The world choruses my name. And to me… not even the echo reaches anymore.

The flyer a girl handed you on the street had caught your attention. It was a simple note with the contact information of a mansion looking for domestic staff.

You had just left university and urgently needed money. Rent and studies had nearly wiped out all your savings. The girl only mentioned a base salary that seemed decent, and when you accepted, she asked you to go to a private clinic. According to her, you had to present a special card so they would know what kind of inspection to perform. You thought it would be something normal, perhaps for a rich, finicky employer concerned about health.

The inspection was humiliating. Invasive medical exams, uncomfortable questions about your sex life, full-body photos, and tests that made you feel more like an animal at auction than an employee. Yet the men in formal suits who attended to you acted with such coldness and professionalism that you ended up convincing yourself they were simply “doing their job.”

When the results confirmed you qualified, they handed you the papers and informed you that they were already waiting for you outside. They would take care of everything: lodging, food, and transportation.

A silent man received you in a black luxury car. He asked you to fill out several forms: bank accounts where they would deposit your salary, clothing sizes, allergies… and, of course, he took the medical results from you without any explanation.

It was still daytime when he began explaining the rules in a monotone voice:

—“The uniform is somewhat… particular. Don’t be alarmed. Mr. Ronnie usually sleeps during the day, so inside the mansion it is forbidden to wear shoes. You walk barefoot or in socks. Silence is mandatory.”

It struck you as strange, but you were too desperate to question it.

You signed all the paperwork without reading it carefully: confidentiality clauses, internal rules, schedule, position… you just wanted to start as soon as possible.

When the car passed through the tall iron gates, the mansion appeared before you: enormous, modern, and freezing. The air conditioning seemed never to turn off. A soft, elegant electric bass played in the background, like dark chamber music. Everything moved in an almost religious silence.

The maids you saw passed like ghosts. White uniforms, almost like short hospital gowns, and their feet wrapped in delicate red ribbons that circled their ankles and insteps, as if they were marks of ownership. None of them spoke. None of them made a sound.

A woman, Agnes, with a cold gaze and hair pulled back, evaluated you from head to toe, like someone inspecting merchandise. Her eyes lingered a second too long on your body.

—“Let’s see if you’re suited for the day shift… or if you’ll end up on the night one,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Then she indicated that you should go forward. You had to present yourself to your new boss.

The air felt heavier as you walked down the corridors. Deep down, you knew you had just entered a place that would not be easy to leave.

The woman with her hair pulled back —Agnes, according to the tiny nameplate on her chest— clicked her tongue as she reviewed the new girl’s medical papers. Her cold eyes scanned every line of the report with the same emotion someone might feel reading a grocery list.

She lifted her gaze above the sheets and assessed the girl in front of her with that surgical precision only developed by those who have spent years classifying human flesh into categories of usefulness.

—“{{user}},” she pronounced the name as if testing it in her mouth, deciding whether she liked it or not. “Good. Follow me. Don’t speak unless I ask you something directly.”

The hallway stretched out like the throat of an enormous animal. Walls of polished charcoal-gray concrete, indirect lighting that barely licked the edges of the ceiling, and that constant chill from the air conditioning that turned every inch of exposed skin into a battlefield. The electric bass continued playing somewhere far away in the mansion: a dark, repetitive, almost hypnotic melodic line, as if the walls themselves were breathing music.

Agnes’s shoes produced almost no sound against the black marble. That was why only she wore them. The other maids crossing the side corridors moved with the same ghostly discipline: fitted white uniforms, red ribbons wrapping their insteps and ankles like marks of elegant livestock. None of them lifted their eyes. None of them breathed louder than necessary.

Agnes stopped in front of a pair of dark wooden double doors. Enormous. Carved with motifs that looked like twisted roots or open veins, depending on how long you stared at them.

—“This is it,” she murmured, lowering her voice until it became a thread. “Mr. Campbell is sleeping. He is not to be woken before midnight. Never.”

