I pushed myself upright; the robe shifting against skin that still registered every texture with uncomfortable clarity.

"How long have I been here?" My voice came out rough, dry.

"Three days," Seline replied, uncrossing her legs with practised precision. "Give or take. Difficult to tell down here, ja?"

Three days. The number hung in the air between us, too clean and clinical for the fog that clouded my memory. Flashes surfaced: the examination table, different technicians, Seline's steady hands applying that gel in quantities that had increased with each session.

The last few times... internal application. A sensation I'd tried desperately to catalog as mere discomfort, detached necessity, anything but what it actually was.

My fingers gripped the edge of the mattress.

"We've gathered exceptional data," Seline continued, rising with that same unhurried grace. "Your integration remains stable. Unprecedented, really."

She moved to the monitors, tapping one screen with a manicured nail. "Each session has confirmed our initial hypothesis. You and Alan exist in perfect symbiosis."

Symbiosis. Another sterile word for something fundamentally wrong.

I watched her silhouette, backlit by the monitor's glow, and tried to anchor myself to reality. But three days had blurred into a continuous cycle of gel and restraints.

"Your results have been... exceptional," Seline said, a hint of satisfaction warming her academic tone. "Everything we'd hoped to confirm."

A sharp knock interrupted whatever she'd been about to add.

The door swung open, and a young assistant, who couldn't have been more than twenty-five, wearing the same white coat as everyone else here, pushed a wheeled rack into the room. Hangers clinked softly as the rack rolled to a stop near the bed.

Clothes. An array of them, neatly arranged by type.

I stared at the rack, then shifted my gaze to Seline, confusion probably written all over my face.

"We've brought you a selection," she said, gesturing toward the rack with casual elegance. "Unless you'd prefer to leave in your robe?"

The word caught in my throat.

"Leave?"

Seline's smile was patient, almost amused. "The examination is over, Lana. You're free to return to your normal life."

A bitter laugh escaped before I could stop it. The sound felt foreign in this sterile space, too raw, too human.

"Normal life?" I repeated, the cynicism sharp enough to cut. "Is that what you call this?"

She didn't respond, merely inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging a valid point.

I reached for my phone on the tray beside the examination table. My thumb hovered above the screen. Then, almost before I could talk myself out of it, I turned toward her.

“Uh… Seline?” My voice sounded smaller than I liked. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about these messages I’ve been getting, would you?”

+49 30 90… — I’ll be there.

Her eyes flicked toward the phone, unreadable. “No,” she said at last, tone light but careful. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I muttered, sliding it into my pocket. “Just thought maybe… someone at the lab was testing something.”

That earned a faint smile. “We test many things, Lana. But not that.”

I pushed myself upright, the robe shifting as I moved to the rack. My fingers brushed against fabric: soft cotton, delicate lace, things that would cling and drape in ways I'd never worn before.

Sundresses with thin straps. A cropped denim jacket with floral embroidery. Skinny jeans in pastel colors. A white linen blouse with ruffles at the collar. Everything looked like it belonged in a trendy boutique window, not on someone who'd lived in oversized jackets and combat boots.

My old life… Lana's life before this had been thrift store finds and practicality. This was... different. Intentionally feminine. Curated.

I touched a pale pink dress; the fabric impossibly soft between my fingers.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

~oO🐺Oo~

The pink sundress felt wrong. Too soft, too delicate, too...

Intentional.

I pulled it over my head anyway, the fabric skimming over skin that Seline's technicians had mapped with clinical precision. The fit was perfect, naturally. Everything here was perfect.

I caught my reflection in the polished steel cabinet: a young woman in pastel cotton, hair still damp from the shower, looking like she belonged in a café in Kreuzberg, not a covert genetics lab beneath an industrial bakery.

Seline watched from her position by the monitors, her dark eyes tracking my movements with that same unnerving attention. "The clothes suit you," she observed. "More... flattering than your previous choices."

I tugged at the hem, suddenly aware of how much leg the dress revealed. "They're not really my style."

