Chapter 9: Morning Servitude
The Munich dawn was a slow bleed of grey light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Vanja watched it from the doorway of Erblin’s room, a silhouette in a silk robe. Besim had left an hour earlier for a breakfast meeting in Frankfurt, his side of the bed already cold. The penthouse held that peculiar, pressurized silence of a place too big for its occupants.
Erblin was a mound under his duvet, one arm thrown over his face as if to block out the world. The room smelled of him—clean sweat, expensive deodorant, and the faint, sour tang of adolescent despair. Vanja let the robe slip from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet like a puddle of milk. The morning air was cool on her naked skin.
She padded silently across the wool carpet and slipped under the covers. He stirred, mumbling in his sleep, turning onto his back. The duvet fell to his waist, revealing his bare chest, the defined musculature of a world-class athlete even in repose. The sheet tented over his hips.
Vanja didn’t hesitate. She nuzzled her face against the cotton of his boxer briefs, breathing in his musky, sleep-warm scent. Her tongue traced the length of him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and swell in response. A low groan vibrated in his chest. Still mostly asleep, his hips pushed up involuntarily.
She hooked her fingers into the waistband and tugged them down. His cock sprang free, already half-hard, thick and flushed. She took him into her mouth in one smooth, deep swallow.
Erblin woke with a gasped, choking sound. “Fuck—!”
His hands flew to her head, fingers tangling in her blonde hair. He tried to push her away, but the instinct was weak, undermined by the sheer overwhelming sensation. She hollowed her cheeks, applying a vicious, delicious suction as she pulled back, then swallowed him down to the root again. Her nose pressed into the crisp, dark hair at his base. She could feel his heartbeat in the rigid flesh between her lips.
“Vanja… stop… we can’t…” His protests were breathy, fragmented.
She didn’t stop. She established a ruthless rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base of his shaft to work what her mouth couldn’t take. She glanced up at him. His head was thrown back, tendons standing out in his neck, his eyes screwed shut in an agony of pleasure. His previous resistance was evaporating, replaced by a trembling, helpless arousal.
The door to his bedroom clicked open.
Vanja didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She simply slid her mouth off Erblin’s cock with a wet, popping sound and turned her head, keeping her lips a breath away from his glistening tip.
Besim stood in the doorway, still in his tailored overcoat, a leather briefcase in his hand. He’d forgotten some papers. His eyes took in the scene: his naked wife, her mouth hovering over his son’s erect penis, the boy frozen in a tableau of guilt and shock. A strange, almost serene expression settled on Besim’s face. It wasn’t anger. It was appraisal.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, his voice calm. He dropped his briefcase by the door and shrugged off his coat, letting it fall to the floor.
Erblin made a strangled noise. “Baba, she—”
“Quiet,” Besim said, not looking at him. His eyes were fixed on Vanja. He walked to the side of the bed, his shoes loud on the hardwood floor. He unzipped his trousers, freeing himself. He was already hard. “You started something. Finish it.”
Vanja held his gaze, a challenge sparkling in her golden-green eyes. She leaned forward and took Erblin back into her mouth, her tongue swirling around his head. At the same time, she reached her right hand back, groping blindly until her fingers found Besim’s stiff cock. She wrapped her hand around him, giving him a firm, possessive stroke.
A ragged, broken sound escaped Erblin. He was watching his father over the curve of Vanja’s bare shoulder, his eyes wide with a horrified, transfixing disbelief.
“Good,” Besim murmured, placing a heavy hand on Vanja’s head, not guiding her, just claiming the space. “Now show him.”
Vanja began to move her head in earnest on Erblin, bobbing fast and deep. Drool slicked her chin. With her other hand, she reached back further, cupping Besim’s balls, rolling the heavy weight in her palm. Then, in a single, fluid motion, she pulled her mouth off Erblin with a lewd, sucking sound and turned, taking Besim into her mouth instead.
She tasted the difference immediately. Besim was thicker, the skin smoother, the taste more soapy, clean. She sucked him hard, her eyes sliding shut in a performance of ecstasy.
“Fucking hell,” Besim grunted, his fingers tightening in her hair.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erblin’s expression. The horror was fading, burned away by a hotter, more primal fire. He was propped on his elbows, staring, his own cock jutting up, slick and angry-red from her mouth. He wasn’t looking away anymore.
