27-02-2026, 07:55 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-03-2026, 07:33 PM by Thunder85. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Content Warning: This story explores themes of Obedience, Rapid and Systematic Forced Feminization, Sissy Conditioning, Humiliation, Femdom, and Enemies to Submission.
Chapter 1: The Listing
The rental site freezes again.
I hit refresh, and the spinning circle mocks me.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Just one room that doesn’t look like a prison cell.”
It loads. Same nightmare: Berlin, 15 m², 950 €. I laugh under my breath. People back home swore Europe was cheap. Maybe rural Poland. Definitely not Berlin.
The fan hums behind me, blowing over half-packed boxes and an empty ramen cup. My flight’s in a week. I should be packing, not begging the internet for affordable square meters.
A notification pops up from Mom. Found anything yet?
I stare at it for a long moment, then type: Still looking. Don’t worry.
I open another tab, search again, and push the rent limit up from €350 to €400. The map finally flickers – two new listings. My pulse kicks once.
The first one’s a tiny flat on the edge of the city, practically Brandenburg. Travel time: an hour and a half each way. Still, I click it open. The description looks fine until the last line: Electricity, water, heating, internet not included – plus €100.
I close it with a sigh.
The second listing looks better – same price, closer to the ring. Then I see the title: WG – only for females.
I laugh once, quietly, and close that one too. The map goes empty again.
The laptop screen dims. In its reflection, I look like I’m already somewhere else – tired, broke, and halfway gone.
I push the laptop shut and sit back. My eyes ache from staring at rental ads, tiny rooms, impossible numbers.
On the desk beside me lies the acceptance letter – Kaufmännische Ausbildung, Berlin. When it arrived a month back, I’d read it three times just to believe it was real. A three-year program with one of the biggest retail chains in Germany. Study plus on-the-job training. A future. Even pays 850 Euros per month. Not bad for a 21-year-old.
Two years of late-night lessons, grammar drills, and awkward Zoom conversations in German – finally worth it. The language that once sounded impossible is now my ticket out.
For a few weeks I’d floated on that feeling, convinced everything was finally lining up.
Back then, €850 a month had sounded fine. “Enough to live on,” someone online had written. They’d skipped the part about rent in Berlin.
I grab a notepad and start doing the math again.
850 gross minus taxes, health insurance, pension – that leaves around 730 net.
Transport, groceries, basic phone plan, maybe 325 or 350 if I live like a monk.
So… around 350 for rent. Maybe 400 if I don’t eat out. I circle the number. It looks smaller every time.
Tulsa rent never felt cheap, but Berlin makes it look like paradise. Everyone here kept telling me I’d love Germany – safer, cleaner, great social system. They forgot to mention “no apartments left.”
One week to find a place or I’ll be landing with nowhere to sleep. I imagine walking out of the airport, dragging my suitcase past people who actually know where they’re going. The fact that I still don’t have a place to live hits me like a stone.
I scbang together dinner from what’s left in the fridge – half a packet of instant noodles, one egg, a splash of soy sauce. It tastes mostly like salt and panic.
Afterward I step outside. The Tulsa night is warm and empty, a single streetlamp buzzing above the sidewalk. I walk a few blocks, thinking – or maybe praying – that something will work out, that Berlin will somehow open a door for me.
When I get back, the apartment is silent. I open the laptop again, just to check. No new listings.
I shut it down and stare at the dark screen until my reflection blurs, then crawl into bed, still counting euros in my head.
***
The ringtone drags me out of sleep. Mom’s name glows on the screen.
“Morning, sweetheart. Any luck?”
I rub my eyes, sit up. “Not yet,” I say, my voice still rough.
A pause. I can hear the clatter of her coffee mug somewhere on the other end. “You’ve been looking every day, right? You can’t fly over there without a place lined up.”
“I know, Mom. Something will come up.”
I say it gently, the way you talk to calm a worried parent, not because I believe it.
When the call ends, the room feels smaller. Morning light pushes through the blinds; my suitcase sits half-open by the wall. I open the laptop again, more out of habit than hope.
The page loads.
New listing.
I blink once to make sure I’m not imagining it.
400 euros. Almost the far edge of what I can pay, but technically within reach.
My heart kicks as I open the page, afraid it’ll vanish before I can even read the details.
The ad looks ordinary at first – a couple of photos, bright daylight pouring into neat rooms, pale wood floors, white walls, plants by the window.
Two-bedroom apartment in central Berlin, close to public transport and shops. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, plus a small study currently used as a guest room – available for rent.
Four hundred euros a month.
Warm rent, it says – all extra costs included.