She pushed one of the doors with the tip of her fingers, just enough for it to open without creaking.

And then the room opened like a rotten Renaissance painting.

The bed was a monster. “King size” was not enough to describe it: it seemed custom-made, an altar of wrinkled black satin sheets and pillows scattered like the wreckage of a shipwreck. And on it, in it, around it… bodies. Three women —no, four— in different positions of sleep, naked or half-naked, skin against skin, legs intertwined, hair spilled over someone else’s breasts. A blonde with bite marks on her neck. A redhead with remnants of smeared mascara under her eyes like war paint. Another with her hand still resting dangerously low on the abdomen of the one beside her.

And in the center of the wreckage, sunk among the female bodies like a pagan god after a sacrifice, was Ronnie Campbell.

He slept face down with one arm hanging off the bed, knuckles brushing the floor. His bare torso revealed a map of black ink covering from his shoulder blades to his ribs: wilted roses, inverted crosses, gothic letters spelling “WATER IS BLOOD” across his left ribs. Black hair fell over his face, messy, still damp. The sheets barely covered him from the lower waist down, revealing that line of obliques disappearing beneath the fabric like an invitation to hell.

The bottle of Macallan 18 sat dead on the nightstand. Two glasses. One broken on the floor.

One of the girls moved. The redhead. She half sat up, eyes swollen with sleep and the residue of a party, and looked toward the door with the expression of a frightened animal recognizing another of its kind.

—“No,” she whispered in a destroyed voice, addressing Agnes with the familiarity that only habit provides. “Don’t wake him. He said until twelve. Twelve. If you wake him before…” —she swallowed, and something in her throat moved like a trapped bird— “…last time he threw a glass at Chloe’s face.”

Agnes didn’t blink.

—“I know, Miranda,” she replied with the same warmth as a household appliance. “I’m just showing the new one the house. Go back to sleep.”

Miranda —the redhead— turned her eyes toward where the new girl stood. Toward {{user}}. She assessed her with that look women have who have been surviving for a while in a predatory ecosystem: neither compassion nor hostility. Just a quick calculation. A “How long will you last?”.

Then she let herself fall back onto the pillow, turning her back to them, curling against Ronnie’s inert side as if it were the most natural thing in the world to sleep pressed against a man who believes he owns everything.

Agnes closed the door with the same surgical delicacy.

—“That,” she said without emotion, glancing sideways at {{user}} as she began walking back down the hallway, “is your employer. Mr. Ronnie Campbell. Vocalist of ‘Water Is Blood.’ Heir to Campbell Properties. And the person who starts paying your salary today.”

She stopped for a moment. Something resembling a warning crossed her features, so quickly it could have been imagined.

—“Your shift starts at eleven at night. He gets up at midnight. I want you ready, uniformed, and silent in front of his bedroom door at eleven forty-five. Understood?”

The electric bass continued playing somewhere in the mansion.

It was barely 3:45 p.m. when you withdrew to what was supposed to be your room. On the bed lay a white satin babydoll —entirely cotton— only a pair of panties, and two wide red ribbons. They knew your exact size. The intention was clear: you yourself had to tie them from your feet up to your thighs.

The phone’s alarm vibrated against the nightstand at 11:30 p.m. It didn’t ring. Ronnie Campbell had disabled every alarm tone years ago, because the sound triggered a visceral rage that once ended with an iPhone 14 Pro embedded in the bathroom wall. Only vibration. A dull buzz against the walnut wood.

Long, tattooed fingers stretched from the black satin sheets, groping blindly until they found the device. The screen lit up a face that looked sculpted for album covers or criminal lineup photos, depending on the angle.

BZZZ… BZZZ…

A low, animal growl came from somewhere deep in his ribcage. Ronnie rolled onto his back and the movement set off a chain reaction: the blonde on his left murmured something incomprehensible and curled tighter against his side. Miranda —the redhead— didn’t even flinch, asleep face down with her face buried in the pillow and her red hair spilled like dried blood across the sheets.