Vanja switched again. She released Besim with a gasp and dove back onto Erblin, taking him so deep he cried out, his hips jerking off the mattress. She worked him with a frenzied, messy intensity for half a minute, then swung back to Besim, swallowing him with a hungry moan.
She became a conduit between them, a living, wet switch. Back and forth. Father, then son. Son, then father. Her jaw ached. Spit and pre-come smeared her face, her breasts. The room filled with the sounds of her gagging, sucking groans, their guttural curses, and the ragged symphony of their breathing.
She was orchestrating a comparison, forcing a silent, obscene competition in her throat. Erblin was longer, perhaps, a young man’s eager spear. Besim was a weapon of power, thick and demanding. She took them both to the brink, her rhythm becoming feverish, indiscriminate.
“I’m gonna…” Erblin choked, his voice high and strained.
“Not yet,” Besim commanded, his own voice thick. “You don’t come until I say.”
Vanja felt Erblin’s body seize, fighting the inevitable tidal wave. His thighs trembled. She redoubled her efforts on Besim, humming around him, using every trick she knew. Besim’s composure shattered.
“Now,” he growled, a harsh, final word.
Vanja felt his cock pulse violently on her tongue. The first hot, salty jet hit the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, milking him with her lips and hand. At the same instant, she reached out and wrapped her fingers around Erblin’s shaft, jerking him fast and rough.
Erblin’s climax was silent, a visceral, full-body convulsion. He arched off the bed, his mouth open in a soundless scream, as come spurted over Vanja’s fist and onto his own stomach in hot, rhythmic stripes.
She worked them both until they were spent, soft, and gasping. Finally, she released Besim, letting his limp cock fall from her lips. She sat back on her heels between them, a mess of sweat and spit and seed. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then licked her fingers clean, her eyes on Besim.
He was staring at his son, who had collapsed back onto the pillows, an arm thrown over his eyes again, this time in utter shame.
“The offer from Barcelona came this morning,” Besim said, his voice now cold, business-like, as if commenting on the weather. He zipped his trousers. “One hundred and twenty million. With a five-year contract. Hansi added a personal note. He says he can make you the best in the world.” He paused, letting the number hang in the foul air. “He says you belong to him.”
Erblin didn’t move. A single tear traced a path from under his arm, across his temple, and into his hairline.
Vanja crawled off the bed. She picked up her robe and slid it on, not bothering to tie it. “What did you tell them?” she asked Besim.
“I told them we would consider it. That family loyalty must be weighed against professional legacy.” He finally looked at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I told them we would have an answer before the transfer window closes.”
He picked up his coat and briefcase, and left the room without another glance at his son.
Vanja stood by the bed for a long moment, watching Erblin. His silence was different now. Not shocked, but cold. Hard. The crying had stopped.
“Look at me,” she said softly.
He lowered his arm. His eyes were red, but dry. The hatred she’d seen in Barcelona was back, but it had a new, crystalline focus. It wasn’t directed at Hansi anymore. Or at her. It was directed inward, at his own helplessness, his own used body. It was the most dangerous kind.
“He’s going to sell you,” Vanja stated, no pity in her voice. “Not because of the money. Because he can. Because Hansi wants you, and Besim gets off on controlling what powerful men want.”
Erblin sat up slowly. He looked at the drying mess on his stomach, then at her. “And you?” he asked, his voice a hoarse scrape. “What do you get off on?”
“I get off on watching the machine work,” she said, tying her robe. “You’re a commodity. Hansi is a buyer. Besim is a seller. I’m the… lubricant.” She smiled, a thin, clinical curve of her lips. “The question is, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to be a good boy and go where you’re sold? Or are you going to become something they can’t afford?”
She turned and walked to the door. As her hand touched the handle, he spoke again.
“He made me watch.”
She stopped. “I know.”
“No,” Erblin said, the words falling like stones. “In Barcelona. After you left. He made me clean his office. On my hands and knees. I had to wipe your… your fucking mess off his desk. He stood over me the whole time.”
Vanja felt a jolt, an unexpected spike of something that wasn’t quite sympathy. It was more like professional respect for Hansi’s brutality. She didn’t turn around.
“And did you learn anything?” she asked, her voice cool.
