Katrin leaves to complete her task, and I'm absolutely sure it's just going to be a playful shot—her taking off her T-shirt, staying in her bra, maybe coyly covering herself with a hand. But when her photo appears on my phone screen, my breath catches.
Rebel Girl stands in front of the mirror completely topless. Her smooth skin, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp, seems almost radiant. No shyness, no attempt to cover up—just a light, almost defiant smile at her reflection. Her pants are still on, but that only emphasizes the contrast between her boldness and that faint, unspoken line she still hasn't crossed. Her breasts—beautiful, firm—are on full display without a trace of embarrassment, as if she's savoring the moment, knowing exactly what effect this is having. My girl is so beautiful, and I'm completely worked up.
My fingers tighten around the phone involuntarily. My temples pound, and a hot wave surges through my stomach. She actually does it.
"This is just for you," her voice strikes like a whip, making me flinch.
She's already standing in the doorway, fully dressed again, but now her ordinary T-shirt feels deceptive—beneath it hides something now permanently seared into my memory. "I'll kill you if anyone else sees."
Swallowing the lump in my throat, my voice comes out hoarser than I expect:
"I know. This is private. No one else will ever see it."
The promise comes easily—the thought of her body, her trust, becoming someone else's property stirs a fierce resistance in me. I don't even realize how much this means to me until I see her eyes, full of determination and some invisible power. The photo is already in a locked album, password-protected—the only thing binding us in this moment. It's mine. Only mine.
But the game continues.
"What event turned your life 180 degrees?" Her question catches me off guard.
"Meeting you," I answer without thinking. The words spill out as if they're etched deep in my heart. Then, with a slight smirk, I add: "And, of course, the bet."
She laughs, warm and bright, like a reminder of something intimate and important. But without pause, she hands me her phone:
"I have a task too. I guess we're out of questions. 'Send your lover a dirty text message.'"
My heart plummets. Oh, shit. My chest tightens, my breath turns sharp. This is more than just a task—it's a challenge. The moment swallows me whole, leaving no room to retreat.
"Okay… Just wait."
The phone in my hands feels like lead, the cold metal growing heavier. I type slowly, the words sliding across the screen like something dangerous, foreign to me. Every keystroke feels like stepping on thin ice. My heart hammers in my ears, each letter tearing the moment apart, forming something so raw I'm afraid to say it aloud.
"Seeing you naked makes me wish I was there with you. I'd kiss your chest, lick your nipples while you moan in my hands."
Send.
A scorching wave of shame crashes over me. My body turns heavy, my face burning like a star about to explode. I throw the phone onto the couch and cover my face with my hands, as if I can hide from my own words. My cheeks blaze, my ears ring. God, what did I just write?
Her laughter cracks like a whip—not joyful, but something else. Triumphant. Powerful. And standing before it, I suddenly feel the world tilting.
"I didn't know you had such fantasies about me," she drawls, clearly relishing my reaction.
"Stop," I hiss through my fingers. "I'm already dying of embarrassment."
"Why? There's no shame in this." She sits beside me, her fingers brushing my wrists, gently pulling my hands away from my face. Her eyes gleam—not with mockery, but something warm, intrigued. "I liked your dirty thoughts about me."
That makes it worse—because now, mixed with the shame, is something else. Something dangerous. Desire.
"Alright, tomato," she flicks my nose, forcing me to meet her gaze. "Do we keep playing, or are you just gonna sit here hiding?"
Her smirk says, "You're mine." And the scariest part? I am. The realization engulfs me, equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
"Let's keep going. Your turn to answer."
I flip the card, my fingertips trembling slightly with anticipation. Something tells me the next question will be just as loaded as the last.
"Who do you consider your best friend? Why?"
Katrin pauses for a second, her eyes softening, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips. She rarely talks about personal things—so this answer means something.
"Grandpa Vi."
She says it so softly that I know—those words carry far more weight than just an admission. I've seen how she changes when she talks about him.
"Yeah, we're more like father and daughter. But he's the only one I trust. Everyone else is just… more or less familiar."
There's no regret in her voice, just quiet certainty. She doesn't feel lonely—she just doesn't need anyone the way she needs Vi. And I know he's her anchor, the only person she can lean on no matter what.
But then, something sharp twists in my chest.
"What about me?" I can't help but ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling. "Am I not your friend?"
Katrin turns to me, and her eyes spark with a warm, almost playful light. There's no doubt in them—not even a second of hesitation.
"You?" She shakes her head, and that familiar slyness flickers in her smile, making my heart skip. "No, you're not my friend. You're my boyfriend."
She pauses, letting each word sink in. And in that silence between us, in that moment of anticipation, there's something electric—something that steals my breath and makes my pulse race.
"I trust you as much as Vi."
I feel a stupid, wide grin spread across my face. Like an idiot. But I don't care. Those words mean more to me than she could guess. They sound like a promise, like a confession, like something I was afraid to lose but that's already become a part of me.
"Let's blindfold each other and try to kiss. Should we do it?"
