We had just finished the lentil tagine. One of the participants had overcooked the carrots, and Hannelore had made a point of that with a soft but unmistakable tap of her cane on the floor. Lunch had proceeded in its usual rhythm, bowls passing in silence, the soft sound of cutlery on ceramic.

As I took a final sip of my tea, Hannelore placed her spoon down with a kind of deliberate grace and looked directly at me.

"Joukje," she said, her tone even, but loaded with intention, "I believe I've found a suitable candidate for our little experiment."

I looked up from my cup. My heart skipped.

She continued, "He arrives tomorrow. He's… an unmarked page. A clean slate, if ever there was one. An orphan. His adolescence was spent in shelters. You know what that means in this country — the moment a boy turns eighteen, he's out. The government calls it self-reliance. I call it abandonment."

I felt my breath tighten slightly. "So… he's just turned eighteen?"

"Exactly yesterday," Hannelore said. "Since yesterday he is legally an adult and tomorrow he becomes yours¨.

I swallowed, I could feel something uncoiling inside me — excitement tinged with apprehension. The promise of responsibility. Of shaping someone from the raw. "You've offered him a full scholarship?"

"Full board. Private training. You," she said, gesturing at me with the smallest tilt of her fork, "will be his sovereign. His world."

I tried to keep my voice steady. "And… when will I meet him?"

"Tomorrow morning," she said. "After breakfast. But I would like you to stay in your apartment all day. I'll bring him to you myself."

She took another bite as if she'd just mentioned a change in the weather.

"I assume," she went on, "you'd find it helpful if I had a cage installed this morning? Just a small one. Enough to sit, lie curled — not stand. Also, a set of light chains. Different lengths. You'll want flexibility without losing presence."

My mouth had gone dry. I blinked. "Yes," I said, quieter than I intended. "Yes, I think… that would be very helpful."

She smiled slightly and refolded her napkin. "Good. I thought you'd see the potential."

I wanted to ask more. What did he look like? Of course, he had adhered freely. He was an adult now. But did he understand what was expected of him? But I said nothing. Not yet.

Instead, I sat in the warmth of that moment — in the glow of her trust and the fire of my response. It was unlike anything I had felt since arriving. Not just the satisfaction of executing orders or conducting the kitchen brigade. Not even the cold elegance of applying discipline in the hallway. This was different. Personal.

I could feel it — rising like heat from my chest to my throat. A deep, humming anticipation. And beneath that, a nervous flutter. Could I handle it? Was I able to manage the emotional weight of shaping a soul — alone? Would I overstep? Would I falter?

"You'll do well," Countess Hannelore said as if reading my thoughts. She smiled at me.

"I believe," she added, "that you've been preparing for this since the day you arrived."

I looked down at my hands. "I feel it," I admitted. "It's strange… it's almost as if I've been waiting for this. Before I even knew."

"A proper sovereign always senses when her subject is approaching," Countess Hannelore said. "It's instinct. And power. And responsibility."

She stood then, brushing a hand over the crease of her skirt.

"Tomorrow, then," she went on. "Prepare your space. Your heart will follow."

She walked from the dining hall with her usual deliberate stride. The cane tapped once more, like a punctuation mark.

I had trouble focusing all day.

At dinner, I nodded at Countess Hannelore's instructions but barely took in her words. I stirred my tea clockwise and counterclockwise, losing myself in spirals. She noticed, of course. Her eyebrow lifted just slightly — the kind of gesture that struck harder than any spoken reprimand. Later, I forgot to administer the appropriate strokes to the participant who had boiled the carrots nearly to paste. Countess Hannelore delivered a single, sharp look. I corrected myself.

But my thoughts were elsewhere. Always returning to what awaited me.

When I stepped into my apartment that evening, I saw it immediately. The new cage. Long and low, against the wall near the window. Not identical to the one in the office — this one had a thicker mattress, a small pillow, and a neatly folded blanket.

My eyes moved to the desk. Neat light chains lay there, each labelled with their length. I saw small brass padlocks beside them. I walked through the apartment and saw the changes: discreet steel rings had been anchored into the floorboards and on the walls, one at the base of the bed, one near the foot of the couch, and another one beside the balcony door. They were control points.

I sat down. This was mine. He would be mine. He would learn from me what it meant to be useful, not just obedient. To listen with more than ears, to read my breath, my footsteps, my silences. And I would need to be exacting. Calm. Ritualistic. I had no right to fail him.

But then came the other question: how would I present myself?

