Monster Inside – Romance in a Few Acts III

After publishing the previous parts (1 and 2), I received feedback asking for a continuation. The story seemed complete, and I gave a lot of thought to how it could be continued. This is how the continuation turned out.

Important: the story contains descriptions of erotic scenes; some illustrations carry erotic undertones; the text includes themes of submission, humiliation, and extreme body modifications. At a certain point, the text becomes unsettling and begins to resemble the fantasies of a mentally ill person, which is part of the artistic intent.

Adult content. 18+ only.

The story with all illustrations can be read on my Patreon.

Chapter 1

Karina sat in a psychiatrist’s office.

The room was bright and almost impersonal: white walls, a neat desk, two chairs facing each other. On a shelf stood several medical reference books and neutral abstract paintings, as if deliberately chosen not to evoke any emotion. The air carried a faint scent of antiseptic and coffee.

The doctor sat opposite her. A man in his mid-forties, wearing a white coat. His face was calm, attentive, almost motionless. His hair was neatly trimmed, and he had a well-groomed beard. He held a pen in his hand and occasionally made notes without looking away from her.

 

He spoke in an even, detached voice:

“So, you were kneeling in the doorway, and Henry was stroking your head… What happened next?”

Karina froze for a moment.

“Then… we were happy.”

The doctor leaned slightly forward.

“I need more details. Try to describe what happened next.”

She lowered her gaze.

“After that exhibition, we became known. Orders started pouring in for Henry—design work, artistic commissions. I was invited as a model. He… took care of me. Everything became… as if everything was finally rightt.”

A pause.

“And then he was gone.”

The doctor made a brief note.

“Do you remember how it happened?”

Karina nodded without lifting her eyes.

“Henry went to meet a lawyer. I stayed home alone. I was waiting for him in the evening… but then the doorbell rang.”

She clenched her fingers for a moment.

“A police officer was standing at the door. He said Henry had died in an accident.”

The room fell even quieter.

“What happened next?” the doctor asked gently.

“I… don’t remember.”

The doctor looked at her closely.

“You were admitted to a clinic. Do you remember what happened?”

She nodded slowly.

“I tried to take my own life. They saved me. After some time, they let me go.”

“And you returned home?”

“Yes. To our house.”

The doctor made another note.

“Did anyone visit you? Someone important?”

Karina raised her eyes for the first time during the conversation.

“Yes.”

A brief pause.

“One day, she appeared at the doorstep.”

Chapter 2

“Hello. My name is Wanda Schmidt. I am Mr. K’s lawyer.”

She looked to be about thirty. Businesslike makeup, a strict suit, light-colored hair cut into a shoulder-length bob. Her facial features were regular but sharp; there was a sense of authority in her appearance.

 

“We need to discuss inheritance matters. May I come in?”

I invited her inside. We sat down at the table. I had been discharged from the hospital only the day before and still felt extremely weak.

“First of all, please accept my condolences,” she continued. “Mr. K was a good man, a great artist, and an excellent client. Your story was… unusual.”

I lowered my gaze.

“Now, to business. After his death, a significant amount of assets remained. Unfortunately, due to his sudden passing, he did not have time to draw up a will. He has no close relatives, and distant ones have not yet come forward. Some museums may receive part of his work under donation agreements, but at the moment you are likely the sole heir.”

She spoke calmly and clearly, almost without pauses.

“However, there are nuances. First: after the recent incident, you have been placed under psychiatric supervision. This temporarily limits your legal capacity. You cannot enter into transactions and, accordingly, cannot formally accept the inheritance.”

She leaned slightly forward.

“Tell me, do you have any close relatives who could represent your interests?”

I shook my head, still looking at the table.

“My mother died three years ago. My grandparents—earlier still. I don’t keep in touch with my father. I have no brothers or sisters.”

“Then…” Wanda reacted instantly. “You may have a representative—a lawyer. Do you have one?”

“No.”

“In that case, I can be that person. No additional payment will be required from you—my fee is covered under my agreement with Mr. K.”

She opened her briefcase and began placing stacks of documents on the table. I found myself watching her hands—there was no ring on them.

“Miss Smith, I’m not sure…”

“Miss Schmidt,” she corrected softly but firmly. “Your identification, please.”