I scroll down, reading the usual German house rules I’ve learned by heart from every other listing:
no noise between ten p.m. and six a.m.,
no smoking in the apartment,
no pets,
separate the trash,
keep the stairwell clean,
be considerate of the neighbors.
Nothing strange.
Nothing impossible.
For once, something that might actually work.
My training place is only twenty minutes away by train – practically next door compared to everything else I’ve seen.
For the first time in days, I feel something close to hope.
Then I notice there’s more text under Additional notes.
I scroll down.
Two female tenants already living there, looking for a third person to share the rent. Non-smokers, both working, friendly atmosphere, shared cleaning schedule.
The next line catches my eye:
Ideally female (but open-minded male welcome). Must be respectful of household routines.
Fair enough.
Next line:
Household harmony is important to us – we value cleanliness, order, and a pleasant appearance at home.
I read it twice. Pleasant appearance? That’s a new one.
I tell myself it’s fine. It’s affordable, close to work, and available now – three things I haven’t seen in one listing before.
Still, something about pleasant appearance sticks in my head as I scroll back to the photos.
Everything looks spotless. Minimalist. Almost staged.
I hover over the Contact button, feeling my heartbeat in my fingertips. I click it and the little form pops up.
For a minute I just stare at it, wondering what to write. Most people probably paste something generic – Hi, I’m interested, is the room still available? But the listing had that line about household harmony and pleasant appearance. I don’t want to sound careless.
So I type:
Hello, my name is Ethan. I’m moving to Berlin next week to start an Ausbildung in retail. I’m tidy, quiet, non-smoker, and very respectful of shared spaces and routines. I’d be happy to follow any house rules you have. Thank you for considering me.
I read it twice, trying to decide if it sounds desperate or polite, then hit Send.
The screen refreshes and a small line appears under the ad: 4 people have already applied.
I let out a low whistle.
So fast.
By tonight it’ll probably be twenty.
What chance do I have?
I close the laptop, wash my face, throw on a T-shirt, and make instant coffee and toast. The day feels slow, heavy, like it’s waiting for something that won’t happen.
After breakfast I check again – nothing.
No new message.
No new listings.
Just the same map, the same empty hope.
The day crawls, one slow minute at a time.
I refresh the rental site every few minutes, and get the same nothing each time. By afternoon I’ve given up pretending to be productive. I watch random YouTube videos, scroll through forums about moving to Germany, even start a list of things I’ll need to buy once I’m there. It’s short – because I can afford almost nothing.
When night finally comes, I open the laptop one last time before bed.
And there it is.
A new message.
My stomach drops as I click it open.
Dear Ethan,
Thank you for your application and for taking the time to read our terms carefully. It’s good to know you’re comfortable with them.
As mentioned, two female tenants already live in the apartment. To be sure everyone feels at ease, we begin with a limited three-month contract. After that, based on feedback from the other tenants, we’ll decide whether to extend your stay.
If this arrangement sounds agreeable, please find the rental agreement attached. Once signed, kindly return a copy and transfer the first month’s rent along with the €800 deposit to the account listed below.
Kind regards,
– Claudia Bergmann
I read it twice, afraid the words will disappear.
Three-month trial. Feedback. Sure, a little unusual, but fair enough – they don’t know me.
I can’t stop grinning at the screen. For a second I just sit there, rereading the message like it might vanish if I blink too long. After days of rejection and silence, somebody finally said yes.
I download the attachment and read it. It’s exactly what the email described: the usual rental conditions, the same rules listed online, and the three-month clause written in plain German and English. Nothing shady. Nothing hidden.
I print it, sign where it says Tenant, take a photo with my phone, and email it back before I can overthink. Then I open my banking app. The rent plus deposit – twelve hundred euros total – nearly empties my account, but I press Send anyway. Better poor and housed than broke and homeless.
The confirmation pops up. Done.
I actually jump up from the chair and let out a short laugh. “Finally!”
My voice bounces off the walls.
I pace the room, smiling like an idiot. Three months – okay, it’s temporary, but it’s something. A real place, in a good area, close to work. If I behave, if I fit in, they’ll extend it. I’ll make sure they do.
I glance at the flight details pinned to the corkboard. Six days left.
For the first time, Berlin doesn’t feel like a dream anymore. It feels real – and waiting.
Still, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers about those household rules, that line about “pleasant appearance.”
I shake it off. Every shared flat has its quirks.
Right now, I just have a home.
Chapter 2: The Condition
The train slides into the station just after noon. For a moment I stay in my seat, watching people rush out before me, coats brushing past, backpacks swinging. Berlin, finally.
