s no need to fake it—I mean every word. She feels it, and her eyes lock on mine.

“Truly?”

“Scout’s honour,” I reply, before I can stop myself.

And she accepts this silly reply. Or rather—she doesn’t even hear the words. She just keeps searching my eyes for the answer.

That’s it. The cards are on the table, the game is over, and now she must decide.

I meet her assessing gaze calmly—the gaze of a woman, of a female. Perhaps this is how a lioness looks at the male approaching her. There’s nothing more I can do now—I must wait.

Then, in her eyes, something shifts—subtle, almost imperceptible: Mousey has made her decision. She doesn’t know it yet, or rather, she can’t quite articulate it—but the decision has already been made. I even know what it is. She just needs help putting it into words.

And right on cue, Stasik arrives with the coffee.

“May I think about it?” She asks.

“Of course. You’ve all the time in the world,” I say, pausing, “until you finish your cappuccino. But once you put the cup down, you must say one simple word—yes or no. Just remember: no means no. If you choose it, I’ll call a taxi, you’ll go home, and I’ll vanish from your life forever.”

She drinks slowly, in tiny sips. She wishes the cup were bottomless. But at last, porcelain touches porcelain with a soft chime. And just as softly, comes the answer:

“Yes.”

“Good,” I reply curtly, and gesture to Stasik.

I settle the bill, stand up, and without so much as a glance at her, head for the exit. She said yes—but for now it’s only a word, a breath. It must be confirmed with action. She could remain seated. She could vanish behind my back and run.

Without looking back, I stroll to the car, open the passenger door, and wait.

There’s the swish of her grey jacket—and she slides in.

I close the mousetrap and take the driver’s seat. It’s done. Only a few formalities remain.

Somewhere deep inside, Shere Khan stirs with anticipation.

“Keep your claws to yourself,” I say to him. “She’s mу prey.”

She

The waiter—the one with the earring—hands me a menu. He shoots me a contemptuous look, like he’s thinking: “We know your type. Little tramp. And if you’re not one yet, you will be soon.”

I can’t remember the last time I was in a proper restaurant. Probably back when Dad was still alive. Igor used to drag me to cheap little cafés—stingy little man-child, always hoping I’d pay. This one’s not like that. A real man. If he wanted, he’d buy this whole restaurant on a whim—probably with me thrown in.

It smells divine from the kitchen. My stomach tightens with hunger. I suddenly realise I haven’t eaten properly in days. Not that I’ve got no money for food—I’m not there yet. Just nerves.

I’ll choose something modest. Maybe fish? But what kind? Probably all these pretentious French looking names—something like “carp à la sour cream”.

I don’t even get to open the menu— he orders everything in an instant. I feel slightly hurt. But inside, I admit—I like his decisiveness. And he ordered exactly what I wanted. Spared me the stress of choosing. Even the coffee—just how I like it. Maybe he’s not a blackmailer after all. Then what is he?

At last—water! I drain half the glass in one go. I’d finish it all, but I catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. No—better not give him that satisfaction.

I avoid eye contact—afraid of being hypnotised. I focus on his hands instead—strong, sure, with long, sensitive fingers. Noticed how neat his nails are. Carefully groomed. Not chewed to bits like Igor’s. He’s watching me, silently. Is now the right moment to speak? No, not yet.

The food arrives. “Bon appétit!” he says—and it sounds mocking, sarcastic. Or is that just me being paranoid again? His tone’s actually quite ordinary. Polite, even.

I glance up to thank him—and there it is: his steak oozing with red, bloody juice. No—that’s not a steak. That’s me, lying there on the plate! He’ll eat me just like that. No hesitation. Not even chew—just spit me out, bored.

The fish, though—I’ll give him that—it’s divine. Tender and juicy. The sauce smells of cream and some mysterious spice. I decide to eat—even the condemned are allowed a final meal.

The green stalks are lovely too—crisp and delicate, with a subtle scent. I’ve seen them in the shops, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they’re called.

He asks if I liked the food. Of course I did. But then I go and embarrass myself asking about asparagus like some clueless fool! I think he’s smirking. My face burns. But maybe I’m imagining it—he actually explained quite nicely.

Annoyed with myself, I jab back with a question about his wife. A man like that must have one—tall, leggy, flawless.

But he’s not married. Didn’t expect that. Strange feeling: a little disappointed that my jab missed—but also, quietly pleased she doesn’t exist. But why? Was he divorced?