There was no pressure in her voice, yet for some reason it felt impossible to object. Perhaps because of the exhaustion, or her tone. I went to get my documents in silence.

When I returned, she took two photos: one of the ID, and one of me holding it.

She smiled.

“Not a very close match. In the photo you’re still a long-haired blonde. But your story is known. There will be no questions.”

 

She fell silent for a moment, then continued in a quieter, almost insinuating tone:

“And the second nuance. Your relationship with Mr. K is known to the public—but as part of an artistic act. In court, anyone could appear and claim that they had the real relationship, and that your story was merely an element of a performance.”

She looked at me intently.

“That’s why you need to tell me everything. On record. In detail. Down to the smallest particulars—even the most intimate ones. This may take several meetings. The recording will remain confidential—I can provide a written guarantee. But it’s important for me to understand what arguments we can use in court and what you will be able to confirm under oath.”

I shook my head.

“No need for paperwork… I’ll try to remember everything I can.”

She took out a recorder and switched it on.

“Begin.”

“Strange that people call it repulsive…” — those were the first words I heard from him.

I spoke—and very soon I could no longer hold back my tears. Wanda listened attentively, almost sympathetically, but did not stop the recording.

At some point, my voice broke. I buried my face in my hands and burst into sobs.

A few minutes passed. She turned off the recorder.

“That’s enough for today.”

She put the device back into her bag and asked me to see her out.

I tried to stand, but after a few steps I sank to my knees again and covered my face with my hands.

And then I felt her hand—she gently stroked my head.

Her next words were slow and confident. No longer like a lawyer’s—more like someone close. It even seemed to me that she was deliberately echoing Henry’s intonations:

“There’s no need to cry. I’ll take care of you now.”

Warmth spread through my body—from the top of my head to the tips of my fingers. The hysteria stopped, like a suddenly ended rain. My thoughts cleared. Calmness settled in.

I looked up at her and said quietly, with hope:

“Yes.”

 

Chapter 3

I don’t know how many days passed before Miss Schmidt appeared on my doorstep for the second time. The days dragged on emptily, without events or purpose, and soon I stopped counting them.

This time she was dressed less formally—the suit looked more casual. Her hair was slightly shorter; perhaps she had visited a hairdresser between visits. Instead of a briefcase, she carried grocery bags. Her face remained строг, but there was something softer in it now, almost welcoming.

“Good afternoon, Karina. Today we’ll continue. But first, you need to eat—you’ll need your strength.”

I led her to the kitchen. To my surprise, she quickly made herself at home there—much faster than I ever had during all the time I’d lived in Henry’s house.

Before she began cooking, she placed a recorder on the table and turned it on.

I continued my story, watching her movements. Soon, lunch was ready. Despite an outward carelessness, she managed in minimal time to set a full Italian-style table—neatly, tastefully, with thoughtful presentation and serving.

 

I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. After Henry’s death—definitely not. Probably only at the hospital. They fed me there. Maybe I ate something at home too—a person can’t go that long without food—but I couldn’t remember it. Food didn’t make me nauseous, but I had no desire to eat at all. I simply forgot.

And now, for the first time in a long while, I felt an appetite.

I paused my story to eat. The taste of the food seemed to bring back the taste of life. A bottle of red wine was opened for lunch.

When we had nearly finished, and the remaining wine had been poured into our glasses, I reached the part of my story about that very dinner with Henry—and suddenly faltered.

We were sitting exactly the same way as back then.

It looked like an ordinary lunch again—not like recording testimony for a court case, but like a meeting between two friends.

It seemed Miss Schmidt noticed it too.

“We’re sitting just like you and Henry in those photographs.”

“Yes… Miss Schmidt.”

She smiled slightly.

“Call me Wanda.”

“Yes, Wanda.”

I fell silent. A strange desire rose inside me—for someone to come closer, to touch me, to kiss me. I wanted to bring back at least an echo of that life.

Wanda set her glass aside and stepped closer.

“A striking contrast,” she said. “Domesticity and passion. You were standing, leaning against the table…”

I instinctively rose slightly and felt the edge of the tabletop against my hip.

“He came up to you… like this.”

She leaned closer.

“And kissed you.”