"Nein, Alan," Seline agreed, a faint smile playing at her lips. "But they are Lana's. And Lana has proven remarkably... adaptable."

The words settled like weights. She wasn't wrong.

Three days of examinations had confirmed what I'd been trying to deny: the symbiosis she kept talking about wasn't theoretical anymore. It was measurable. Documented. Real.

The Mercedes dropped me off at the reihenhaus just past noon. Wolf's crew would be awake by now, the house thick with cigarette smoke and low conversation. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, adjusting the cropped denim jacket Seline's assistant had paired with the dress, feeling absurdly self-conscious.

The pale pink sundress was bad enough. Adding the jacket with its floral embroidery just made the whole ensemble feel like a costume designed to announce look, a pretty young woman, harmless and soft.

I pushed through the door, boots — at least those were mine, heavy against the floorboards.

The crew occupied the first floor as usual: cards, phones, quiet discussion in multiple languages. Conversations died when I appeared in the doorway. Heads turned. Eyes tracked the dress, the jacket, the bare legs that seemed impossibly long in this getup.

A low whistle cut through the silence. Kemal, the Turkish man, the same one who'd made the crack about moaning louder weeks ago. He leaned back in his chair, a grin spreading slowly and predatorily.

"Vallah, look at this. Gone three, four days… and you're back wrapped like a present, ja? Or maybe… someone else unwrapped you already?"

The others chuckled, but the sound carried an edge. They were testing, probing, trying to figure out where I fit in the hierarchy now.

The heat in my cheeks wasn’t just anger; it crawled down my neck, my pulse tripping in a rhythm I couldn’t own. My instincts screamed to ignore it, to hurry past, to pretend I hadn't heard. But Lana was faster.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" The words came out light, almost playful, but carrying just enough bite to make his grin falter. "Though from what I've heard, you'd need an instruction manual to figure out what to do with it anyway."

Dead silence. Then a bark of laughter from one of the younger guys, quickly stifled. The Turkish man's jaw tightened, his gaze sharpening.

"Orospu— "

"Careful." Wolf's voice cut across the room, low and final. He stood in the kitchen doorway, cigarette burning between his fingers, his expression unreadable. "She's still under my protection. Verstehst?"

The man's mouth snapped shut. He gave a curt nod, leaning back, the threat diffused but not forgotten.

I moved toward the stairs, feeling their eyes follow every step. The dress swayed with each movement, fabric brushing my thighs in ways that made me acutely aware of how visible I'd become.

Wolf caught my eye as I passed. Something flickered in his expression: approval, maybe, or concern… before he returned his attention to the crew.

My room felt like a sanctuary when I finally locked the door behind me.

~oO🐺Oo~

The night shifts at The Foundry settled into a rhythm.

Five weeks since returning from Seline's lab. Five weeks of deflecting Wolf's probing questions. Five weeks of Klaus treating me with something resembling respect… or at least caution. His gaze still tracked my movements, but the edge had dulled. Probably worried about attracting Seline's displeasure.

The routine settled around me like borrowed skin; comfortable, but never quite mine.

Berlin had a few days of snow just after New Year, but the rain stayed away. January brought crisp, cold air that should've cut through the thin jacket I wore over my sweater.

Should've.

Something had changed since returning from the lab. Even five-degree days felt warm against my skin, though I still dressed for the season. Old habits. Blending in mattered more than comfort.

I cleared tables, stacked glasses, and moved through the smoky haze with practiced ease. The Crows occupied their usual corner. Dieter raised his glass as I passed, a gesture of acknowledgment I returned with a slight nod.

Everything felt almost... normal.

~oO🐺Oo~

The thermometer read nine degrees Celsius.

Nine… in January?

Berlin didn't do this. Not in the dead of winter, not when the sky should be slate-gray and spitting sleet. But here we were: midday sun cutting through bare branches, melting the last stubborn patches of snow along the curb.

Stay inside. You have work tonight. Rest.

Rational. Reasonable.

Lana didn't care.

