Chapter 4: The Drive Home
The hum of the Porsche’s engine was a low, constant purr, a vibration that traveled up through the leather seat and into Vanja’s bones. Besim drove with one hand resting lightly on the gearshift, the other on her thigh, his thumb making absent circles on the silk of her dress. The autobahn unspooled before them, a black river dotted with the red taillights of slower traffic, which he sliced past with a gentle press of acceleration.
Streetlights flashed across the dashboard, a rhythmic strobe that illuminated the sharp planes of his satisfied face before plunging them back into the intimate darkness of the cockpit. The scent of his cologne, warm and spiced, was undercut by the drier, more mineral scent of the car’s new leather. Vanja watched the landscape blur, but she saw only the sterile white tiles of the stadium corridor, Erblin’s retreating back, the damp towel clenched in his fist.
Her body felt like a vessel holding separate seas. A deep, pleasant ache radiated from her core, a soreness that was a blunt echo of the frantic coupling against the cold locker room wall less than two hours earlier. The memory was a shard of glass in her mind: the alarm on a cleaning cart rattling past, his hand slammed over her mouth to stifle her cry, the brutal, efficient rhythm of his hips, the guttural, almost pained sound he made as he came. It had been swift and violent, a theft. And now, the residual sting, the faint, sticky leakage she could feel with every slight shift in the seat, was a proof she carried secretly within her.
Besim’s hand slid higher up her thigh, the warmth of his palm seeping through the silk. “You’re quiet today, zemljo,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble competing with the engine. “Tired from the excitement?”
The term of endearment – ‘my land’ – felt like a weight. She turned her head from the window and looked at him. His profile was handsome, content, trusting. A strange, cold tenderness for him pierced her, followed immediately by a wave of such profound dissonance she felt dizzy.
“Just thinking,” she said, her voice sounding perfectly normal to her own ears. She placed her hand over his on her thigh, lacing her fingers with his. “About history. About how the past never really leaves. It just… sediments.”
He chuckled, squeezing her hand. “My beautiful philosopher. Sometimes a football match is just a football match.”
But it wasn’t, she thought. It was a conquest and a surrender happening on the same pitch.
His thumb moved again, tracing the hem of her dress where it met her skin. The touch was proprietary, affectionate. It ignited a perverse compulsion in her.
Without a word, she released his hand. She leaned over the center console, her hair falling in a golden curtain between them. Her fingers found the buckle of his belt, the rasp of the leather loud in the quiet cabin. Then the button of his trousers, the zip’s metallic whisper.
“Vanja…” Besim murmured, a note of surprise and instant arousal thickening his voice. He glanced swiftly at the road, then back at her, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “What are you— the autobahn…”
“You drive,” she said, her voice low and devoid of its earlier philosophical tone. It was flat, imperative. “Watch the road.”
She freed his cock, already stiffening in the cool, filtered air of the car. She didn’t hesitate. She bent her head and took him into her mouth.
The act was clinical and fervent at once. She worked him with a determined, deep rhythm, her lips stretched taut around his girth, her tongue pressing hard along the underside of his shaft. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his abdominal muscles clench beneath her cheek. The car gave a slight surge as his foot pressed unconsciously on the accelerator before he corrected it.
“Christ,” he hissed, his knuckles white on the wheel.
She hollowed her cheeks, sucking with a force that was almost angry. Her mind was a split screen. The present: the taste of him, clean, slightly salty, the vibration of the car, the scent of leather. The past, two hours old: the taste of her own arousal mingled with the bitter tang of Erblin’s release as he’d pulled out and kissed her, brutal and possessive, before walking away. That taste was still on her, inside her.
As she bobbed her head, her own need, a filthy, confused echo of the locker room, twisted in her belly. With her left hand, she hitched up the skirt of her dress. The air from the ventilation hit her damp skin, raising goosebumps. She slid her right hand between her own legs.
She was swollen, sensitive. Sore. Her fingers slid through the slickness, encountering the unmistakable, thicker evidence of another man’s spend. It was cooling, mingled with her own. She gathered it on her fingertips.
Besim was murmuring above her, low curses and breathy praise in Albanian. “So good… your mouth is heaven… fuck, Vanja…”
She pulled her fingers out, glistening in the intermittent flash of passing lights. She brought them to her mouth, sucking them clean, tasting the composite of herself and his son. The salt, the musk, the bitterness. It was the most depraved thing she had ever done. A moan vibrated around Besim’s cock, a sound of genuine, gut-deep climax that had nothing to do with him.
He felt it. “You’re so wild tonight,” he groaned. “What’s gotten into you?”
She released him with a wet pop, her breathing ragged. She rested her forehead against his hip, her hand still moving between her legs, her fingers driving into her own wetness, chasing the sore, overstimulated edge of another release. “Did he cum a lot?” she whispered, the words leaving her before she could cage them.