Her lips pressed hungrily against mine.

It was unexpected. But I didn’t pull away—on the contrary, I responded. Just as at lunch I had, for the first time in a long while, tasted food, now I felt the warmth of another body and a stirring awakening.

The kiss was long, intense, but did not turn into anything more. Wanda pulled away abruptly and laughed.

 

“This is the best artistic experience of my life! Like kissing Edith Shain in Times Square.”

For some reason, I said:

“In *Watchmen*, that kiss was recreated… there were two women.”

Wanda laughed again.

After that, we returned to the recording. The “session” lasted a long time. I felt surprisingly calm—and didn’t break down in tears even once.

As she was leaving, Wanda paused in the doorway and, turning back, said:

“There were two more photographs. Contrasting ones. In the hallway. Where you’re kneeling.”

“Recreate them for me.”

I didn’t understand whether it was a request or an order. But I immediately dropped to my knees and lowered my gaze.

“Beg!”

I instantly raised my eyes, stuck out my tongue, and assumed the pose she had indicated.

“Good girl.”

Wanda laughed, stepped out, and closed the door.

Chapter 4

I was waiting for Wanda to appear—and she came two days later. Hearing the doorbell, I hurried to open the door.

Her appearance surprised me. Instead of her usual business style, her clothing had become noticeably more revealing. Her hairstyle had changed as well: the bob was shorter now, no longer covering her ears, and the back of her head was shaved high.

“Hi. We have a lot of work to do today. It looks like there are already people willing to fight over Henry’s inheritance.”

She was carrying bags. I was genuinely glad to see her.

Inside the bags was ready-made food. We ate quickly—this time without alcohol.

She turned on the recorder. I was once again carefully reconstructing one of the intimate episodes when Wanda suddenly asked:

“Had you ever practiced BDSM before Henry?”

The question embarrassed me. But by now, with the recorder and with Wanda, we had reached such a level of openness that I answered immediately:

“No. I was always… a good girl. Before Henry, I had never experienced an orgasm at all. At first, I had sex out of curiosity, then because I hoped to feel something more. Men needed it from me, and I… just agreed. But I never practiced BDSM—not even with Henry. We had quite ordinary relationships. In sex, it was just the two of us. He didn’t even spank me—we had enough of what was happening between us. He never forced me or gave orders. Even if the initiative came from him, I accepted it voluntarily.”

Wanda smirked.

“Really? On your first date, without saying a word, he shaved your head? And then, without ever asking your opinion, covered your entire body with tattoos? To the point where you went from a cheerleader to a freak that makes children recoil?”

Her words stung.

I had run away from that exhibition precisely because it seemed to me that he was using me, presenting a performance as love. But later I realized: he had simply managed to combine the two. He didn’t dominate… his desires just became mine.

Wanda looked at me intently.

“You’re a typical submissive, Karina. You always were—you just didn’t know it. When you met Henry, everything fell into place. And I’m going to prove it to you now.”

She suddenly stepped toward me, grabbed the back of my head, and pressed my lips to hers.

The kiss was rough, demanding. I couldn’t resist. When our tongues intertwined, I felt her hand slip under my shorts. She immediately found the right spot and began moving exactly the way I needed.

The orgasm came over me too quickly.

She felt it immediately. She pulled away sharply, withdrew her hand, and gave a short command:

“On your knees.”

I obeyed instantly.

“Lick.”

 

I began to lift her skirt—she wasn’t wearing any underwear…

I had never been attracted to women before. I had never even imagined how it could happen. But now my body acted on its own: I found the right movement, the right rhythm… and, it seemed, I brought her to orgasm.

She held me by the back of my head, pressing me closer, moaning and speaking—mixing praise with rough words.

Then we moved to the bedroom. Wanda dominated, but she was very gentle. Each time, her initiative turned out to be exactly what I needed. I couldn’t believe it, but that night my body felt as good as it had with Henry.

Toward morning, as she was getting ready to leave, Wanda said:

“From now on, you will call me Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress Wanda,” I replied, dropping to my knees and sticking out my tongue.

She smirked and patted me on the head.

“Good girl.”