Outside, the air feels cleaner, sharper, colder than Tulsa’s – even though it’s already the end of March. Everyone moves fast and looks like they know exactly where they’re going. I try to keep up, suitcase bumping behind me as announcements echo in German.
The first thing I notice is the different kind of noise – no horns or pickup trucks, just trams sliding past and snippets of half-heard conversations. The second is how people seem to move with purpose – bikes everywhere, lots of people walking, even escalators with an unspoken rule about which side to stand on.
I find the right U-Bahn line and double-check the stop on my phone. Twenty-five minutes, two changes. The map looks simple enough; I still manage to take the wrong exit once.
When I finally surface at my station, the street feels narrower than I expect – old buildings with high windows and pastel facades, little cafés wedged between them. Somewhere down the block, the address from the rental agreement waits.
Dragging my suitcase along the cobblestones, I feel a strange mix of exhaustion and relief. After weeks of screens and numbers and doubt, I’m here.
At the corner I spot the building: four stories, pale yellow paint, ivy climbing one side. The kind of place that looks ordinary until you remember it’s yours.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and roll my suitcase toward the door.
The front door is heavier than it looks. I pull it open and step into a narrow hallway. Rows of mailboxes line one wall, each with a different name. Mine isn’t there yet. The floor tiles are worn but shiny, and someone’s left a small umbrella stand near the entrance, pale pink with daisies on it.
I drag my suitcase toward the stairs. The wheels rattle on the stone steps, echoing up through the stairwell. Every landing has a tall window; potted plants sit on the sills, catching the weak early-spring light.
My arms ache by the time I reach the third floor. This is it. I stop to catch my breath.
The door in front of me is painted white. A small welcome mat lies in front of it, patterned with pastel stripes. There’s even a little sign that says Home is where the heart is.
I smile despite myself. It looks… nice. Nicer than I expected for four hundred euros.
I set my suitcase down, wipe my palms on my jeans, and press the buzzer. Somewhere inside, a bell rings.
The door opens after a few seconds.
Two women stand there.
The first looks around twenty-five: a little taller, dark-blond hair tied back neatly, grey eyes sharp in a way that suggests she misses nothing.
The second looks a couple of years younger, with chestnut-brown hair in a loose ponytail and bright green eyes that brighten her whole face. She has that soft, natural beauty that’s impossible not to notice.
“You must be Ethan,” the taller one says. Her accent’s German but light. “I’m Sophie.”
The other waves. “And I’m Mia. Hi.” Her voice has that warm London edge that makes everything sound friendly.
“Hi,” I manage, suddenly aware that I’ve probably been staring.
They both look effortlessly put-together and beautiful – simple clothes, neat, like people who know how to live properly. Behind them, the hallway glows with pale light and smells faintly of perfume and something floral, maybe fabric softener.
“Come in,” Sophie says, stepping aside. “You must be tired from the trip.”
I pull my suitcase inside and close the door. The flat feels bright, warmer than I expected, quiet except for the soft hum of something baking in the oven.
“This is the living room,” Mia says, leading the way.
The moment I step in, I can tell it’s a woman’s space. Pastel cushions, candles, plants, framed quotes on the wall. Even the blanket dbangd over the couch looks like it’s been folded with intent.
“It’s… nice,” I say, trying not to sound surprised.
They laugh softly and exchange a quick glance.
“We actually asked Claudia for a female tenant. Someone who’d… blend with the vibe here,” Sophie says.
Mia nods. “Yeah. But I guess no female wanted the tiny study room. So…” She gestures lightly toward me, teasing. “We got you.”
They both laugh softly, not unkindly.
Mia turns back to me, gentler this time. “Don’t stress about it. It’s only three months. You’ll settle in with us, or if it doesn’t work, you can always find another place. No pressure.”
Her tone is light, but it lands somewhere between a joke and a rule.
I nod, smiling even though my stomach tightens.
No pressure? They have no idea how hard it was to find any place.
Mia leads me through the hallway, and the scent follows us, that same soft floral smell mixed with something sweet, like vanilla.
The whole place looks like a lifestyle photo: pale wood floors, white walls, plants in every corner, and those little decorative things that seem to appear only in women’s apartments – tiny candles, framed postcards, a jar filled with seashells.
Even the kitchen feels more like a café than a kitchen. Matching cups hanging in a row, pastel dish towels, a bowl of fruit arranged like a painting. The air smells faintly of coffee and something baking.
“We try to keep everything light,” Sophie says. “Clean, calm, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say, pretending I do.
