Klaus’s text had arrived three days ago, blunt and unyielding: Black. Short. Tight. Clean. No bra. Leather or latex preferred. Heels. Makeup done.

I’d spent the afternoon hunting through Neukölln’s back-street thrift stores: narrow, cluttered caves wedged between döner shops and auto garages. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, racks sagged under the weight of strangers’ wardrobes. Everything smelled faintly of dust, smoke, and motor oil bleeding in from the street. A good place to vanish, or to reinvent yourself on a budget.

What I came out with felt more like a disguise than a costume: a black vinyl mini-dress, clingy enough that every step made it creak faintly. Mesh stockings, one torn at the thigh, an accident I decided looked intentional. Combat boots with thick heels, loud on the cobblestones, are the best compromise between Klaus’s heels and my need to stay upright. A Polish woman at one shop had handed me the dress with a smirk that said she knew exactly what kind of night it was meant for.

I caught myself in a darkened window on the walk over: lips painted blood-red, eyes rimmed with kohl. I looked like a teenager playing at femme fatale. Lana only grinned back from the reflection, tilting her head like she wanted me to enjoy it.

The Foundry’s facade was unchanged, the same brick face staring back at the street. But tonight it radiated something different. A line snaked around the corner: leather jackets, heavy coats, glimpses of latex and chains flashing under the streetlights. A silent dress code, stricter than usual.

Three bouncers at the door instead of one. Thick-necked men, eyes cutting through the crowd like they were hunting for prey.

I pulled my borrowed jacket tighter. The vinyl clung damply to my ribs, a thin reminder of how exposed I was underneath. And I felt it then… the weight of eyes turning as I passed.

~oO🐺Oo~

The bouncer’s nod was curt but familiar. Recognition, not warmth. I slipped past the queue and through the heavy door, my boots clicking against concrete.

The Foundry hadn’t changed: its steel beams, bare brick, and concrete bones were all the same, but tonight it wore another skin. Crimson light bled from overhead fixtures, purple spots carved out hard shadows, and amber strobes hammered in time with bass that landed like a second heartbeat. Darkness pooled in the corners where fluorescents used to glare.

The crowd had transformed with it. Latex glistened like wet skin. Harnesses cut across pale torsos. Corsets cinched so tight I wondered how anyone breathed. Gas masks dangled from chains, half-fashion, half-threat. Faces were powdered white, lips painted tar-black, hair teased into improbable shapes.

Behind the bar, the staff had been swapped for performers: men bare-chested under leather vests, a woman in a vinyl nurse’s outfit pouring shots with the precision of a stage act.

My own dress suddenly felt cheap: vinyl squeaking at the seams, the mesh stockings torn less artfully than I’d pretended. A girl playing dress up, and badly. Lana only smirked at the thought.

Wolf’s warning drifted back: Watch. Listen. Remember.

So I did. The man at the bar with the Rolex, flicking it under purple light as he traded not bills but a card. The group in the Crow’s old corner, their Victorian goth pageantry bent close over hushed German. Details slotted neatly into place, the way my mind always wanted them to.

And then Uwe. He appeared at my side without effort, his bulk parting the crowd as if it weren’t there. His eyes scanned my outfit: vinyl, mesh, combat boots— and he shook his head once, the way a teacher might at a half-correct answer.

“Komm,” he said, voice clipped as always.

He didn’t wait to see if I followed. I did, weaving through a blur of latex and leather, past the staged poses of dominance and submission. The bass still thundered, but Uwe was a blade through it.

He led me to a narrow storage room behind the bar. Shelves stacked with liquor and cleaning supplies. The sharp smell of bleach laced with leather oil, rubber, and the faint bite of metal.

From the corner, he pulled a black canvas bag and shoved it into my arms.

“Change. Klaus wants you downstairs.”

My stomach dropped. Downstairs. I hadn’t known there was a downstairs.