 

Chapter 5

I knew I had to wait for Mistress—and I waited. When the bell rang, I unlocked the door and immediately dropped to my knees. Mistress’s hand stroked my head. I lowered my gaze and did not raise it until I heard the movers carrying boxes into the house.

Still, I glanced at her. Mistress had a new haircut again—a short, almost aggressive bowl cut with shaved temples and nape. Her provocative outfit looked as if it had come straight from the pages of some erotic encyclopedia.

“I’ve decided to live with you,” she said. There was no room for objection in her voice.

“Yes…” I muttered.

“I’ll take your keys from the hook. You do have spare ones, right?”

“Of course…”

She sat down on the couch and beckoned me. I tried to sit beside her, but she easily guided me down—to her feet—and began stroking my head. I lowered my gaze again, noticing out of the corner of my eye how the movers exchanged glances, looked at us, and quietly snickered.

 

When they left and the door closed, the command followed:

“Lick!”

I obeyed without hesitation. While I worked with my tongue, she lounged lazily on the couch, stroking me and complaining about how exhausting the move had been and how much she needed release.

Meanwhile, my arousal was building to its limit. I wanted at least the touch of her hand. I raised my eyes—pleading.

She stood up and slapped me.

“We need to work, not serve your lust.”

She turned on the recorder. This time everything was different: she constantly interrupted my monologue, demanding confessions and self-accusations. She dwelled on my brief affair with Mark, called me a whore, insisted I deserved punishment.

I lowered my eyes and cried. The only closeness I had left had turned into humiliation. And yet my body still demanded release. I still wanted her. If she had laughed and said it was all a joke, I would have forgiven everything.

But she didn’t laugh.

She stripped me, put me on my knees and elbows, and began unpacking the boxes she had brought. One by one, she took out instruments for flogging, explaining their purpose in detail, as if giving a lecture.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Grabbing my shorts and top, I ran out of the house. I ran—naked, without looking back—for almost a mile. Cars honked, but I didn’t stop. Only when I was sure no one was chasing me did I stop, get dressed, and keep walking.

After a while, a police car caught up with me.

The officer recognized me.

I tried to explain, stumbling over my words, that I had run away because violence was about to be used against me. I tried to explain what was happening between me and Wanda. He put me in the back seat and started making calls. He spoke for a long time, nodding occasionally.

Then he got behind the wheel.

“Everything will be fine.”

When I realized he was taking me back, panic seized me. I pulled at the doors, tried to jump out—but they were locked.

He pulled me out of the car and led me to the porch.

Wanda opened the door—in a robe, calm, as if nothing had happened. They exchanged a few words.

 

 

I was locked in a room. Through the keyhole I watched them talk. Then the officer left.

Wanda opened the door.

Her voice was cold, steady, without a trace of doubt:

“You apparently didn’t understand. I am your guardian now. You’ve been declared legally incapacitated—and you will remain so until I decide otherwise.

“The report will state that you ran out into the street naked in a delusional state and tried to flee. That your legal guardian called the police and prevented a suicide attempt.

“You told the officer about hallucinations—as if I wanted to punish you.”

A pause.

“You are completely in my power. And you will do everything I say.”

I burst into tears.

She came closer and stroked my head again.

“But there’s good news,” she said more softly. “I understand that I frightened you. I’ll replace flogging with what you really need.”

I raised my eyes.

“Yes, Mistress…”

She led me to Henry’s studio and laid me in the chair where all my tattoos had been done. She took out his machine.

“You’re a submissive. You need pain. I tried to give it to you in the usual way, but forgot that Henry had already found another way for you. That was my mistake.

“Give me your hand.”

I extended my wrist.

She pressed the machine to it. The pain—familiar, almost intimate—pierced through me. I closed my eyes. For a moment, it felt like Henry was beside me again.

“Now masturbate.”

My hand moved on its own. I began moving without opening my eyes.

The machine lifted from my skin for a second. I opened my eyes slightly and saw Mistress dipping the needles in ink—and bringing them back to my wrist.

At that moment, it overwhelmed me.

 

“Now it’s clear what she needs,” she said, patting my head. “Sleep.”

She led me upstairs. Right by the bedroom, she suddenly stopped:

“Lick!”

When the stream hit my mouth, I heard right by my ear:

“Swallow.”

And I obeyed.