And now he’s about to make his offer. I know exactly what it’s going to be. I brace myself and blurt out my rehearsed line in one go. I do stumble at the end—probably look like a fool. But I said it!

Wait—what? Not his lover? Then… what?

I’ve geared up for that—and now I’m completely thrown, scrambling through alternatives. And then—wham! —like a hammer to the head: slave.

My breath catches. I gasp for air. My mind floods with every slave girl from every book—from ancient Greece to Isaura, the slave girl from the Brazilian soap opera. That grand, booming word used to send a shiver through my childhood belly.

When I was little, reading Angélique under the covers with a torch, the scene where they stripped her naked for auction in front of a hall full of men nearly made me faint—with horror, yes, but also something else… something burning and heavy, deep inside.

And the scene where she’s whipped in public—I imagined how shameful, how painful it must have been. I didn’t like the blood or the pain, but the thought of standing there, tied to a post… it made me clench my thighs, just like I’m doing now.

Meanwhile, he’s calmly going on about “a perfectly ordinary agreement.” Ordinary?! As if everyone signs these things on their lunch break! He’s going to use me however he likes—and punish me, too! Suddenly it all clicks into place: so this is who he is—a sadist!

Coolly, he explains that he’s not a sadist. Just a Dominant. A Master.

Dominant—like that psycho from that book about the grey shades? But he doesn’t seem like a nutjob. Of course not—he’s a Master! What is that, then? A certified Dominant? Like a Master of Arts? Master of Domination? Got his degree in spankology?

And he is going to beat me, isn’t he?

I start to panic—and he dodges the question again, twisting everything into a joke about mice and rats. Oh, so that’s it! He’s toying with me—playing cat and mouse. Why didn’t I see it sooner?

Strangely, the thought calms me a little. Maybe it is just a game to him—a wind-up, some kind of teasing. But no—he’s being far too serious. And now he’s explaining, in great detail, how little mice like me aren’t beaten… only “disciplined.”

And that’s when it hits me—that little moment by the café, when he brushed the dust off my jeans. He was testing my backside! Trying it out. And clearly, it fit. Just his size.

Now it’s all clear: that’s why he paid for the operation! He planned it all—to trap me, make me dependent, and force me into becoming his slave.

He replies that it was meant to be a secret, and the director only let it slip by accident. And yes—I remember the look he gave the hospital director. A sharp, cold glare.

Suddenly I feel lighter. The operation is covered, and it’s not even about the money—he’ll make a profit off it! Take notes, Sveta—that’s how business is done. So it’s not about selling my body after all—just a deal between us. A kind of barter—you give me this, I give you that.

And how cleverly he frames it—as if we’re already jointly discussing his mad proposal: “We’re discussing our deal.”

A deal—that’s the word! I remembered Goethe from second-year literature—a deal with the devil. He’s no Peyrac after all. He’s Mephistopheles! Tempting me, luring me in: he’ll teach me everything, awaken my sensuality and fulfil all my hidden fantasies. So smooth and persuasive it gives me goose bumps and makes my stomach knot with arousal. Yes, he’ll give me all that… and then take my soul!

But he’s clever—caught me out on Goethe. I’d even forgotten that in the end Mephistopheles never managed to take Faust’s soul—the angels carried it up to heaven. And on top of that, he turns philosopher—what he said about the soul was truly beautiful. After all, open your soul, and at once someone will want to spit in it.

Suddenly he becomes serious—calls me Sveta, not Mousey, for the first time. And again he reminds me of Joffrey… I’m stunned. This isn’t a joke—he’s genuinely offering me a contract! This is all for real!

To my horror, I realise I desperately want to say yes. To throw myself in head-first and give myself up to those strong, knowing hands. My body aches for him. Only fear holds me back: fear that he’ll trick me, lure me into a trap, then crush me, destroy my soul. That would be worse than becoming a whore. That’s what I’m afraid of—because I barely know him. Can I trust him?

I look into his eyes, searching for even the faintest flicker of lust, of deceit—but I find none. Just calm openness, and something else, barely there: weariness, perhaps. Sadness. I believe him.

But how do I say it, how do I show him that I want him? That I want him to seize me, pull me close, crush me in his arms? Stop. I need to breathe, to think. No—I’m not doubting any more, I just need to listen to myself. Thank God he ordered cappuccino: the cup is big, I still have time.