Not in a power suit. That would be too formal, too external. I needed to be present in my body — elegant, composed, desired but untouchable. Perhaps the black catsuit. High heels, of course — their rhythm on the tiles would remind him of hierarchy with every step. Maybe a cropped top that left a trace of midriff visible. A short skirt, but always with sheer black nylons. The message had to be clear: this body is not yours. It is above you. And your purpose is to serve, not to seek.

He would see my hips move through the hallway and know to straighten his posture.

He would hear the click of my heels and learn to listen with reverence.

He would kneel because I asked for nothing less.

I returned to the desk and began setting aside the materials I would need. A notebook. A pen. A thin length of chain.

I turned down the bed, walked once more around the apartment, and then switched off the lights.

That night, sleep was elusive. It often was, but tonight my mind swirled relentlessly. I found myself imagining a fantasy city where every man devoted himself—emotionally and physically—to superior women. The image comforted me, yet even with this vision, I didn't drift off until hours later.

I woke early, knowing I would miss breakfast this time. Today my participant would arrive.

I took a long bath, trying to soothe the nerves knotting my stomach. After drying off, I slipped into my catsuit—sleek, tight, a second skin that felt like armour.

I picked up a book and then put it down. I tried Netflix, but my mind wouldn't focus on anything.

The knock at the door came with the weight of something inevitable.

I paused a moment before opening, unsure if the tremble in my fingers was anticipation or doubt. Then I turned the handle.

There stood Countess Hannelore—impeccable as always—and behind her, on a short leash, a young man in nothing but a steel collar and chastity device. His gaze was low, his posture trained. But as soon as I saw his face, my breath caught in my throat.

Him.

The boy from Het Goude Hooft. The one who Countess Hannelore had handed a business card that day as if planting a seed neither of us could yet name. My mouth opened slightly in surprise. He looked up just then, fleetingly, and in his eyes, I saw it too—recognition.

Countess Hannelore stepped in cheerfully. "Here he is. I thought you'd appreciate this one."

"You—" I couldn't help myself. "He's the one from the café. That day…"

The countess smiled knowingly, handing me the leash. "Yes. He remembered you too. It seems your presence made quite an impression. He contacted me later that week. Asked what we offered… and if it was real."

"And you gave him a scholarship?" I asked, still stunned, taking the leash into my hand.

"I did," she said simply. "A full one. He has no family. No obligations. Just instinct and hunger. The kind I trust. When a boy like this comes to you, Joukje, unbidden and ready—he's more than a candidate. He's a natural."

The weight of the leash in my hand felt heavier now.

"I'm…" I blinked. "You're giving him to me?"

"He's yours now. For training, for observation. For development." She looked around casually. "No coffee?"

"Oh—of course, let me—" I moved clumsily to the kitchen, pouring two cups with hands that betrayed my composure. My mind spun. This wasn't random. He had chosen us. He had chosen me.

Back in the sitting area, Countess Hannelore crossed her legs and accepted her cup.

"You look nervous," she said, her voice light but probing.

"He saw something in me before I even knew what this place was," I murmured. "And now he's here. Mine to shape."

"And that," she said, "is why you'll do this well."

I glanced at the young man, who now knelt with his hands flat on his thighs, spine straight, eyes forward—barely daring to meet mine.

"He's very young," I said softly. "And very open."

"Like clay," Hannelore said. "But don't forget—clay must be fired before it hardens. Don't be afraid to apply heat."

I nodded, finally finding steadiness in my spine.

"You know what to do next. Emotional leadership. Procedural clarity. Ritual formality."

"Shall I chain him tonight?" I asked.

"That's up to you. But remember—he came here of his own will. That is the greatest submission of all. Never forget it."

She rose and handed me two small keys and a big one. "The collar. The cage, the chastity device. Carry them on a chain around your neck. "

As she reached the door, I said quietly, "Countess… thank you. I'll honour your trust."

She gave a small smile. "I know you will. I chose him for you—and you for him."

And with that, she left.

I turned slowly toward the young man. He knelt, calm and waiting.

My mind reeled. He had found his way to Countess Hannelore after that brief meeting. He had pursued this. He had trusted me, long before I had even known what I was capable of.

And now, he was mine.

I sat in the chair, the leash coiled around my palm, and breathed in the weight of the moment.

I would begin this with clarity.