Inside the bag: slick latex, soft leather. A cropped vest. A skirt that was barely a skirt. Boots sharp enough to be weapons. Cuffs. And at the bottom… a collar with a gold bell that chimed once before I even touched it.

My hand froze there. Lana’s hand, slender fingers trembling. A bell. A pet’s mark.

Jesus.

The vinyl peeled off reluctantly, tugging at damp skin, leaving me bare in the fluorescent glow. My reflection in the metal shelving looked back: flushed cheeks, hair loose, eyes too wide. Not an impostor anymore. Someone caught mid-transformation.

The latex skirt clung like poured paint, tighter than the vinyl ever had. The vest framed instead of hid. Air on bare skin sent sparks up my chest. The micro skirt barely covered me, cutting higher at the back like it meant to humiliate. I tugged it down. Lana’s hips shifted upward in answer.

The boots were six-inch towers, every step a battle with gravity. The cuffs snapped shut with metallic certainty, no pretense of being decorative.

And then the collar. My fingers shook as I buckled it, the leather snug around my throat. The bell chimed once, sharp and bright, absurd in its innocence. I hated the sound. Lana tilted my chin, hungry for it.

My phone vibrated on the shelf.
+49 30 90… — I’ll be there.

Same number. Same words. Somehow right on cue.

I didn’t open it. I just stared at the screen until it dimmed, the faint reflection of the collar still visible in the black glass.

When I turned, Uwe only nodded, arms folded. As if I’d passed a test.

~oO🐺Oo~

The stairs dropped steeply, narrow concrete worn smooth by decades of use. My heart raced as I tried to keep balance in the stilettos, one hand brushing the wall for steadiness. I cursed the impracticality with every step. Lana barely seemed to notice: her stride adjusting, hips swaying to the rhythm of heels clicking against stone.

It was quieter down here. The bass was a heartbeat above, muffled, a reminder of the world we’d left behind. Down here, another sound filled the space… sharper, more insistent: the chime of the bell at my throat. Each note announced me before I was ready.

The room opened suddenly at the base of the stairs: small, close, claustrophobic. Two rows of chairs curved in a horseshoe around a low platform, no more than a foot off the floor. The intimacy was deliberate: no safe distance, no curtain to hide behind. Performers within arm’s reach.

Overhead, steel hooks and beams formed a suspension rig. Chains glinted under focused light, throwing restless shadows across the walls. The performer hung from it: a man, naked but for a leather mask covering his face, wrists bound in heavy cuffs. He strained on his toes, body taut, trembling. Each breath sounded like an effort.

The Dom circled him with the ease of ownership. Tall, broad-shouldered, leather pants hugging powerful legs, boots echoing with authority. A mesh top revealed muscle beneath, slick with sweat. In his hand, a riding crop that tapped once against his thigh, an idle promise.

The audience sat in their close rows, drawn into the orbit of stage and spectacle. Some leaned forward, lips parted, eyes locked. Others reclined, arms folded, detached and appraising. A faint smell of sweat, latex, and melted wax hung in the air, mingling with perfume and cologne.

Murmurs rippled through when the dom struck: a flick of the crop, a sharp sound that made the bound man jerk. But mostly, the crowd was silent, reverent. Not a bar, not a club…

A chapel where the body was worshipped through pain and control.

I wanted to look away. Lana only leaned closer.

The dom’s crop snapped once against his palm, sharp enough to cut through the silence. He turned, and his eyes found me.

For a moment, I thought he’d look past, to Uwe, to anyone else. But no. He lifted his chin, then raised the crop, beckoning me forward with a lazy flick of his wrist.

My stomach lurched. My voice spat panic in my head: No. Absolutely not!

I froze halfway between the stairs and the circle, every muscle demanding retreat.

Lana’s body betrayed me. A current ran through her chest, her stomach, low into her hips. Interest. Curiosity. A pull I couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. She shifted her weight forward, the stilettos clicking against the floor like they’d already chosen for me.