A beat of silence. Only the engine’s hum and the rush of air outside.
“Who?” Besim asked, his voice strangled, confused.
Erblin, she thought. Your son. When he fucked me against the wall, when he emptied himself inside me, when he looked at me with hate and hunger in his eyes.
“The striker,” she breathed, the lie fluid and instant. “When he scored. The celebration. It was… primal. It made me wet.” She took him back into her mouth, deeper this time, silencing any further questions.
It was the right thing to say. It fed his pride, his sense of owning a woman who was stirred by the raw physicality of his world, his son’s arena. He groaned, long and low. “You liked that, did you? Watching powerful men?”
She moaned in response, the sound authentic this time as her fingers found her clit, pressing in tight, frantic circles. She was fucking herself with her own hand while she sucked him, her mind a riot of conflicting images: Besim’s blissful, unknowing face, Erblin’s contorted one in the throes of his own release.
“I’m close,” Besim warned, his voice tight.
She redoubled her efforts, sucking fiercely, her hand a blur between her thighs. She wanted him to come. She needed it. To cover the evidence, to layer a new claim over the old, to drown the taste of his son in his own.
With a guttural shout he tried to smother, he came. The hot, salty pulses filled her mouth. She swallowed, once, twice, diligently, mechanically, as her own orgasm tore through her, silent and convulsive, her body shuddering against the console.
She stayed there for a long moment, her forehead against his hip, breathing hard. The taste of him was in her mouth now. The other taste was still between her legs.
She carefully tucked him back in, zipped his trousers, smoothed his shirt. She straightened up, settling back into her seat, adjusting her dress. She stared out the windshield.
Besim reached for her hand again, bringing it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, his breathing gradually slowing. “You are incredible,” he said, wonder in his voice. “My god.”
She forced a smile, hoping it looked sated and soft in the dark. “You drive,” she repeated, her voice hoarse.
He laughed, a happy, unburdened sound. He focused on the road, his posture relaxed, victorious.
Vanja leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. The lights of Munich began to appear in the distance, a galaxy on the ground. Her phone, tucked in the clutch by her feet, buzzed once. A faint, discrete vibration.
She didn’t need to look to know. A part of her had been waiting for it since the moment he walked away.
Her body, still humming from the double onslaught, went very still. The Porsche sped on, carrying them toward a penthouse that no longer felt like a sanctuary, but like the gilded stage for a play whose next act was now irrevocably written. The vibration seemed to echo in the hollows of her bones, a summons and a sentence all in one.
The vibration seemed to echo in the hollows of her bones, a summons and a sentence all in one. She waited until Besim was distracted by merging traffic, then slid the phone from her clutch. The screen’s glow lit her face in the dark cabin. A single notification. Not a text. A missed call. From an unknown number, but the +383 country code for Kosovo was a fingerprint.
She deleted the notification, the action smooth and immediate. She placed the phone face-down on her thigh.
“Everything okay?” Besim asked, his voice still languid with spent pleasure.
“A student,” she lied. “A question about a deadline. It can wait.”
The penthouse welcomed them with its usual silent luxury. Besim poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to her as she stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the Isar River snake through the city’s lights. He came up behind her, his body warm against her back, his lips on her neck. His hands slid around her waist, possessive.
“You were a animal in the car,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “I liked it.”
She leaned back into him, a calculated move. “You inspire me.”
He turned her around, his gaze searching her face. His thumb traced her lower lip. “Erblin is watching you,” he said, his tone conversational, but his eyes were sharp.
Vanja rolled her eyes, a practiced display of annoyance. “He glares. He’s a child throwing a tantrum.”
“No.” Besim’s grip tightened slightly on her waist. “He wants you. I see it. The way he couldn’t look at you after the match.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “And you want him too. Don’t lie. You get wet when he talks back. That fire. He is huge, isn’t he? All that power, that physicality. You like that.”
A jolt of pure fear, icy and sharp, shot through her veins. It was immediately swamped by a rush of treacherous heat that pooled low in her belly. She opened her mouth to deny it, but only a shaky exhale came out.
He saw it. He smiled, a knowing, dark curve of his lips. He kissed her, swallowing any protest. Then he dropped to his knees right there on the polished concrete.
He pushed her silk dress up to her hips. He didn’t bother with her underwear, just tore the thin lace aside. His mouth was on her, his tongue a broad, demanding stroke against her sensitive flesh.
“Besim,” she gasped, her hands flying to his hair.
He ignored her. He licked into her, deep, tasting everything—the lingering sourness of his own spend from the car, the older, muskier residue of his son. He groaned, the vibration against her clit making her knees buckle. He held her up, his hands on her ass, pulling her harder against his mouth.
“You’re soaked,” he growled against her. “Filthy. For him? For me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He drove two fingers inside her, curling them, fucking her with his hand while his tongue circled her clit with relentless pressure.