A long pause. When he answered, the boy was gone from his voice. What remained was cold, calcified fury. “I learned I never want to be on my knees again.”
Vanja nodded, a faint, satisfied gesture he couldn’t see. “Good. Then my experiment is yielding consistent data.” She opened the door. “Get cleaned up. You have training. The world is watching. Remember who you belong to.”
She left him there, sitting in the soiled bed, the scent of their corruption hanging heavy in the morning light. In the kitchen, she made coffee. Her body hummed with a strange, electric fatigue. She could still taste both of them, a layered, bitter cocktail on her tongue.
Besim’s forgotten financial report was on the counter. She flicked through it, not seeing the numbers.
She flicked through it, not seeing the numbers. The espresso machine hissed behind her, a sterile counterpoint to the animal stink still clinging to her skin. She needed a different kind of transaction now.
Besim was in his study, a glass of rakia already in his hand despite the early hour. He was staring at a sleek laptop, the Barcelona club crest glowing on the screen. He didn’t look up. “You have made my son useless for training today. His head will be a cloud.”
“His head was already a cloud.” Vanja let her robe fall open as she leaned against the doorframe. The morning light cut across her breasts. “He was thinking of Barcelona. Of Hansi. Of belonging to him. You saw what that does to him. It breaks him.”
“It made him obedient.” Besim took a sip, his eyes finally lifting to her body. They held no warmth, only calculation. “Obedience has value.”
“So does potential.” She crossed the room, the silk whispering against her thighs. She stopped behind his chair, her fingers tracing the tight line of his shoulders through his shirt. “Hansi doesn’t want obedience. He wants to break what you’ve built, just to prove he can. He wants to own Erblin’s soul because he can’t own mine anymore.”
Besim’s head tilted back against her stomach. He looked up at her, his gaze flat. “And what do you want?”
“I want what’s most valuable.” Her hands slid down his chest, over the crisp cotton, finding the buckle of his belt. “One hundred and twenty million is an insult. It’s what you pay for a finished product. Erblin isn’t finished. Hansi knows that. That’s why he wants him now, while he’s still soft.”
She unbuckled the belt. The leather slithered free with a heavy sigh. His trousers were still unzipped from before. She pushed the fabric apart and reached in, finding him already stirring again, thick and heavy in her hand. She began to stroke him, slowly, her thumb smearing the bead of moisture at his tip.
“He’s a raw talent,” she whispered, bending so her lips were at his ear. Her other hand pulled her robe completely open, letting her breasts press against the side of his face. “But you’ve seen his spine. That scene in Hansi’s office didn’t forge it. It revealed a crack. Hansi will exploit that crack until he shatters. Then you’ll have a broken, expensive toy.”
Besim’s breath hitched as her hand worked him. He turned his head, his mouth finding her nipple, sucking it roughly into the heat of his mouth. His teeth grazed the peak. She moaned, arching into him, her fingers tightening on his shaft.
“Give him a year here,” she said, her voice trembling with a manufactured passion. “Let me fix the crack. Not with kindness. With something harder. Let me remake that fucking helpless desire in him into rage. Into ambition. Give him a year of my particular… curriculum.”
She released his cock and moved around the chair, pushing his knees apart. She sank to the floor between his spread legs, the cool marble biting into her knees. She didn’t use her mouth this time. She looked up at him, her hands on his thighs. “In a year, he won’t be a boy Hansi can humiliate. He’ll be a god of the Bundesliga. His value won’t be one hundred and twenty.”
She spat into her palm, a thick, clear globule. She rubbed it over the head of his cock, slicking him, her eyes locked on his. “It will be two hundred. At least.”
Besim stared down at her, his face a mask of conflicted greed. The financial mind warred with the possessive one. She saw the moment the calculation won. His jaw tightened. A sharp, definitive nod.
“Tell Barcelona no,” he said.
Vanja’s smile was a victor’s grimace. She didn’t thank him. She took him into her mouth, deep and fast, swallowing him whole in a single, punishing act of consummation. He fucked her face with short, brutal thrusts, his hands fisted in her hair, using her to seal the deal. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she took it, her throat working around him until he grunted and spilled, his release flooding her mouth with a bitter, final taste.
She pulled away, swallowing, catching her breath on the floor. He zipped himself up, his attention already returning to the laptop screen. The decision was made. The asset would be held.