The dom’s voice carried easily, deep and controlled: “Tonight,” he said, eyes never leaving mine, “we welcome a new one.”

Dozens of heads turned. The audience’s attention burned hotter than the stage lights. Some faces were curious, others hungry, a few with that cool, appraising detachment that stung more than the hunger.

Every eye was on me. There was no space to fade back into the shadows.

Lana straightened under their gaze. I wanted to vanish.

I hovered there, every nerve raw, the bell at my throat chiming with the tremor in my chest. Inside, I screamed retreat. Lana leaned into the pull, spine lengthening, lips parting with something dangerously close to anticipation.

The Dom stepped to the stage’s edge, crop resting against his shoulder. His gaze pinned me as firmly as the chains held the masked man. When he spoke, his voice was steady, meant for the room more than for me.

“Komm.” The dom’s crop lifted toward the rig, toward the body straining on its toes. His accent was thick, each word precise. “Aber hier… There is only one rule.”

He let the pause stretch, gaze sweeping the room before locking back on me.

“Einverstanden. Consent.” The word landed hard, not soft. A demand, not a courtesy. “You give it. Or you do not. Sag es jetzt.”

The room’s silence was absolute. Faces turned toward me, expectant. Judging.

My mouth went dry.

This is a trap! Wait…

But Lana’s voice rose inside, reckless, eager. She wanted the stage, the heat, the weight of their eyes.

My lips parted. The bell at my throat chimed once.

“Ja.”

The word leapt out before I could stop it, sharp and bright in the charged air. My own voice, higher, Lana’s, ringing with a certainty I didn’t feel. The bell at my throat chimed as if to seal it.

A ripple moved through the crowd: approval, curiosity, hunger. The Dom smiled faintly, crop tapping once against his palm.

I recoiled inside, aghast. Lana only straightened, heat racing through her veins at the sound of her own submission.

~oO🐺Oo~

The Dom guided me onto the platform, boots clicking against the wood. The audience melted into shadow, an unseen wall pressing in, but not yet intruding. The spotlight drew a narrow triangle of light: me, the Dom, the bound performer. Every other figure dissolved into darkness, leaving the three of us alone in the room’s heat and scent.

From this close, I could see everything: sweat glinting on the Dom’s skin, the metallic smell of the chains holding the masked man, the faint burn of latex and leather pressed to every body on stage. Every breath carried across the spotlight, heavy and intimate.

The Dom circled me slowly, each step deliberate. One hand found the base of my skull, tilting my chin up, fingers threading through hair with a slowness designed to make nerves hum. His other hand traced my jaw, pressing just enough to remind me of control, never rushing, never letting go entirely.

I recoiled against every brush of skin. Each whisper of latex, every faint scent of sweat and wax, twisted my stomach.

This is too close. Too fast.

Lana leaned in anyway. Her pulse hammered against the collar. Heat pooled under her ribs, down to her hips. Every subtle pressure from his thumbs along her collarbone, along the straps of her vest, sent tiny sparks racing down her spine. I felt it echo in my chest, a counterpoint of dread and fascination.

The Dom paused at the front, tilting the cropped vest aside just slightly. The hesitation itself was a statement, drawing out anticipation. Cool air brushed skin newly exposed under latex and leather, and the bell at her throat chimed softly. I flinched at the sound.

You can’t…

But she leaned closer, shifting under his hand.

He circled again, mapping her form, watching her hands, the way her weight shifted. My eyes darted to the masked man, taut and trembling on his chains. Each inhalation of his constrained breath, each flex of his muscles, vibrated in the air between them, pulling Lana forward in a rhythm I couldn’t resist seeing.

His voice broke the hush, low and measured. “Touch him.”

The guidance was subtle: a tilt of shoulders, a nudge along the spine, an almost imperceptible pressure that steered her hands. My fingers curled at my sides. My chest tightened with every inch she moved, every brush of skin against skin.