I say it more because of the game's rules than my own desire. Not that I don't want to… But I don't want to pressure her, to force anything.
Katrin doesn't even hesitate.
"Sure. I'll get something to cover our eyes."
She rises smoothly, her movements light but carrying an unshakable resolve. I watch her go, then glance down at the card, absently gripping my phone. My heart beats just a little faster than it should. The faint tremor in my fingertips only shows in how they cling to the edges of the thick cardboard.
She returns a minute later, holding two long strips of fabric—one black, one red.
"These are belts from my robes. I think they'll work perfectly."
The silk slides between her fingers, and I can't help imagining how it feels against my skin. Cool, smooth… almost burning.
"Let's do this in the bedroom—it'll be more comfortable there."
"Okay, let's clean up here first, then go," I reply, my voice just a little rougher than usual.
She nods, and we silently start clearing the table—blowing out the candles, packing the cards, putting away the empty glasses. Every motion feels deliberately slow, as if we're both stretching time, prolonging the tension.
I feel the air thickening between us—like we've crossed some invisible line where the game stops being just a game.
When we step into the bedroom, the space between us grows denser, heavier—as if charged with every glance, every breath. The dim light wraps around the room, turning shadows into accomplices. Everything inside me tightens with anticipation.
Katrin stops by the bed, her silhouette outlined in soft curves against the warm glow. I step up behind her, hesitant but drawn in by something I can't resist. My hands find her waist on their own, as if they've always known where to rest.
"Rebel…" I whisper, pressing my lips to her neck.
Her skin shivers under my touch, and I feel the faintest tremor run through her. But she doesn't pull away—instead, her back leans into me. In this moment, we breathe as one, and every inhale feels too deep to be accidental.
The silk blindfolds lie nearby, but right now, they seem almost unnecessary. Because in this moment, I'm already blinded—by her. Her scent, her warmth, every gesture—it all eclipses sight, logic, everything. I'm drowning in her without taking a single step.
"Do you just want to complete the challenge, or take it further?"
My voice wavers almost imperceptibly, low, as if afraid to disturb the fragile balance between desire and boundaries. This isn't a question about bodies—it's about trust, about her right to decide how far we go.
Rebel doesn't answer right away. She tilts her head slightly, and I hear her breath still in her chest. She's thinking—not playing, not posing. Weighing.
"Let's stick to the challenge for now. If I want more, I'll say so."
Her tone is firm, steady. No flirtation, no hidden meanings. Just honesty. And that's the most intoxicating part. I feel respect—and, more importantly, calm. She knows what she's saying, and I hear it.
I slowly let her go, my fingers reluctantly sliding from her waist, leaving behind warmth and a faint shiver of regret. The black silk blindfold slips through my hands, soft as a breath. I carefully tie it over her eyes, making sure not to tug a single strand of hair, not to disrupt the air between us.
"Can you see anything?"
"Only darkness," she murmurs.
And in that simple answer is so much trust that something clenches inside me. Because as I blindfold her, I realize—she's letting me be her light.
I run a finger over her eyelids, checking if any light seeps through. She squeezes her eyes shut at my touch, and I feel her lashes flutter, as if casting shadows against my fingertips.
Then I take the red blindfold and tie it over my own eyes. The world plunges into darkness. But this darkness isn't oppressive. It doesn't suffocate—it liberates. Stripped of sight, everything else sharpens. Now, what matters is the unseen: breath, movement, touch.
"Get on the bed."
I don't ask—I tell. And for the first time, there's a note of control in my voice. Calm, firm, but soft in its strength. Like a silk rope tightening slowly, with no chance of unraveling.
The quiet rustle of fabric, a short sigh. The creak of springs as she lies down. I hear her breathing slow—or is it mine? I'm not sure. Everything blurs. I sit beside her, listening to the silence. My fingers find her ankle, and at the first touch, goosebumps rise on her skin. I feel them even through the dark. Slowly, almost ceremoniously, I lean down and press my lips to her skin. A featherlight kiss—not demanding, but testing, like the first sip of fine wine. Then another. And another.
I trail higher, savoring every millimeter of her reaction, every exhale, every shift in her muscles. Every touch is a challenge. And an answer. Her body speaks to mine without words—in shivers, in the slight turn of her hip, in the quiet gasp that escapes her lips.
The silk over my eyes dulls my vision but heightens everything else to the extreme. I feel her skin change under my lips—now warm, now prickling with goosebumps, as if brushed by the chill of anticipation. I slowly reach her knee, linger, breathe in her scent—warm, faintly sweet, laced with perfume and something uniquely hers. She doesn't speak. But her breath betrays everything. It grows faster, shallower, more restrained.
I sense the struggle inside her—desire and hesitation warring.
My mouth grazes the inside of her thigh, where the skin is most sensitive. She holds her breath. I part my lips and leave a barely-there kiss, cautious, weightless—and immediately feel her muscles tense. I take my time. I savor this ritual. Her body, her trust, this darkness where everything becomes real. There's no gaze, no "how does this look"—only how it feels. And every one of her sighs is my revelation.