They open one door after another – two bedrooms, one on each side of the corridor. Both are tidy, bright, full of small touches: perfume bottles, scarves, notebooks, the kind of organized chaos that looks effortless.
“This one’s mine,” Mia says, nudging the door closed again with her foot. “Sophie’s is that one.”
Then she points to a smaller door at the end of the hall.
“And that’s yours.”
I step inside.
It’s barely big enough for a single bed, a small desk, and a narrow wardrobe. The ceiling feels lower, maybe because of how close everything is.
The bedspread is pink with a simple pattern, probably leftover from when this was a guest room.
A tiny window faces the courtyard; light filters through a white curtain that smells faintly of detergent.
“Where am I supposed to keep my clothes?” I ask, half laughing.
Sophie smiles politely. “You really shouldn’t keep too many things. There’s really no room here. And we like to keep the shared areas uncluttered. Personal things stay in personal rooms.”
“Right,” I say, still smiling, but inside I’m already worrying where to put my things. I don’t own much, yet the room feels too small even for what I have.
I roll my suitcase to the corner and look around again. It’s small, sure. But it’s mine.
“Come, let’s have some tea,” Mia says.
She puts the kettle on while Sophie clears a couple of mugs from the counter. I stand there, unsure whether to help or get out of the way.
“Sit,” Sophie says, nodding toward a stool. “You’ve had a long trip.”
The kitchen fills with the soft sound of boiling water and the faint scent of mint tea.
“So, Ausbildung in retail, right?” Mia asks. “Where exactly?”
“Near Alexanderplatz,” I say. “Starts tomorrow.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Central Berlin. Lucky.”
“I guess so. It’s a three-year thing, so… I’ll be around for a while.”
Sophie smiles slightly. “That’ll depend on how well you fit in here. The agreement’s initially only for three months, remember.”
They exchange a quick look I can’t quite read.
I nod quickly, pretending it’s just a casual comment, but something in her tone makes it sound more like a test than a reminder.
Then Mia changes the subject.
“Claudia told us you’re from the States. Where about?”
“Oklahoma. Tulsa.”
“That’s… the middle, right?” Mia grins. “Cowboys and wide open spaces?”
“Pretty much. And not many trams.”
She laughs.
When the kettle clicks off, Mia pours three cups and slides one toward me.
“Welcome to Berlin,” she says.
“Thanks.” I take a sip. It’s hot and sweet and tastes oddly like relief.
The three of us talk for a while – small things: where they work, how long they’ve lived together, the best bakeries nearby. Sophie’s been with her company for two years, something to do with logistics. Mia’s a designer, just started a new job.
They’re friendly, warm, even funny. Still, under it all, I feel a quiet pressure – the sense that I’ve just joined a world already running on rules I don’t know yet.
When we finish the tea, Sophie checks the time. “We’ll let you unpack. We both need to get back to work.”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks again for letting me move in.”
“No problem,” Mia says with a grin.
They leave me in the little hallway, mug still warm in my hands. For a second I just stand there, listening to their doors close, wondering which rules I’ll have to learn next.
The flat goes quiet after their doors click shut.
I carry my mug to the sink, rinse it, and leave it upside down on the rack, copying how they’d done it earlier. Then I retreat to my room.
The little space looks even smaller now that my suitcase is open. I fold the few clothes I own: two pairs of jeans, a few shirts, my underwear. I stack them neatly in the narrow wardrobe. It fills almost instantly.
I try to hang my jacket, but the rail is so short it barely fits. I laugh quietly. “Guess that’s everything.”
Through the wall I can hear faint movement – drawers closing, the creak of floorboards, soft music. Somehow the whole apartment smells like fabric softener again. It’s comforting and strange at the same time.
I sit on the bed and glance around. The curtain moves slightly with the draft, brushing the windowsill. A framed print of flowers hangs above the desk. I wonder if it’s theirs or if Claudia left it there.
For the first time since leaving Tulsa, I let myself relax. My body sinks into the thin mattress, my head buzzing from exhaustion and too many new things.
I scroll through my phone, check messages from Mom, type a quick one back: Made it. Place looks nice. Room’s small but fine. Don’t worry.
She replies almost immediately: So proud of you. Take care, sweetheart.
I smile at the screen.
It’s only late-afternoon, but the jet lag makes it feel later. I stare at the ceiling, the faint scent of perfume in the air, and think: three months. That’s all I need to prove I can fit in.
Chapter 1: The Listing
The rental site freezes again.
I hit refresh, and the spinning circle mocks me.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Just one room that doesn’t look like a prison cell.”
