Vanilla Island

What else? Money?

I pause—let her imagination run—and play my trump card:

“You’ll become my slave,” I say in the calmest, most ordinary tone of voice, slipping the last rare morsel of steak into my mouth.

A silence so stunned it would make the writer Gogol tear up the page with his famous “the words struck like thunder”.

It had to be said like that: slave, not some ambiguous foreignism like submissive. No room for misinterpretation—slave says it all. And not you’ll be, but you’ll become—final, inescapable. She stares at me in wide-eyed disbelief. There’s a small chance she’ll throw the rest of her water in my face and storm off—but if that happens, I’ve misjudged her. That would make me a poor psychologist.

The shock begins to fade, and a wave of conflicting emotions washes over her face. I can’t catch them all, but at one point her gaze turns distant, and I sense tension in her body—tight thighs pressed together. I’ve struck a nerve.

“A standard contract,” I continue, not letting her gather herself, laying my next cards casually. “Nothing extraordinary. By the agreement, you’ll live in my house for seven days. You’ll obey all my orders and fulfil all my desires. You’ll be available, obedient, and compliant. In return, I’ll look after you and your dependants, teach you, guide you—and yes, I’ll have to punish you if you disobey or break the rules.”

“Are you a sadist?” she whispers, horrified. “You’re going to beat me?”

A good sign. The denial stage has passed—she’s already probing terms. Also telling—she doesn’t ask about sex. She’s read the books, so she knows what they do to slaves. But punishment—that worries her.

I leave a pause. She’s wound too tight. Time to lighten the tone a little.

“Mousey,” I say, calling her that for the first time.

“Please don’t call me Mousey,” she interrupts, slightly irritated.

I suspect the problem wasn’t really the nickname Mousey. What’s troubling her is the question she just asked—it truly matters to her. And here I am, playing the fool with that silly Mousey.

“All right,” I say calmly. “I’ll call you Ratling instead.”

She bites her lip in indignation.

“Fine then. Mousey it is.”

She falls silent again, waiting for an answer to the question that clearly weighs on her.

“Mousey,” I begin, “first of all, I’m not a sadist. I’m a Dominant. A Master.”

I stress the word Master—it carries a very specific energy. In our language, a master is first and foremost a skilled professional, a specialist, someone experienced and capable. That meaning overrides the potentially harsh connotations of the word dominant. I give her a moment to let it sink in before continuing.

“Second—who on earth beats little mice? You beat enemies, wild animals, maybe someone else. Little mice don’t get beaten. They’re punished and disciplined. That’s something else entirely. You were punished as a child, weren’t you? Denied sweets, made to stand in the corner, given a smack?”

She stays silent. I hope that part of the contract has now been clarified, because after a moment’s hesitation, she moves on to the next concern.

“So that’s why you paid for my mum’s operation? You want to buy me—like they bought slaves in the past?”

A clever card, and a promising sign. Legally speaking, we’re already approaching the financial terms of the deal.

“Mousey, I don’t want to buy you. I paid for your mother’s operation simply because I wanted to help her. If the director hadn’t mentioned the payment by accident, you wouldn’t have known at all. And besides, this arrangement benefits the hospital—it gets equipment from my company, and I profit from that. So I’m not at a loss, and you owe me nothing. Let’s leave that aside. It has no bearing on the agreement we’re discussing.”

Nice small cards: our agreement and we’re discussing. I emphasise those words —this is a discussion, a dialogue. No pressure. No compulsion.

“And anyway,” I go on, “on slave markets, they sold people who were already in captivity. They had no choice. That’s not the case here. You’re entirely free to decide. No one’s forcing you. I’m not offering you money. It’s your own decision—to accept or refuse the arrangement.”

It had to be put that way—you and I, in our case, our deal. She’s already involved in the negotiation. We’re working through this together.

I can see her calming a little. There’s more than fear and caution in her eyes now—there’s curiosity. She wants to understand what kind of creature I am. Maybe it’s all just a joke? A prank? I sense it—that flicker of interest and arousal has sparked in her.

I signal to Stasik to bring the coffee and begin to gently fan the flame.

“Mousey, I’m a Master. Over these seven days, I’ll teach you to understand your body, to embrace your sensuality. I’ll help you fulfil your deepest, most secret desires. You’ll become a real woman. And remember—it’s only seven days. Don’t miss this chance. Make the right choice.”