Before I could mount a proper argument, she'd already pulled the pink sundress from the wardrobe, the one Seline's assistant had chosen, soft cotton with thin straps that left my shoulders bare. I felt the fabric slip over my skin, cool and light, and my pulse quickened.

This is ridiculous. It's still January.

But my hands reached for the denim jacket anyway, shrugging it on like a compromise I'd already lost.

Twenty minutes later, I stood on Weserstraße, blinking in the unexpected warmth. Boutique windows glinted in the sun: vintage clothing shops, a record store, a tiny café with mismatched chairs spilling onto the sidewalk. Neukölln's gentrified heart, stitched between graffitied corners and discount grocers.

Lana's heart beat faster.

Let's walk.

No destination in particular. Lana's legs carried us with that easy, swaying rhythm I'd stopped fighting weeks ago, hips shifting beneath the dress with each step.

Berliners had emerged like hibernating animals testing the air.

A woman in ripped jeans and a crop top sat outside a café, face tilted toward the sun, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. Two men argued in Turkish outside a Späti, gesturing wildly but grinning. A kid on a bicycle wove past, his laughter trailing behind him.

Three o'clock. Golden hour creeping in early, painting everything amber.

Lana breathed it in: the crisp air mixing with fresh bread from the bakery, the distant thump of bass from an open window, the scrape of chairs on pavement as people claimed tables. I noticed a couple sharing a single scoop of ice cream, lips meeting over the cone.

When did I last feel the sun like this?

Not a taunt. A genuine question.

I didn't have an answer.

The light slanted lower, catching dust motes and making them dance. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones. Another hour, maybe less, before twilight swallowed it all.

The truck passed first as sound: low, grinding diesel reverberating off the brick facades. Then vibration, traveling up through the pavement, into my boots, into bone.

Into something deeper.

A hum bloomed low in my stomach. Warmth pooled, spreading outward in slow, insistent waves. Tingling chased it, crawling beneath skin, settling between my thighs with shocking directness.

Lana's stride faltered. Just a flicker, half a step off rhythm.

What—

She kept walking. Three more steps. Four.

Then stopped completely.

The warmth intensified, molten and demanding. My breath caught. Nipples tightened against the dress, hypersensitive to the fabric's brush. Heat flushed my cheeks, my throat.

Oh God…

Lana swayed slightly, fingers curling into fists.

No—Not here. Not on the street. Stop.

But she didn't move. Couldn't. The arousal consumed her… consumed us: relentless and unexplained, tightening everything below my navel into urgent, slick need.

Lana. Please.

A man glanced over from the café. His gaze lingered.

Panic flooded cold through my chest even as my body pulsed hot.

We need to leave… Now!

~oO🐺Oo~

My eyes darted left, right. Scanning for cover, an alley, anything.

A narrow side street between buildings. I stumbled toward it.

The shadows swallowed us whole. Cooler air, quieter. It should have helped.

It didn't.

The waves of arousal spiked: white-hot, blinding. Lana's thighs pressed together, seeking friction that only made it worse. My breath came in shallow gasps. The dress clung everywhere, cotton rasping like sandpaper against skin screaming for… something. Anything.

Stop. Breathe. Think.

I couldn't. The city throbbed under my skin.

Lana whimpered, low in her throat. My hand flew to my mouth, muffling the sound.

Another street. Darker. I pressed against the cold brick, trying to ground myself. The texture scraped my shoulder blade and sent lightning straight to my core.

Jesus Christ—

Ahead, neon flickered: Videokabinen.

Adult shop. Private booths.

Logic fractured. Instinct seized the wheel.

Walls. Doors. Alone.

Lana moved before I could object, legs trembling but determined, crossing the threshold into dim fluorescent light and stale air.

The bell chimed overhead. Sharp, metallic.

Air pressure shifted: warmer, staler. Disinfectant and latex, underlaid with something vaguely sweet and cloying.

I kept my head down.

Rows of DVDs lined the walls, their covers garish under fluorescent strips. Shelves of toys: silicone, rubber, metal, arranged with utilitarian precision. No mood lighting, no pretense. Just inventory.