 

Chapter 6

Mistress took possession of my home, my body, and my mind. We no longer returned to my memories of Henry, didn’t talk about everyday things, didn’t joke…

She was busy blending pain, humiliation, and pleasure for me. Every time we had sex, she added the tattoo machine to the process. When she brought me to orgasm with her hand, I had to fill in a section of my body myself. When I pleasured her with my tongue, she would leave a new black mark on my shoulder or head.

 

The sensations truly blended together. Sometimes, mocking me, Mistress gave me a task—to reach orgasm on my own, without the machine. If I failed, she would write obscene words over Henry’s designs on my body. I never succeeded once.

She took me out in public to humiliate me. She dressed strictly, almost impeccably, while leaving me nearly naked. Sometimes strangers noticed the vulgar words among my tattoos. People recognized me, asked questions, rumors began to spread.

She came up with a game: I would approach a stranger and promise to suck him off if he could find the word “whore” written somewhere on my body. There were more than a dozen such inscriptions. I was afraid, but most people refused. And those who agreed couldn’t manage it.

There was a small autonomous vibrator attached to my clitoris, rewarding any “correct” action with a wave of pleasure.

Mistress sought to prove my nature—and she succeeded. I could no longer reach orgasm through ordinary stimulation. I came when a stranger spat in my face or accepted my just-removed underwear. And most of all, the moment Mistress’s fluids entered my mouth.

When there was nothing left of my body unfilled except my face, and all of Henry’s designs had been covered by solid black ink, Mistress said that I had completely renounced my past and been reborn. She also said that because of my immoral public behavior, I had been declared permanently incapacitated—and that she would own me forever.

She put a collar on me that could only be removed with a key—and that key remained with her. She forbade me from speaking about myself in the first person. She stopped calling me by name and made me respond to and refer to myself only as “She.”

 

Chapter 7

One day, after another command—“Lick!”—Mistress patted her on the head.

“I see how hard she tries. But my cunt isn’t satisfied with the capabilities of her tongue… and we will fix that.”

I was frightened. Mistress smirked.

“She shouldn’t be afraid. We’ll slightly cut the frenulum under your tongue so it can extend further. This is done for children when they can’t pronounce certain sounds. No risk. We’re going right now.”

Mistress put her in the car.

“Are we going to a clinic?” she asked.

“You talk too much. Though your tongue could be put to far better use. As punishment, you won’t speak today. And you’ll give a blowjob to whoever I point at.”

She nodded silently.

The car stopped at a familiar place—it was Mark’s tattoo studio. They got out. Mistress entered first and addressed the artist:

“We have an appointment today. We agreed on it. Two procedures.”

There were two other people in the studio—a young man and a girl. Apparently, they were discussing a tattoo idea with Mark, possibly a joint one. She looked at them warmly.

“I’ll finish with the clients and then we’ll begin,” Mark replied.

Mistress was unyielding:

“We arrived on time, which means we start on time. Let her come in.”

She stepped inside.

“Karina… we never saw each other again. I heard about Henry. I’m very sorry…” Mark’s voice sounded uneasy.

She remained silent.

“You’ve changed so much. Covered all your old designs and switched to total blackwork?”

“She is in mourning. We will begin the procedures immediately.”

“Why do you keep speaking for her?”

“I am her legal guardian. Any action of hers is legally valid only with my consent. And she will not speak.”

“I need to hear it from her. Otherwise I won’t do anything. These are complex procedures that require awareness.”

“She will demonstrate her consent.”

 

Mistress turned to her and nodded toward Mark.

She grew tense, but immediately, without a word, dropped down and unzipped him.

The two visitors clearly recognized her. At first, they watched with interest, but then reacted differently: the young man took out his phone, trying to start recording, while the girl pulled him toward the exit. They left—she didn’t even notice, focused on Mark.

He tried to stop her, to lift her up, saying he didn’t want this. But when her lips closed around his cock, he stopped resisting. He kept trying to persuade her to stop, reminding her of their friendship—but after about a minute and a half, he came heavily into her mouth.

“Anesthesia is needed,” Mistress said.

Mark silently gave the injection.

She came to at home.

“Everything went well. But without my permission, she is not allowed to touch herself or look in mirrors.”