It loads. Same nightmare: Berlin, 15 m², 950 €. I laugh under my breath. People back home swore Europe was cheap. Maybe rural Poland. Definitely not Berlin.
The fan hums behind me, blowing over half-packed boxes and an empty ramen cup. My flight’s in a week. I should be packing, not begging the internet for affordable square meters.
A notification pops up from Mom. Found anything yet?
I stare at it for a long moment, then type: Still looking. Don’t worry.
I open another tab, search again, and push the rent limit up from €350 to €400. The map finally flickers – two new listings. My pulse kicks once.
The first one’s a tiny flat on the edge of the city, practically Brandenburg. Travel time: an hour and a half each way. Still, I click it open. The description looks fine until the last line: Electricity, water, heating, internet not included – plus €100.
I close it with a sigh.
The second listing looks better – same price, closer to the ring. Then I see the title: WG – only for females.
I laugh once, quietly, and close that one too. The map goes empty again.
The laptop screen dims. In its reflection, I look like I’m already somewhere else – tired, broke, and halfway gone.
I push the laptop shut and sit back. My eyes ache from staring at rental ads, tiny rooms, impossible numbers.
On the desk beside me lies the acceptance letter – Kaufmännische Ausbildung, Berlin. When it arrived a month back, I’d read it three times just to believe it was real. A three-year program with one of the biggest retail chains in Germany. Study plus on-the-job training. A future. Even pays 850 Euros per month. Not bad for a 21-year-old.
Two years of late-night lessons, grammar drills, and awkward Zoom conversations in German – finally worth it. The language that once sounded impossible is now my ticket out.
For a few weeks I’d floated on that feeling, convinced everything was finally lining up.
Back then, €850 a month had sounded fine. “Enough to live on,” someone online had written. They’d skipped the part about rent in Berlin.
I grab a notepad and start doing the math again.
850 gross minus taxes, health insurance, pension – that leaves around 730 net.
Transport, groceries, basic phone plan, maybe 325 or 350 if I live like a monk.
So… around 350 for rent. Maybe 400 if I don’t eat out. I circle the number. It looks smaller every time.
Tulsa rent never felt cheap, but Berlin makes it look like paradise. Everyone here kept telling me I’d love Germany – safer, cleaner, great social system. They forgot to mention “no apartments left.”
One week to find a place or I’ll be landing with nowhere to sleep. I imagine walking out of the airport, dragging my suitcase past people who actually know where they’re going. The fact that I still don’t have a place to live hits me like a stone.
I scbang together dinner from what’s left in the fridge – half a packet of instant noodles, one egg, a splash of soy sauce. It tastes mostly like salt and panic.
Afterward I step outside. The Tulsa night is warm and empty, a single streetlamp buzzing above the sidewalk. I walk a few blocks, thinking – or maybe praying – that something will work out, that Berlin will somehow open a door for me.
When I get back, the apartment is silent. I open the laptop again, just to check. No new listings.
I shut it down and stare at the dark screen until my reflection blurs, then crawl into bed, still counting euros in my head.
***
The ringtone drags me out of sleep. Mom’s name glows on the screen.
“Morning, sweetheart. Any luck?”
I rub my eyes, sit up. “Not yet,” I say, my voice still rough.
A pause. I can hear the clatter of her coffee mug somewhere on the other end. “You’ve been looking every day, right? You can’t fly over there without a place lined up.”
“I know, Mom. Something will come up.”
I say it gently, the way you talk to calm a worried parent, not because I believe it.
When the call ends, the room feels smaller. Morning light pushes through the blinds; my suitcase sits half-open by the wall. I open the laptop again, more out of habit than hope.
The page loads.
New listing.
I blink once to make sure I’m not imagining it.
400 euros. Almost the far edge of what I can pay, but technically within reach.
My heart kicks as I open the page, afraid it’ll vanish before I can even read the details.
The ad looks ordinary at first – a couple of photos, bright daylight pouring into neat rooms, pale wood floors, white walls, plants by the window.
Two-bedroom apartment in central Berlin, close to public transport and shops. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, plus a small study currently used as a guest room – available for rent.
Four hundred euros a month.
Warm rent, it says – all extra costs included.
I scroll down, reading the usual German house rules I’ve learned by heart from every other listing:
no noise between ten p.m. and six a.m.,
no smoking in the apartment,
no pets,
separate the trash,
keep the stairwell clean,
be considerate of the neighbors.
Nothing strange.
Nothing impossible.
For once, something that might actually work.
My training place is only twenty minutes away by train – practically next door compared to everything else I’ve seen.
For the first time in days, I feel something close to hope.
