Countess Hannelore has employed me as her right hand in the Young Adults Development Centre. Mothers and fiancées place young adult men there for training in absolute submission.
By the end of my first week at the Young Adult Development Centre, I had begun to settle into my role with surprising ease. Countess Hannelore, ever composed and incisive, had thrown me into the deep end with barely a word of instruction. But I understood her intent: she was testing me for resilience, initiative, and commitment.
Our days followed a strict and comforting rhythm. Breakfast was at 7:30 a.m. sharp, lunch at 1:00 p.m., and dinner at 6:30 p.m.. Each meal was a ritual in itself, held in the large, vaulted dining hall with its polished floors. Countess Hannelore and I sat at a small, elegantly set table, always opposite one another, while the participants knelt cross-legged on mats. They ate in silence, their plates balanced on their laps, waiting for our signal to begin.
Rotating participants performed service. Any slip in posture, timing, or etiquette was immediately corrected—always with the cane, always without delay. I had learned to deliver strokes with calm authority. A moment of discomfort, a line of red on the thigh, and a quiet “Thank you, young mistress” was all it took to ensure improvement.
Outside mealtimes, I oversaw the kitchen. The countess had run it herself until my arrival, but now she entrusted it to me. I brought structure to the chaos by modelling the kitchen brigade on the rules of Escoffier. There were now clear roles: commis, sous-chefs, stewards. My commands were short, and my expectations were high.
“Wash. Wipe. Present. Wait.” The boys learned to respond within seconds. Hesitation meant the cane. They began to anticipate my instructions, eager to please. I kept a discipline ledger noting every infraction, no matter how small.
One afternoon, a participant, named Guillaume, left the scullery light on and neglected to clear his prep bowl. I summoned him.
“Guillaume,” I said coolly, “what have you forgotten again?”
He dropped his eyes. “The bowl, young mistress. And the light.”
“Report to the south corridor.”
He bowed slightly and left the kitchen. Minutes later, I found him in position—bent over, hands clasped around his knees, back straight.
“Five strokes. Three for waste, two for negligence,” I said, then proceeded to deliver them slowly, letting each one register.
He didn’t flinch. He whispered his thanks when I was done. I saw a change in him after that. He started checking twice, wiping twice. That lesson would last him a lifetime.
In the evenings, I studied. Countess Hannelore had given me access to the centre’s private library—an eclectic mix of works on dominance and submission, the history of matriarchal societies, behavioural theory, and monastic discipline. She would sometimes quiz me abruptly over dinner.
“What do you make of the Carthusian method of enforced silence?” she asked one evening, sipping her wine.
“It fosters inward focus,” I answered. “But here, it also increases suggestibility. Without chatter, obedience takes root more deeply.”
She smiled faintly. “Good. You’re beginning to understand the subtleties.”
Every Wednesday was Fasting Day, a sacred event in the centre’s weekly rhythm. The participants consumed nothing but water, and we rose before dawn to supervise their hygiene rituals. This was the only time they were permitted to remove their chastity devices—under strict supervision. We unlocked each one ourselves and inspected them thoroughly.
“Hold still,” I instructed, crouching to check for signs of irritation or poor shaving. “Too much stubble. Again. Now.”
Countess Hannelore would nod. “And remind him to thank you properly.”
“Thank you, young mistress,” came the nervous murmur.
After cleaning, we locked them again and recorded any issues in the health log. A participant’s body was not his own here—it was a project, a discipline, a mirror of his inner obedience.
As part of my role, I conducted the weekly BMI assessments. Each participant was weighed and measured. I calculated their numbers and compared them to their ideal target weight — predetermined by Countess Hannelore, who valued lean physiques for their aesthetic and symbolic power.
When a participant failed to meet his BMI goal, he was placed under what we called a controlled adjustment. This meant intensified physical labour, smaller portions, and no butter and little bread until his weight aligned with expectations. I also assigned a discipline quota: one stroke of the cane for every kilogram above the target, administered daily.
“Don’t think of this as punishment,” I told one participant quietly as I drew the cane from the rack. “Think of it as sculpting.”
“Yes, young mistress,” he whispered, eyes fixed on the floor.
Countess Hannelore was always involved in the intake of new participants. I helped by handling paperwork: medical declarations, psychological screenings, and consent documentation. Intakes were highly ceremonial.
One misty Thursday morning, I was called to the Reception Wing to assist with an intake. The air was cool and quiet, the corridors already humming with restrained energy as the participants went about their morning duties. I will give a detailed description of such an intake to give readers a better impression of how we approached such matters.
When I entered the intake parlour, Countess Hannelore was already seated, her posture perfectly still, hands folded over a leather-bound file. Across from her sat a woman in her late forties—elegantly dressed, her expression carefully composed. Beside her stood a young man, perhaps nineteen, his eyes lowered, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. He wore a clean shirt, pressed trousers, and polished shoes. He offered a fine appearance, but the fear in his body was unmistakable.
