On trembling legs, I dragged myself to the bathroom, settled on the bidet, and, turning on the water, began to wash off the traces of vice. A shadow fell on me from the window. I turned my head sharply. Behind the glass on the ropes hung my acquaintance - Mister Muscle. Equipped with detergents, rags, mop, scraper and player. The window was ajar, and I heard music coming from the speaker. And Mister Muscle jerked his head to the beat and said:

- Tyts tyts tyts!

- Is it okay that I'm here a little bit of my ass?! I was outraged.

“Wash, wash, you don’t bother me,” he answered...