She couldn’t feel her tongue at all. But she could feel strange hard swellings on her head.

The next day, Mistress led her to a mirror.

“Before you look, we need to complete the image.”

She took out contact lenses, placed them in her eyes, and led her to the mirror.

The lenses were yellow, with vertical pupils. On the sides, slightly above the forehead, there were two noticeable swellings with stitches. She now had small horns.

She stuck out her tongue—it hung below her chin, split into two parts, with stitches along the inner sides.

“I decided not to bother with half-measures and do everything at once. Now your tongue is not only lengthened but also split. That’s twice the pleasure. They say the tips will move independently. I can’t wait for it to heal—I want to try.”

“And yes, you won’t be able to remove these lenses. They will gradually dissolve in your eyes, permanently changing the color of your iris and the shape of your pupils.”

“And this creature no longer suits a feminine pronoun. Only—it.”

Chapter 8

It was performing cunnilingus on Mistress, penetrating her as deeply as possible and working with the split tips of its tongue independently. Mistress sat in a chair in what used to be Henry’s studio, idly playing with the subdermal horn implant. It brought her to orgasm.

“That’s enough,” Mistress said calmly. “It will do something else. Take the clippers from the drawer and shave my head.”

Mistress always maintained a precise bowl-cut silhouette, and from time to time It trimmed it.

It obediently took the clippers and ran them through her light hair. Strands fell to the floor. Then, on command, It applied foam to Mistress’s head, took a razor, and with steady, practiced movements shaved off the remaining stubble.

 

Mistress stood, ran her palm over the smooth skin, and smiled with satisfaction.

“Now—take my place.”

It sat down in the chair.

Mistress took out the tattoo machine. The metal buzzed in her fingers.

“You know,” she began almost gently, “I was always interested in Henry. That’s why I became his lawyer.”

The needles touched Its forehead. The machine hummed, biting into the skin.

It did not move.

“But when It appeared,” Mistress continued, “everything changed. I first saw It when you were having dinner at the restaurant. And I immediately understood: It had to be mine.”

She moved to the right side of the face.

“I was obsessed. I planned every step.”

The needles shifted beneath the left eye.

“And I quickly realized that only one thing stood in the way… Henry.”

The machine fell silent.

“Let It look.”

It stood up and approached the mirror.

On the forehead—uneven but dense—was inked: “Slave.” Beneath the eyes, in smaller lettering: “of Mistress” and “Wanda.”

 

“It likes it,” It said.

“I like it too,” Mistress replied. “But this is only the beginning. I have big plans for It.”

She spoke, savoring every detail:

“We’ll remove those unnecessary ears and nose—leave only neat openings. Reduce the number of fingers—three on each hand will be enough. Replace the teeth with several rows of metal ones, like a shark’s. And we’ll make openings in the neck—like gills—so It can breathe while inside me. Neither nose nor mouth will be needed anymore. And It won’t speak either.”

A pause.

“It agrees,” It said quietly. “And Henry?”

Mistress smirked.

“Henry? I killed him.”

Something inside trembled. The gaze lifted involuntarily.

“It must not look me in the eyes,” Mistress said sharply.

She lowered her head.

“That day he came to me to sign documents. I gave him water with a sedative. He fell asleep at the wheel and crashed. There was no autopsy—at my request. And now everything belongs to me: the house, his assets… and It.”

Something inside finally broke.

Blood began to flow from the nose. There was ringing in the ears. Air became scarce. It was impossible to look at her. Impossible to remain here. Impossible to exist.

I bolted.

The door. The street. Cold air.

I ran toward the road—straight into the light of two approaching headlights.

Impact.

Chapter 9

“Karina, Karina—can you hear me?!” the doctor was holding ammonia under her nose.

Karina was breathing unevenly. The doctor checked her pulse. Her face, hands, and shirt were covered in blood.

“It seems we’ll have to involve the on-duty team. Pulse off the charts, fainting, nosebleed… And the delirium is becoming more elaborate.”

“Karina, everything is fine. You’re in a hospital. You’ve gone through an emotional peak; now you need to perceive reality more adequately. Most of what you’ve just relived is not true.”