Countess Hannelore looked up and gave me a brief nod. I sat beside her and opened the intake register. The mother spoke first.
“As we discussed, Countess. He’s been... difficult. Unfocused. Secretive. He’s not ready for university or a relationship. He needs structure, discipline, the kind a mother can’t provide.”
Hannelore regarded her silently, then replied with that calm, measured tone I had come to associate with finality.
“Here, madam, we do not deal in vague intentions. From the moment your son is handed over, he becomes part of a system. He forfeits autonomy in exchange for stability and transformation. We demand total submission, and we give clarity in return.”
The mother gave a small nod, her voice tight with emotion. “I understand.”
“Then please confirm for the record: From this moment onward, your son is under my full and irrevocable guardianship.”
“I confirm, Countess.”
I passed her the formal consent declaration. She signed quickly. Hannelore then rose and stood before the young man. He looked up at her briefly. That was a mistake. Her gaze was unwavering.
“You will address me as ‘Countess’ Throughout, my feelings fluctuated. The subtle thrum of vulnerability inside me—a blend of past insecurities and present purpose—gave way to a growing confidence.
He swallowed hard. “Yes, Countess.”
“Then undress. Immediately.”
He hesitated—half a breath—and then, flustered, began to unbutton his shirt. His fingers trembled. The mother turned her face slightly away, but remained in her chair, eyes fixed on a painting above the fireplace.
Shoes, socks, belt, shirt, trousers, briefs. His body was lean but soft—nothing of an unusual nature. He folded his clothes awkwardly and looked around for a place to set them down.
“Give them to the young mistress,” Countess Hannelore said, gesturing toward me.
I took the pile without expression and placed it in a clear plastic bag. “These go with his mother,” I said calmly.
Hannelore opened the equipment cabinet and withdrew a stainless-steel collar, a small black chastity cage, and a tube of disinfectant gel. Everything was clean, cool, precise.
“Kneel,” she ordered.
He obeyed.
She rubbed the gel into her gloved fingers, then fitted the chastity cage expertly around his penis and secured it with a numbered plastic lock. His breath caught when it clicked into place.
“Stand.”
Next, she fitted the collar around his neck. It made a muted clack as it closed. No protest. Just that wide-eyed, held-in breath that so many new arrivals wore like a second skin.
“Cage,” she said to me, referring to the temporary intake kennel. I opened the grated door. Hannelore led him forward with a touch to the shoulder, and he crawled in without a word. She locked the door behind him.
“Let the mother take a final look,” she said softly.
The woman stood and walked to the cage. She knelt and touched her son’s hand through the bars. “Be brave,” she whispered. “They know what they’re doing.”
He nodded, eyes moist, lips pressed into a tight line.
We waited silently as she gathered her coat and bag. Then, with a last nod to Hannelore and a glance at me, she left.
The moment the outer door closed, Hannelore unlocked the cage, opened it, and without ceremony, pulled him up by the arm.
“On your feet. Follow.”
We led him down the long corridor to Cell 14—a modest chamber with a low bed, a ceramic washbasin, a small writing desk, and iron rings mounted into the walls and floor.
Once inside, Countess Hannelore gestured for him to stand by the wall. She retrieved the medium-length wall chain and secured one end to his collar.
“You will remain here until formally summoned,” she said. “You are under silence. No speaking, no questions, no sounds. Break that, and you will be punished without delay.”
She handed him the Participant’s Manual, a stark white binder with embossed initials: YADC.
“Read. Memorize. You will be tested.”
I remained behind for a moment after she left. He looked at me—uncertain, stripped of everything—and I saw in his face the dawning realisation of what he had entered.
“You will thank us one day,” I said quietly. “Not today. But soon.”
Then I turned and locked the cell behind me.
Another intake was completed. Another life put on its course.
Visitors were rare in our secluded Centre, tucked away in the hills like a modern-day monastery of discipline and transformation. But one crisp morning, an unexpected message came from the gatehouse: two women from England had arrived, representing what they called the Sister Initiative for Youth Realignment. Their intention was bold — to found a Young Adult Development Centre somewhere in the United Kingdom.
Countess Hannelore received them with gracious formality. Lady Prudence Featherstone and Miss Geraldine Kemp introduced themselves as former heads of boarding schools who had grown disillusioned with what they called "the laxity of postmodern education." Their eyes sparkled with curiosity and resolve.
“We’ve read of your programme,” Lady Featherstone said over morning tea. “But seeing is believing.”
Naturally, Countess Hannelore agreed to a full tour, and I accompanied them. We led them through the corridors, past the chapel, the kitchens, the lesson rooms, and finally to the East Hall, where the participants were practising silent formation drills. At the countess’s command, they froze in place. Naked they awaited inspection.
Lady Prudence stepped forward first, her posture erect, her eyes sharp. “May we inspect them individually?”
Hannelore nodded. “You may. Choose freely.”
