A familiar black jeep was waiting for me on the street opposite the Main Directorate. Muller-Shitinkov, rather grinning, poked his head out of the window, hiding his piggy eyes under his sunglasses.

- Well, talked to the police? - he asked.

- I talked, - I said sadly.

- Sit down, let's go, - he started the engine.

He took me to an old apartment, the same one in which I first saw Angela. I was waiting for a serious heart-to-heart talk, but I received brief instructions: resigning from work, buying a suit with a tie, enrolling in a driving school, coming the next day with a full parade to the head office for training.

***

The power of the Klyuchnik over the slave is limitless. There is nothing that she would not do for the sake of the owner. To believe this, it is enough to climb once to the roof of the “Sail” with Posner - the main ideologue of the Seven Keys sect.

In fact, this bastard was called Mikhail Gromyko, as two tillagers of the Soviet Union - Mikhail Gorbachev and Andrei Gromyko, but to myself I called him Posner because of the resemblance to the famous TV presenter. Gromyko might as well have become Nabokov in my eyes. One of his manic passion for young slaves, whom he always fucked with his middle finger in a latex glove, which was worth it. But the map lay on Posner, largely due to the bastard’s intricate origins and his smart-ass manner of communication.

From the height of bird's flight, night Minsk looks like a velvet cover covered with golden sand and diamonds. An endless stream of cars flows through the main arteries of the city. A light summer breeze pleasantly blows your face with a warm wave. From the tape recorder Lara Fabian hysterically proves that love is a disease. But what do I care about the romantic atmosphere created by Posner, an indispensable component of all his perverted performances, when a monstrous spectacle unfolds right before my eyes.

- Wendy walked well? - Posner affectionately interested in yesterday's graduate in a blue evening dress.

She came smart for a rendezvous, with a handbag, on the heels. Has made a hairstyle in a beauty salon, makeup. Chocolate festoons of hair with thick lambs fall down on a bare back. Eyeshadows, blush on cheeks and red lips defy the beauty of a peacock. Only a baby face betrays inexperience and inconsistency of the wrapper with the inner world.

“Yes, daddy,” the angel in a satin iridescent dress chirps.

Daddy - so Pozner asks girl slaves to call themselves - takes a step forward. His hairy hand wraps around the thin Nastya camp, slips on the ass. Bald grandpa in a tuxedo and elegant glasses, wrinkled, like a pug, like a shriveled wormy apple, whirls a girl in dance. She is a head taller than him, much smarter. Red diploma and a lot of prizes at the Olympiads in the humanities confirmation of this. But she can not oppose the power of the Keymaster, who eats deeply into consciousness, makes them commit insane, contradictory logic actions. He does not close his girls, no, that would be too easy for the Wizard Posner. He makes them change partners, like gloves, to break off relationships after the first night of love.

“Sport while you are young,” he says to his protégés.

And they surrender to the left and to the right, breaking their hearts in love with the young men in love, moving on to the next one in the queue, there will always be those who want such beauties. They can not fall in love, you can only fascinate and fuck.Girls of one night, they arcanum unassuming, married women, tourists.

Nastya meets in discos and in bars, immediately reports that she came from afar so that the guy does not have attachment. Easily agrees to go on a visit to tea. Easily takes off her dress, spreads her legs. The body, belonging not to her, but to Kluchnik, undergoes the most refined affection and penetration several times a night. She loves what they do with her, because at that moment she serves as the Keymaster.

“So I can't finish,” she thinks. “Because I have no right.”

Nastya loves when there are two or more guys, because then Klyuchnik will listen with particular interest in all details how and in what postures she has been fucking, where she’s finished, how many times. She will remember all the details and even try to diversify the menu to surprise Klyuchnik, pamper him with new adventures. But she still can not finish, because only Klyuchnik is able to give her an unearthly orgasm, send her to the seventh sky.

And in the morning, after many hours of churning, if the guys who have finished off are still not understood, she will inform them that she is married and will disappear forever from the horizon, leaving a non-existent email in memory to obsessive fans.

“Wendy wants to fly,” either asks, or says the Hairy Keymaster. An insidious smile froze on his lips.

“Wendy can't fly,” Nastya says, frightened. She looks at Klyuchnik with wide eyes, filled with horror. Her hands grow cold, fall, the dress on her back begins to tremble. Forgetting the dance, she is marking time.

“I have a present for you,” Daddy flirts with her daughter, reaches into her pocket, pulls out a miniature bag of sand. - Magic pollen Ding-Ding.

Nastya incredulously studies the pollen by lifting the bag into the light.

Over time, the slave's consciousness undergoes serious changes, two polarities struggle in it, yin and yang, the ego and the unconscious. She is ready to believe everything that Klyuchnik will say; the owner cannot be mistaken. The pollen could be collected from the wrong flowers, Ding-Ding could be joking, the seller changed the bag. But not the Klyuchnik, no, he is part of a slave, a part of her consciousness that cannot deceive.

However, there is another reason why pollen can lose magical properties:

“I want to warn you, Wendy,” Posner makes a stern face. - Ding-Ding pollen is suitable only for bad girls who have something that the good ones don't have.

- What? - confusedly asks Wendy.

Posner throws a thoughtful look at the night city.

- Male seed, of course, - looks at Nastya. “You swallowed everything you were given?”

“Yes,” she feverishly recalls all recent contacts. The guys ended up mostly in a condom, sometimes on the chest or stomach, rarely on the back, tailbone, everything ran down the anus down. She already does not remember when the last time I tried the taste of sperm. She swallowed that time completely or shed a part on the man's hairy crotch, a crazy thought jumps.

“Then that should be enough,” Posner nods in relief at the bag. “Fly, daughter,” he spreads his arms, throws his head up, covering his eyelids, draws in the night air with his nostrils. - Fly-fly-fly ...

Wendy is suffering incredibly. With doomed movements, she opens the bag, takes a pinch with a trembling hand, sprinkles sand on her head. Light jumps trying to break away from the roof.

- Let me help you, - Posner pours the whole bag on her head. Thick grains penetrate the curls, flow down the neck, under the dress.

“In order to take off, it’s not enough to bounce on the spot,” Posner recalls one important detail. “We need to push off,” he points to the eaves, “and believe that everything will work out.”

Nastya’s whole life is turned inside out at this moment. If she knew that she needed sperm to fly in the sky, she would not have squandered so many male orgasms for nothing. She would have collected everything, as a last resort would have drunk from a condom. She could only offer blowjob, referring to the monthly, could come up with something that adores the taste of sperm, that every man has his own, that she wants only to try a man, and not to fuck him.

“It seems to me that such an interesting man should have an interesting taste,” she would immediately cast a bait.

Nine out of ten would agree to take part in the tasting. She would take them to the toilet, shut herself in a stall with them. And the taste would be the most original: sweet, sour, with alcohol, like an egg-milk shake.

But now ...