“Henry did not die in an accident. He died of cancer. A late-detected, inoperable stage. You were holding his hand in the hospital room when he passed. The last week was hard for both of you. You managed to get married; his estate passed to you. You have a ring on your finger.”

“You did not attempt suicide, but you completely stopped eating. You were found in a severely exhausted state. After the clinic, you were assigned a social worker who regularly visited you and monitored your physical and emotional condition.”

The doctor placed a recorder on the table and pressed a button. A familiar voice came from the speaker:

“My name is Wanda Smith. I am a social worker. My duties included regularly visiting citizens with mental and physical difficulties.

I am 27 years old, unmarried, and at the time I met Karina I was not in a relationship. My previous one had ended shortly before that. Monica had been my partner for the past five years. Did I know Karina before the assignment? Yes. My attitude? Monica and I admired her—for her courage and uniqueness, for the most incredible love story we had ever heard.

During the first visit, she looked very weak, barely able to sign the social fund documents. We talked. In real life, even exhausted and broken by grief, she seemed more beautiful to me than in photographs. She complimented my appearance but advised me to cut my hair shorter.

Before the second visit, I shortened my hair a bit. I brought groceries and cooked lunch. We talked for a long time. Yes, there was wine. Karina spoke again about Henry—this time about his works. While recalling one of them, Karina kissed me, said my hair should be even shorter, and before leaving she knelt in front of me. Because of my recent breakup with Monica, I took it as a chance for a new relationship. I liked Karina. Yes, I violated the code for social and medical workers. Now, despite the incident, my license has been revoked.

Before the third visit, I cut my hair even shorter and dressed more provocatively. Karina started by talking about Henry, but eventually shifted to the topic of dominance in relationships. After that, she asked me to kiss her. And to give her orders. I didn’t take it too seriously—I played along, treated it as an experiment. We spent the night together. Karina began calling me Mistress. Before I left, she gave me a photo and said her Mistress had that haircut. And asked me to move in with her.

The haircut was too bold for a social worker, but I did it anyway. A delivery service moved some of my belongings into Karina’s house. She began behaving even more strangely, and that started to worry me. First, she gave me a revealing outfit and asked me to wear it. She embarrassed the movers by sitting at my feet. Then she took out a whip, undressed, and asked me to flog her… I realized things were getting out of control and stepped outside briefly to secretly call social services. Karina ran after me out of the house naked. A police officer noticed her. I realized his report would ruin not only my license but also my relationship with Karina. Through great effort, I convinced him this was a routine situation, that I was her caregiver, and he didn’t file a report.

After that, I spoke with Karina; she seemed relatively sane. She said she would throw away the whip, but that she needed a little pain. That evening she took Henry’s tattoo machine, turned it on, and ran it over her arm. It aroused her strongly. Even without ink it hurts, leaves redness… But Karina was covered in tattoos from head to toe, and I thought she wouldn’t seriously harm herself.

The machine became a frequent element of our physical contact, but I always tried to ensure it remained mostly symbolic and that contact with her skin was minimal.

One day I noticed a vulgar word written on her arm among the patterns of her tattoos. I realized she had done it herself.

Then Karina began telling me increasingly bizarre fantasies: how I would give her degrading orders that she would be obliged to follow. I didn’t develop these fantasies, but I didn’t immediately destroy them either, trying to play the role of a dominatrix as best I could.

I had never practiced such relationships. Even pretending was difficult, but I thought it would help me control her and keep her from harming herself. And, of course, I wanted to be with her. I was wrong.

Everything kept getting worse. When we went outside, Karina dressed provocatively—embarrassing people with her appearance, behavior, and sometimes explicit propositions.

Once she met a courier at the door—dressed as usual at home: a white top and short shorts. The courier was about eighteen. Karina took the order and offered to perform oral sex on him if he could find the word ‘whore’ written on her body. I dragged her inside and shut the door in the courier’s flushed face. Karina laughed hysterically.

The order turned out to contain a collar from an adult store. Karina asked me to put it on her. I played along.
The collar came with a key—it could be locked. I didn’t check and immediately took the key so she wouldn’t do it herself.
At home she wore it constantly, even while sleeping. She tried to go outside wearing it, but I managed to remove it in time.

