Vanilla Island

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.