But how can I possibly express what’s happening inside me? And then—as always—it’s him who helps me. He always does.

Such simple words: yes or no. That’s all. Just choose no– and he’ll vanish from my life. Impossible! He’s already part of my life. Part of me.

I clutch the cup in both hands. The scent of vanilla—how I love it! I draw it in deeply, listening to myself. Yes, there’s fear of the unknown, a flutter of excitement, the sense of something new, something strange. So many feelings, so many shades. But no shame. No searing humiliation, no fire that scorches the soul.

How lucky that the coffee is hot—I can sip slowly. It tastes better than usual—richer, warmer. Even more aromatic than the one I always get in the café. How did he know? Oh, of course—Vika and her big mouth. I thank her silently, and smile.

I replay everything we said at the table. He is a master, a subtle psychologist—but not a manipulator. I remember how easily he took control of me that first time, with just one word. He could’ve done the same tonight. But he didn’t. He chose another way—he built a conversation. Constructed it with care, like a piece of music. Not once did I feel forced. Not even slightly.

Now I see why he ordered for me—to sweep away the clutter, the trivialities. What difference would it really have made if I’d agonised over salmon or plaice?

“Yes,” I say, quiet but firm, as my cup touches the saucer with a soft chime.

His “All right” is short, dry. No satisfaction in it. No joy of victory. Not a flicker of emotion on his face. He pays, rises, and leaves without a glance.

Panic grips me: I said “yes” the wrong way! Maybe he thought it sounded false, insincere—as if I meant “Yeah, right.” And now his “all right” feels cold, menacing, almost like: “Fine, then I’m off.”

I catch up with him at the door—and suddenly realise: he’s giving me one last choice. I could slip away now. Disappear.

Instead, I follow him to the car. He opens the door and waits, without looking back. I slide into the leather seat, already moulded to me. The door shuts.

My heart skips in fear—and then I see it clearly: in his car, I already have a place. My place. The fear recedes.

3. Slave

“Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I’ll come up; if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m someone else.”

(Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass)

She

The interior of his car is simple, even slightly old-fashioned—real wood, genuine leather. You can barely hear the engine, and the car moves so smoothly it feels like it’s gliding over water. If I close my eyes, I could believe I’m aboard a sailing ship, setting out for unknown shores…

How did it happen that I agreed so quickly to something so mad—to hand myself over to a stranger I know almost nothing about? Although that’s not quite true. I know his name, that he runs his own company, something to do with medical equipment.

He’s clearly wealthy, and generous—just like that, on a whim, he paid for Mum’s operation. And he helped me when I slipped on the steps. Or was that more than just help? But he did appear like that, out of the mist, just when I was pleading with the heavens for help. A knight—not quite on a white horse, perhaps—but still… he saved me.

And I know he’s clever, well-read, a subtle psychologist, maybe even a philosopher. And yes… I like him. Very much.

He’s so many things at once! I’ve seen him rough, commanding, intimidating… but also compassionate, generous, unreadable, ironic, serious—and all that in just a few hours. No, not even hours—minutes. I’ve never known anyone reveal so much of themselves in such a short time. And honestly, no one in my life—besides my parents—has done as much for me in just a single day as he has.

He didn’t just lift me off the step that day—he offered to lift me out of that grey, hopeless fog of loneliness and unmet desires. He gave me a chance. Yes—that’s exactly what he called it!

So why am I so anxious? I glance sideways at him. He’s watching the road, expressionless. I can only see one side of his face, the scarred one. I can’t decide if I’m afraid of him or not. Probably not—I’ve looked into his eyes, and I trust him. But this unease… maybe I’m afraid that I won’t live up to what he sees in me. That I’ll disappoint him.

He’s clearly experienced. World-weary. I’m certain he’s had dozens—maybe even hundreds—of women. What do I have to offer him? My silly girlish fantasies? My miserable scrap of teenage fumbling with Igor? If you can even call that sex. Just a couple of clumsy roll rounds that left nothing but utter disappointment behind.

Wrapped up in these thoughts, I don’t even notice the time pass. We’re already near the edge of town, in the gated community by the river.

He

We drive without saying a word. I’m working through the details of my plan—yes, I have one. She’s sunken into herself, clearly deep in thought too.

At the security post of the gated community, they recognise my car and raise the barrier in advance. We pull up to the house. I press the remote—the gate glides open.

