The Red Threads of Fate

A man and a woman are sitting at a table in a cafe. No one hears their conversations, no one sees them.

— I feel gloomy and sad, and even the dance of the spheres does not cheer me up.

— Then let's play a game, my lord.

— And what shall we play, my dear.

— You'll like it; it's called the interweaving of everything plus sex and violence, stupidity and intrigue.

— Hmm, agreeing to your game is like signing a contract with Satan.

— Don't be afraid, immortal, the game won't touch you; we'll play with chips.

Oleg's Apartment

The day started as usual, until my friend called me. He explained that he had a little drink, went

out to the yard for cream, started the car, and, as luck would have it, got caught by a patrol, the PPS, who were looking for the exact same car, plus he smelled of cognac.

Friend: — Oleg, help me out, come to Krasnoflotskaya 14, to the station. I'll give you the keys. I have urgent business there, come on, I can't talk on the phone.

Sighing heavily, I gathered my things and arrived at the station. After talking to the duty officer, I found out that he had been rowdy and shouting that he urgently needed to go home.

And they booked him as a hooligan for fifteen days. I said that his keys were urgently needed because he forgot to turn off the faucet.

The sergeant led me to the holding cell.

Sergeant: — Is this your friend, Mr. Zhuravlev?

Friend: — Yes, that's him, give him the keys. Urgently, only.

Oleg: — Maybe we can arrange something for 5k to release him, or ten.

Sergeant: — Not allowed. He was drunk and rowdy, tore the epaulette off one of ours. Semyon said let him sit and sober up. And you take the keys and go.

I took the keys, talked to my friend, and he gave me a small key through the bars, said it was for the bathroom.

Zhuravlev's Apartment. Ira, 24 years old.

Having had a little to drink, my dear boyfriend and I decided to add some spice to our relationship by mixing shibari with elements of BDSM on our bed.

I put on silk panties with a slit, black stockings. My hands were lightly tied with soft handcuffs to the oak bed's headboard so they wouldn't go numb, and my legs too. I was spread-eagled and tried to free myself, but nothing worked. I said I was missing a blindfold, a gag, and cream. He put a blindfold and gag on me and said he'd be back soon.

Probably about ten minutes passed; I tried to free myself maybe ten times.

Oleg's Car. Oleg, 25.

I decided I needed support in case the apartment flooded, so I decided to take Misha with me. Calling him, I said I had a surprise prepared, and I picked him up on the way to the house.

Dropping him off in the yard, I decided to buy rags and buckets. I gave him the keys, told him the apartment number, and said to hurry.

Zhuravlev's Apartment. Misha, 19 years old.

I don't know what Oleg prepared, but he was a rare inventor. We met in the army, served together, and he helped me find work after service. We picked up girls together, not bad, dude.

I got out of the car, took the elevator up, opened the door. And I saw that from the hall to the room, everything was strewn with petals. I entered it and saw a beautiful bedroom, like in a brothel, and a beautiful woman tied to the bed. On the table next to the bed were wine, champagne, snacks, a pack of condoms, vibrators, whips.

The woman, hearing my footsteps, squirmed sweetly and moaned. Then came a text from Oleg: — "How's it going?" I wrote, awesome, everything's great. He replied, be there soon.

Zhuravlev's Apartment. Ira, 24 years old.

He came back, damn, took ten minutes to get the cream. I started squirming; he started undressing, judging by the sound.

And suddenly he jumped into bed, hugged me, and I felt his cock; it was larger than before, and his body was leaner and more muscular. This wasn't Zhuravlev. I tried to scream or break free.

He entered me; his cock was bigger than my boyfriend's. Unused to it, it hurt. He started fucking me hard, muttering.

— Take that, bitch, get it, you whore. What a damn nice gift my friend arranged for me. Don't worry, he'll come too.

So that was his surprise. He apparently wanted me to cheat on him. Well, okay, I'll have a blast.

Zhuravlev's Apartment. Oleg, 24.

I entered the apartment and was a bit taken aback. I saw a naked girl in stockings and heels giving Misha a blowjob. I asked, who are you? To which she detached from her task and told me.

Ira: — I'm a whore, come to me.

Misha: — I untied her, Zhuravlev tied her up and left her as a surprise for us, you know about it.

I quickly figured it out. Zhuravlev picked up a whore, decided to play some BDSM, and then probably went out for more vodka for courage, but then the cops nabbed him. Since he was shy, he didn't explain anything to me and shoved the keys in my face.

I quickly gave the drunk Misha a slap, and sharply asked her to get dressed.

I threw Misha out into the stairwell, put the whore's coat and purse on her, asked for her address, and took her home.

Apartment of Vera Mikhailovna, Ira's Mother, 60 years old.

The doorbell rang; a man with a heavy voice asked to open the door. Opening the door, I saw my Irochka struggling in his arms. She was only in stockings, heels, and a coat, plus drunk. He shoved her into the apartment and vanished.

Oleg's Car. Oleg, 25.

— Hey, you bastard, where are you?

— At work, how many times do I have to tell you.

— You're lying, you scum. Vera saw you in the car with a naked slut.

— Where did she see me?

— She saw you in a traffic jam. You're in trouble, I threw all your stuff off the balcony.

Zhuravlev's Stairwell, morning. Misha, 19 years old.

Where was I, what happened? Need to drink less. I remember drinking with Oleg in a brothel, but where did I wake up? And where's my money, phone? Don't remember a damn thing. And who are you, man?

— I am the Trickster, the author.

— Who?

— You, man, sleep. Soon the PPS will pick you up, and everything will become more tangled and interesting than yesterday.