Klaus

Dear diary,
After my work trip in Africa and that intense time with Darius, I had a free weekend and decided to fly to Berlin.
The plan was simple: meet Pablo, spend time together, see if what we once had could come back.

I landed, walked through the city a bit, and then headed to the café where we agreed to meet.
Pablo looked exactly the same — tall, handsome, bright eyes, that messy dirty-blonde hair I always loved. For a moment I felt this rush of hope.

We sat, talked about work and life, and I flirted without even trying.
Then he dropped the bomb:
he got married.

Married.
To someone he met after moving to Germany.

I froze. I smiled. I congratulated him.
But inside everything just collapsed.

We said goodbye as friends, but I walked back to my hotel feeling stupid, heartbroken, and angry at myself for expecting anything different.
I slept for an hour, woke up in the dim Berlin evening, and decided that I needed to disappear into the night.

I put on a tight black tank top, black leather pants, army boots, and headed out to get drunk.

I ended up at Berghain, the chaos, the music, the heat — everything was loud and intense.
I drank too much, danced until I couldn’t feel my legs, and let myself drift downstairs into Lab.oratory, looking for anything that would take my mind off Pablo.

The hallway was dark, humid, full of bodies and noise.
I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe, trying not to make eye contact, when I heard the heavy sound of boots on the floor.

I looked up.
A man was walking toward me — shaved head, strong jaw, lean muscular body, wearing black, moving with total confidence.
He didn’t smile, didn’t say a word.
He just stopped right in front of me and stared like he was already deciding what to do with me.

My heart started racing.

Without asking, he grabbed my forearm and pulled me toward the exit.
I didn’t resist.

Outside, the cold air hit my face and sobered me just enough to think.
He finally spoke:
“Klaus.”
Thick German accent.
Direct, almost commanding.

He told me to come with him.
I followed.

We reached his hotel room.
He walked in first, sat on the couch, poured himself a drink.
I stood there awkwardly until he got up, looked me dead in the eyes, and said quietly:

“Kneel.”

Something in me responded immediately.
I dropped to my knees.

He unzipped his pants, pulled himself out, and held the back of my head.
His voice was calm and low as he told me exactly what to do.
And I did it — willingly, almost gratefully — letting him take full control.

After a while he pulled me up by the arm, turned me around, pushed me onto all fours, and yanked my pants down in one movement.
There was no hesitation.
He entered me hard, steady, deep — holding my mouth to quiet my moans.
It hurt at first, but the adrenaline and the need took over quickly.
It was rough, fast, physical, and exactly the kind of escape I was looking for.

When he finished, he let me fall to the side of the bed, breathing heavily.
Then he said one word:

“Shower.”

So we went.

Under the hot water, he pushed me to my knees again.
The steam, the water, the alcohol in my system — everything mixed together into this wild, intense blur.
He used me, and I let him, my body reacting without thinking.

Afterwards, we collapsed on the bed, still wet, still naked.
I must have passed out almost immediately.

In the morning I woke up alone in his room, head pounding, clothes scattered on the floor.
There was no note, no goodbye — only the faint smell of last night on my skin.

And honestly?
That was enough.
It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t healing.
It was a release — brutal, needed, and strangely satisfying.

Berlin gave me exactly what I came looking for.