She hesitated at first, hand over chest, brushing over a nipple. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her to stop, to remind her: this is observation, not participation. Instead, I could only watch as she leaned closer, encouraged by his quiet insistence, her lips hovering before closing over warm skin.

The Dom’s hands remained steady at her back, correcting angles, guiding weight, a constant reminder that every movement was controlled… deliberate. My stomach knotted. Every touch, every gasp from the masked man, reverberated through me, a silent chorus I couldn’t escape.

Slowly, Lana’s hands traveled lower. Cock, firm and slick. My stomach lurched, heat coiling with disbelief and arousal I refused to name. The bell chimed again. A line had been crossed, a threshold marked in sound.

The Dom’s gaze never left mine. He tested me, daring me to absorb it all. Lana followed the rhythm, almost hypnotically, coaxing small shivers, gasps, and flexes from the bound man with the gentlest nudges. Each reaction was magnified in the spotlight.

Hands returned to her shoulders. Guidance, not force. Tilting, correcting, pressing subtly. My chest constricted, a visceral reminder of the power dynamics playing out just beyond my control.

Finally, he guided her down toward the masked man. My stomach plummeted. The bell chimed again, punctuating the inevitability. Her lips met skin, tentative at first, then with the small, deliberate motions the Dom had instilled in her. The masked man shivered and clutched at the chains. I felt it as a punch to the gut.

Every sense screamed: metallic tang of chains, slick glide of latex and skin, warmth of bodies pressed together, breath caught in throats. I wanted to step back, to remind her to stop, yet I couldn’t. The Dom’s hands, Lana’s compliance, the spotlight… it all held me fast.

He eased her hands away slowly, letting the pause linger. The weight of the stage, the room, the audience that had faded into shadow. It all pressed down. Her lips had tasted, her hands had followed, and I was trapped inside her awareness, a spectator to the surrender of control. The bell chimed faintly once more, a heartbeat echoing through the tension, marking her submission.

~oO🐺Oo~

Two sharp metallic clicks echoed, and every nerve in me flared.

The cuffs on my wrists, tethered impossibly to the boots. Cold leather pressed against skin. Every inch of me screamed: no escape. I spun lightly, taking in the Dom, the bound man, the platform itself. Every sense sharpened, each breath carrying tension and scent.

The bell at my throat chimed faintly with the tiniest tilt. Even the smallest movement was now broadcast. My mind recoiled: trapped in this skin, this submission, this impossible stage.

And yet Lana moved. Instinctively, almost unconsciously, she leaned into the command, the pressure, the heat of being fully observed. Every nerve felt alive.

The Dom’s hands hovered near my shoulders, steady, patient, unyielding. Every click of metal against metal, every press of leather, pressed down.

A voice carried from the audience. Rich, precise, with the sharp cadence of German: “Gnädige Frau,” it said. “If you would please… put the finishing touches on the new one.”

The new one.

The words cut through me. A reminder, a label, a frame: subject, object, spectacle. My chest tightened. The bell chimed again, faintly, marking the motion of my head.

Soft heels approached. A whisper of fabric sliding over leather. I felt her presence even thou I couldn't see her. My heart raced. Every nerve screamed to pull back.

Then the touch. Cold, slick, impossibly intimate. Lana’s hands froze instinctively. Panic flared.

No. Stop. You can’t…

But she answered differently. Hips arched subtly, leaning back into the intrusion. The bell chimed faintly, marking a new threshold. Every nerve ending hummed.

The Dom’s presence held the space: guiding, observing, unyielding. The unseen woman moved carefully, deliberately, pressing, rubbing, tracing. Lana’s body responded: a tilt of the hips, a subtle shift backward, a quiet intake of breath. I felt each reaction magnified through panic, disbelief, and the absolute impossibility of control.

The audience faded completely into shadow. Only movement, touch, and the quiet authority of the Dom remained. Every small press, every glide, every adjustment of Lana’s hands or body carried weight, sending sparks through muscle and nerve alike.