Then I notice there’s more text under Additional notes.
I scroll down.
Two female tenants already living there, looking for a third person to share the rent. Non-smokers, both working, friendly atmosphere, shared cleaning schedule.
The next line catches my eye:
Ideally female (but open-minded male welcome). Must be respectful of household routines.
Fair enough.
Next line:
Household harmony is important to us – we value cleanliness, order, and a pleasant appearance at home.
I read it twice. Pleasant appearance? That’s a new one.
I tell myself it’s fine. It’s affordable, close to work, and available now – three things I haven’t seen in one listing before.
Still, something about pleasant appearance sticks in my head as I scroll back to the photos.
Everything looks spotless. Minimalist. Almost staged.
I hover over the Contact button, feeling my heartbeat in my fingertips. I click it and the little form pops up.
For a minute I just stare at it, wondering what to write. Most people probably paste something generic – Hi, I’m interested, is the room still available? But the listing had that line about household harmony and pleasant appearance. I don’t want to sound careless.
So I type:
Hello, my name is Ethan. I’m moving to Berlin next week to start an Ausbildung in retail. I’m tidy, quiet, non-smoker, and very respectful of shared spaces and routines. I’d be happy to follow any house rules you have. Thank you for considering me.
I read it twice, trying to decide if it sounds desperate or polite, then hit Send.
The screen refreshes and a small line appears under the ad: 4 people have already applied.
I let out a low whistle.
So fast.
By tonight it’ll probably be twenty.
What chance do I have?
I close the laptop, wash my face, throw on a T-shirt, and make instant coffee and toast. The day feels slow, heavy, like it’s waiting for something that won’t happen.
After breakfast I check again – nothing.
No new message.
No new listings.
Just the same map, the same empty hope.
The day crawls, one slow minute at a time.
I refresh the rental site every few minutes, and get the same nothing each time. By afternoon I’ve given up pretending to be productive. I watch random YouTube videos, scroll through forums about moving to Germany, even start a list of things I’ll need to buy once I’m there. It’s short – because I can afford almost nothing.
When night finally comes, I open the laptop one last time before bed.
And there it is.
A new message.
My stomach drops as I click it open.
Dear Ethan,
Thank you for your application and for taking the time to read our terms carefully. It’s good to know you’re comfortable with them.
As mentioned, two female tenants already live in the apartment. To be sure everyone feels at ease, we begin with a limited three-month contract. After that, based on feedback from the other tenants, we’ll decide whether to extend your stay.
If this arrangement sounds agreeable, please find the rental agreement attached. Once signed, kindly return a copy and transfer the first month’s rent along with the €800 deposit to the account listed below.
Kind regards,
– Claudia Bergmann
I read it twice, afraid the words will disappear.
Three-month trial. Feedback. Sure, a little unusual, but fair enough – they don’t know me.
I can’t stop grinning at the screen. For a second I just sit there, rereading the message like it might vanish if I blink too long. After days of rejection and silence, somebody finally said yes.
I download the attachment and read it. It’s exactly what the email described: the usual rental conditions, the same rules listed online, and the three-month clause written in plain German and English. Nothing shady. Nothing hidden.
I print it, sign where it says Tenant, take a photo with my phone, and email it back before I can overthink. Then I open my banking app. The rent plus deposit – twelve hundred euros total – nearly empties my account, but I press Send anyway. Better poor and housed than broke and homeless.
The confirmation pops up. Done.
I actually jump up from the chair and let out a short laugh. “Finally!”
My voice bounces off the walls.
I pace the room, smiling like an idiot. Three months – okay, it’s temporary, but it’s something. A real place, in a good area, close to work. If I behave, if I fit in, they’ll extend it. I’ll make sure they do.
I glance at the flight details pinned to the corkboard. Six days left.
For the first time, Berlin doesn’t feel like a dream anymore. It feels real – and waiting.
Still, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers about those household rules, that line about “pleasant appearance.”
I shake it off. Every shared flat has its quirks.
Right now, I just have a home.
Chapter 2: The Condition
The train slides into the station just after noon. For a moment I stay in my seat, watching people rush out before me, coats brushing past, backpacks swinging. Berlin, finally.
Outside, the air feels cleaner, sharper, colder than Tulsa’s – even though it’s already the end of March. Everyone moves fast and looks like they know exactly where they’re going. I try to keep up, suitcase bumping behind me as announcements echo in German.
The first thing I notice is the different kind of noise – no horns or pickup trucks, just trams sliding past and snippets of half-heard conversations. The second is how people seem to move with purpose – bikes everywhere, lots of people walking, even escalators with an unspoken rule about which side to stand on.
