Chapter 1

This Story is still about love, in case you missed it. It’s just that love isn’t a synonym for happiness. It’s different -- love is happiness and suffering in the same bottle. You can see it yourself: despite everything, Yuri and Annette are still together! That has to mean something.

Although at the moment Annette is with Omar. This old man has bad kidneys and frequent migraines, he sleeps poorly, and the little gears in his head turn heavier with every year. Yet he manages what the young and successful don’t even dare dream of. He is close to Cleopatra, Guinevere, Salome -- call her whatever you like. Pick any synonym you personally keep near the phrase “femme fatale.”

Men were usually afraid of Annette. They admired her, worshipped her, but from a distance, the way you admire the sun. You look at the beauty of a star -- why touch it? It’s unsafe, at minimum.

The world didn’t know a hero who could dare lay hands on Annette’s untouchable purity. And then someone appeared who looked nothing like a hero. Someone appeared ... a fool.

An old, debased janitor with dulled awareness. He simply failed to register Annette’s starlight at all, and so he stepped into her fire without fear. And he didn’t burn. Stupidity can look a lot like courage, sometimes...

And now this worn-out, overweight man is standing with Annette on the landing, and in his hands, he has a weighty argument for why she shouldn’t leave. Namely -- a thick, heavy cock. And it stands there, despite his age and his health problems!

Beauty and the Beast feel each other’s breath. They trade their fluids. And they don’t hear, not at all, how the iPhone left behind in the abandoned apartment shakes and screams on the windowsill, showing Yuri’s photo. The husband is worried -- where is his wife, what’s happened to her ... but his worry goes unanswered.

“My little girl, you’re so put-together, so cared for, so beautiful -- and kind, too!” Omar says, wiping the head of his cock against Annette’s leg. “As if Allah, at the end of my life, decided to smile on me for all my suffering and gift you to me!”

What great “suffering” the old man had endured, he chose not to say. Annette was clearly embarrassed. Not only by the old man, but by her own reaction to his wild antics. As if a few sexual ties had bound her body to the immigrant janitor, and the body now reacted to Omar in a certain way on its own, producing hormones that stole her peace.

Annette could fence herself off from the janitor, despise him -- but she could no longer not notice him. She could no longer react to him calmly, as to just anyone.

“No one gave me to you. I was given to my husband,” she answered softly, shrinking inward every time the cock pressed into her skin. “I’m just glad to help, but you shouldn’t cross the line.”