I catch the slight jolt in her shoulders and how intently she watches the motion through the mirror. I leave the gates wide open—it matters for my Mousey: а symbol of freedom. While they’re open, there’s still an escape route.

“Sveta, there are a few formalities to take care of.”

“Yes… the agreement, the contract…” she says faintly, struggling with the words, the look of quiet misery in her eyes.

I imagine she’s picturing me dragging out some thick stack of papers so we can go over every clause like in that book.

“I recited the contract at dinner. If you want, I’ll repeat it.”

“No, I remember.”

Still, I repeat the words I’d spoken at the restaurant, calmly and precisely.

“There are two important additions. First: the agreement is for seven days but renews automatically unless either party expresses a desire to end it. Second: you must understand clearly that you’re entering my house of your own free will. You may leave at any time. No one will stop you. If you go, the contract is void—we owe each other nothing, and part forever. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says, then hesitates as if wanting to add something more.

“Any questions? Speak.”

“A word,” she whispers. “A special word.”

“A safe-word? You won’t need one. You don’t know how to use it. Trust me—I know what you can take, and what you can’t. Still, if it gives you peace of mind, choose your word.”

“Vanilla,” she says, shyly and after a pause.

“Very well. Your safe-word is ‘vanilla’. But be warned—if you ever choose to use it, you’ll insult me with your distrust. It will count as a termination of our agreement. I do not need a slave who doesn’t trust her Master.”

She nods in agreement but can’t lift her eyes.

“Then take this.”

I pull out a small box from my pocket. Nestled in black velvet lies an elegant choker-necklace—platinum, a soft band about a centimetre wide, its intricate flat links designed to stretch slightly and spring back into shape. I bought it last year in an exclusive Dubai boutique and paid a frankly outrageous sum—but it’s perfect. A collar, yes, but a special one for a special woman.

Gold would have been too garish—attention-seeking. Platinum, with its silvery-steel sheen, is more discreet. Unless someone knows, they’d think it mere fashionable jewellery. And it’s stronger than gold, hypoallergenic. No rashes or marks.

“This is your collar. A symbol of complete submission. It’s made of pure platinum—durable, resilient, and hypoallergenic. You can wear it at all times. If you ever decide to leave, you don’t have to explain. Just return the collar, and our contract is void. Now kiss it, and offer it to me with both hands.”

I created this ritual myself. Most just use a standard collar, but my Mousey shouldn’t feel like she’s been tossed a dog’s chain.

She takes the necklace, studies it for a few seconds, then kisses it and offers it up to me. I fasten it around her trembling neck. The clasp clicks softly—she flinches and falls still.

I admire the result. It sits snugly, just above the collarbones, close to the throat. It looks magnificent.

“Is it too tight?”

“No… just cold.”

“It’ll warm up.”

I give her a moment to adjust, then—with just the right hint of dramatic flair—I press the remote again. The wrought-iron gates close slowly behind the car. She watches the mirror, unmoving. I wonder what’s racing through that pretty little head of hers.

“From this moment, our contract is in force. You must address me only as ‘Sir’. After every response, every request—‘Sir’. The words I expect to hear most from you are: ‘Yes, Sir,’ and ‘At your command, Sir’. Is that clear?”

“Yes…” she stammers, then adds in a whisper, “Sir.”

The word does not come easily. No matter—she’ll grow used to it. Now it’s time for the next stage of my plan.

“Give me your bank card.”

She startles, eyes wary, but without protest hands it over quickly. I already know her account number—the transfer form is prepared in my banking app—but I pretend to enter the digits from the card. Her phone beeps in her handbag.

“Check your SMS.”

She obediently takes it out, gasps aloud, and stares at me with the same wide, astonished eyes she had when I first said “slave”.

“Why?! You shouldn’t have! That’s… far too much…”

“Slave,” I say, now in Shere Khan’s voice, low and commanding, “never dare question your Master’s decisions. I’m not buying you. You’ve already agreed—the contract is sealed. But these are the rules. Unless, you wish to use your safe-word? I’m waiting.”

“Sir. Forgive me, Sir.”

Just as I expected—the word “rules” had the desired effect. Rules mean some established order so her strongest card is still hers. She doesn’t need to know that I made the rules up myself.

“Out you get.”

She fumbles nervously with the door, finally finding the handle and stepping out.

We’re home.