I find the right U-Bahn line and double-check the stop on my phone. Twenty-five minutes, two changes. The map looks simple enough; I still manage to take the wrong exit once.
When I finally surface at my station, the street feels narrower than I expect – old buildings with high windows and pastel facades, little cafés wedged between them. Somewhere down the block, the address from the rental agreement waits.
Dragging my suitcase along the cobblestones, I feel a strange mix of exhaustion and relief. After weeks of screens and numbers and doubt, I’m here.
At the corner I spot the building: four stories, pale yellow paint, ivy climbing one side. The kind of place that looks ordinary until you remember it’s yours.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and roll my suitcase toward the door.
The front door is heavier than it looks. I pull it open and step into a narrow hallway. Rows of mailboxes line one wall, each with a different name. Mine isn’t there yet. The floor tiles are worn but shiny, and someone’s left a small umbrella stand near the entrance, pale pink with daisies on it.
I drag my suitcase toward the stairs. The wheels rattle on the stone steps, echoing up through the stairwell. Every landing has a tall window; potted plants sit on the sills, catching the weak early-spring light.
My arms ache by the time I reach the third floor. This is it. I stop to catch my breath.
The door in front of me is painted white. A small welcome mat lies in front of it, patterned with pastel stripes. There’s even a little sign that says Home is where the heart is.
I smile despite myself. It looks… nice. Nicer than I expected for four hundred euros.
I set my suitcase down, wipe my palms on my jeans, and press the buzzer. Somewhere inside, a bell rings.
The door opens after a few seconds.
Two women stand there.
The first looks around twenty-five: a little taller, dark-blond hair tied back neatly, grey eyes sharp in a way that suggests she misses nothing.
The second looks a couple of years younger, with chestnut-brown hair in a loose ponytail and bright green eyes that brighten her whole face. She has that soft, natural beauty that’s impossible not to notice.
“You must be Ethan,” the taller one says. Her accent’s German but light. “I’m Sophie.”
The other waves. “And I’m Mia. Hi.” Her voice has that warm London edge that makes everything sound friendly.
“Hi,” I manage, suddenly aware that I’ve probably been staring.
They both look effortlessly put-together and beautiful – simple clothes, neat, like people who know how to live properly. Behind them, the hallway glows with pale light and smells faintly of perfume and something floral, maybe fabric softener.
“Come in,” Sophie says, stepping aside. “You must be tired from the trip.”
I pull my suitcase inside and close the door. The flat feels bright, warmer than I expected, quiet except for the soft hum of something baking in the oven.
“This is the living room,” Mia says, leading the way.
The moment I step in, I can tell it’s a woman’s space. Pastel cushions, candles, plants, framed quotes on the wall. Even the blanket dbangd over the couch looks like it’s been folded with intent.
“It’s… nice,” I say, trying not to sound surprised.
They laugh softly and exchange a quick glance.
“We actually asked Claudia for a female tenant. Someone who’d… blend with the vibe here,” Sophie says.
Mia nods. “Yeah. But I guess no female wanted the tiny study room. So…” She gestures lightly toward me, teasing. “We got you.”
They both laugh softly, not unkindly.
Mia turns back to me, gentler this time. “Don’t stress about it. It’s only three months. You’ll settle in with us, or if it doesn’t work, you can always find another place. No pressure.”
Her tone is light, but it lands somewhere between a joke and a rule.
I nod, smiling even though my stomach tightens.
No pressure? They have no idea how hard it was to find any place.
Mia leads me through the hallway, and the scent follows us, that same soft floral smell mixed with something sweet, like vanilla.
The whole place looks like a lifestyle photo: pale wood floors, white walls, plants in every corner, and those little decorative things that seem to appear only in women’s apartments – tiny candles, framed postcards, a jar filled with seashells.
Even the kitchen feels more like a café than a kitchen. Matching cups hanging in a row, pastel dish towels, a bowl of fruit arranged like a painting. The air smells faintly of coffee and something baking.
“We try to keep everything light,” Sophie says. “Clean, calm, you know.”
“Yeah,” I say, pretending I do.
They open one door after another – two bedrooms, one on each side of the corridor. Both are tidy, bright, full of small touches: perfume bottles, scarves, notebooks, the kind of organized chaos that looks effortless.
“This one’s mine,” Mia says, nudging the door closed again with her foot. “Sophie’s is that one.”
Then she points to a smaller door at the end of the hall.
“And that’s yours.”
I step inside.
It’s barely big enough for a single bed, a small desk, and a narrow wardrobe. The ceiling feels lower, maybe because of how close everything is.