After a long silence, she finally speaks—with nervousness, and a hint of theatrical flair:

“You’re Mephistopheles! You’ll give me all this… and then take my soul!”

Well done, girl. She’s read Goethe. Good card.

“Mousey, the idea of an immortal soul is nothing more than a clever marketing move from priests and Jesuits. And if you recall, Mephistopheles didn’t manage to take Faust’s soul. The soul is our feelings, our memories, our emotions. You can’t buy or sell it. You can’t gift it or steal it. But you can entrust it to someone. You can open it.”

I’ve no idea where this sudden burst of philosophy came from. I can feel myself growing a long grey beard, about to say: Listen, my child… And that’s when she plays her strongest card:

“Yes, but a soul can be spat on. It can be trampled and destroyed!”

A powerful card. I know it well. Not everyone’s dealt that one by fate. It’s invisible, intangible, and has no suit—but people have fought duels for it, mounted the scaffold, walked to their deaths. It goes by many names, but the shortest is honour. It can indeed be taken, it can be destroyed—but without it, a person becomes a mere shadow.

I’m sure my Mousey holds that card. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have started this game. I don’t respond immediately—this is a turning point in the conversation, and it needs to be separated from everything that came before. This is no longer a game. No more “Mousey”.

At last, I speak, quietly, seriously, sincerely:

“Sveta, I promise you—that will not happen. I promise I will never harm you.”

There’s no need to fake it—I mean every word. She feels it, and her eyes lock on mine.

“Truly?”

“Scout’s honour,” I reply, before I can stop myself.

And she accepts this silly reply. Or rather—she doesn’t even hear the words. She just keeps searching my eyes for the answer.

That’s it. The cards are on the table, the game is over, and now she must decide.

I meet her assessing gaze calmly—the gaze of a woman, of a female. Perhaps this is how a lioness looks at the male approaching her. There’s nothing more I can do now—I must wait.

Then, in her eyes, something shifts—subtle, almost imperceptible: Mousey has made her decision. She doesn’t know it yet, or rather, she can’t quite articulate it—but the decision has already been made. I even know what it is. She just needs help putting it into words.

And right on cue, Stasik arrives with the coffee.

“May I think about it?” She asks.

“Of course. You’ve all the time in the world,” I say, pausing, “until you finish your cappuccino. But once you put the cup down, you must say one simple word—yes or no. Just remember: no means no. If you choose it, I’ll call a taxi, you’ll go home, and I’ll vanish from your life forever.”

She drinks slowly, in tiny sips. She wishes the cup were bottomless. But at last, porcelain touches porcelain with a soft chime. And just as softly, comes the answer:

“Yes.”

“Good,” I reply curtly, and gesture to Stasik.

I settle the bill, stand up, and without so much as a glance at her, head for the exit. She said yes—but for now it’s only a word, a breath. It must be confirmed with action. She could remain seated. She could vanish behind my back and run.

Without looking back, I stroll to the car, open the passenger door, and wait.

There’s the swish of her grey jacket—and she slides in.

I close the mousetrap and take the driver’s seat. It’s done. Only a few formalities remain.

Somewhere deep inside, Shere Khan stirs with anticipation.

“Keep your claws to yourself,” I say to him. “She’s mу prey.”

She

The waiter—the one with the earring—hands me a menu. He shoots me a contemptuous look, like he’s thinking: “We know your type. Little tramp. And if you’re not one yet, you will be soon.”

I can’t remember the last time I was in a proper restaurant. Probably back when Dad was still alive. Igor used to drag me to cheap little cafés—stingy little man-child, always hoping I’d pay. This one’s not like that. A real man. If he wanted, he’d buy this whole restaurant on a whim—probably with me thrown in.

It smells divine from the kitchen. My stomach tightens with hunger. I suddenly realise I haven’t eaten properly in days. Not that I’ve got no money for food—I’m not there yet. Just nerves.

I’ll choose something modest. Maybe fish? But what kind? Probably all these pretentious French looking names—something like “carp à la sour cream”.