Part one of the plan is complete. There’s much left to do. I’ll take the memory card out of the dashboard camera tomorrow. I know I’ll never need it, but I’ve always preferred to keep my contracts properly documented.

Mousey is flustered, uncertain what to do with herself.

“Where should I hang my jacket?”

I open the dressing room door and gesture.

“Thank you. Should I leave my shoes here too?”

I nod silently.

“And where can I wash my hands?”

I point towards the guest loo. She returns, hovering awkwardly, blushing, fingers fluttering at her sides. She stands uncertainly, seeing me watching her silently, and finally asks, flustered:

“What should I do?”

I pause for a long moment and reply calmly:

“Do you have problems with memory or with hearing?”

“No, why—?” She stops mid-sentence, staring at me in horror—the penny’s dropped.

“You’ve been in my house mere minutes, and already you’ve broken one of the most important rules. What is it?”

“Sorry! I forgot, I was flustered! I should have said… ‘Sir’, shouldn’t I?”

“Slave, that’s twice now you’ve disrespected your Master. You’ve been rude and ill-mannered. Follow me. You are to be punished.”

I head upstairs. Mousey follows behind, face scarlet with shame, a picture of resignation. She’s made my job easy—no need to contrive some excuse for her initiation.

She must be brought into the role of slave immediately. She’s expecting it. She’s been preparing herself all the way here. And this fire—this trembling heat—must not be allowed to die!

She

The huge iron gates slide open, the car slows in front of a large house. I glance in the mirror and catch myself—I’m dreading the moment the gates close again. Like the door of a mousetrap snapping shut behind me… forever?

Suddenly I feel real fear. But then—from deep inside—something stirs. A tension low in my belly flares into heat—the fire of desire.

He says something about formalities? No, not now! Please! Not the contract—not now! I’ve been waiting, trembling, aching for him to touch me. Surely he won’t pull out some ridiculous hefty contract, like in that book?

But no—thank God! It’s so simple. And really, what’s the point of legal wrangling when there’s already trust between us? The extra points make sense. But then I remember—the word. There must always be a special word. A safe-word.

What to choose? My mind scrambles—nothing seems right. But that lovely aftertaste still lingers on my tongue—that longest cappuccino of my life… Vanilla! Let it be that.

He opens the box in front of me, and I lift out the silvery band—fluid like mercury, but unexpectedly heavy. Platinum, he says. I’ve never held it before. A symbol. I pause, breath caught—it’s beautiful, romantic, even. This isn’t some crude leather collar. Kissing it isn’t hard—it’s even oddly pleasant, that noble metal cool against my lips.

His hands touch my neck gently. The collar is cold, it doesn’t choke, but it presses against my throat with quiet, steady authority. I hear the soft click of the clasp and freeze. It’s happened! I catch sight of the gates, closing slowly in the mirror. It’s done. I’m his slave. I belong to him.

Then he asks for my bank card. Ah, yes—I’m a slave now. I shouldn’t have anything. Fair enough. If I’ve given him my body, why would I cling to money? I hand it over, and moments later I hear my phone chime—a bank notification.

The amount is terrifying—all those zeros. Why? Why would he do that? I didn’t do this for money!

He explains coldly—those are the rules. Perhaps he’s part of some secret order of noble dominants, and they have a code of rules? But then again, I’ve already accepted, I’ve given him the collar to be put on me—that was the agreement. If these are the rules, so be it. He’s the Master. I trust him. I slip the card back into my bag.

We step inside the house. At first I can’t quite take it in—the lighting is dazzling. The entrance hall is enormous—it could hold our entire flat. A graceful staircase curves up to the first floor. Through a wide archway I glimpse a beautiful sitting room… and—oh!—a grand piano. He has a piano!

And now? All the way here I imagined how it might be. Would he grab me, pin me to the wall, tear off my clothes? Just the thought made something coil up tight inside me—a heat pulsing low, between my thighs.

But nothing like that. Just quiet. He watches me in silence. I have to do something. What? Take off my coat. Shoes too—the floors shine with cleanliness. But there’s no coat rack.

He opens the door to a large cloakroom—shelves, wardrobes with polished wooden hangers, shoe racks. Everything beautifully arranged, functional and elegant.

I need the loo. I appreciate the layout—a stylish little guest toilet just by the entrance, complete with a wide marble windowsill and a blooming orchid. I touch it—real, of course.