The English ladies took their time, observing posture, reaction time, and gaze discipline. They tested core strength with planks and held their arms outstretched for shoulder endurance. They checked grooming standards: nails, feet and necklines. Miss Kemp occasionally used a small notebook to jot down remarks. One participant was asked to recite part of the rulebook — he did so without error.
What struck me most was how naturally the participants accepted the examinations, even as the English ladies leaned in close, adjusting their spectacles to inspect the trim lines of the waist and thigh. At one point, Lady Prudence made a wry remark:
“Not one drooping bottom among them. You’ve managed what most schools fail — proud bearing.”
During the evening meal, the two women joined us at our elevated table. As usual, our boys sat cross-legged on the floor, bowls in lap, perfectly still until Countess Hannelore gave the signal.
“I must say,” said Miss Kemp as she buttered her fish, “the physical condition of your young men is exemplary. Lean, disciplined, alert. And their… anatomical modesty is matched by admirable grooming.”
“Especially the testicles,” added Lady Prudence without hesitation. “There’s something about tension and tone in that region that reveals so much of a man’s pliability.”
We let them speak. They began to debate amongst themselves — comparing the typical build and disposition of Welsh and Cornish men to those of Essex and the industrial towns near Newcastle. “You can’t beat a lad from Yorkshire for endurance,” one said. “But for eager submission, I always liked the Cornish breed.” Their laughter filled the candlelit room. We smiled politely and said little.
That night, after the guests had retired to the guest wing, Hannelore turned to me and said, “They understood more than I expected. But I doubt they’ll succeed.”
She was right. We received a short thank-you letter, no more. We later heard — through a mutual contact — that their plans had met resistance from local councils and legal bodies. It seems our model, though admired, was not easily replicated.
Still, that evening had affirmed something: the Centre was real. It had presence, weight, and effect. Even seasoned English headmistresses had taken notice. And I, the once tentative young woman, now found myself at the heart of this remarkable institution — no longer just adjusting, but shaping it.
It now occurs to me that I’ve said nothing yet about the clothing — the quiet language of hierarchy and function that governed our lives at the Centre. Unlike the participants, who worked and moved through their days with no clothing as a matter of principle, nudity was never functional for me or Countess Hannelore. With one notable exception — which I shall come to in time — our garments were part of our authority, our presence, our identity.
For office work, I wore what might have passed for the discreet and formal wardrobe of a minister’s secretary. Tailored skirts brush the knee. Elegant, precisely pressed blouses in neutral tones. A silk scarf tied modestly at the neck. And always, always high heels. Not just for the height — though that, too, was symbolic — but for the sound. That clipped, precise staccato echoing over the cloister’s stone floors was like punctuation to the silence: a sign of movement, of vigilance, of command. That sound alone could shift the posture of an inattentive boy as surely as the cane.
In the mornings, I trained alongside the Countess when she led physical discipline sessions in the courtyard. It had become a habit — one I never questioned. During these sessions, I dressed for action and heat: a tiny sports shirt that barely covered me, paired with a cropped Indian-style top knotted just under my ribs. I needed a full range of motion, not only for my exertion but to maintain my role. Suppose a participant flagged or faltered during the session — lagging in push-ups, hesitating in a stance — it was my task to correct him instantly, and publicly. A single sharp strike with the cane across his buttocks was usually enough to bring full attention back to the moment.
Outside of the office and kitchen, I had developed a preference for what I privately call controlled visibility. A catsuit or tight leggings with a matching close-fitting top — modest, in that they covered nearly everything, but revealing the complete outline of my figure. It was important for my body to be seen — not as an object of desire, but as a symbol of discipline and strength. I always wore heels with these ensembles as well. Of course. That was non-negotiable. The Countess often complimented these outfits. “You understand the balance,” she once said. “Sexual presence tempered by command. Not so easy to achieve.”
On days when a participant had completed his education and was due to be returned to his mother or fiancée, I dressed for the ceremony. A tailored power suit — one that expressed force and finality — but never so flamboyant as to eclipse the Countess herself. That boundary, I respected instinctively. Whether or not the visitor had dressed for the occasion was always telling. Most of the women — especially the mothers — arrived in plain clothes, deliberately unimpressed. This was not indifference. It was calculated authority. By appearing casual at the moment of their son’s return, they reinforced who was truly in charge.
The ritual was always the same.
The young man, now fully trained, would be brought into the office nude. He had waited, as always, locked in his kennel cell — not as punishment, but as part of the final humbling. When the mother arrived, she was greeted warmly. Then I presented the son. There was often an embrace, permitted without hesitation.
The young man would then proudly hold up his hand to display the tattoo that had been inked there days before by a discreet city artist we trusted. YADC in ornate, antique script. Not a diploma. Something deeper. A mark of reshaping.
Then came my task. I would remove the steel collar. Then the chastity device. Always with clean, deliberate hands. Some mothers brought a replacement device from home. Collaring by the mother was rare. The transfer of care was precise. The mother would let her son dress, usually in the same clothes he had arrived in months earlier, now ill-fitting. She might button his shirt or hand it to him. Then it was a handshake and departure. No fanfare. Just completion.