“Get out,” he said, his voice devoid of everything but dismissal.
She stood, retying her robe. She left without a word, the taste of him and the triumph metallic on her tongue.
Erblin’s door was closed. She pushed it open without knocking. He was dressed for training, lacing his boots, his movements stiff and mechanical. The bed had been stripped. The room smelled sharply of disinfectant. He didn’t look at her.
“Your father is refusing the offer,” she said, leaning against the doorframe.
His hands stilled on the laces. He slowly straightened up. The hatred in his eyes was a living thing. “Why?”
“Because I told him to.”
He blinked. The hatred flickered, confused. “Why would you do that?”
“One hundred and twenty is pocket change for what you are.” She took a step into the room. “Hansi was buying damaged goods at a discount. I don’t deal in discounts.” Another step. “I told your father to give you a year. That in a year, you’d be worth two hundred million. At least.”
Erblin’s chest rose and fell. He was searching her face for the trick, the cruelty. “A year of what? More of this?” His gesture took in the room, the ghost of the stripped bed.
“A year of becoming someone Hansi Flick can’t afford.” Her voice dropped, low and fierce. “A year of you using that fire in your gut for something other than jerking off to shame. You want to never be on your knees again? Then stand the fuck up. But you don’t get to do it alone.”
He was motionless, a statue of conflicted youth. The anger was still there, but it was twisting, morphing into something else—a desperate, wary hope. A need for direction in the chaos she had authored.
He crossed the space between them in two strides. He didn’t embrace her. He simply framed her face with his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle against the bruises of the morning. He searched her eyes for a long, silent moment.
Then he kissed her.
It was nothing like before. It wasn’t the forced submission of Barcelona or the shocked compliance of the bed. It was dry, deliberate, and fiercely complex. It tasted of resolve, of a pact sealed in something darker than gratitude. It was the kiss of a pupil accepting a ruthless mentor, of a weapon willingly handing itself to the smith.
When he pulled back, his eyes were clear. The cloud was gone. In its place was a cold, sharp light.
“What’s the first lesson?” he asked, his voice steady.
Vanja touched her lips, where his had been. A genuine smile, small and terrifying, finally reached her eyes. “You’re already learning it.”
“You’re already learning it.”
The space between them in the sanitized room vibrated with unspoken terms. Erblin’s hands remained on her face, his thumbs tracing the arc of her cheekbones. The gentleness was a lie, a thin veneer over a bedrock of newfound resolve. He was learning to weaponize every gesture.
“What’s the second?” he asked, his voice low.
“The second lesson is that everything is currency.” She stepped back, breaking his hold. “Your talent. Your anger. My cunt. Your father’s greed. It all trades on the same fucking market.” She walked to his stripped bed, running a hand over the bare mattress. “You traded your humiliation in Barcelona for a lesson. Today, you traded your shame for a stay of execution. Now we need capital.”
Erblin watched her, a pupil studying a complex play. “What capital?”
“The kind that gets rid of liabilities.” She turned, her robe gaping open. The morning light carved the curves of her body into pale gold. “Your father is one. Hansi is another. We address them in order of proximity.”
A faint, dark smile touched his lips. It was the first genuine expression she’d seen on him that wasn’t pain or fury. It was colder. “You want to remove my father.”
“I want to upgrade the management structure of this asset.” She corrected him smoothly. “He’s reached his ceiling. He sees you as a thing to sell. I see you as a kingdom to build. That requires a… change in executive leadership.”
She moved closer again, until the heat from his body warmed the silk between them. She could smell the sharp, clean scent of his shower, the detergent on his training gear. The animal musk of before was gone, scrubbed away. “Do you love him?”
The question hung in the air, brutal in its simplicity. Erblin’s eyes flickered, windows into a silent war. The Kosovar son, the bonds of blood and name. The used commodity, the man forced to clean another man’s come from a desk.
“No,” he said, the word a stone dropped into a well. It echoed with finality. “Not anymore.”
“Good.” Vanja’s hand slid between them, her fingers finding the hard line of his cock through his training pants. He was already hard again. This time it wasn’t surprise or submission. It was focus, a channeled energy. “That’s our capital. Your disaffection. My access. We parlay that.”