Everything here is luxurious, but still feels like a real home. I begin to relax. The fire inside me starts to settle.

I come back out. He’s still watching me, silent. I think I should ask what I’m supposed to do now.

And then—his reply, in that cold, cutting voice—it hits me like a slap. God, how could I forget? I got distracted by the beautiful house and forgot who I am… and why I’m here.

“You will be punished.” Those words strike like a spark. The fire flares again, hotter than before. Where is he taking me? What’s going to happen? I’m scared. But somewhere deep inside, that fear melts into something else—a sweet, aching need.

My cheeks flush. Is this really happening? Not in a book—but to me, right now, in real life, as I follow him, trembling—with fear and desperate longing. What a sweet, exquisite torment!

4. First trial

“A dream is not reality but who’s to say which is which?”

(Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

“But, I nearly forgot, you must close your eyes otherwise you won’t see anything”

(Lewis Carroll, Jan Svankmajer, Alice )

He

I ascend the stairs slowly and pause before the door at the far end of the landing. Stepping slightly aside, I allow her a clear view. The terror on her face is unmistakable—not merely an expression, but a tremor that passes through her entire body like a wave.

I know exactly what her imagination is conjuring: a heavy wooden door groaning open to reveal a dungeon. Most likely, she’s recalling a scene from The Countess of Rudolstadt, where Consuelo is subjected to a Masonic trial and led through a sinister, Inquisition-era vault.

I wait—deliberately—to let the full drama of her imaginings play out. Then, with calm ceremony, I open the door. She blinks in surprise—and confusion—at the sight of an entirely ordinary salon: soft leather furnishings, a coffee table, a palm in the corner by the window.

Without a word, I guide her through to a second door. Her apprehension returns, tempered now with curiosity.

I pause again, then open the door slowly, with just a touch of theatrical flair, and speak in Shere Khan’s voice:

“Enter. Five steps forward—then stop.”

We are now in the bedroom. It is dark—naturally, this only heightens her unease.

I reworked the plan of this part of the house myself, enlarging it to take up an entire wing of the second floor. The suite comprises the bedroom, a dressing room, a bathroom, and several smaller rooms—all soundproofed from the rest of the house. The antechamber we just passed through serves precisely that purpose.

At the far end of the bedroom stands a vast bed; in front of it, an open area, free of clutter. The furnishings are minimal: a leather sofa, a pair of pouffes, two chairs and a small chest of drawers. Set into the wall, a discreet bar with glassware and a mini-fridge.

The entrance is at the side, and the entire wall opposite the bed is mirrored. Another mirror is mounted on the ceiling above the bed. Both are finished with a bronzed patina, antique in style and can be concealed with curtain-screens, operated remotely or via an app. For now, they remain open.

I switch on the lighting gradually, keeping it muted. She casts a quick, surprised glance about the room. I can’t let her grow comfortable—not yet—so I release Shere Khan for a moment, but keep him tight on the leash.

Shere Khan circles the girl now, a leather-tipped riding crop already in his hand—retrieved from the chest of drawers.

“Back straight. Heels together. Hands tight against your sides. Eyes on the floor.” The commands come crisp and sharp, each like the crack of the crop itself.

She hesitates—only briefly—and receives a swift flick across her backside. It is not a strike, more a sharp tap, but she cries out and jerks as though scalded.

“This is how you present yourself before your Master. Who are you? Answer me!”

“A slave…” Then, after another light slap, she quickly adds, “Sir.”

“When you answer your Master’s question, you look him in the eye.” Shere Khan lifts her chin with the tip of the whip, fixing her gaze. “And what should you say now?”

“Yes, Sir…”

“Now back to the floor. You do not look up again until I speak to you. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why are you in this room right now?”

She freezes—fear and confusion flicker across her face. Then, as if mustering her courage, she replies in a quiet, strained voice:

“To be punished, Sir.”

“On your knees!”

Even in the low light, her blush is unmistakable. Slowly, hesitantly, she sinks down.

“This is the position for awaiting punishment,” Shere Khan growls, his voice rough with command. “Back straight. Hands behind your back—palms resting on your bottom facing outwards. Eyes on the floor. Spread your knees.”

He administers a few sharp taps to the insides of her thighs.

“Have you memorised this position?”

“Yes, Sir,” she replies, a little faster now.

“What was your offence? Speak!”