At some point Karina began referring to herself in the third person—‘she.’ I refused to play along: I addressed her by name, corrected her, but she seemed not to hear.

Then she started talking about body modifications. First—about a longer tongue to give Mistress more pleasure. Then—a split tongue, horns, yellow eyes.

I tried to reason with her: no one would perform such procedures in her condition, and permanent lenses don’t exist.
But Karina said she knew an artist she could convince to do anything if Mistress ordered it.
And then she would finally be reborn as It.

I realized I had missed the moment. These were no longer fantasies—they were obsessions of a deeply ill person. And it was my fault. Out of fear, I hadn’t reported the onset of her condition. Now I couldn’t delay any longer.

I called the office and said Karina had developed some mental issues and that I would bring her in for examination the next day. I didn’t want orderlies to come and take her away in a straitjacket—I thought I could handle it myself.

Then I told Karina: her condition was worsening, and tomorrow we had to go to the hospital. She didn’t react—just nodded, as if it didn’t concern her.

At dinner, I suddenly felt weak. My eyelids grew heavy, my thoughts blurred.
And almost immediately, I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of clippers. Tied to a chair, I couldn’t move; my mouth was taped shut. In that moment I realized: Karina had drugged me. She began shaving my head. I was helpless, unable to say a word, only crying and begging her with my eyes to stop. She didn’t react. Calm, detached, she spoke obvious clinical nonsense, from which I understood only one thing—she was referring to herself as ‘It.’

Then she lathered my head and continued shaving. At that point, I was even ready for that. I was only afraid that Karina might kill or mutilate me. When she took out the tattoo machine, the fear intensified. I prayed she would touch only my arm or leg—somewhere that could be hidden. But the needles touched my forehead.

The horror quickly gave way to cold understanding: if I started shaking my head, it would only get worse—and I had to free my hands. While she was writing on my face, moving from the forehead to the area under my eyes, I tried to keep my head still and quietly free one hand.

When she finished and held up a mirror, I saw my reflection. My head was completely shaved, on my forehead was written “Mistress,” under my eyes—“of the slave” and “It.” It was unbearable to look at, but more important was that my hand was slowly coming free.

Then Karina began delivering a dreamy monologue about her future modifications. There were insane teeth, gills—but what stuck most was the part about cutting off the nose, ears, and fingers, because she could do some of that right then—to me. Rising terror gave me strength. I freed one hand, then the other, and soon I was completely free.

Karina didn’t try to stop me; she was in some kind of trance. I couldn’t hesitate. I ran out of the house—and was hit by a car.

I woke up in the hospital. A concussion, a couple of fractures. Nothing serious—I’m fine now. My hair has grown about three centimeters, but it’s growing back unevenly—I’ll probably need a hairdresser. The least of my problems. The tattoos, as you can see, remain. I’ve started removing them, but the process is slow and expensive. They also said that because they were done unprofessionally, removal is harder and may not be complete. Working in social services with such tattoos would be difficult—but after losing my license, I won’t be able to return anyway.

I know Karina was brought to you. How is she? Has the treatment not worked yet? It’s a pity—I wish she would recover. I did not file a police report. Lawyers keep coming to me with prepared claims. They say she has assets from which, even given her condition, I could be compensated for treatment and recovery, especially since I lost my job. I send them away. I will not do it.

What happened is entirely my fault. I should have reported her condition immediately—then none of this would have happened. She would be healthy now. I hope she recovers. I would like to be with her again, but I don’t believe it’s possible. If she recovers, she will become a different person, and I will remain in the past—like all the rest of the delusion. Hug her for me.”

The recording ended. Karina was crying. The doctor began to speak:

“Unfortunately, we do not fully understand your diagnosis. My colleagues and I hope there is no structural personality breakdown. Most likely, you were experiencing an identity crisis even before meeting Henry. That contributed to your radical actions and transformation. After Henry’s death, PTSD developed, and you began rewriting your personality through a severe delusional disorder. These sessions return you to reality, but within a couple of days you reconstruct your own version again. And even within the logic of your narrative, you weave in new details. For example, in your story, this very recorder appeared. You watched a Scorsese film…”

“Shutter Island,” Karina said automatically.

“So you have seen it. Fortunately, lobotomy is no longer practiced. We will treat you.”