Chapter 5: Submission and Control
The hardwood floor was cool and unforgiving against Vanja’s bare knees. Thomas stood before her, back leaning against the doorframe of her cramped bedroom, the dim light from the living room casting long shadows across the planes of his abdomen. Her fingers traced the hard ridge of his hip bone, then wrapped around the thick base of his cock. It was already slick, heavy and pulsing in her hand, the flushed head glistening. She leaned forward, letting her breath ghost over the sensitive tip, watching the involuntary twitch, hearing his sharp intake of air.
"Tease," he muttered, the word rough, strained. His hand found the crown of her head, fingers tangling in the damp, dark blonde strands still loose from the shower.
She wasn’t teasing. She opened her mouth, taking the swollen head inside. The taste of him flooded her senses – musky, salty, uniquely Thomas. She swirled her tongue around the ridge, pressing firmly against the frenulum, the way she knew drove him wild. A low groan rumbled in his chest. She sank lower, taking more of him, her lips stretching around his girth. Her free hand gripped his thigh for balance, feeling the hard muscle tense beneath her palm.
"Oh fuck, Vanja," he breathed, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust forward, pushing himself deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. His fingers tightened in her hair, guiding her rhythm, not forcing, but urging. She relaxed her throat, accepting him, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked him deeper, pulling back slowly, dragging her tongue along the thick vein underneath. His breathing hitched, becoming ragged pants. She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were dark, hooded, fixed on her mouth stretched around his cock. The raw hunger in them sent a fresh pulse of heat straight to her own core.
She increased the pressure, sucking harder, bobbing her head faster, taking him almost to the back of her throat before retreating, focusing the tip of her tongue on that sensitive spot just below the head. His groans grew louder, more guttural. "God, yes... just like that... fuck, you’re good at this." His praise was filthy fuel. She hummed around him, the vibration drawing a strangled curse from his lips. His hips began to jerk in shallow, uncontrolled thrusts, fucking her mouth in earnest. She let him, relaxing her jaw, letting him set the brutal pace, his cock hitting the back of her throat with each plunge. Gagging slightly, tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she held on, her hand tightening on his thigh as he used her mouth with primal urgency.
"Gonna come," he gasped, the words strained, almost a warning. "Vanja... fuck... swallow it all." His thrusts became erratic, desperate. Then he slammed deep, holding himself there, his entire body rigid. A hot, thick jet of come flooded her throat, salty and bitter. She swallowed convulsively, feeling pulse after pulse hit the back of her mouth, some escaping past her lips as he kept thrusting shallowly, milking himself. She sucked gently, drawing out every last drop until he finally shuddered, his grip on her hair loosening, his cock softening slightly as he pulled himself free with a slick pop.
She stayed on her knees for a moment, catching her breath, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. Her jaw ached. Her knees throbbed against the unforgiving floor. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, spent, watching her with a dazed, predatory satisfaction. The only sounds were their heavy breathing and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
After a moment, his gaze drifted past her, taking in the room properly for the first time. The overflowing bookshelf beside her small desk – sociology texts jammed next to dog-eared novels and binders marked Bayern PR Strategy, Man City Crisis Comms. The faded rug, worn thin in spots. The single, large window looking out onto the brick wall of the next building. The Bayern Munich poster taped slightly crookedly above her bed. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of genuine confusion replacing the post-coital haze.
He pushed himself off the doorframe, stepping past her towards the center of the small room. His expensive watch glinted under the weak light as he gestured vaguely around. "This place..." he started, his voice still a little rough. "Why d'you live here, Vanja?" He turned back to look at her, a furrow between his brows. "Seriously. With what Bayern pays you? What City pays you? You could have... I dunno... a proper flat. Views. Space. Not..." He trailed off, looking pointedly at the stacks of books encroaching on the foot of her bed, the tiny galley kitchenette visible through the open doorway. "Not this shoebox."
Vanja pushed herself up off the floor, wincing slightly as feeling rushed back into her knees. She walked past him to the small sink in the kitchenette, grabbing a glass of water. She took a long sip, turning to face him. He stood amidst the clutter of her life – the embodiment of sleek, expensive power looking utterly incongruous next to her thrifted armchair piled with laundry. The contrast was stark, almost absurd.
She leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms loosely. "Views of what? Another overpriced apartment block?" She shrugged, a small, wry smile touching her lips. "Space for... what? Entertaining clients? Throwing parties I don't have time for?" She gestured towards the books, the corkboard still visible in the living area, crammed with color-coded notes. "This... this keeps me grounded, Thomas. Reminds me where I started. What actually matters." She took another sip of water. "Besides, it's mine. Paid for. No landlord. No bullshit."
He stared at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face. It wasn't the predatory smirk or the arrogant grin she'd seen on the pitch or in the boardroom. It was softer. Surprised. Appreciative. His eyes crinkled at the corners as they swept over her chaotic haven – the worn rug, the crooked poster, the mountain of books beside the bed. He nodded, a single, slow dip of his chin. The approval in his gaze was quiet, unexpected.
"Yeah," he murmured, the word low and thoughtful. "Yeah, I get that." He didn’t move towards the door. He stayed, standing in the center of her tiny, messy world, looking at her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t quite finished solving. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions and the lingering taste of salt on her tongue. The anthropology textbook lay open on her pillow. His discarded towel was on her bedroom floor. Outside, a siren wailed, distant and irrelevant. Vanja held his gaze, the echo of Fill me up replaced by the simple, disarming warmth of his unexpected smile. The game, it seemed, had changed. Again.
Thomas chuckled softly, the sound warm and unfamiliar in the small space. He ran a hand through his damp hair, eyes still tracing the contours of her cluttered sanctuary. "Grounded," he echoed, nodding slowly. "Right. Most people I know pay therapists for that." He stepped closer, his expensive cologne mingling with the scent of old paper and sex still hanging in the air. His thumb brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, the touch unexpectedly gentle.
Vanja arched an eyebrow, leaning into the counter’s edge. "Cheaper this way. And the books don’t judge my life choices." She gestured towards the overflowing shelves. "Unlike certain footballers who crash into my apartment unannounced."
"Unannounced?" He feigned offense, a grin tugging at his lips. "You practically dragged me through that door, Vran. Couldn’t get your hands off my belt fast enough." He moved past her, sinking onto the worn couch with a sigh, the springs groaning under his weight. He patted the space beside him. "Come on. Tell me about this grounding. What’s the fucking anthropology angle?"
She joined him, tucking her legs beneath her, the coarse fabric of the couch familiar against her bare skin. The dim light softened the sharp lines of his face. "It’s about perspective," she began, her voice low. "Seeing how people build meaning. Ritual. Connection." She nodded towards the Bayern poster. "Like that. Millions find identity in eleven men chasing a ball. It’s absurd. Beautiful." She met his gaze. "Why do you do it? Really? Beyond the contracts, the screaming fans."
Thomas was quiet for a moment, staring at his hands – strong, scarred knuckles, the faint tremor of exhaustion. "Started ‘cause I was fast. Faster than anyone else in my neighbourhood." He looked up, his eyes starkly honest in the gloom. "Now? It’s the only place where the noise… stops." He tapped his temple. "The fucking pressure, the expectations… gone. Just me, the ball, the pitch. Pure instinct." He leaned back, the vulnerability raw. "Rest of the time? It’s like living in a fucking goldfish bowl. Everyone staring."
Vanja shifted closer, her knee brushing his thigh. "Hence the penthouse views? Isolation disguised as luxury?" Her tone wasn’t accusatory, just curious.
He snorted. "Exactly. Big, empty spaces. Easier to control." He gestured around her cramped living room. "This? This feels… alive. Messy. Real." He picked up a worn copy of Durkheim from her coffee table, flipping the pages idly. "You actually read this shit? For fun?"
"Sociology of Religion?" She smirked, snatching the book back. "Fascinating. Explains why people worship assholes like you." She tossed it aside. "Tell me about the neighbourhood. Before the speed."
So he did. . The raw thrill of his first scout’s attention. Vanja listened, interjecting with sharp questions or dry observations, drawing out details he hadn’t shared in years. She told him about her own immigrant parents, the relentless push for academic excellence, the pressure cooker of Belgrade before they moved. The thrill of landing the Bayern gig, the crushing weight of imposter syndrome that followed her into every high-stakes meeting.
They argued about politics – his pragmatic cynicism clashing with her idealistic fury. They debated the ethics of modern football, the soulless corporate machine versus the tribal passion. He teased her about her meticulous corkboard schedules; she mocked his collection of obscenely expensive watches. Laughter punctuated the heavy topics, genuine and surprising. She fetched water, then cheap red wine. He found her stash of Serbian paprika crisps.