“Sir… I didn’t address you as ‘Sir’, Sir…” She stumbles over the words in her agitation, but clearly decides that repetition is safer than omission.

“Now look me in the eyes and beg your Master to punish you.”

She falters, unsure of what he wants. Finally, she manages—awkwardly, haltingly:

“Sir… please punish me.”

That’s enough—Shere Khan must be reined in before he gets carried away. This is not the moment for his usual, more brutal methods. I already understand my Mousey well: what excites her is the surrender, the suspense, the ritual of it all—not crude humiliation or verbal degradation, which Shere Khan might be all too ready to dispense.

She fears pain—real pain—but she doesn’t need it. Her mind supplies its own intensity: the idea of punishment alone heightens every sensation, so that even the lightest stroke feels momentous.

“Stand up.”

She rises quickly and assumes the correct posture again. She learns fast—good.

“Take off your socks.”

Without hesitation, she slips them off and stands uncertainly, unsure what to do next.

“Go to the mirror, place them neatly on the floor, and return to your position.”

The mirror is several metres away. She walks across, bends to lay the socks down and then returns—posture perfect.

“Now remove your jeans and do the same.”

After a brief hesitation, she fumbles with the buttons and slowly pulls off her jeans. She carries them to the mirror and is about to return—when she suddenly freezes. In a quick, nervous movement, she takes off her underwear and tucks it beneath her jeans. She has seen the dark, unmistakable stain—a tell-tale trace of desire on her plain, faded knickers And she is mortified.

That’s how women are: they would rather stand naked before a man than reveal a pair of unflattering knickers with a stain they believe shameful.

“I didn’t give you permission to remove your underwear. Put them back on.”

Even from across the room, I see the flush that climbs her neck and colours her cheeks. She falters.

“Quickly. Put them on and return to your place!” Shere Khan’s bark is sharp.

She pulls them on with a look of loathing, then returns, eyes lowered.

“Now remove your knickers and take them away.”

This she does with haste—almost eagerness—and visible relief. But the next instruction stops her cold.

“Now repeat the entire sequence. Three times.”

She freezes. The humiliation is profound, and for a moment I almost pity her. But the lesson must be learned.

Besides—watching her sweet, rounded backside sway as she bends to lay down those panties… I could make her do this forever.

She sees herself in the mirror each time—and sees me, standing behind her. I notice how her arousal grows with every passing moment: faint tremors ripple across her skin, and her hands tremble ever so slightly.

She returns after completing the humiliating ritual three times. I take my time, fully savouring the exquisite sight of her naked lower half—the curve of her hips, the sweet vulnerability of her stance. Then, calmly, I issue the next order:

“Take off your jumper.”

She obeys at once— after the degradation of standing bare with her stained knickers, removing a simple jumper must seem trivial by comparison.

She steps back into place, now dressed only in a long-sleeved T-shirt. I make her remove that too.

I see that Mousey is preparing to unclasp her bra—old, faded, modest—but she hesitates. She turns slightly, attempting to conceal herself with her arms.

I let Shere Khan take a step forward—just enough to flick the bra strap with the tip of the whip. He tilts her chin up, meeting her wide, frightened eyes. She’s on the brink of tears—not from pain, but from the raw shame of exposure.

I reach out, unhook the clasp, and issue the command to remove it. She complies, dropping the bra onto the growing pile by the mirror.

“Hands behind your head.”

And now she stands before me—completely naked.

I take a moment to appreciate the vision in front of me. Her delicate, finely drawn body is breath-taking. The platinum collar gleams faintly against her slender throat. She is beautiful—strikingly so. I guide her gently to face the mirror, and stepping behind her, I take hold of her breasts in both hands, squeezing them firmly.

“Look in the mirror.”

The image is arresting: her soft, nude figure pressed to the clothed form of a man—fragile, exposed, achingly vulnerable.

I let my hands roam slowly over her back, down over her hips, her thighs. She flinches at every touch. Her skin prickles under my fingers, shivering beneath my palm. I return to her breasts and tease her nipples, now taut and sensitive, between my fingers. A quiet, hoarse moan escapes her lips, and she stares into the mirror with wide, astonished eyes.

I know she’s slipping away—her expression tells me she is no longer here in this room. Perhaps, in her mind, she’s aboard a pirate ship, or captive in a sultan’s harem. Wherever she’s gone, it’s real for her—this transformation is total, honest. She’s not pretending.