Each farewell was quiet. But every detail — from the suits to the scarves, from the sharp sound of heels on the tile to the silence of a mother’s nod — spoke volumes about the world we had built.
When the doorman announced the arrival of a certain Arnold’s fiancée, I was in the middle of polishing the brass corners of the ceremonial record book. At first, I barely looked up — another girl, another farewell. But when I did raise my eyes, my mouth fell open, quite literally.
There, framed in the arched doorway like the heroine of some ancient epic, stood a queen. A true African queen — young, yes, perhaps twenty-three at most, but radiating such sovereign self-possession, such unwavering authority, that the room seemed to change shape around her. The Countess kept her face composed, as always, but I noticed the faint stillness in her hands, the tightening around her eyes — signs only I could read. She, too, was struck.
There was no doubt in my mind. This woman was Fulani. Not merely of Fulani descent, but aristocratic. The bearing, the gaze, the way she seemed to inhabit space rather than move through it — it was unmistakable. I had read about the Fulani women of West Africa, famed for their independence, their strength, and the singular role-reversal in their culture: it was the men who adorned themselves with jewels and makeup to attract women, while the women governed land, the households, and inheritance with iron will wrapped in silken grace.
Now here stood a Fulani princess who had not only mastered Arnold — she owned him.
She was dressed in a ceremonial gown the likes of which we had never seen in our cloistered halls. It was her traditional gala attire, likely brought to the Netherlands for university graduation or a doctoral defence — a custom at many European institutions for students from abroad to appear in the full regalia of their ethnic heritage.
Her gown was majestic: a floor-length wrapper in deep indigo silk, hand-dyed with subtle golden patterning in traditional Fulani spirals and stars. A wide sash bound her waist, woven in crimson and earth tones, pulled tight to accentuate her upright stance. Around her shoulders, a capelet of delicate cowrie shells — symbols of wealth and feminine power — shimmered softly with each breath she took. Her ears were adorned with bronze discs. Her hair was braided into an intricate crown. She carried no bag, no leash, no whip — her presence was weapon enough.
She stepped forward and greeted us formally in crystal-clear English, her voice low but commanding. She looked the Countess directly in the eyes — not challengingly, but as an equal. I felt a tremor in my stomach as I rose to open the cage where Arnold had been waiting.
He had been tense for days. Now he looked positively electrified. His eyes were wide with a mingled terror and adoration I had never seen on any participant’s face before. As I unlocked the padlock and pulled the cage open, his breath came in shallow bursts. I took his arm and led him forward.
The princess — for there was no other word for her — looked him over once, then said with perfect restraint:
“Do not touch me.”
Her voice was cold and beautiful.
Arnold froze. He had been about to reach for her.
“Kneel,” she ordered, “and kiss the hem of my robe.”
He fell immediately to his knees and pressed his lips to the golden seam of her garment.
“Once is enough,” she snapped. “Head to the ground. Beejo.”
The final word — soft, lilting — cut through the air with the sharpness of silk on bone.
Arnold obeyed without hesitation. His forehead touched the stone floor. She walked around him, then knelt just enough to trail one long, lacquered fingernail down the line of his spine, leaving behind a faint red trace. He shuddered.
Then she turned to us.
The Countess inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Arnold was somewhat slow at first,” she said with diplomatic grace, “but he has done well. As you can see, he bears the tattoo with pride. I am confident he is now in good hands.”
The princess gave a small nod.
“I… may I ask something?” I ventured, my voice unexpectedly hoarse. “What does beejo mean?”
She smiled — the kind of smile that contains secret archives of history and power.
“It’s a word in my language,” she said lightly. “An address form. You can guess its meaning, but I am not inclined to offer definitions. Certainly not in academic spaces. Our university is very…” — she made a vague flutter with her fingers — “woke and inclusive. You understand.”
I did. Entirely.
“I would like to take him now,” she added.
Of course. I stepped forward and unclipped Arnold’s collar then removed the chastity cage from between his legs. To our surprise, the princess had brought no replacement. She didn’t need one. Her silence was enough.
“To the car, beejo,” she commanded, her voice suddenly sharp as steel.
Arnold scrambled to his feet and followed her without question.
As they reached the threshold, the Countess asked with an arched brow, “Did you not bring clothing for him?”
The princess laughed — a delicate, chiming sound.
“He’ll ride in the car, and it’s only a short walk from there to our student house. It’s all part of the life he chose. The life of a beejo of a Fulani.”
She turned once, gave us a final nod of gratitude, and left — her robe flowing behind her, her bare and obedient fiancé trotting in silence a few steps behind.
I stood there for a long time after they were gone.
I knew, in that instant, that I would never forget what I had seen — not if I lived to a hundred.