Time stretched. I counted heartbeats, breaths, and the faint chime of the bell. Lana leaned, shifted, and responded. I was trapped inside her awareness, every sensation amplified.

The unseen touch finally withdrew. Hands returned to hover over Lana’s shoulders, tilting her forward gently. The Dom allowed her a pause, letting her feel the weight of the stage, the command, the inevitability of every motion. The bell chimed again, a quiet punctuation of submission.

And I stood, helpless, in awe and panic, feeling every inch of her compliance, every spark of sensation, every silent instruction etched into the air around us.

~oO🐺Oo~

The Dom’s voice cut through the thick, humid air, calm and commanding.

“Thank you, Gnädige Frau,” he said, each word clipped with that precise German inflection, carrying a faint undertone of amusement. “Your assistance was… exemplary.”

My chest tightened. Every nerve inside Lana’s body screamed awareness, every inch of sensation amplified by the cuffed, restrained state. The bell at her throat chimed faintly with her smallest shift, a quiet punctuation of the Dom’s recognition.

He let the words hang, turning his gaze slowly toward the two of us: Lana and the bound man. A slow, deliberate smile curved his lips: not cruel, not cruelly playful, but measured, theatrical, a showman framing the stage.

“Now,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, drawing the room’s attention with a subtle flourish, “let us play a game. A test of will. Of control.” His gaze swept the room, slow and predatory, weighing, measuring, inviting silence itself to bow. Shadows leaned forward. The air grew taut.

A soft rustle punctuated the stillness: leather shifting, boots clicking softly, the faint intake of air from the masked man.

“The little one’s mouth, or the vibrator?” His tone sharpened, measured, every word deliberate, each syllable ringing out like a conductor guiding an orchestra. “Ten lashes for the loser, ja.”

Panic surged in me, raw and immediate.

No. No, this isn’t happening. This is insane!

From the periphery, a wave of murmurs rippled through the audience: faint, approving, like heat brushing the back of my mind. Every subtle sound, the shift of weight, the soft inhale, the shuffle of heels, amplified the intensity. The Dom’s presence made each exhalation, each whispered movement, into a spotlighted event.

Lana’s body shifted under his gaze. Muscles tensed instinctively, spine coiling in response to the rules he had set. Every subtle tilt, every breath, every heartbeat screamed through me. The bell chimed faintly with her tiniest movement, marking the start of something I could not undo.

The Dom straightened, turning slowly to the audience, his smile widening. Hands spread in an old-world flourish, shoulders back, his voice rang clear: “Meine Damen und Herren… observe. Witness the elegance of will, the poetry of restraint. Let us see— who bends… and who stands.”

The crowd leaned forward, shadows animating in the dim red-and-purple glow. Every subtle intake of breath, every click of heels, every shuffle of leather felt magnified. I was acutely aware of the weight of their attention, the Dom’s precise hands and guiding gaze.

A soft step approached from the edge of the platform: another presence, silent, deliberate, poised. He guided her head forward, and the bell at her throat chimed again: subtle, almost musical, marking the beginning of the test.

Lana’s body responded instinctively, each motion amplified by restraint and expectation. My chest constricted with every shift, every brush against the bound man, every tiny adjustment made under the Dom’s subtle direction.

And the game began.

~oO🐺Oo~

The vibrator came alive without warning.

A low buzzing sound filled the air, and suddenly Lana's body jerked against the restraints. The sensation hit like electricity, unexpected and overwhelming. My mind recoiled in shock while her hips shifted involuntarily, the bell at her throat chiming frantically with the sudden movement.

Jesus Christ! This is happening… This is actually happening.

But Lana steadied herself, breathing hard through her nose. She forced her focus forward, toward the bound man straining against his chains. His cock stood rigid before her, flushed and ready. The game had rules. The game had stakes.

She leaned forward as far as the cuffs would allow, lips parting. The bell chimed with each subtle movement as she took him into her mouth, working him with deliberate precision. Warm, salt-slick skin filled her senses. I felt every texture, every pulse, magnified through her heightened awareness.