I don’t even get to open the menu— he orders everything in an instant. I feel slightly hurt. But inside, I admit—I like his decisiveness. And he ordered exactly what I wanted. Spared me the stress of choosing. Even the coffee—just how I like it. Maybe he’s not a blackmailer after all. Then what is he?

At last—water! I drain half the glass in one go. I’d finish it all, but I catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. No—better not give him that satisfaction.

I avoid eye contact—afraid of being hypnotised. I focus on his hands instead—strong, sure, with long, sensitive fingers. Noticed how neat his nails are. Carefully groomed. Not chewed to bits like Igor’s. He’s watching me, silently. Is now the right moment to speak? No, not yet.

The food arrives. “Bon appétit!” he says—and it sounds mocking, sarcastic. Or is that just me being paranoid again? His tone’s actually quite ordinary. Polite, even.

I glance up to thank him—and there it is: his steak oozing with red, bloody juice. No—that’s not a steak. That’s me, lying there on the plate! He’ll eat me just like that. No hesitation. Not even chew—just spit me out, bored.

The fish, though—I’ll give him that—it’s divine. Tender and juicy. The sauce smells of cream and some mysterious spice. I decide to eat—even the condemned are allowed a final meal.

The green stalks are lovely too—crisp and delicate, with a subtle scent. I’ve seen them in the shops, but I can’t for the life of me remember what they’re called.

He asks if I liked the food. Of course I did. But then I go and embarrass myself asking about asparagus like some clueless fool! I think he’s smirking. My face burns. But maybe I’m imagining it—he actually explained quite nicely.

Annoyed with myself, I jab back with a question about his wife. A man like that must have one—tall, leggy, flawless.

But he’s not married. Didn’t expect that. Strange feeling: a little disappointed that my jab missed—but also, quietly pleased she doesn’t exist. But why? Was he divorced?

And now he’s about to make his offer. I know exactly what it’s going to be. I brace myself and blurt out my rehearsed line in one go. I do stumble at the end—probably look like a fool. But I said it!

Wait—what? Not his lover? Then… what?

I’ve geared up for that—and now I’m completely thrown, scrambling through alternatives. And then—wham! —like a hammer to the head: slave.

My breath catches. I gasp for air. My mind floods with every slave girl from every book—from ancient Greece to Isaura, the slave girl from the Brazilian soap opera. That grand, booming word used to send a shiver through my childhood belly.

When I was little, reading Angélique under the covers with a torch, the scene where they stripped her naked for auction in front of a hall full of men nearly made me faint—with horror, yes, but also something else… something burning and heavy, deep inside.

And the scene where she’s whipped in public—I imagined how shameful, how painful it must have been. I didn’t like the blood or the pain, but the thought of standing there, tied to a post… it made me clench my thighs, just like I’m doing now.

Meanwhile, he’s calmly going on about “a perfectly ordinary agreement.” Ordinary?! As if everyone signs these things on their lunch break! He’s going to use me however he likes—and punish me, too! Suddenly it all clicks into place: so this is who he is—a sadist!

Coolly, he explains that he’s not a sadist. Just a Dominant. A Master.

Dominant—like that psycho from that book about the grey shades? But he doesn’t seem like a nutjob. Of course not—he’s a Master! What is that, then? A certified Dominant? Like a Master of Arts? Master of Domination? Got his degree in spankology?

And he is going to beat me, isn’t he?

I start to panic—and he dodges the question again, twisting everything into a joke about mice and rats. Oh, so that’s it! He’s toying with me—playing cat and mouse. Why didn’t I see it sooner?

Strangely, the thought calms me a little. Maybe it is just a game to him—a wind-up, some kind of teasing. But no—he’s being far too serious. And now he’s explaining, in great detail, how little mice like me aren’t beaten… only “disciplined.”

And that’s when it hits me—that little moment by the café, when he brushed the dust off my jeans. He was testing my backside! Trying it out. And clearly, it fit. Just his size.

Now it’s all clear: that’s why he paid for the operation! He planned it all—to trap me, make me dependent, and force me into becoming his slave.

He replies that it was meant to be a secret, and the director only let it slip by accident. And yes—I remember the look he gave the hospital director. A sharp, cold glare.

Suddenly I feel lighter. The operation is covered, and it’s not even about the money—he’ll make a profit off it! Take notes, Sveta—that’s how business is done. So it’s not about selling my body after all—just a deal between us. A kind of barter—you give me this, I give you that.