In the weeks following Arnold’s departure, I felt a subtle tectonic shift within myself. Something dormant had awakened — not a new desire, but a clearer sense of what I had always been shaping, almost unconsciously: not just a programme of discipline, but a culture. And as with every true culture, it had to permeate the fabric of daily life. Rituals. Symbols. Expectations are not only enforced but embodied.
I began, unsurprisingly, in the kitchen.
My cooking lessons had always been methodical and efficient. I taught the boys knife skills, nutrition theory, the rituals of plating and portion control. But now, I realized what these moments could become. Not just a lesson, but a tableau. A choreography of hierarchy.
So I restructured the classes entirely.
They would wait in silence until I entered, in my culinary blacks: high-waisted trousers, a fitted tunic, and gloves. A heavy leather apron with embossed stitching — not functional, but ornamental, like a ceremonial tabard. My heels, of course, were not negotiable.
They stood at attention at their stations, knives laid parallel to the edge of the counter. Before a word was spoken, I would walk the length of the room in silence, inspecting the arrangement of their mise en place. One grain of rice out of place, one uneven fold in the towel — and the cane would tap the offending hand. No explanation. The rhythm of silence and correction became a lesson in itself.
Before each session, I initiated a new ritual: one of the boys would be selected to read aloud the dietary creed of the Centre — a poetic affirmation of restraint, care, and presentation. The words were memorized by heart:
“We do not eat to feed desire.
We prepare to serve.
We serve to nourish.
We nourish to discipline.”
I recited it with them, but always one step behind, to test their recall. The boy who faltered had to peel onions blindfolded for fifteen minutes — an exercise in humility and precision under pressure.
Even the simplest act — seasoning a sauce, laying a napkin — became subject to ceremonial inspection. I would have them stand back from their work and clasp their hands behind their backs. Then I would walk past, trailing my gloved finger across the rim of a bowl, or tilting a plate ever so slightly. Sometimes I would say nothing — only raise an eyebrow. That was worse than any scolding. They learned quickly to anticipate scrutiny not just as a threat, but as a kind of praise.
If a participant crossed my path, he was to stop immediately, place his left hand on his heart, and lower his gaze. If I chose to engage, I would indicate so with a nod.
My questions were never random.
“What did you prepare for breakfast this morning?”
“What are your current BMI and resting heart rate?”
“When were you last corrected, and by whom?”
If the answer came too slowly, I would remove my glove and tap his cheek with two fingers — not as a punishment, but as a mark and a reminder. I was not his friend.
When I was feeling merciful, I would allow a participant to walk a few paces behind me and carry my folder or bag, provided he remained silent. Once, when a participant was trembling after a difficult seminar, I permitted him to kneel and kiss the hem of my trousers. Not because I was flattered — but because he needed a symbol. He needed to feel the submission he could not yet articulate.
I created a more elaborate ritual for BMI checking. The boys would arrive in silence and kneel in a semicircle facing the wall. Each would be summoned by name. They stepped on the scale and read their number aloud. If it met the target range — under strict Centre thresholds — they were permitted to resume duties.
If not, they remained kneeling and were led one by one into the adjacent chamber. There, they received their penalty: sometimes an hour of intense physical exertion under supervision, sometimes a cane session calibrated to the margin of failure (three strikes for each 0.1 BMI above goal), and sometimes — when I felt it was needed — a full inspection with commentary. I would walk around the body slowly, noting not just fat deposits but posture, muscle engagement, and facial tension.
Over time, the participants began to respond to all of this not with fear, but with relief. They no longer needed to ask who they were or how they should behave. Everything in the Centre answered that question for them — including me.
And perhaps that was what I had learned most from the Fulani princess: power is not loud. It does not beg or insist. It is — sculpted into presence, woven into form.
It was after one of the Wednesday morning evaluations — a particularly uneventful one — that I brought it up. The Countess I approached slowly, as I always did when the subject was changed.
“I’ve been thinking,” I began, watching her profile against the stained glass. “About how we frame our interactions with the participants. I’ve started to ritualize more. In the kitchen. In the corridors. It seems to… ground them. In themselves. In us.”
The Countess turned slightly, and for a moment, said nothing. Then: “Go on.”
I explained the small ceremonies I’d been introducing — the salute in the hallway, the recitation before cooking, the precision inspections. I told her how the participants responded not with fear, but with grateful alertness, how they walked straighter, how their breathing calmed when the rules were visible.
She listened intently, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass. When I finished, she nodded once, slowly.
“You’ve intuited something essential,” she said. “Young people don’t want freedom. Not really. They want a shape to grow into, a mould. You’re beginning to give them that. But we need to test it.”
“A trial?” I asked.
“A trial,” she confirmed. “With the next arrival. Start to finish. You will design the ritual. I will observe.”
The office had been prepared with particular care that morning.
At precisely ten o’clock, the door opened.
A woman entered first. Regal, composed. Her eyes were sharp with pride and detachment. I
Behind her walked Elias, about twenty. Slight of frame. Handsome in a fragile, nervous sort of way. His gaze flickered across the room, then dropped instantly to the floor. I noted the hesitation.