The vibrator pulsed stronger, and her concentration wavered. A soft moan escaped around him, the sound muffled and desperate. The bell marked her surrender to sensation.

"Ah," the Dom's voice cut through the humid air, theatrical and pleased. "Sehr schön. See how she fights herself, meine Damen und Herren. Two battles at once."

Lana redoubled her efforts, tongue working, lips sealing tight. The bound man's breathing grew ragged above her, chains rattling with his tremors. His hips strained forward, seeking more contact, more friction.

Come on, I urged silently. End this. Please.

But the vibrator shifted against her, a different angle, a crueler rhythm. Lana's back arched involuntarily, the motion pulling her mouth away for a heartbeat. The bound man groaned in frustration, the moment's respite giving him space to breathe, to recover.

The Dom chuckled, low and appreciative. "The flesh betrays the will, always. Immer."

Lana dove back down, desperate now, working him with renewed urgency. The bell chimed frantically as she moved, each note marking the battle between control and surrender. Her thighs trembled against the restraints, the vibrator relentless in its assault on her focus.

The bound man was close again: I could feel it in his trembling, hear it in his sharp gasps. But so was she, her body betraying her with each pulse of the device, each calculated wave of sensation designed to break her concentration.

The game hung in perfect, agonizing balance.

The first wave hit without warning: a sharp, electric pulse that shattered every thread of Lana's concentration. Her mouth pulled away from the bound man with a gasp, the bell at her throat ringing frantically as her body convulsed against the restraints.

No, no, no…

But it was too late. The orgasm rolled through her in devastating waves, each one stronger than the last. Her spine arched involuntarily, thighs trembling, the leather cuffs biting into her wrists as she doubled over in surrender.

The Dom stepped forward, theatrical and pleased. "Sehr schön!" His voice carried across the silent room like a proclamation. "See how the flesh claims victory over the mind, meine Damen und Herren. The new one learns her first lesson."

I felt every pulse, every tremor, magnified through Lana's heightened nerves. Pleasure crashed over her in relentless waves, leaving her breathless and shaking, the bell chiming in frantic rhythm with her convulsions. The sensation was electric, overwhelming, beautiful… and terrifying.

Ten lashes. Christ.

The bound man sagged against his chains, denied release, his breathing ragged with frustration. The Dom's hand found Lana's chin, tilting her face up toward the lights.

"Welcome," he murmured, "to submission, new one."

The aftershocks rolled through her, each one a reminder of what had just been lost… and what was about to come.

~oO🐺Oo~

The aftershocks faded slowly, leaving Lana's body trembling against the restraints. Every nerve felt raw, exposed, impossibly alive. The world had contracted to this: the burn of leather against her wrists, the bell's faint chiming with each ragged breath, the humid air thick with sweat and expectation.

The Dom's voice sliced through the haze, calm and instructive. "Let the new one learn what happens when the body betrays the mind, ja?"

I opened Lana's eyes. The audience beyond the spotlight was nothing but shadows, faceless shapes leaning forward in their chairs. The stage lights created a barrier between performance and observation, but I could feel their hunger pressing against the edges of the illuminated circle.

The Dom moved with deliberate slowness, each step calculated for maximum effect. The crop appeared in his hand as if conjured from the darkness itself. Black leather wrapped around steel, worn smooth from use.

"Zehn," he announced to the room. The number hung in the air like a promise.

The crop lifted. Time stretched. My heart hammered against Lana's ribs. The bell chimed once with her involuntary flinch.

Then it came down.

CRACK!

The sound split the silence like gunfire. Fire bloomed across Lana's ass, sharp and immediate. The bell rang out frantically as her body jerked against the restraints, every muscle contracting in shock.

"Eins," she whispered through gritted teeth, the German falling from her lips without thought.

The heat spread outward from the impact, a burning line that seemed to pulse with her heartbeat. My mind recoiled from the sensation while her body absorbed it, cataloged it, filed it away as something both terrible and... Christ, something else I couldn't name.