My eyes tracked the narrow corridor stretching past the counter. Doors. Numbered. Some glowed red: occupied. Others dark.

The attendant behind plexiglass didn't look up. Bored, middle-aged, flipping through a magazine.

I moved toward the back, each step measured, deliberate. Lana's thighs brushed together, friction sparking fresh heat. I bit the inside of my cheek hard.

Just find a door. Lock it. Wait this out.

Three booths on the left. Two lit red. The third: dark, handle intact.

My hand reached for it.

Locked.

Fuck.

I turned back toward the counter, pulse hammering against my ribs.

The attendant still hadn't looked up. Magazine pages turned with methodical indifference.

I cleared my throat. Once. Twice.

He glanced up. No curiosity. No interest.

"Are all the booths full?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. A small miracle.

He tilted his head toward the corridor behind him, barely a movement.

"Downstairs. Bigger room. Same token." Flat. Professional. Like he'd said a thousand times.

I fumbled in my bag, a small crossbody I'd grabbed on the way out, and pulled out crumpled euros.

He slid a brass token across the counter without counting. His eyes had already returned to the magazine before my fingers closed around the warm metal.

No judgment. No second glance.

Just routine.

I exhaled shakily and turned toward the narrow doorway he'd indicated.

A staircase descended into cooler air. Dimmer light.

Muffled bass vibrated up through the soles of my boots.

Bigger room.

Lana's pulse quickened. Mine should have slowed.

It didn't.

The stairs creaked under each step. Narrow, utilitarian. Paint peeling in thin curls along the handrail.

Cooler down here. The heat from above faded, replaced by something denser, thicker. Bass pulsed through the walls, vibrations crawling up my calves.

Dialogue bled through: voices layered over moans, synthetic and looped. The sound blurred together, indistinct but unmistakable. Light shifted. No more harsh fluorescents. Amber glow pooled at the landing, bleeding into red along the edges. Shadows deepened, softened.

I stopped at the bottom step.

One foot on concrete. One still on wood.

The pressure inside hadn't eased. If anything, it sharpened, coiling tighter with every breath. Lana's body hummed, skin too sensitive, nerves firing signals I couldn't ignore.

Turn around. Go back.

My hand gripped the railing.

Just leave.

But the heat wouldn't stop. The ache wouldn't fade.

I stepped forward. The corridor opened ahead: a single door at the end, partially ajar. Light spilled through the crack, flickering with the rhythm of a projector.

Voices murmured beyond. Low. Male. Barely audible over the film's audio.

Lana didn't hesitate.

~oO🐺Oo~

The door swung open to reveal something unexpected. Not a booth. A mini-cinema stretched before me, complete with rows of seats lining the sides, shadows settled within them. The remaining rows fanned out in a semicircle, leaving a broad open area in front of the screen. A flickering light cast muted colors across the space.

I hesitated, uncertainty prickling my skin. The door clicked shut behind me; the sound amplified through the room's hush. I flinched, as if a spotlight suddenly caught me exposed.

My confusion almost overshadowed the embarrassment creeping up my neck. I stood there, caught between the urge to flee and the undeniable pulsing that kept me tethered to the moment.

A handful of amorphous shapes sat scattered among the chairs. Silent but present. Each gaze felt like it pressed against me, unseen but tangible.

Lana's body thrummed, alive under the blended sensory assault of light, sound, and lurking eyes. The air vibrated with anticipation, heavy and charged.

Escaping now, after that door had closed, after stepping into the thick of it all, felt impossible. A path had been chosen, or… perhaps more accurately, a path demanded to be walked whether or not my mind agreed.

I moved toward the back corner, choosing shadow over exposure. The seat cushion gave slightly as I sank in, springs creaking once before settling.

Just breathe… Ride it out.

The mantra felt hollow, but I clung to it anyway.

The screen flickered: cuts between bodies, rhythm building. Each shift of light threw harsh white across my legs, then plunged them back into red-tinged dark. My pulse synced to the edits. Fast. Faster.