The woman greeted us formally.
“Countess Hannelore. Miss.”
gave Elias a brief nod, and turned to us.
“He’s yours now.”
“Not entirely,” I replied with a faint smile. “He will return. In a different form.”
She considered that and then nodded again. “That’s the idea.”
Elias remained frozen, eyes still downcast.
“Strip,” I said gently but firmly.
He obeyed, awkwardly at first. He folded the clothes and placed them beside the ceremonial box.
“Step to the centre. Kneel.”
He did.
I opened a box. The soft sound of velvet released its perfume into the room. I removed a collar and showed it to him before fastening it around his neck. It clicked shut with quiet finality.
Then came the chastity device.
“This will remind you that your body is no longer an object of impulse,” I said, kneeling beside him. “It is a vessel of obedience.”
His breath quickened as I fixed the ring, adjusted the cage, and secured the lock. His face flushed. His hands trembled.
“Breathe slowly,” I instructed.
He did. He was ready. His posture was inward, his shoulders tense, hands always fidgeting.
“Now kneel,” I said gently.
He knelt.
I took three measured steps toward him and extended my gloved hand toward his chin, lifting it so that his eyes met mine.
“You are not a student. You are not a patient. You are not a guest. You are a participant. That word has weight here.”
He nodded, eyes wide.
“Do you understand?”
“I… I think so.”
“You do not think so. You either understand, or you do not. Speak again.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
I let the silence hang for five full seconds.
Then I read his intake aloud — name, age, background, reasons for applying. I asked him to confirm each element. For every hesitation, I tapped the marble floor twice with my cane.
Then came the ceremonial inspection.
I circled him slowly, gloves behind my back.
“Hands,” I said.
He extended them.
“Too much tension in the knuckles. We’ll soften that.”
“Feet. Point toes inward.”
He obeyed. I touched his shoulder lightly. He flinched.
“Still too much fear. That will pass.”
Then came the naming.
“Until you earn your name,” I said, “you will be known only as Subject 43A. Say it.”
“I am Subject 43A.”
“Louder.”
“I am Subject 43A.”
“Good.”
The next morning, the first test began. I met him in the east corridor, as the bell sounded seven times.
I pointed to a marked tile by the wall.
“Face the corner.”
He obeyed.
“For fifteen minutes, you will remain still. You will not speak. You will reflect on your transition to participant. You may begin.”
This was our first corner discipline. This was a test of stillness, not just of the body but also of the mind.
He managed twelve minutes before shifting his weight, glancing over his shoulder.
“Three minutes short,” I said. “You will write: ‘My body is a mirror of my mind. I train both.’ Fifty times. Before breakfast.”
He looked stricken but nodded. He was beginning to learn.
At 10:00 a.m., Elias entered the kitchen for his first culinary shadowing.
“Today we prepare lentils with cumin, ginger, and turmeric,” I announced, then added: “Watch. Three seconds behind me, you copy.”
I diced. He diced.
I stirred. He stirred.
But at the moment of seasoning, he moved ahead of me. The cumin fell too early.
“Stop.”
He froze.
“You anticipated. You imposed your rhythm.”
“I’m sorry, young mistress.”
“Sorry isn’t a corrective. Face the wall.”
He stood in the kitchen corner for twenty minutes, still on, while the scent of the food filled the space. When the meal was served, he received half a portion.
From that day on, each morning, Elias presented himself at the second chime of the monastery bell on the polished black square just outside the kitchen. It had become a ritual greeting between us: I stepped through the door precisely at the third chime, and if he was not yet kneeling, he earned one strike across the back of his thighs with the slim bamboo switch I carried at my waist.
Then the final day of this experiment arrived.
At the door of the dormitory wing, Elias knelt, forehead to the floor. I asked him three questions:
“What do you surrender?”
“My name.”
“What do you obey?”
“Ritual.”
“What do you seek?”
“Structure.”
I tapped his shoulders with my cane — once, then twice — and raised him.
“You may enter.”
The Countess had watched all of this.
Later, in the study, she made her ruling.
“We will proceed this way from now on, especially," she said, sipping her rose tea. “Your design offers not only training but meaning. Today, every participant begins with this path. And you, my dear, will oversee the Rite.”
This happened only once.
To instil rhythm and restraint, I instituted the cutting ritual each Wednesday afternoon. The fact that this was a fasting day for the participants accentuated the effect.
The rules were precise: a basket of vegetables, one sharp paring knife, a metronome, and a large glass bowl. Elias was to cut and sort without pausing, matching their motions exactly to the rhythm of the metronome — one cut per beat, alternating hand positions every sixteen beats, and cleaning the blade every sixty-four.
At first, he failed miserably. The pace rattled him. He tried to rush. The bowl slipped from the table once.
I did not punish him with the cane this time, but with silence. I removed the metronome and left the room without a word.
The absence of feedback, he later confessed, unnerved him more than any physical correction.