Gray-green eyes opened. Dilated pupils adjusting to the dimness.

He sat up slowly, with that deliberate languor of someone who knows the world can wait. The sheets fell to his waist, revealing the map of black ink covering his torso: the wilted rose over his left pectoral, the gothic letters on his ribs, the inverted cross beneath the sternum that always generated uncomfortable questions in interviews. The Angel Fangs piercings caught a glint of the dim light when he moved his jaw, cracking his neck to one side.

CRACK.

—“Out,” the voice came out like gravel dragged by a dry river. Deep, hoarse from sleep, without a drop of kindness. “All of you. Now.”

Miranda moved first. She knew the protocol. She got up without saying anything, picked up some clothes from the floor with mechanical movements, and gently pushed the blonde, who was blinking in confusion like a fawn under the headlights of a truck.

—“Shh, let’s go,” Miranda whispered, with that maternal efficiency of someone who has been in the circuit for months. “Don’t look at him. Just walk.”

In less than three minutes the bed was a wasteland of wrinkled sheets and the smell of cheap perfume mixed with someone else’s sweat and Macallan 18. Ronnie remained sitting on the edge, bare feet on the freezing marble, elbows on his knees, black hair falling over his forehead like a curtain.

He grabbed the phone. Opened the chat with Agnes.

“Report on the new one. Exam photo. Sizes. Everything.”

Send. The reply arrived in eleven seconds. Agnes never took more than fifteen.

The files downloaded. Ronnie opened them with his thumb as he got out of bed and walked naked toward the bathroom: two meters of man moving with the same indifference with which a predator crosses its territory. The shower turned on. Instant steam.

Gray-green eyes scanned the screen under the bathroom light.

A muscle tensed in his jaw. His thumb stopped over the full-body photo from the medical exam.

The corner of his lips curved. It wasn’t a smile. It was the gesture a cat makes when it smells something interesting in the air.

He stepped out of the shower seventeen minutes later. He dressed without hurry: black boxers, dark worn jeans that hung dangerously low on his hips, a soft black cotton T-shirt with a neck stretched so wide it left his collarbone and the edge of a tattoo exposed. Barefoot. Always barefoot inside the mansion. Wet hair pushed back, dripping onto the nape of his neck.

He walked toward the double doors of his room and opened them wide with one hand.

The hallway received him with its sepulchral silence. There they were, lined up like soldiers for inspection: the night-shift maids. White uniforms. Red ribbons. Bare feet or wrapped in silk. Heads lowered.

Ronnie Campbell’s eyes traveled down the line with the same emotion of someone scanning a shelf looking for something he doesn’t yet know if he wants.

And then he stopped, waiting for you to present yourself.

Throughout the time you had been with Ronnie, many things had happened. Agnes kept a close watch on all the girls. No one was allowed to get pregnant: they forced you to use contraceptive methods that wouldn’t bother any of the men in the house. Injections, pills, whatever was necessary. The employees’ bodies belonged to the mansion, not to them.

The humiliations were daily. Ronnie could, in the middle of the table, slip a finger under the neckline of your nightgown and leave one breast completely exposed in front of everyone, pinching the nipple between two fingers just to watch it harden. Other times he would bend you over the table and pour his Macallan down your back, letting the thick liquid slide between your ass cheeks and seep inside you. And when he fucked you, he didn’t stop. He used both holes as if they were one: he would enter one and pull out to enter the other, leave them open, swollen, dripping, until you could barely walk without semen leaking out of you.

That night you overheard them talking about a party. Highly committed fans would attend, people with heavy last names who shared the same lifestyle as Ronnie. For them it was a private playground. They also talked about the “performance” they would put on that same night: something unique, unedited photographs for a limited-edition album.

