Chapter 2: The Inherited Tools and a keen eye
The door clicked shut behind Katja, sealing Derek in the quiet of his new room. He methodically finished unpacking, the routine motions calming the low hum of anticipation in his veins. His few belongings—folded clothes, dog-eared textbooks, his running shoes—looked foreign and temporary against the faded wallpaper. This wasn't home, not yet. It was a waystation, a pause.
As he stowed his duffel bag in the bottom of the empty wardrobe, his knuckles brushed against something tucked away at the very back. He pulled it out. A hairbrush, tangled with strands of long, auburn hair. Petra’s, he guessed. Beside it, as if carefully placed, was a digital thermometer.
He turned the objects over in his hands. The brush felt personal, intimate. The thermometer was clinical, cold. Their presence together in the dark of his wardrobe felt like a misplaced secret. Why were they here? Had they been left by the previous tenant, or placed there for some other, more obscure reason?
He set them on the desk, making a mental note to ask Katja later. A noise from the hallway—a soft, shuffling step—made him look up. He cracked his door open just enough to see Fiona scurrying into her room across the hall, clutching a sketchbook to her chest like a precious artifact. Her door didn’t latch properly. It swung back open an inch after she closed it.
Curious, Derek stepped into the hallway. The air up here was still, carrying the faint, sweet scent of Fiona’s perfume from one direction and the sharper aroma of Sabine’s nail polish from another. He glanced at Petra’s door, then Fiona’s. He saw it then. Small, clear plastic hooks were screwed into the doorframes, and corresponding loops were fixed to the doors themselves. They were child-proofing locks, the kind used to keep toddlers from slamming their fingers or locking themselves in. They prevented the doors from fully closing.
A strange detail for a house of legal adults. Katja’s words echoed in his mind. I’d like you to keep an eye on the girls. Was this part of it? This enforced, almost institutional lack of privacy?
A sudden, sharp cry from downstairs severed his thoughts, a sound of pure distress that was utterly alien in the warm, coffee-scented air of the house. It was followed by the low, firm timbre of Katja’s voice, a controlled storm of sound. Thirst, or perhaps a deeper, more compelling curiosity, pulled him toward the kitchen.
He stopped in the doorway, the scene freezing him in place. Fiona stood rigid before Katja, her small frame looking impossibly fragile. Katja was seated at the worn wooden table, her face a mask of cool displeasure as she waved a crumpled envelope in the air.
“Do you know what this is, young lady?” Katja’s voice was dangerously calm.
“It’s our phone bill,” Fiona whispered, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Seventy-eight euros.”
“And what do I see there?” Katja’s finger stabbed at a line item. “International calls to New Zealand. Does that mean anything to you?”
“No idea!” Fiona’s voice pitched higher, a desperate warble. “How should I know?”
“Your friend Cora happens to be on holiday there.”
“Maybe one of the other girls’ friends is also on holiday in New Zealand…” Fiona’s attempt to shift the blame was transparent, a flimsy shield against the gathering force.
“Not like that, young lady.” Katja’s voice dropped, losing all its patience. “You think you can fool me? I’ll help you.”
The change in Fiona was instantaneous. A loud, guttural “No!” ripped from her throat, a protest so raw it left no doubt she knew exactly what was coming. Katja moved with a startling, efficient grace, rising and pulling Fiona by the arm towards the sturdy kitchen chair.
“No, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’msorry…” Fiona whined, the words blending into a single plea of pure panic.
But then her body went limp with a terrifying resignation. She lay herself across Katja’s knees, the movement practiced, almost automatic. This was not a first time. Her posture, the way her head drooped, the silent acceptance—it was a well-rehearsed ritual.
“So drop your trousers, young lady.”
With a practiced hand, Katja hooked her fingers into the waistband of Fiona’s jeans and yanked them down to bunch below the girl’s knees. The denim made a rough scraping sound against her skin. Exposed now were Fiona’s panties, white cotton adorned with a pattern of cute pink hearts.
“Sweet panties, Fiona,” Katja remarked, her tone almost conversational.
“Hey, that’s none of your business…” Fiona protested, a last flicker of defiant modesty.
“Everything in this house is my business,” Katja stated, her voice flat and final. Her hand came down not with a wild rage, but with a firm, measured force that cracked sharply in the quiet kitchen.
The sound was a flat, painful smack against the thin cotton. Fiona gasped, a sharp intake of air that hissed between her clenched teeth. Her whole body flinched, a tremor running through her delicate frame.
The spectacle lasted perhaps a minute. Each spank landed with the same deliberate rhythm, a terrible, methodical punctuation to Fiona’s shaky whimpers. The force was calculated, not brutal, each impact designed to sting deeply without causing true injury.
Soon, the girl’s bottom gleamed pink at the edges of her panties, the skin flushed with a warm, visible heat. Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, her fists balling the fabric of Katja’s jeans as she endured the humiliation.
When she was finally allowed to get off Katja’s knee, Fiona’s cheeks were wet. She had tears in the corners of her eyes, though she made no sound as they fell. She scrambled upright, her movements clumsy with shame and the urgent need to escape.
Her gaze, blurry with unshed tears, swept the room and landed squarely on Derek, still frozen in the doorway. The look she gave him was pure, undiluted anger, a searing flash of betrayal.
“And D was even allowed to watch me get my bottom spanked…” she accused, her voice trembling with a fresh wave of humiliation.
She stomped her right foot, a sharp, petulant thud on the wooden floor. The gesture was incredibly cute in its childishness, a stark contrast to the mature punishment she had just received. It was a reflex of pure, frustrated injustice.
It immediately brought Katja back on the scene. Her eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a warning growl. “Fiona? Still stubborn? Shall we carry on?”
“No, no need for that!” Fiona’s words tumbled out in a panicked rush, all defiance extinguished by the threat of more.
She just snatched her jeans from the floor, not bothering to pull them on, and hurried out of the room without a backward glance. Her bare legs and the pink, well-spanked curve of her bottom vanished into the dim hall.
The kitchen fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Derek stood there, the image of Fiona’s tear-streaked, furious face etched into his mind. Oops, Katja seems to have a very old-fashioned interpretation of ‘looking after the girls’.