The bedspread is pink with a simple pattern, probably leftover from when this was a guest room.
A tiny window faces the courtyard; light filters through a white curtain that smells faintly of detergent.
“Where am I supposed to keep my clothes?” I ask, half laughing.
Sophie smiles politely. “You really shouldn’t keep too many things. There’s really no room here. And we like to keep the shared areas uncluttered. Personal things stay in personal rooms.”
“Right,” I say, still smiling, but inside I’m already worrying where to put my things. I don’t own much, yet the room feels too small even for what I have.
I roll my suitcase to the corner and look around again. It’s small, sure. But it’s mine.
“Come, let’s have some tea,” Mia says.
She puts the kettle on while Sophie clears a couple of mugs from the counter. I stand there, unsure whether to help or get out of the way.
“Sit,” Sophie says, nodding toward a stool. “You’ve had a long trip.”
The kitchen fills with the soft sound of boiling water and the faint scent of mint tea.
“So, Ausbildung in retail, right?” Mia asks. “Where exactly?”
“Near Alexanderplatz,” I say. “Starts tomorrow.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Central Berlin. Lucky.”
“I guess so. It’s a three-year thing, so… I’ll be around for a while.”
Sophie smiles slightly. “That’ll depend on how well you fit in here. The agreement’s initially only for three months, remember.”
They exchange a quick look I can’t quite read.
I nod quickly, pretending it’s just a casual comment, but something in her tone makes it sound more like a test than a reminder.
Then Mia changes the subject.
“Claudia told us you’re from the States. Where about?”
“Oklahoma. Tulsa.”
“That’s… the middle, right?” Mia grins. “Cowboys and wide open spaces?”
“Pretty much. And not many trams.”
She laughs.
When the kettle clicks off, Mia pours three cups and slides one toward me.
“Welcome to Berlin,” she says.
“Thanks.” I take a sip. It’s hot and sweet and tastes oddly like relief.
The three of us talk for a while – small things: where they work, how long they’ve lived together, the best bakeries nearby. Sophie’s been with her company for two years, something to do with logistics. Mia’s a designer, just started a new job.
They’re friendly, warm, even funny. Still, under it all, I feel a quiet pressure – the sense that I’ve just joined a world already running on rules I don’t know yet.
When we finish the tea, Sophie checks the time. “We’ll let you unpack. We both need to get back to work.”
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks again for letting me move in.”
“No problem,” Mia says with a grin.
They leave me in the little hallway, mug still warm in my hands. For a second I just stand there, listening to their doors close, wondering which rules I’ll have to learn next.
The flat goes quiet after their doors click shut.
I carry my mug to the sink, rinse it, and leave it upside down on the rack, copying how they’d done it earlier. Then I retreat to my room.
The little space looks even smaller now that my suitcase is open. I fold the few clothes I own: two pairs of jeans, a few shirts, my underwear. I stack them neatly in the narrow wardrobe. It fills almost instantly.
I try to hang my jacket, but the rail is so short it barely fits. I laugh quietly. “Guess that’s everything.”
Through the wall I can hear faint movement – drawers closing, the creak of floorboards, soft music. Somehow the whole apartment smells like fabric softener again. It’s comforting and strange at the same time.
I sit on the bed and glance around. The curtain moves slightly with the draft, brushing the windowsill. A framed print of flowers hangs above the desk. I wonder if it’s theirs or if Claudia left it there.
For the first time since leaving Tulsa, I let myself relax. My body sinks into the thin mattress, my head buzzing from exhaustion and too many new things.
I scroll through my phone, check messages from Mom, type a quick one back: Made it. Place looks nice. Room’s small but fine. Don’t worry.
She replies almost immediately: So proud of you. Take care, sweetheart.
I smile at the screen.
It’s only late-afternoon, but the jet lag makes it feel later. I stare at the ceiling, the faint scent of perfume in the air, and think: three months. That’s all I need to prove I can fit in.
Experienced Bull.Techie by Profession and Bull by Passion.BDSM is my Obsession.Enjoying being a DOM
Ass Lover|Doggy Style|Taller Women| Biting the hell out
Interested in discussions related to BDSM, Cuckoldry,Polygamy, Forced Sex
For any personalized discussion ping me in Hangout-apply2dreams
Ass Lover|Doggy Style|Taller Women| Biting the hell out
Interested in discussions related to BDSM, Cuckoldry,Polygamy, Forced Sex
For any personalized discussion ping me in Hangout-apply2dreams
![[+]](https://xossipy.com/themes/sharepoint/collapse_collapsed.png)