#2 - The Illusion of Love: How Control Tightens Its Grip

The morning sun streamed through the open curtains, its golden rays caressing Mia's Mongolian eyes. Light draped itself over her strong, man-like figure but hesitated at the delicate rise of her pointed breasts, their large areolas left untouched by the dawn’s embrace.

A familiar ache lingered in her muscles and throat, the aftershock of tangled limbs and moans. The sheets coiled around her waist, the last traces of what had unraveled in the dark. Though she fancied herself a witch, luring young men into sin, the church beyond her window did not sear her with righteous fire, nor did it pass judgment on her transgressions.

Outside, the world moved on with its usual indifference—cars gliding down the street, neighbors rushing their children off to school—but in her bed, time curled in on itself, dense and unhurried.

Her phone vibrated softly against the pillow. Den. Of course.

“I step inside, then pull away,

A longing bound in measured sway.

The hush commands, the pulse obeys,

Yet fever burns beneath the fray.

Through endless forms, not one the first,

You carve the void with sculptor’s might.

Inside, I thrash in hunger cursed—

Two darkened wells devour the light.

The lube’s embrace is firm, severe,

It seals the self in silken chains.

Yet slipping through, I persevere—

Muse, flood me free, dissolve the reins.”

Mia smirked, stretching languidly before replying. “Pretty hot 🔥”

A few seconds later, another message appeared. “Looking at you and getting hard again.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. His audacity was effortless, part of what drew her in.

"Tell me about your boundaries," Den wrote.

Mia hesitated, fingertips tracing slow, absent-minded circles against the sheet.

"Depends," she replied. "Some things are off-limits—no piss play, no over-the-top theatrics."

"Noted. But I meant more in a psychological sense."

She rolled her eyes. "You really are a teacher, aren’t you? Always needing things categorized. Life doesn’t work like that."

"Fair enough. What’s on your agenda today?"

"Trying to get more sleep, then training. But at this rate, I doubt I’ll manage. Tonight, I’m reinforcing some basic commands with the little one—‘bring me water, stay out of the way.’"

"You don’t work during the day?"

"I do. My main ‘job’ is training. The rounder the ass, the more my husband gives me for ‘pins and needles.’"

"A wise man."

"Yes. I’ve been married since I was nineteen. My husband has kept me carefully protected from life’s troubles, just as my parents did before him."

“Are you happy?” Asked Den.

She blinked slowly, grasping for the right answer as the conversation took on a heavier weight. The city's soft hum blurred into a distant murmur, and her phone slipped from her fingers. Before she could fully process a response, sleep claimed her—swift, deep, and inescapable.

Den waited for Mia’s reply. He gazed out of the taxi window, watching the building become smaller and smaller as he left Moscow for the suburbs. If Moscow’s towering buildings could have children, then surely these smaller suburban houses were their offspring—eager to break free from their parents' rigid embrace, venturing toward the forests and the open embrace of nature.

His phone rang, pulling him from his thoughts. On the other end, a voice both warm and sharp greeted him—it was Sara, a thirty-something single mother he’d been seeing ever since a spontaneous Tinder encounter.

“Morning, Casanova. Should I delete the picture of Mia’s ID you sent me last night? Or did she slice you into tiny pieces and have you for dinner?”

“No, she just skewered me,” Den quipped. “You can delete it. She doesn’t seem like a maniac.”

“I’m still a little surprised by your late-night texts,” Sara mused. “You always seemed too deep in your own head to go for a one-night stand with a total stranger.”

“Yeah… First time I ever did,” Den admitted. “And honestly? Can’t say I performed too well under the circumstances. My panty friend stayed small and far from the beast I expected.”

“Hah! Now that’s an intimate confession,” Sara teased. “Well, my night went a lot better.”

“Congrats. Was John as hard as he should be?”

“Hard. Rough. Dominant. You know what I mean,” she said with a playful edge.

"What’s on your agenda today?" Den asked, curiosity in his voice.

"Same miserable job as yesterday. They act like I’m in charge, but I feel more like a puppet." She sighed.

"You mean... being submissive by working on a weekend?"

"Screw you," Sara shot back with a grin. "Your plans?"