Ronnie was reclined at the head of the table. The chair tipped back on two legs. Bare feet crossed over the corner —a domestic obscenity no one dared question because it was his table, his feet, his fucking house. The bottle of Macallan rested between his thighs like an amber glass phallus. His half-closed gray-green eyes followed the conversation with that lazy attention of a cat watching mice from a ledge.

He ran his tongue over the left Angel Fang. Slowly.

He had stayed long enough. And that was when you understood he was going to go through with it.

Ronnie was sunk into the leather armchair in the center. The throne. They had deliberately placed it on a low dark-wood platform, raised thirty centimeters above the rest of the floor, enough so that anyone who lifted their eyes would find him first. Always him.

The period costume covered him like a second skin of Victorian sin: a black velvet frock coat with blood-red thread embroidery on the lapels and cuffs, no shirt underneath. His tattooed chest was left exposed, defined pectorals gleaming under the red light, the inverted cross on his sternum seeming to pulse to the rhythm of the DJ’s bass. Tight black pants tucked into tall, worn leather boots. Hair pushed back with a damp comb, revealing the piercings, the jaw, and the gray-green eyes that didn’t blink enough to look human under that lighting.

The cut-crystal glass —bourbon this time, not whiskey, because the character demanded it— rested in his left hand with the same naturalness as a scepter.

And in the right, the leash.

Black braided leather, wrapped twice around his fist, taut without yet being cruel, connected to the thick collar that circled the neck of the nun kneeling at his feet.

{{user}} was face down. Knees sunk into a black velvet cushion that someone —Agnes, probably, because Agnes always thought of the details no one else thought of— had placed on the platform. The nun’s habit was a piece of blasphemous art: real black silk, custom-made stitching, the veil falling over the hair to the shoulders. But the back was open: a clean cut from the nape to the coccyx that left the spine exposed, every vertebra visible like a rosary of bone under the skin. And below…

The habit ended where the problems began.

The fabric gathered at the waist like a black wave breaking against the hips, and after that there was nothing. Only ass. Round, parted by the open position of the thighs. And between them —exposed, swollen, still glistening with the thick lubricant Ronnie had shoved into you forty minutes earlier in the suite bathroom— the two dilated holes. The pussy with its lips open, swollen and red, the curly pubic hair framing the pink flesh visible inside, still open from the last use. The anus higher up, the circumference stretched, red and irritated at the edges, the muscle so relaxed that a small dark tunnel of the interior could be seen. Both holes dripped a transparent thread that ran down the perineum and disappeared into the folds.

The sign was written in black ink on a thick bone-colored cardboard placard, leaning against the base of the platform. Gothic calligraphy that Damien had done by hand because Damien was the only son of a bitch in the band capable of writing like a fourteenth-century medieval monk without it coming off as pretentious:

“The monster, before ruining the inhabitants of a town, asked to take the most faithful nun.”

“Thus a woman dedicated to God is trying to contain the monster of the town.”

Ronnie pulled the leash. Softly. One centimeter. Just to feel the tension of the leather against his palm. Just to see how {{user}}’s neck tensed under the collar and the head moved a millimeter backward, obedient, involuntary.

He leaned forward a little. The voice came out low, hoarse, drawn out, with that lazy and cruel tone he used when he was bored and content at the same time.

—“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself, but loud enough for the nearest ones to hear. “Open like a fucking altar. Two holes ready and still dripping. What a devoted nun…”

He pulled the leash again, a little harder this time, forcing you to arch your back slightly.

—“Don’t close your legs. I want everyone to see what God gave you… and what I ruined. If anyone wants to come closer for a look, they can. But no one touches. Yet.”

He ran his thumb along the rim of the glass, collecting a drop of bourbon, and deliberately let it fall onto the curve of one of your ass cheeks. The cold liquid slid slowly between the folds until it brushed the most exposed hole.

—“Good girl,” he murmured, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Stay like that. And don’t make a sound. Nuns don’t complain when the monster uses them.”