Hours bled away. The city sounds outside shifted – the drunken shouts fading, replaced by the pre-dawn rumble of delivery trucks. The single window began to glow with the first grey hints of morning. Vanja’s voice grew husky with fatigue, Thomas’s responses slower, more thoughtful. They were curled up now, facing each other on the couch, the empty wine glass forgotten on the floor. The charged energy of their earlier coupling had morphed into a different kind of intimacy – a shared exhaustion, a mutual unraveling.
Thomas traced the curve of her shoulder with a fingertip, his touch feather-light. "Never talked this much after fucking someone," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "Usually just want them gone."
Vanja’s lips curved into a tired smile. "Consider it a unique service offering. Post-coital discourse included." She nestled her head against the cushion, watching the light strengthen on his face. "Regrets?"
He shook his head slowly, his gaze holding hers. "Not a single fucking one." His hand slid down her arm, fingers intertwining loosely with hers. The silence stretched, comfortable now, filled only with their breathing and the distant hum of the waking city. Outside, the brick wall opposite was bathed in pale dawn light. Inside, amidst the books and the crooked poster, they kept talking, voices low and rasping, words weaving a fragile new thread between them as night surrendered completely to day.
The grey dawn light seeped through the single window, painting Thomas’s sharp features in monochrome as Vanja traced the faint scar above his eyebrow. His voice, rough with fatigue, had finally trailed off mid-sentence about a childhood bicycle race. His breathing deepened, steadied. Vanja watched the tension melt from his shoulders, the formidable athlete momentarily replaced by a man utterly spent. He didn’t stir when she carefully extricated herself from the tangle of limbs on the cramped couch, her own muscles protesting. The silence felt thick, charged differently now. Not just aftermath, but suspension.
She padded barefoot to the tiny kitchenette, the worn linoleum cool beneath her soles. Filling a glass with tap water, she leaned against the counter, watching him sleep. The incongruity was stark: Thomas Müller, Bayern’s golden boy, sprawled inelegantly on her second-hand couch, one arm dangling off the edge, his expensive watch catching the weak light beside a stack of library books on kinship structures. He stayed. The thought echoed, unfamiliar and unsettling. Men like Thomas didn’t linger in shoebox apartments. They fucked, showered, and vanished before sunrise in sleek cars back to their sterile penthouses. Yet, here he was, breathing softly amidst her chaos.
A low groan rumbled from the couch. Thomas shifted, blinking blearily against the morning gloom. His gaze found her instantly, sharpening despite the sleep clinging to him. "Fuck," he rasped, scrubbing a hand over his face. "What time is it?" His voice was gravelly, thick.
"Early," Vanja murmured, taking a sip of water. "Sun’s barely up." She gestured vaguely towards the window with her glass. "Your goldfish bowl awaits."
He pushed himself up slowly, wincing as his spine cracked. His eyes scanned the room again, the overflowing bookshelves, the crooked Bayern poster, the faded rug. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face, utterly devoid of its usual arrogance. It was pure, unguarded appreciation. "Nah," he breathed, stretching his arms overhead, the muscles in his back rippling. "This view’s better." His gaze locked onto hers, the predatory glint returning, intensified by the raw intimacy of the shared night. "Come here."
The command was low, rough. It wasn't a request. Vanja felt a familiar heat coil low in her belly, a counterpoint to the strange tenderness of moments before. She set the glass down with a soft click. The distance between the kitchenette and the couch was only a few steps, but each one felt deliberate, charged. She stopped before him, the worn fabric of her thin sleep shorts brushing his knees. He looked up at her, the dawn light catching the gold flecks in his dark green eyes, making them burn.
His hands shot out, surprisingly fast, gripping her hips hard. He yanked her forward, forcing her to straddle his lap. The sudden movement knocked the breath from her lungs. "Thomas—" she started, but his mouth crashed against hers, silencing her. It wasn't the hungry kiss from the cantina door; this was possessive, demanding. His tongue plunged deep, tasting of sleep and stale wine, claiming her. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back sharply, exposing her throat. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin below her jaw, a sharp sting that made her gasp.