Time to help her fully cross that threshold. I take out a black satin ribbon and gently blindfold her.

“On your knees.”

She kneels without hesitation, fluid and submissive, settling into the waiting pose. I say nothing further—let her float in the silence, anticipating what might come. The not-knowing is part of the magic.

I retreat to the bathroom and spend several minutes washing my hands—longer than needed—to prolong the suspense. When I return, I find her trembling from head to toe. Between her parted thighs, a fine glistening thread catches the light. She’s ready.

“Stand. Hands behind your back—in a box position.”

I firmly seize her by the back of her neck with my right hand and lay her across my lap.

I am hard now, and she knows it—feels it. She inches forward, until I am pressed against the soft underside of her body, right beneath her womb.

“You will now receive ten strokes. You must count them aloud and say, ‘Thank you, Sir,’ after each one. What do you say now?”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers—her voice taut, strained, as if forcing the words through clenched fear.

I give her the first, feather-light slap with my palm. She jerks as if struck with a whip, her whole body spasming, and a strangled cry escapes her lips.

“One! Thank you, Sir!” It sounds more like a sob than gratitude.

“Don’t hold back—scream. No one will hear you.”

I strike again, just slightly harder. She arches her back with a loud cry, and between ragged breaths she chokes out:

“Two! Thank you, Sir!”

It arouses me—not the act itself, which is little more than a brisk caress, but the intensity of her reaction. To her, in the furnace of her imagination, I am wielding a lash with merciless strength.

I land five firmer slaps. Now she is openly weeping, shaking, trying instinctively to escape my grip, but I hold her hands tightly. She’s lost count—her voice collapses into a broken stream of syllables:

“Thank… Sir… give… me… a-a-a-a…”

Her imagination must have already painted a picture of her buttocks being whipped with a belt. I stroke her buttocks—they are slightly reddened, but that's all.

My finger slowly descends into the hollow. I gently run it over her wet lips several times, carefully spread them apart, and penetrate inside. She falls silent, freezes, and only shudders with silent sobs, sighing intermittently.

I bring her almost to the edge and now she is trying to move closer so that my finger is in the coveted place. No! It's not time yet!

“Slave, why are you being punished? Answer me!”

“Sir,  I didn't… say.. Sir..” she sobs, her voice filled with the pain of losing the long-awaited release that her desire-filled body craves, because she was so close…

I slow down, calmly delivering the last few strokes. The final two I give over to Shere Khan. She shrieks and arches violently, so much so that I have to press her back down—not gently, not tenderly. It stings.

And then—the moment arrives.

I know exactly where and how to press, just with a fingertip. A sudden, wild wave runs through her—her body convulses, her feet drum against the floor. A long, low cry, pulled from somewhere deep within, echoes through the room.

I feel her tighten around my hand, her body pulsing in rapid contractions. Then she collapses—boneless, weightless—and slides off my knees onto the floor.

It’s a kind of sensory overload—a momentary paralysis, when the brain loses command and the body simply lets go.

I lift her and lay her on the bed. She curls into a ball, breathing in quick little bursts—slowly, as if under a parachute, she settles back to earth from the flight into space I sent her on.

I sit beside her, stroking the flushed skin of her bottom, still firm, still warm. I smile to myself. Never before have I met such an emotionally transparent submissive—so quick to surrender, to trust, and to reach such ecstatic release from nothing more than a few gentle slaps.

But she isn’t just a submissive.

She’s my little, brave, passionate Mousey.

I turn on the shower. It’s a special design—a wide, square ceiling panel a metre across, pouring down like tropical rain. Hidden LEDs light up with the flow, their power drawn from a tiny generator inside the panel. The heavier the pressure, the brighter the rain glows. The lights change constantly—rippling in every colour of the rainbow, especially enchanting in the dark.

“Come,” I say softly, lifting her into my arms. “I want you to wash me.”

She

Here I am standing in front of him in a submissive pose. He orders to take off my socks. I obey, uncertain what to do with them. He commands me to take them to the mirror.

I turn—and freeze. The entire wall behind me is a mirror.

I see myself in it: my flushed face, my tousled hair, the stupid socks trembling in my hands. I look small, almost comical—like a schoolgirl caught out—and at the same time, utterly exposed.

He’s standing there, tall, motionless, holding something that looks like a riding crop or a delicate little whip—long, narrow, faintly menacing.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.