And how cleverly he frames it—as if we’re already jointly discussing his mad proposal: “We’re discussing our deal.”

A deal—that’s the word! I remembered Goethe from second-year literature—a deal with the devil. He’s no Peyrac after all. He’s Mephistopheles! Tempting me, luring me in: he’ll teach me everything, awaken my sensuality and fulfil all my hidden fantasies. So smooth and persuasive it gives me goose bumps and makes my stomach knot with arousal. Yes, he’ll give me all that… and then take my soul!

But he’s clever—caught me out on Goethe. I’d even forgotten that in the end Mephistopheles never managed to take Faust’s soul—the angels carried it up to heaven. And on top of that, he turns philosopher—what he said about the soul was truly beautiful. After all, open your soul, and at once someone will want to spit in it.

Suddenly he becomes serious—calls me Sveta, not Mousey, for the first time. And again he reminds me of Joffrey… I’m stunned. This isn’t a joke—he’s genuinely offering me a contract! This is all for real!

To my horror, I realise I desperately want to say yes. To throw myself in head-first and give myself up to those strong, knowing hands. My body aches for him. Only fear holds me back: fear that he’ll trick me, lure me into a trap, then crush me, destroy my soul. That would be worse than becoming a whore. That’s what I’m afraid of—because I barely know him. Can I trust him?

I look into his eyes, searching for even the faintest flicker of lust, of deceit—but I find none. Just calm openness, and something else, barely there: weariness, perhaps. Sadness. I believe him.

But how do I say it, how do I show him that I want him? That I want him to seize me, pull me close, crush me in his arms? Stop. I need to breathe, to think. No—I’m not doubting any more, I just need to listen to myself. Thank God he ordered cappuccino: the cup is big, I still have time.

But how can I possibly express what’s happening inside me? And then—as always—it’s him who helps me. He always does.

Such simple words: yes or no. That’s all. Just choose no– and he’ll vanish from my life. Impossible! He’s already part of my life. Part of me.

I clutch the cup in both hands. The scent of vanilla—how I love it! I draw it in deeply, listening to myself. Yes, there’s fear of the unknown, a flutter of excitement, the sense of something new, something strange. So many feelings, so many shades. But no shame. No searing humiliation, no fire that scorches the soul.

How lucky that the coffee is hot—I can sip slowly. It tastes better than usual—richer, warmer. Even more aromatic than the one I always get in the café. How did he know? Oh, of course—Vika and her big mouth. I thank her silently, and smile.

I replay everything we said at the table. He is a master, a subtle psychologist—but not a manipulator. I remember how easily he took control of me that first time, with just one word. He could’ve done the same tonight. But he didn’t. He chose another way—he built a conversation. Constructed it with care, like a piece of music. Not once did I feel forced. Not even slightly.

Now I see why he ordered for me—to sweep away the clutter, the trivialities. What difference would it really have made if I’d agonised over salmon or plaice?

“Yes,” I say, quiet but firm, as my cup touches the saucer with a soft chime.

His “All right” is short, dry. No satisfaction in it. No joy of victory. Not a flicker of emotion on his face. He pays, rises, and leaves without a glance.

Panic grips me: I said “yes” the wrong way! Maybe he thought it sounded false, insincere—as if I meant “Yeah, right.” And now his “all right” feels cold, menacing, almost like: “Fine, then I’m off.”

I catch up with him at the door—and suddenly realise: he’s giving me one last choice. I could slip away now. Disappear.

Instead, I follow him to the car. He opens the door and waits, without looking back. I slide into the leather seat, already moulded to me. The door shuts.

My heart skips in fear—and then I see it clearly: in his car, I already have a place. My place. The fear recedes.

3. Slave

“Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I’ll come up; if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m someone else.”

(Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass)

She

The interior of his car is simple, even slightly old-fashioned—real wood, genuine leather. You can barely hear the engine, and the car moves so smoothly it feels like it’s gliding over water. If I close my eyes, I could believe I’m aboard a sailing ship, setting out for unknown shores…

How did it happen that I agreed so quickly to something so mad—to hand myself over to a stranger I know almost nothing about? Although that’s not quite true. I know his name, that he runs his own company, something to do with medical equipment.