"Been thinking about this all fucking night," he growled against her skin, his free hand sliding under the hem of her thin tank top, rough fingers finding her bare breast. He pinched her nipple hard, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, the sharp pleasure-pain making her arch against him. "Thinking about how fucking tight you felt." His hand shoved the tank top up, exposing her breasts fully to the cool morning air. He bent his head, sucking a nipple into his hot mouth, biting down just enough to make her cry out, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
His other hand slid down, pushing her shorts and underwear down her thighs in one rough motion. She kicked them off, the fabric pooling around her ankles. His fingers found her slick center immediately, plunging two inside without preamble. She gasped, rocking against his hand. "Fuck, you're soaked," he muttered, curling his fingers, finding that spot deep inside that made her vision blur. "Just from watching me sleep? Dirty fucking girl." He added a third finger, stretching her, the burn exquisite. He pumped them ruthlessly, his thumb circling her clit with bruising pressure. "That's it," he rasped as her hips bucked wildly against his hand, her moans turning ragged. "Come on my fingers. Do it."
The command, the relentless pressure, the raw filth of his words pushed her over the edge. Her body seized, a sharp, blinding orgasm tearing through her as she clenched hard around his thrusting fingers, a choked scream escaping her lips. He kept fingering her ruthlessly through the aftershocks, prolonging the intensity until she was whimpering, oversensitive, trying to pull away.
He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan of satisfaction. His eyes, dark and hungry, never left hers. "My turn," he growled. He shoved her backwards off his lap, onto the worn rug. Before she could react, he was on her, pushing her legs apart roughly. He hadn't even taken off his sweatpants; he just shoved them down his hips just enough to free his cock, already thick and straining, flushed dark red. The tip glistened with pre-come.
He positioned himself, the broad head pressing insistently against her slick, swollen entrance. He didn't ask. He didn't tease. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and slammed himself into her in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
"FUCK!" Vanja screamed, the sudden, overwhelming fullness stealing her breath. It burned, stretched, filled her impossibly deep. He was thicker than she remembered, harder. He didn't pause, didn't give her time to adjust. He pulled back almost completely, then drove forward again with brutal force, his hips pistoning against hers. The slap of skin on skin echoed sharply in the small room, punctuated by his ragged grunts and her gasping cries.
"Yeah, take it," he snarled, leaning over her, his hands pinning her wrists above her head. His face was a mask of feral intensity, sweat already beading on his forehead. "Take every fucking inch." He fucked her with deep, punishing strokes, each thrust grinding his pelvis against her clit, sending jolts of sharp, almost painful pleasure through her core. The rug scraped against her back, the smell of sex and sweat thick in the air. "Tell me who you belong to," he demanded, his thrusts becoming faster, harder.
"You!" she gasped, the word ripped from her throat. "You, Thomas!"
"Louder!" He slammed into her, hitting her cervix, making her cry out sharply.
"YOU!" she screamed, arching off the rug, meeting his thrusts desperately now, needing the friction, the brutal connection. "Fuck! Yours!"
"Damn right," he growled, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, desperate lunges. His grip on her wrists tightened, his body tensing, every muscle corded. "Gonna fill you up," he gasped, his voice thick with strain. "Gonna fucking breed you right here on your fucking rug." The filthy promise, the sheer animal possessiveness, sent another shockwave through her. He slammed deep one final time, holding himself there, his cock pulsing violently inside her as he came with a guttural roar, hot jets flooding her depths. She felt the hot spill, the rhythmic clenching of his cock as he emptied himself.
He collapsed onto her, his weight crushing, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. They lay tangled on the rug, bathed in the strengthening morning light filtering through the dusty window. His cock, still half-hard, pulsed weakly inside her as aftershocks rippled through him. The silence returned, heavy now with the scent of sex and exertion. Vanja stared up at the water-stained ceiling, feeling the wet warmth leaking between her thighs, Thomas's sweat-slicked chest pressed against hers. His breathing gradually slowed, deepened. His grip on her wrists loosened, his hands sliding down to rest heavily on her hips. He didn't pull out. He didn't move to leave.
Minutes stretched. The distant rumble of the city grew louder. Sunlight crept across the rug, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Thomas shifted slightly, nuzzling his face into the curve of her neck. A low, contented sigh escaped him, warm against her skin. His body relaxed completely against hers, a dead weight anchoring her to the floor. His breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. Vanja lay perfectly still, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of him, the solid presence, the undeniable fact of his body intertwined with hers. Outside, Munich woke up. Inside, amidst the scattered books and the crooked Bayern poster, Thomas Müller slept on.