Vanja cried out, the sound echoing off the glass. Her head fell back. The duality was shattering: the skilled, claiming attention of the father, while the ghost of the son’s rougher, angrier possession haunted every nerve. She couldn’t separate them. Pleasure, sharp and corrosive, built like a wave against a dam.
“I bet he would love to watch,” Besim whispered, his lips wet against her thigh. “See his father make you scream. See how wet you get for us.”
The image, explicit and shocking, broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and silent, a cascade of tightening muscles and white noise behind her eyes. She rode his face, her hips jerking uncontrollably.
He didn’t stop. He kept licking, gentler now, coaxing, until the oversensitivity began to crest into a second, slower build. She was whimpering, her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, pushing him away.
“Come again,” he commanded softly. “For him. Imagine he’s here.”
And she did. This climax was a deeper, more internal shudder, a surrender that felt like falling. She slumped forward, bracing herself on his shoulders, breathing ragged.
He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked utterly composed, while she was unraveled, exposed. He kissed her again, sharing her own taste.
“I’m going on a trip this weekend,” he said, as if discussing the weather. “With my brother and sister-in-law. We are going to Albania. Some family business, a property viewing.”
She blinked, trying to reassemble her thoughts through the post-orgasmic haze. “Okay. I’ll work on my dissertation.”
“You stay in the penthouse.” He paused, his eyes holding hers. “Invite Erblin to keep you company. Maybe work on your relations.”
Vanja stared at him. The words hung in the air, bizarre and terrifyingly clear. Did he just give her permission? Was this a test, some twisted trap, or a grotesque gift?
“Besim,” she said, her voice hollow. “That’s a bad idea.”
He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. “It keeps him happy. And you…” he trailed off, his gaze dropping to her swollen lips, her disheveled dress. “Satisfied.” He kissed her, a soft, final brush of his lips. “He listens to you now. I saw it. Handle it.”
He walked away, heading for the shower, leaving her standing alone in the vast, cold living room. The command, veiled as a suggestion, echoed in the silence.
Later, in the immense bed, with Besim sleeping soundly beside her, she took her phone. The unknown number was seared into her memory. She typed a message, her fingers cold and steady.
Your father is away this weekend. The penthouse is empty. Come if you want.
She stared at the words for a full minute, the blue light the only illumination in the dark room. Then she pressed send.
The message showed as delivered. Then read.
No typing bubbles appeared. No reply came.
She lay awake for hours, watching the digital clock on the bedside table mark the passage of time, each minute a hammer fall on the fragile remains of the future. The silence from his phone was louder than any answer.
The silence from his phone was louder than any answer.
Three days passed in a tense, artificial calm. Besim packed a small suitcase, kissed her goodbye with a slow, knowing intensity that felt more like a branding than a farewell, and left for the airport. The penthouse, usually a space of light and curated silence, seemed to expand around Vanja, every echo a accusation. She tried to work, to focus on her dissertation about borderland identities, but the words blurred on the screen. She was a borderland now, a contested territory between father and son.
She swam laps in the building’s pool until her muscles burned, the chlorine failing to scour the memory of sweat and sex from her skin. She dressed with meticulous care each evening, just in case, choosing lingerie that felt like armor and a trap simultaneously. On the third night, a Friday, she opened a bottle of wine alone. She was on her second glass, staring at the city’s geometric glow, when the intercom buzzed.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She walked to the panel, her bare feet silent on the cool floor. She pressed the button. “Yes?”
Silence, then a muffled, thick sound. A curse in Albanian. “It’s me.” Erblin’s voice, slurred and rough.
She released the door lock without another word. The wait for the elevator to climb the forty floors was an eternity. She stood in the open doorway, watching the numbers climb, her silk robe tied tight over a black lace bodysuit.
The doors slid open. He stumbled out, catching himself on the wall. He reeked of beer and something sharper, schnapps maybe. His eyes were bloodshot, his usually pristine tracksuit disheveled. He looked younger and older all at once, a boy playing at being a ruined man.
“You came,” she said, her voice flat.
“You fucking called,” he snarled, pushing past her into the penthouse. He scanned the vast living room as if expecting his father to materialize from the shadows. “Where is he?”
“Shqipëri. Albania. Until Sunday.”
He turned to face her, his body swaying slightly. “So. What do you want?”
She didn’t blink. “You tell me. You’re the one who showed up drunk.”
“You texted,” he shot back, stepping closer. The alcohol on his breath was a sour cloud. “Don’t act like you’re not a part of this. You started it. In the sauna. With your… everything.”
She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I started it? You couldn’t keep your eyes off me from the first moment you saw me with your father.”
His hand shot out, grabbing her jaw. His grip was strong, punishing. “You love it, don’t you? Having us both. The powerful father. The son.” He leaned in, his nose almost touching hers. “You’re a cheap Serbian slut playing a dangerous game.”