I gripped the armrests.

Behind me, fabric rustled. A throat cleared. The scrape of shoes against concrete echoed somewhere to my left.

Every shift registered: the temperature drop near the wall, the faint scent of sweat mixing with something metallic, the bass that vibrated through the seat and into my spine.

Lana's thighs pressed together. The pressure only made the ache sharper.

Focus... Breathe.

But the arousal swelled with each heartbeat, relentless and unyielding, drowning rational thought beneath waves I couldn't fight.

Lana's hands moved before I could stop them.

One slid to the hem of the dress, fingers curling into cotton. The fabric rode up slowly, deliberately, exposing thigh inch by inch. Cool air kissed heated skin.

No—

The other hand drifted lower, tracing the seam of my inner thigh with precision that felt practiced, instinctive. Pressure built where her fingertips pressed, light but insistent.

My breath caught. Sharp. Audible.

A shadow shifted two rows ahead. Shoulders turned slightly, angling toward me.

Stop. Please.

But Lana didn't stop. Her fingers slipped higher, finding slick heat through thin fabric. The touch sent electricity crackling up my spine, a gasp escaping before I could swallow it.

The ache intensified, no longer just heat but need: raw, demanding, obliterating every rational objection I tried to mount.

Another rustle. Closer this time.

Lana's hips shifted forward, chasing the pressure of her own hand. The movement made the seat creak, springs protesting.

We're not alone—

She knew. Part of me knew she knew.

It only made the arousal spike higher, sharper, until thinking became impossible and all that remained was the desperate, consuming urgency flooding through every nerve.

~oO🐺Oo~

The door behind me opened.

I froze.

Footsteps. Measured, unhurried. They crossed the concrete floor with deliberate weight, each step amplified in the charged silence.

The figure moved past the periphery of my vision, close enough that I caught the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. He settled into a seat directly in front of me, one row ahead.

Close. Too close.

My phone buzzed faintly in my bag. One short pulse, unmistakable. I didn’t even need to look. +49 30 90… I could see it in my mind, the same line waiting like clockwork.

—I'll be there.

I exhaled through my nose, barely a sound, and ignored it.

My hand stilled mid-motion, palm pressed flat against the thin fabric that had become transparent with arousal.

Oh God.

The vinyl of the seat creaked as I shifted, trying to pull my hand away, to lower the hem, to do something that resembled composure.

The sound cut through the room's ambient hum like a bell.

The man's shoulders remained still. He didn't turn. But I felt it anyway. The slight angle of his head suggested he was listening more than watching.

Fabric rustled as Lana's thighs pressed together again, seeking friction, creating more noise. The dress whispered against skin with every tremor.

Stop breathing so loud! Stop—

Lana stood abruptly, boots scraping concrete. The man in front shifted. Listening.

I'm moving… Alan. Different seat… You said distance.

She took three unsteady steps along the row, Lana's hand gripping seatbacks for balance. Each movement sent fresh waves through me: the dress, the air, the awareness of being watched.

Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties. Pulled down. Stepped out.

No—

Too late.

She picked up the soaked scrap of fabric, balled in her palm. Then tossed it… light, careless, onto the stranger's lap.

His shoulders stiffened. He didn't reach for it.

I didn't wait for his reaction. Down the aisle. Front row. Corner seat, away from strangers. Lana moved with purpose, hips swaying, dress riding high on bare thighs. Light from the screen flooded over me. No shadows here. Just projection glare painting my skin in flickering colors.

We're exposed now.

I turned, glancing back.

The stranger's eyes were following us. Watching.

Lana's lips curved. A wink. Slow. Deliberate. Then her tongue traced her bottom lip.

His expression didn't change. But he leaned forward.

Oh God... This is real.

Lana sank into the seat, legs spreading slightly.

Hiding was over.

~oO🐺Oo~

Lana moved without permission.

Fingertips traced the inside of her thigh, ascending slowly while my breath slowed to shallow bursts. The dress bunched around my waist as she shifted, pulling fabric up and away with impatient efficiency.