The second strike followed before the first had fully settled. Lower this time, catching the curve where her pussy met ass.

CRACK!

"Zwei."

This one was fire and lightning together. Lana's knees buckled, the cuffs at her wrists the only thing keeping her upright. The bell sang out in a frantic chorus as her body convulsed. I felt her muscles clenching, fighting against the restraints, against the sensation, against the inevitability of eight more to come.

The Dom circled her slowly, crop tapping once against his palm.

"Beautiful," he murmured, voice carrying just enough for the front row to hear. "See how she takes it, ja. How she counts. Such discipline."

By the fifth lash, the individual strikes had blurred into a pulsing, layered rhythm. Each impact built on the last, creating a symphony of sensation that seemed to echo through every nerve in Lana's body. The counting had become automatic, mechanical: "Drei… vier… fünf…" falling from her lips like a mantra.

The remaining five blurred together in a haze of leather and fire.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The bell's chiming merged with the sharp reports of the crop, creating a percussion that seemed to drive straight into my bones. Lana's body moved beyond conscious control now, jerking and swaying with each impact, the cuffs biting into her wrists as she strained against them.

"Sechs… sieben… acht…"

When it was over, the silence felt absolute. Maybe there was applause, a scattered clapping from the shadows beyond the lights, but it was hard to tell. The world had contracted to the space between Lana's ribs, to the burning lines across her skin, to the frantic chiming of the bell that was finally beginning to slow.

I floated inside her awareness, mind reeling, lost in the echo of sensation and shock. Every stripe across her skin pulsed with its own heartbeat. The restraints held her upright when her legs would have given out. The bell chimed once more, soft and final, as her breathing gradually returned to something approaching normal.

What the hell just happened to us?

~oO🐺Oo~

My awareness drifted back in fragments: the ache in my wrists from the cuffs, the burn across my back where the crop had kissed, the lingering hum in every nerve ending. The spotlight above cast everything in sharp relief, but beyond its reach, the world dissolved into shadow.

I could hear movement in that darkness. Shuffling feet. The soft scrape of chairs being pushed back. Murmurs of conversation, low and appreciative, as bodies shifted toward the exit. The performance was over. The audience was leaving.

My mind felt strange, untethered. Everything existed at a distance, like watching my thoughts through thick glass. The pain was there, but muted, transformed into something almost... pleasant. Each sensation felt amplified yet soft-edged, as if my nervous system had been rewired to process everything through silk.

Is this what they call subspace?

I'd read about it, of course. Academic curiosity in my former life, when I'd had the luxury of intellectual detachment. The neurochemical aftermath of intense physical experience. Endorphins flood the system, creating a natural high that could leave someone floating, detached, and vulnerable.

I'd never expected it to feel like this: like drowning in honey.

Lana's body remained pliant, responsive, even as my analytical mind observed from somewhere far away. She seemed to understand this state better than I did, settling into it with an ease that unnerved me. Her breathing had steadied, the frantic gasping replaced by deep, measured inhalations that made the bell at her throat chime softly.

The Dom's presence loomed at the edge of my awareness, solid and commanding even in this haze. I could sense him watching, evaluating, perhaps satisfied with what he'd wrought.

Then another voice cut through the fog.

Female, speaking in low German tones to the Dom. Something about the voice felt familiar, tickling the edges of recognition, but I couldn't place it through the cotton-wrapped confusion of my thoughts.

"Das war... eindrucksvoll," said the woman. "She is ready, I think, ja."

Ready? She'd said I was ready. For what?

The Dom's response was a low rumble, barely audible. "Ja. More than I expected. Sie wird... nützlich sein."

Useful...

The word sent a chill through the warm haze, though I couldn't quite grasp why.

I tried to focus on the woman's voice, to pull it into sharper clarity, but the effort felt like trying to grab smoke. Everything kept slipping away, dissolving back into the strange, floating peace that had settled over me.