One morning, I met A43 in the hallway outside the library. He was escorting a junior participant and failed to bow properly — his nod was shallow, his eyes uncertain.
I stopped.
“Hold,” I said, raising my hand.
The junior froze. A43 turned.
“Bow again.”
He did.
“No. Lower. Slower. As if I carry fire in my hands.”
He obeyed.
“That is better. To correct your first failure, you will spend thirty minutes kneeling in the upper corridor. Hands behind your back, eyes forward. After that, write: ‘Every gesture is an offering.’ One hundred times.”
He accepted the verdict with grace.
That evening the Countess summoned me.
“We will proceed this way from now on,” she said, sipping her rose tea. “Your design offers not only training but meaning. Today, every participant begins with this path. And you, my dear, will oversee it.”
I still had a question that had been lingering in my mind. “Countess,” I asked hesitantly, feeling a flicker of uncertainty, “what about the participants’s penises during this kind of training? ”
Countess Hannelore regarded me with that calm, knowing look she always reserved for moments especially when a novice asked something delicate but important. “Joukje,” she replied firmly but kindly. “Their penises remain securely within their chastity devices at all times.”
I frowned slightly, a little unsure. “Why is that necessary?”
“Men become lax after release,” she explained patiently. “Their energy and focus wane. For their service and devotion, they should remain in a state of yearning. Release once every fourteen days is usually sufficient. Even then,” she added with a slight smile, “many women choose to allow their servant self-pleasure only on their terms, and no more.”
“Joukje,” she continued, her voice rich with amusement, “imagine if the Dutch national football team won the World Cup. Not through better strategy or corporate sponsorships. No — through obedience, self-mastery, and one single female coach who truly held authority.”
I raised an eyebrow, smiling. “You mean discipline as the secret weapon?”
“Not just discipline,” she said firmly. “Total containment. Every team member would wear a chastity device for the entire duration of the tournament. No distractions. No wasted energy. Only focused, honed strength.”
I gave a short laugh, unsure if she was teasing or theorizing. “And what exactly would this female coach do?”
“She wouldn’t just coach,” Countess Hannelore replied, eyes bright. “She would shape their behaviour — how they speak to one another, how they handle frustration, how they channel desire. At home, when the tournament ends, they would be allowed to pleasure their wives or girlfriends — but only with their tongues. That’s it.”
“And… that increases motivation?” I asked.
“It builds a focused tension,” she said. “A longing that has nowhere to go except into performance. Into mastery. Into tenderness. It makes the men better athletes, and better partners.”
“That sounds almost like an ascetic order of elite athletes,” I murmured.
“Exactly,” she said, smiling. “And it would work. In modern society, men are rarely where they belong. They are ruled by impulse. But if you redirect that impulse — if you give it shape — you gain a kind of strength that is impossible to defeat.”
“So… it’s sublimation,” I said, thoughtful now.
“You understand,” she nodded. “You’ve lived it. Your work here proves it. You don’t just teach our participants how to cook or obey. You guide them to become deeply attuned, devoted supporters of the feminine principle.”
I smiled at her, a warmth blooming low in my chest. There was something in her words that struck me deeply. I had transformed my body, yes. But under her guidance, I had also shaped my spirit. I had learned how to ritualize strength — how to embody womanhood not just with grace, but with weight, with intent, and with meaning.
All of this also manifested itself in a completely different aspect of the curriculum. Later it would be the task of the participants to bring their mistresses to the highest peaks of pleasure. And with fingers and tongue. The basics of this can only be acquired through practical exercises. This is where I came into the game.
It was a lesson not just in technique, but in discipline, control, and subtle power dynamics. I, as a trans woman, knew all too well how physicality and identity could stir inner conflict. That flicker of vulnerability in me—sometimes a shadow of doubt—surfaced now, but as the lesson began, it slowly faded. Here, I was not just myself, but a guide, a vessel of instruction, embodying strength beyond my insecurities.
Countess Hannelore laid out all the instructions with precise clarity. “One of you will demonstrate,” she said, “and the young mistress will offer commentary on the quality of the participant’s ministrations. Participants, observe and take detailed notes. This is your manual for devotion.”
I positioned myself, bare-skinned and attentive, waiting quietly. The chosen participant approached me, eyes lowered but eager. The others lined the walls outside, clutching their notebooks and pens, their faces a mixture of concentration and respect.
The lesson on cunnilingus began with a profound sense of anticipation and respect. As a trans woman, I understood the intricate dance between identity and desire, and now, I was about to impart this sacred knowledge to eager pupils. The room was filled with an air of expectancy as the participants gathered, their eyes wide with excitement and apprehension. They knew that this session would be a transformative experience, one that would elevate their skills in the art of female pleasure to new, uncharted heights.
The participant Countess Hannelore had chosen knelt before me, his eyes filled with both admiration and trepidation. His tongue hovered over my delicate folds, and I could feel the warmth of his breath, the wetness of his saliva mingling with my arousal. Countess Hannelore's instructions echoed in the air, a testament to the dedication and discipline required to become a truly adept lover.