Her golden-green eyes held his, unflinching. “And you’re a jealous little boy fucking his father’s cheap Serbian slut. What does that make you?”
A growl ripped from his throat. He crushed his mouth against hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault, all teeth and desperation and the acrid taste of alcohol. She fought him for a second, a twist of her head, a push against his chest. Then she opened her mouth to him, her tongue meeting his with equal ferocity.
He ripped her robe open. The silk gave way with a tearing sound. He stared at the black lace beneath, at the curves it barely contained. “Always dressed for it,” he slurred, his hands fumbling with the clasp at the front of the bodysuit.
She slapped his hands away. “You’re too drunk to manage a fucking bra strap.” With a defiant glare, she reached down herself, unsnapping the garment. It fell open, her breasts spilling out. She shrugged it off her shoulders, let it puddle at her feet. She stood naked before him, save for a pair of sheer black panties.
He made a sound like a wounded animal. He grabbed her by the hips, spinning her around and pushing her face-first against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. Her cheek pressed against the pane, the entire city spread out below her, a grid of indifferent lights. He yanked her panties down to her thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass.
He didn’t bother with foreplay. He fumbled with his own track pants, freeing his cock. It was already hard, jutting thick and angry from his body. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, and without another word, drove into her from behind.
Vanja gasped, her breath fogging the glass. He was too big, too fast, too dry. The initial thrust was a burning stretch that bordered on pain. He didn’t pause, didn’t care. He just started fucking her, hard and deep, each slam of his hips driving her body against the unyielding window.
“You like that?” he grunted into her ear, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “You like being a hole for me to use? My father’s little hole.”
She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. “Fuck you,” she hissed.
“You are,” he snarled, snapping his hips harder. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Fucking you. Ruining you.”
The anger was a live wire between them, a circuit of shame and desire that sparked brighter with every brutal stroke. Her earlier soreness was gone, consumed by a raw, frantic need. This was punishment and communion. He pounded into her, the slapping sound of their bodies a violent rhythm in the quiet room.
“You think about this when he’s fucking you?” he demanded, his voice ragged. “You think about my cock?”
“Yes,” she moaned, the admission torn from her.
He swore, a filthy, guttural word. He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. She cried out, her fingers scrambling against the smooth glass.
“Say it,” he commanded, his pace never slowing. “Say ‘Your cock is better.’”
“Your cock is better,” she gasped, meaning it in that moment, in the specificity of this violent, claiming anger.
“Louder.”
She yelled it, the words a defiant scream against the Munich skyline. “Your cock is better!”
He rewarded her with a deeper, harder rhythm, his balls slapping against her skin. The pleasure was coiling, monstrous, born of the filth and the friction. She was close, teetering on an edge made of glass and guilt.
Then she remembered Besim’s face, his knowing eyes, his hands on her, his voice: He wants you. And you want him too.
The truth was a weapon. She wielded it.
“He knows,” she panted, her voice strained from the force of his thrusts. “Your father. He knows.”
Erblin faltered. His rhythm broke for a single, jarring second. “What?”
“He knows,” she repeated, turning her head as much as his grip would allow, her words hot against the cool glass. “He told me he sees it. He told me to invite you here.”
The information slammed into him, a different kind of violation. His body went rigid behind her. The sick, dawning understanding was replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated rage. It was a white-hot fury that surpassed the drunken jealousy, a betrayal that went deeper than a stolen woman.
It made him fuck her harder.
“You lying cunt,” he roared, his hands clamping onto her hips like vices. He drove into her with a force that felt like it would split her in two. The window rattled faintly in its frame. “You disgusting, scheming whore!”
The dirty talk turned darker, filthier. He called her things in Albanian, in German, crude descriptors of her body and her betrayal. Each insult was punctuated by a devastating thrust. He was no longer just taking her; he was trying to obliterate the truth inside her, to claim her so utterly that his father’s knowledge became meaningless.
Vanja screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound, as her orgasm detonated. It was pain and pleasure fused, a convulsive wave that clenched around his invading cock, milking it. Her legs buckled, but he held her up, never stopping his relentless pace.
His own climax followed, triggered by the violent squeezing of her body. He shouted, a wordless roar of fury and release, and emptied himself deep inside her in hot, pulsing jets. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropped between her shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged, wet sobs that were almost like crying.
They stayed locked together against the glass, their sweat smearing the view. Slowly, the world came back: the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic forty floors below. He slid out of her, a sudden, empty feeling. A trickle of his release, and hers, slid down her inner thigh.
He stumbled back, zipping his track pants with clumsy hands. He looked at her, at the mess he’d made of her against the window, with a kind of horrified disgust. Then he turned and walked unsteadily towards the door.