The footsteps moved closer, heels clicking against concrete with practiced precision. The sound was hypnotic, rhythmic, drawing my scattered attention like a metronome.

I know that sound. Don't I?

But before I could chase the thought further, it melted away, absorbed into the gentle tide that carried my consciousness somewhere far from this basement stage, somewhere soft and safe and utterly removed from the weight of consequence.

~oO🐺Oo~

The gray light of early morning filtered through the narrow windows of the reihenhaus as I stepped through the front door. My legs felt unsteady, not from exhaustion but from something else entirely— a strange, floating detachment that made the world seem wrapped in gauze. The events at The Foundry felt distant, dreamlike, as if they'd happened to someone else entirely.

Wolf was waiting in the kitchen, smoke curling from a cigarette between his fingers. His eyes lifted when I entered, and for just a moment, something flickered across his weathered features. Not warmth, exactly, but a flicker of... concern? It vanished so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Setz dich," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

I settled into the seat, my body moving with that same strange lightness. Everything felt muted, soft-edged, as if I were viewing the world through thick glass. The harsh fluorescent light should have been jarring after the basement's red glow, but instead it just... existed, another detail in a landscape I was floating through.

Wolf studied me for a long moment, those sharp eyes cataloguing details I couldn't hide. The way I held myself. The faint marks on my wrists where the cuffs had been. The way my voice came out was softer, breathier than usual.

"Tell me," he said finally. "What did you see?"

The words came easily, professionally detached. I recounted the night's surveillance: the patrons from the main level, their expensive watches, and their careful gestures. The way Klaus had orchestrated introductions, shepherding select individuals toward the basement stairs. The woman who'd spoken German with the Dom, her voice carrying authority despite the shadows.

"Three transactions I could observe directly," I continued, my voice steady despite the lingering haze. "High-value clients. Private arrangements. Klaus takes a percentage, but someone else is calling the shots."

Wolf nodded slowly, ash falling from his cigarette. "Good. Sehr gut. You kept your eyes open even when..." He let the sentence hang, but his meaning was clear.

Heat rose in my cheeks… Lana's cheeks. The memory of the stage, the cuffs, the crop's sharp kiss across my back, felt simultaneously distant and immediate. My body remembered every sensation, even as my mind struggled to process it all.

"The basement operation runs parallel to the main club," I said, pushing through the embarrassment. "Different clientele, higher stakes. Klaus recruits from the regular crowd, but only certain types get invited downstairs."

"Ja. And now you are one of them." Wolf's eyes sharpened. "Klaus will want you back. Soon. Are you ready for that?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came. Was I ready? The question felt impossible to parse through the cotton-wrapped confusion of my thoughts. I wanted to say no, to retreat, to find some safer way to gather intelligence. But Lana...

Lana purred with satisfaction at the memory. The attention, the control, the sharp edge of submission and power. She wanted more.

"I think so," I said finally, the words feeling both true and foreign on my tongue.

Wolf stubbed out his cigarette, studying me with that same unreadable expression. "Good," he said finally. "Rest today. Sleep. Let your body recover." He paused, something almost fatherly in his tone.

"What happens in that basement... it changes people. Make sure you remember who you are underneath it all."

I nodded, though I wasn't sure I could follow that advice. The line between Alan and Lana felt blurrier than ever, the boundaries shifting like smoke.

"Go," Wolf said, waving me toward the stairs. "Sleep. We'll talk more tonight, ja."

I rose from the chair, my movements still carrying that strange, floating quality. As I reached the doorway, Wolf's voice stopped me.

"Lana." The name fell from his lips with careful precision. "You did well tonight. Sehr gut."

I climbed the stairs to my small room, Wolf's words echoing in my mind. The praise felt good… too good. As I closed the door behind me and turned the lock, I realized I wasn't sure who had earned that approval: Alan the observer, or Lana the performer.

Maybe it didn't matter anymore.