He would sleep in the training cage. He would be instructed in etiquette, silence, service, and obedience. Every word I spoke would shape him. Every silence I held would teach him reverence. He would learn not just to follow, but to serve. And in return, he would be seen—wholly, deeply, fully. It was a covenant.

I walked to the desk and touched the keys. In a drawer, I found a small silver chain to wear them with on my neck. I took the leash in my hand again. It felt suddenly alive, a tangible connection to the young man trembling slightly before me.

"Stand," I commanded, my voice slicing through the quiet.

His reaction was immediate but clumsy. He pushed himself up, limbs unfolding with a lack of grace, almost stumbling before finding his balance. He kept his gaze lowered, shoulders hunched slightly forward.

I observed him critically. "That could be better. Much more elegant," I stated, my tone cool and assessing. "I am going to teach you that. Posture is the first language of submission. It speaks before you utter a word. For now," I took a step closer, the soft sound of my catsuit the only noise. "What is your name?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. His voice was barely a whisper, thick with emotion. "Armand de Winter."

"Armand de Winter," I repeated slowly, letting the syllables hang in the air. I circled him once, a predator assessing prey. "That is nothing. That name is dust. It belongs to a ghost. A boy who no longer exists." I stopped directly in front of him, forcing him to sense my presence even if he dared not look up. "I erase that name. It holds no meaning here." The decision crystallized instantly, a name surfacing from the depths of my earlier fantasies – strong, beautiful, yet eternally bound. "I give you a new name. It is... Apollo."

The name echoed in the stillness. He flinched, a tiny intake of breath his only reaction.

I leaned in slightly, my voice dropping lower, commanding absolute attention. "What is your name?"

He hesitated, his lips trembling. Then, the barest whisper escaped: "Apollo."

"Louder," I demanded, the leash tightening almost imperceptibly in my grip.

"Apollo," he repeated, his voice cracking but audible.

"That is Apollo, young mistress," I corrected sharply, my tone clear and stern, brooking no argument. "You will use that title for me always. Do you understand?"

"Yes, young mistress," he breathed, the words seeming foreign on his tongue.

"Apollo," I continued, pacing slowly before him, "from this moment, you will live according to my rules. Your will is mine. Your body is mine to command, to shape, to discipline." I stopped and turned to face him fully. "And now, I am going to show you what happens when those rules are broken, even in thought, even in hesitation. Bow. Hands flat on your kneecaps. Bottom presented."

The command was stark. He obeyed instantly, folding forward with more fluidity this time, presenting the pale, unmarked curves of his buttocks. The posture was submissive, and vulnerable, exactly as required. I walked to the sideboard where the slender, wicked cane Countess Hannelore had provided lay waiting. Its weight was familiar and promising. I picked it up, feeling the smooth wood.

I positioned myself slightly to his side, raised the cane, and brought it down with a sharp, precise thwack across the centre of his offered flesh.

"One," I stated, my voice devoid of inflexion.

He gasped, his body tensing, knuckles whitening where they gripped his knees. A thin, red line blossomed on his skin.

Thwack! "Two." Another gasp, sharper this time. His shoulders hunched.

Thwack! "Three." A low whimper escaped his clenched teeth. His body trembled with the effort to hold the position.

Thwack! "Four." Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over to track down his cheeks, but he didn't move his hands.

Thwack! "Five." A final, choked sound. Five parallel lines, glowing crimson, marred the smooth skin.

I laid the cane aside. "This is going to be part of your life, Apollo, unless you learn swiftly and perfectly. Pain is the sharpest teacher." I paused, letting the sting settle, "Do thank me for these stripes. They are as a gift."

He drew a shuddering breath. "Th-thank you, young mistress," he whispered, the tears flowing freely now, a mixture of pain, humiliation, and the dawning reality of his new existence.

"Now," I commanded, my voice regaining its steady authority. "Stand."

Slowly, achingly, he pushed himself upright. He kept his eyes downcast, tears still wet on his cheeks, his entire body radiating the aftermath of the discipline. He stood perhaps a head shorter than me. I took a deliberate step backwards, creating space for assessment.

As he rose to his feet, the muscles in his neck tightened and his shoulders squared, presenting himself for inspection with a stoic expression. His hair fell back. His eyes remained cast downward, a clear sign of his obedience and respect.

His neck, strong and supple, led to broad shoulders that tapered down to a firm chest. The muscles there were well-defined. The chastity device around his genitals was a sleek, black metal, perfectly moulded to his shape, with a small, intricate lock nestled at the base. It was new to him but there was not even a hint of discomfort in his posture.