With fingers and tongue, he explored the terrain of my sex, tentatively at first, as if he were afraid to make a mistake. Yet, as I guided him, my voice low and soothing, he grew more confident. I taught him to trace the delicate contours of my labia with the tip of his tongue, to feel the swell of my clit as it grew harder with each flick and swirl. The basics of this sensual act were not merely technical skills to be learned; they were an intimate dance of give and take, a symphony of passion and restraint.
My feedback was constant, a gentle guide through the intricate maze of pleasure. "Softer," I whispered with authority, as his tongue grew too eager. "Follow the rise and fall of my breath," I instructed, as he learned to synchronize his movements with the rhythm of my body. When he stumbled, a brief pause or a soft moan escaping my lips, I corrected him with the grace of a ballet master and the firmness of a drill sergeant, ensuring that every touch was a masterstroke of pleasure.
The room grew warmer as the scent of my arousal filled the air. The participants leaned in closer, scribbling furiously in their notebooks, capturing every nuanced detail of our interaction. They observed not just the mechanics of his actions, but the subtleties of his attentiveness, the way his eyes searched mine for approval, the tremble of his hands as he strived for perfection.
As the participant's skills grew, so did my own pleasure, my hips began to rock gently, and my legs tightened around his head. The vulnerability that had once been a constant companion in my own journey as a trans woman was now a source of power. It allowed me to connect with him on a deeper level, to understand the profound intimacy of the act we shared.
The lesson was not merely about technique; it was about the art of worship, the unyielding commitment to the satisfaction of the one being served. Each lick, each stroke of the tongue was an offering, a declaration of devotion. The chastity of the participants' penis was a symbol of this commitment, a reminder that their own desires were secondary to the rapture they sought to bestow upon their partners.
When the exercise concluded, the participants remained silent, their eyes glued to the Countess and me.
I took a moment to compose myself, my breath still ragged from the intensity of our interaction. Then, I offered my own insights. "Beyond the physical, cultivate a presence that transcends the flesh. Listen to your mistress with every fiber of your being—her moans, the quiver of her body, the silent whispers of her soul. Let your submission be a gift of the highest order, a testament to your love and dedication."
The Countess nodded, a proud smile playing on her lips. "Indeed, my dear," she said, addressing me with the affectionate term of respect that had grown between us. "You have captured the essence of their duty.
The participants diligently took notes, writing down my comments, the Countess’s directions, and the nuances of the ritual. After the exercise, Countess Hannelore addressed the group again.
“Remember,” she said solemnly, “the penis remains in chastity except on appointed days. Your service demands control, yearning, and above all, total focus on your partner’s pleasure.”
She turned to me for additions.
As the classroom emptied and the quiet settled, I remained for a moment, alone with my thoughts.
To be entrusted with teaching these young men to surrender—to place another’s pleasure and emotional needs above their own—felt deeply sacred.
I realized I was more than an instructor. I was a bridge between worlds: between gender, between dominance and submission, between self-doubt and confidence.
Countess Hannelore’s trust in me and her unwavering presence as a mentor gave me the confidence to carry this responsibility. I knew I was part of something larger—a continuum of care, discipline, and transformation.
This was no longer just a job or a duty. It was my calling.
One quiet morning after breakfast, Countess Hannelore looked up from her plate and smiled at me in her calm, deliberate way.
“Joukje,” she began, her voice steady but warm, “I’ve recently reconnected with an old friend from university. He’s now teaching an international course on pig farming.”
I raised an eyebrow, curious. “Pig farming? That’s… unexpected.”
She nodded. “Yes, but what struck me was their approach. The students don’t just attend lectures. They’re given a piglet to care for—raising them, feeding them, tending to their health—throughout the course.”
I smiled at the thought. “That sounds like a hands-on way to learn responsibility.”
“Exactly,” she said, eyes gleaming. “And it made me think: why couldn’t we do something similar here? Imagine a workshop for women—those who will later become the dominant partners of our participants—where they each take responsibility for one participant. Caring for him, guiding him, overseeing his progress while he’s still here.”
I leaned forward, intrigued. “You mean, giving them direct, daily experience managing the very men we train?”
“Yes. It would be an experiment in responsibility and intimacy. A way to deepen the understanding between master and servant from the start.”
I nodded slowly, feeling the weight and potential of the idea. “That would be quite a shift. Both for the women and the participants.”
Countess Hannelore smiled a hint of pride in her gaze. “I trust your judgment, Joukje. You’ve done remarkably well here. So, I want to offer you something—something special—as recognition.”
I blinked, surprised. “A bonus?”
“Not in the usual sense,” she said with a quiet laugh. “It’s something else. Something that aligns with your growth and our vision here. But I´d like you to think about it. For now, know that I’m very pleased with your work.”
I sat back, feeling a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Whatever it was, I knew it would be a turning point.
End of the second instalment