No... not—

Her fingers found wet heat. Circled once. Twice.

A shock of sensation silenced every objection.

On screen, bodies moved in a choreographed rhythm. The actress arched, mouth open in silent pleasure as the camera lingered on flushed skin and desperate movements.

Lana's fingers matched the tempo. Slow circles become deliberate strokes, finding the rhythm projected above us.

Stop — people are…

But the thought dissolved as her middle finger pressed inside. Wet. Easy. The slightest movement sent electricity crackling up my spine.

A moan escaped: soft at first, barely audible over the film's soundtrack.

Her other hand rose, palm cupping my breast through thin cotton. Fingers found the hardened peak, pinching lightly. Then harder.

The actress on screen cried out, voice rising in pitch.

Lana answered.

Louder this time. Unfiltered. A sound that belonged to someone who wanted to be heard.

Oh God...

Her hips rolled forward, chasing the pressure of her own hand. Two fingers now, thrusting in time with the scene above: controlled chaos, deliberate pleasure performed for an audience.

The stranger's silhouette remained motionless. Watching.

Lana's fingers twisted, finding an angle that made stars burst behind my eyes. Her thumb circled, pressed, released in maddening repetition.

The actress moaned again. Breathy. Theatrical.

Lana matched it, note for note, her voice sultry and playful: an invitation wrapped in sound.

I can't... we can't...

But I wasn't steering anymore.

Lana's rhythm quickened, fingers curling with practiced precision. Her other hand squeezed, rolled, and pinched. Each sensation amplified the next until thought became impossible.

The dress clung to sweat-slicked skin. Light from the projector painted us in shifting colors: red, blue, shadow, glare.

Exposed. Shameless. Performing.

Another moan, this one rising into something close to laughter, joyful and utterly unguarded.

Lana's eyes closed.

The room vanished: strangers, projector, the screen's flickering bodies dissolving into blackness.

Sound sharpened. Every rustle of fabric became thunder. The wet slide of her fingers echoed obscenely in the confined space. Her breathing… our breathing, rasped loud and uneven, each exhale trembling into soft whimpers.

Touch consumed everything.

Her fingers moved inside with maddening precision, stroking walls that clenched and released to a rhythm she controlled completely. Her thumb on her clit circled: slow, deliberate pressure that built and built.

Heat radiated from her core, spreading liquid and insistent through every nerve ending. Her thighs trembled. Toes curled inside the boots.

A moan spilled free, low and raw. Then another, higher pitched, followed the cadence of her fingers as they curled and thrust.

The soundtrack swelled. Bass vibrated through the seat, through bone, merging with the pulsing between her legs until I couldn't separate external rhythm from internal need.

Her rhythm turned ruthless.

Fingers pumped faster, curling hard against that spot inside that sent shockwaves radiating outward. Her thumb pressed circles that matched the frantic pulse hammering through her veins.

The pleasure climbed. Higher. Tighter.

Her back arched off the seat, spine bowing as her free hand gripped the armrest, knuckles white. The dress rode completely up now, bunched uselessly at her waist, exposing everything to the cool air and watching eyes.

Lana— God—

I knew what she was doing. I couldn't stop it, so I just watched the train wreck.

Her hips rocked in time with her hand, chasing the sensation building like a wave about to crest. Each thrust of her fingers sent her closer, the pressure coiling impossibly tight in her belly.

The moans came freely now.

Loud. Shameless.

Not the soft gasps she'd started with, but full-throated sounds of need and abandon that echoed off concrete walls. Each cry rose higher, more desperate, feeding off the bass thrumming through the room and the knowledge that strangers heard every sound.

Her thighs shook. Muscles tensed.

The wave built... built... built—

Then broke.

Her whole body seized, fingers buried deep as the orgasm crashed through her in violent, pulsing waves. She cried out, the sound raw and primal, holding nothing back.

~oO🐺Oo~

The tremors subsided in slow, rolling waves. Eventually, Lana opened her eyes.