His stomach was flat and toned, with a hint of a six-pack. His waist was narrow, leading to powerful hips that flared out slightly. His thighs were thick and muscular.

His calves were like carved marble, and his feet were planted firmly on the ground as if bracing himself for whatever I might command next.

He shivered slightly under my touch, and I could see his cock twitch inside the chastity cage. I knew he was desperate for release, but that would come only when I allowed it. For now, he was here for my pleasure, to be inspected and admired like the fine piece of property he was.

I stepped closer, my body heat radiating against his cool, damp skin. "Turn around," I ordered.

He complied instantly, his movements smooth and graceful. Not threatening, but emblematic.

"You're eager, aren't you?" I said, a smirk playing on my lips. "But patience is a virtue, one that you will learn to embrace."

I completed my circuit, stopping again facing him. My eyes met his for a brief, intense moment – his wide, still glistening with unshed tears, reflecting a maelstrom of fear, pain, and a flicker of something else – perhaps resolve, perhaps surrender. Then I let my gaze travel deliberately back down to the vivid marks.

"Stripes become you, Apollo," I commented my voice low and thoughtful, almost appreciative. "They are a map of your obedience, written on your skin. Remember their lesson." I reached out, not touching him, but tracing the air an inch from the hottest welt. He flinched instinctively but held his stance. "This is your beginning. Remember it well."

Then I sat down on the couch. "Kneel, "I commanded. "Knees wide."

Obediently, he complied. There was little elegance in it. That would change.

The young man lowered himself, the thud of his knees hitting the floor. I watched, impassive, as he shuffled, widening his knees until the posture was one of utter vulnerability, his hands resting loosely on his thighs, head bowed slightly.

I let it linger, my eyes tracing the line of his throat and shoulders. Then, I spoke, my voice a low, controlled command that sliced through the quiet.

"Tell me about yourself." It wasn't a request. It was an excavation order. "What brings you here?"

He flinched almost imperceptibly, his gaze flicking up to meet mine for a split second before darting down again. His throat worked as he swallowed.

"Yes, Young Mistress," he began, the title slipping out smoothly, instinctively. A good start. It acknowledged the hierarchy, the unspoken dynamic established by his position on the floor and my dominion of the couch.

He took a shallow breath, his voice gaining a slight tremor as he plunged into his past. "It... it started with my parents, Young Mistress." The words came slowly, carefully chosen. "Both of them. Addicted. To... well, to anything they could get. Our home wasn't... safe. Wasn't stable." His fingers curled slightly against his thighs. "I never knew what I'd find. Empty cupboards, strangers passed out, screaming fights... or just... silence. The scary kind."

He paused, gathering himself. "When I was ten, social services finally stepped in. Took me away. Thought that would be better." A hollow, humourless sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. "It was just... different chaos. Foster homes. Five of them before I aged out."

I remained silent, my expression unreadable, but my eyes never left him, dissecting every micro-expression, every hesitant pause.

"Each place," he continued, his voice dropping slightly, "was like stepping onto shifting sand. Different rules, different expectations. Sometimes kind people, sometimes... not kind. Never felt like I belonged, or that anyone truly... cared." His knuckles were white now. "You learn to watch. To listen at doors. To disappear. But you never feel safe. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the rules to change, for the anger to come."

His gaze lifted again, just for a moment, seeking something in my impassive face – understanding, judgment, I couldn't tell. Finding neither, it dropped back down. "The loneliness... it was like a constant chill. Or worse, a burden. Just a name on a file."

He took another breath. "There was... structure, sometimes. Schedules. Chores. But it felt... brittle. Like it could shatter at any moment. It often did. Someone would have a bad day, funding would get cut, a placement would fall through..." He trailed off, the memory of that pervasive instability tightening his jaw.

"Sometimes," he said, his voice softening, "there were social workers. The women, mostly. When they were... firm. Clear. When they told me what to do, what they expected..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "It felt... easier as if a path opened up. I wanted... I needed to please them. To be good for them. To follow their rules exactly. It made the noise inside quiet down for a bit." His shoulders slumped slightly. "But they never stayed. Caseloads changed, they moved on and got promoted... It always ended. Just when I started to... feel anchored."

The silence returned, heavier this time. I hadn't shifted my intense scrutiny. He seemed to shrink slightly under it.

"And then," he whispered, almost to himself, then forcing his voice louder, clearer for you, "I aged out. Eighteen. A suitcase and a packet of forms. 'Fend for yourself,' they said. Like I hadn't been trying to do that my whole life." A flash of raw pain crossed his face, quickly masked.