He’s clearly wealthy, and generous—just like that, on a whim, he paid for Mum’s operation. And he helped me when I slipped on the steps. Or was that more than just help? But he did appear like that, out of the mist, just when I was pleading with the heavens for help. A knight—not quite on a white horse, perhaps—but still… he saved me.

And I know he’s clever, well-read, a subtle psychologist, maybe even a philosopher. And yes… I like him. Very much.

He’s so many things at once! I’ve seen him rough, commanding, intimidating… but also compassionate, generous, unreadable, ironic, serious—and all that in just a few hours. No, not even hours—minutes. I’ve never known anyone reveal so much of themselves in such a short time. And honestly, no one in my life—besides my parents—has done as much for me in just a single day as he has.

He didn’t just lift me off the step that day—he offered to lift me out of that grey, hopeless fog of loneliness and unmet desires. He gave me a chance. Yes—that’s exactly what he called it!

So why am I so anxious? I glance sideways at him. He’s watching the road, expressionless. I can only see one side of his face, the scarred one. I can’t decide if I’m afraid of him or not. Probably not—I’ve looked into his eyes, and I trust him. But this unease… maybe I’m afraid that I won’t live up to what he sees in me. That I’ll disappoint him.

He’s clearly experienced. World-weary. I’m certain he’s had dozens—maybe even hundreds—of women. What do I have to offer him? My silly girlish fantasies? My miserable scrap of teenage fumbling with Igor? If you can even call that sex. Just a couple of clumsy roll rounds that left nothing but utter disappointment behind.

Wrapped up in these thoughts, I don’t even notice the time pass. We’re already near the edge of town, in the gated community by the river.

He

We drive without saying a word. I’m working through the details of my plan—yes, I have one. She’s sunken into herself, clearly deep in thought too.

At the security post of the gated community, they recognise my car and raise the barrier in advance. We pull up to the house. I press the remote—the gate glides open.

I catch the slight jolt in her shoulders and how intently she watches the motion through the mirror. I leave the gates wide open—it matters for my Mousey: а symbol of freedom. While they’re open, there’s still an escape route.

“Sveta, there are a few formalities to take care of.”

“Yes… the agreement, the contract…” she says faintly, struggling with the words, the look of quiet misery in her eyes.

I imagine she’s picturing me dragging out some thick stack of papers so we can go over every clause like in that book.

“I recited the contract at dinner. If you want, I’ll repeat it.”

“No, I remember.”

Still, I repeat the words I’d spoken at the restaurant, calmly and precisely.

“There are two important additions. First: the agreement is for seven days but renews automatically unless either party expresses a desire to end it. Second: you must understand clearly that you’re entering my house of your own free will. You may leave at any time. No one will stop you. If you go, the contract is void—we owe each other nothing, and part forever. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says, then hesitates as if wanting to add something more.

“Any questions? Speak.”

“A word,” she whispers. “A special word.”

“A safe-word? You won’t need one. You don’t know how to use it. Trust me—I know what you can take, and what you can’t. Still, if it gives you peace of mind, choose your word.”

“Vanilla,” she says, shyly and after a pause.

“Very well. Your safe-word is ‘vanilla’. But be warned—if you ever choose to use it, you’ll insult me with your distrust. It will count as a termination of our agreement. I do not need a slave who doesn’t trust her Master.”

She nods in agreement but can’t lift her eyes.

“Then take this.”

I pull out a small box from my pocket. Nestled in black velvet lies an elegant choker-necklace—platinum, a soft band about a centimetre wide, its intricate flat links designed to stretch slightly and spring back into shape. I bought it last year in an exclusive Dubai boutique and paid a frankly outrageous sum—but it’s perfect. A collar, yes, but a special one for a special woman.

Gold would have been too garish—attention-seeking. Platinum, with its silvery-steel sheen, is more discreet. Unless someone knows, they’d think it mere fashionable jewellery. And it’s stronger than gold, hypoallergenic. No rashes or marks.

“This is your collar. A symbol of complete submission. It’s made of pure platinum—durable, resilient, and hypoallergenic. You can wear it at all times. If you ever decide to leave, you don’t have to explain. Just return the collar, and our contract is void. Now kiss it, and offer it to me with both hands.”