“I'm checking out hotels to make sure they're a good fit for my summer camps. Got a few places to visit. Are we hanging out today?”

“Sure. Need to go back to my work. See you, Micro Soft.”

“Sharp-tongued bitch,” Den shot back, grinning.

As the call ended, Den could still sense Sara’s voice hanging in the air, like a faint perfume—an odd, almost synesthetic sensation. They had met about a month ago on Tinder, both playfully pretending they were going to have sex. Den cherished their conversations. He loved the way she sent him voice messages, singing just for him.

"Is it alright if I turn off the taximeter and we agree on a fixed price?" the driver asked, pulling Den out of his thoughts.

"Sure," Den replied. He planned to use taxis all day, so a flat rate sounded like a great deal.

"Fuck Uber. They're just robbing drivers," the driver muttered.

Most of Moscow's drivers were immigrants from Tajikistan and Uzbekistan—affordable labor meeting the city's relentless demand for workers, kept in check by low wages and the constant threat of deportation.

"Funny," Den thought. "Yesterday, Uzbeks served me food at a Chaikhona, and today, an Uzbek driver is taking me where I need to go."

As a sprawling metropolis, Moscow was a melting pot of diverse cultures and nationalities. It was easy to feel like a stranger in your own homeland, surrounded by people who looked and spoke differently. However, by choosing where to go and whom to interact with, this feeling could be managed—or even avoided altogether.

“We've arrived. I’ll wait for you here,” said the driver.

“OK, thanks,” Den replied and headed toward the hotel entrance.

The first camp base he decided to inspect was a place called Tsar Hotel. Tsar referred to the Russian emperor, and the entire establishment was designed with luxury in mind, packed with clichés of what was considered "Russian style." Fortunately, there wasn’t a bear in a cage, but there was an abundance of gold-accented décor, 19th-century-style wooden villas, and, oddly enough, an aquapark. Den couldn’t recall if even the last Russian Tsar, Nicholas II, had ever enjoyed such a thing, but Tsar Hotel certainly did.

Den’s camp wasn’t just another recreational getaway. It was born from an idea he and his wife had while searching for a meaningful summer experience for her son—one that would reignite his curiosity for learning after the disillusionment of a school year.

Den positioned the camp as a premium experience: a safe, well-managed environment with exceptional food, where parents would feel completely confident sending their children. More importantly, those children would leave smarter, guided by top-tier educators from Russia’s most prestigious universities.

But why have an aquapark at a science camp? The same reason deceitful husbands buy extravagant gifts for the wives they’ve betrayed—guilt. The uncomfortable truth was that many parents who sent their kids to Den’s camp simply avoided to see them over the summer, just as they barely engaged with them throughout the year. Offering excellent food, high-quality education, and even an aquapark helped ease that guilt, allowing parents to justify their absence.

A young woman, probably around 25 years old, from guest relations gave Den an extensive tour of the Tsar Hotel infrastructure. They sampled food from the buffet, visited a small zoo, and, of course, explored the aquapark. Den was pleased—the place suited his needs well and, unlike most of his competitors’ offerings, didn’t resemble a concentration camp.

A kind Uzbek driver gave him a ride back to Moscow so he could pick up his daughter from his ex-wife.

“Hi, Sophi, how was your day?” Den asked as she put on her coat.

“Good,” she smiled. “But a bit boring. Mom didn’t let me watch much cartoons.”

“I'll talk to her. By the way, we have some friends visiting tonight. There will be a boy your age—I think you two can play in the evening. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” Sophie replied, and they headed to the taxi.

Den did his best to ensure that Sophie saw both parents every day. If her mother dropped her off at kindergarten in the morning, Den picked her up in the evening. Whenever his ex-wife requested a schedule change, he usually agreed—partly because it meant more time with Sophie, and partly because he disliked arguing with her mother. Today was no exception. Though the weekend was originally planned to be her mother's, a last-minute change in plans shifted things once again.

About ten minutes after Den and Sophie got home, the doorbell rang. Sara stepped inside, holding her six-year-old son's hand and carrying a bottle of wine. Her blue eyes glistened, whether from the cold or emotion, and a warm smile spread across her face.