Vision blurred. Colors bled into shapes. The screen's flickering glow sharpened gradually: edges first, then details.

Strangers had moved closer.

Not rushed. Not invasive. Just… closer.

Three men now occupied the front rows. One sat two seats away, his hand moving slowly inside his pants. Another stood near the aisle, cock freed, stroking with mechanical rhythm. The third remained further back, palm pressed flat against denim, watching with predatory focus.

European manners. They wouldn't cross the threshold into her space. Wouldn't touch without invitation.

Oh God... what did we—

My thoughts scrambled, grasping for logic, for horror, for anything that felt like me… Alan.

But Lana smiled.

Wicked. Satisfied.

Her finger lifted, curling slowly. A beckoning gesture aimed at the man with his cock in hand.

Playful. Deliberate.

No— stop—

But she didn't stop. I knew what she was doing. I couldn't stop it, so I just watched the train wreck.

Her smile widened as his eyes met hers, his hand stilling mid-stroke.

He stepped forward, cock still in hand, his strokes resuming with deliberate slowness.

Her hands traced upward over her stomach. One palm cupped her breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it peaked visibly through the fabric.

The other hand drifted lower, sliding between her thighs. Her fingers traced through slickness, collecting wetness before circling her clit with lazy precision.

His breath visibly caught. His stride faltered, but he kept coming.

Lana's gaze locked onto his. Hazel eyes bright, unblinking, held him captive as her fingers continued their slow exploration.

He stopped just in front of her, close enough that I could see the flush creeping up his neck, the tension coiling through his shoulders.

Lana reached up.

Her fingers wrapped around his shaft, cool against heated skin. She stroked once, slowly, thumb sliding down the underside before her palm rolled his balls with gentle pressure.

His hips jerked forward involuntarily.

Lana leaned forward, lips parting. Her mouth brushed the head of his cock, soft as a whisper. Then pressed. A kiss, chaste and obscene all at once.

He took half a step back, but it was too late.

His cock pulsed once against her lips, the tremor traveling through his entire shaft. I felt the exact moment his control snapped: a sudden, violent spasm that made him gasp and curse under his breath.

Then he erupted.

The first rope of cum shot thick and hot across her chin, painting a stark white line from jaw to throat. The second pulse caught her square across the lips, droplets clinging to the corner of her mouth before sliding down. The third hit lower, striping across her collarbone and shoulder in a heavy streak that began to drip immediately.

Lana didn't flinch. Didn't close her eyes. She kept that steady, unblinking gaze fixed on his face, watching him come apart above her with something like fascination.

Two smaller pulses followed: weaker spurts that splattered across her breasts, adding to the mess already coating her skin. The final drops beaded at his tip before falling to join the rest, landing on the curve of her breast where the dress had fallen away.

His breathing came in ragged gasps now, chest heaving as he stared down at what he'd done. At what she'd made him do.

~oO🐺Oo~

By the time I emerged from the Videokabinen, the winter sun had long disappeared.

The temperature had dropped: sharp, biting, but Lana didn't care. The aftermath of what happened still flowed through her, a warm current that insulated against the cold Berlin night. Her stride held that same liquid confidence, hips swaying beneath the pink sundress despite the chill raising goosebumps along bare arms.

She paused at the corner of Weserstraße, streetlights casting amber pools across damp pavement. The faint smell of fresh bread drifted from a corner café, mingling with the metallic bite of winter air. Her reflection caught in a shop window: flushed cheeks, tousled hair, lips slightly swollen.

No shame registered in those hazel eyes. Just satisfaction.

I couldn’t speak. I could only watch, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. This…this was Lana, fully herself, and I had to follow.

Let's go home, Alan.

The thought came soft, almost tender. An olive branch extended after seizing control so completely.

Lana...

I couldn't finish. Didn't know what to say. The memory of what we'd done…what she'd done, played on loop behind my eyes, vivid and undeniable.

Home, she repeated.

You can have control back… I promise.

The release felt like surfacing after being held underwater.