She unzipped his track pants. His erection sprang out, thick and urgent. She didn’t touch him with her hands. She gathered the folds of her silk robe, pushing the fabric aside, and guided him to her entrance. She was already wet, a slick, willing heat forged from strategy and power.
“This,” she hissed, sinking onto him in one fluid, devastating motion, “is not a reward. It’s a schematic.”
She took him to the hilt, her body swallowing him whole. He gasped, his hands flying to her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. She began to move, a slow, rocking grind that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with possession. Each roll of her hips was a line drawn on a blueprint.
“Your father’s business,” she said, her voice steady even as her breath hitched, “is a shell. It’s built on favors and old Balkan networks. It’s vulnerable.” She leaned forward, her huge breasts pressing against his clothed chest, her mouth at his ear. “He has a silent partner in Zurich. A man named Kreshnik. Everything funnels through him.”
She increased her pace, riding him with deeper, more purposeful strokes. Her inner muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic, milking pressure. Erblin’s head fell back, his eyes closed, trying to concentrate on her words through the onslaught of sensation.
“I want you to get close to him,” she murmured, biting his earlobe. “You’re the famous son. The pride of the family. You express interest in the business. You ask to learn.”
“He’ll never… fuck… never let me in,” Erblin managed, his hips pushing up to meet her downward thrusts.
“He will if you’re pathetic.” Vanja’s rhythm became punishing, a hard, driving pace that slapped their flesh together. “You tell him you feel useless. That football isn’t enough. That you need purpose. You cry if you have to.” She grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. “Can you do that? Can you be that weak for him?”
He stared up at her, his jaw tight, his body betraying him with every involuntary thrust. “Yes.”
“Good boy.” She released his face, planting her hands on his shoulders for leverage. She fucked him harder, faster, the sound wet and obscene in the sterile room. “You get me access. Names. Account numbers. The structure. Then,” she paused, slamming down onto him, making him groan, “we whisper in the right ears. The tax authorities. The financial police. We make Kreshnik an offer: turn on Besim, or drown with him.”
She could feel his climax building, the tense coiling in his abdomen. She didn’t let up. She used it, rode the wave of his physical unraveling to cement the plan in his mind.
“And then?” he grunted, his control fraying.
“And then your father is arrested in a very public, very financial scandal. His assets are frozen. His name is shit.” She leaned down, her golden hair a curtain around their faces. “And his sole remaining valuable asset—you—will need a new legal guardian. A concerned, loyal stepmother with power of attorney.”
The idea, so baldly stated amid the raw fucking, unlocked something in him. His orgasm roared through him, a release of tension that was both physical and profound. He came inside her with a choked, guttural cry, his hips bucking wildly, his fingers leaving bruises on her skin.
She rode him through it, squeezing every drop from him. When he was spent, pulsing weakly inside her, she didn’t collapse. She stayed upright, impaled on him, watching the understanding dawn in his sated, cloudy eyes.
“You’ll own me,” he breathed, realization crystal clear.
“No.” She finally dismounted, his softening cock slipping from her with a wet sound. She stood, letting her robe fall closed, a businesswoman concluding a presentation. “I’ll own the company that owns you. You’ll be the CEO. The face. The god of the fucking stadium.” She wiped a trickle of his release from her inner thigh with a detached swipe of her fingers. “The difference is everything.”
He zipped himself up, his movements slower now, heavy with spent passion and colossal intent. The training gear seemed absurd on him now, the costume of a boy.
“When do we start?” he asked, pulling a fresh shirt over his head.
“You already have.” She walked to the door. “Tonight, at dinner. Be quiet. Be sad. Look lost. Let him see the crack. Let him believe he can fix it.” She turned, her hand on the knob. “And Erblin?”
He looked at her, a man now, signed onto a terrible, magnificent pact.
“Don’t come near me again until it’s done,” she said, her tone devoid of all previous heat. “This was the down payment. The next time I feel you inside me, it will be to celebrate his handcuffs.”
She left him there, the ghost of their coupling hanging in the disinfected air, the future a cold, hard outline drawn in sweat and seed and silence. Down the hall, in the master suite, she could hear Besim on the phone, his voice booming with confidence, discussing transfer windows and marketing deals. She stood for a moment, listening to the sound of her future prison talking.
Then she went to her study, sat at her sleek laptop, and began to research Swiss banking laws.