He lifted his head higher now, meeting my gaze with a startling directness, fueled by desperation and a fragile hope. "I've been drifting, Young Mistress, like flotsam. The world feels... too big. Too loud. Too unpredictable. That feeling... the ground always shifting... it never left." He swallowed hard. "I was looking... searching... for something solid. For security. For... order."

His eyes held mine, pleading, confessing. "And for some reason," he said, his voice gaining a sliver of conviction, "this place... you... Young Mistress... feel like they have a promise. A promise of security. And order. Real order. The kind that... stays." The final word hung in the air.

His throat worked as he swallowed. He fell silent, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the echo of his vulnerability resonating in the quiet room. He remained perfectly still on his knees, awaiting my judgment, my next command.

I didn't move. But inside me, a peculiar heat and solemn gravity coiled together—because I knew what he had just placed at my feet was not a story, but a life. A broken, searching life. A life I now carried responsibility for.

I swallowed, my fingers tightening ever so slightly around the cane resting across my lap.

"You will get the safety you crave," I said at last, my voice like polished glass. "But do not imagine it will come easily. Nothing worth having does."

His shoulders twitched at the firmness in my tone.

I lifted the cane and let it hover lightly in the air.

"Arnoud belongs to the past. You are Apollo."

He blinked, then nodded, uncertain. "I am Apollo, Young Mistress," he repeated, the words tentative.

"Why are you Apollo and nothing else?" I asked sharply.

He hesitated longer this time. "I don't know, Young Mistress," he finally admitted.

I leaned forward, voice low but forceful. "Because I want it. Because I choose it for you. That is enough."

He swallowed and lowered his gaze. "As you wish, Young Mistress."

I studied him for a moment, then exhaled softly. It was enough—for now.

"We'll end it here. Go to the bathroom and brush your teeth."

He obeyed in silence and returned a few minutes later, face flushed from the cold water, hands clasped in front of him.

"On your knees. Bow low—nose to the ground."

He lowered himself, the movement clumsy.

"Now up," I commanded. He stumbled slightly as he rose.

"That's not how I want it" A firm strike with the cane across his upper thigh followed. Not cruel, but instructive. "Again. A fluid motion. Show me you remember."

He repeated it. Then again. Ten times in total, until I nodded.

"Apollo, it begins to resemble something acceptable. From now on, when you enter my presence or leave my sight, this is what you do. Without exception."

He trembled. "Yes, Young Mistress."

"Good. Now, crawl to your cage."

Without a word, he moved to all fours and made his way across the room. I watched him disappear inside, limbs folding into the tight space like he belonged there. When he was settled, I locked the padlock with one of the keys dangling from the chain on my neck.

"Sleep well," I said. "I hope you used the bathroom thoroughly—your next chance is when I decide."

left Apollo alone to give my cooking lessons and oversee the dinner. I ate hastily as I sat at our table opposite Countess Hannelore. She didn't mention Apollo for a moment and acted as if nothing had happened. Instead, she asked my opinion about minor repairs in the monastery that she thought were necessary. After dinner, I took a plate back to my apartment for Apollo.

I released Apollo and sent him straight to the bathroom. Then, once he returned, I seated him cross-legged and handed him the dinner I had brought—he ate with a spoon, quietly, without looking up. I secured him to the wall with a light chain connecting his collar to a steel ring embedded in the plaster. It was more symbolic than restrictive; the gesture mattered more than the restraint.

Only then did I notice how tired I had become. The day, the discipline, the emotional tension—they had taken their toll. I unchained him wordlessly and ordered him to the kitchen to wash his plate and spoon. He obeyed at once, without hesitation.

When he returned to the room, he dropped immediately to his knees and bowed, forehead to the floor, in the Japanese style I had taught him. The movement was smooth, instinctive—without delay or affectation. It’s working, flashed through my mind. It’s going well.

I removed the chain and put him back in his cage. Then I went straight to bed.

Lying there, I thought about Apollo. About his history. His pain. The fragility in his eyes, even as he tried to present strength.

He needed control. He needed to surrender.

And I… I needed to give him that. It was a sacred duty.

This was more than obedience training. I was not breaking a man—I was transforming him.

And I would not fail.

The house was silent. I heard no noise from the cage. And finally, sleep took me.

The next morning I rose before the sun, stretching silently in the grey pre-dawn light. Cane in hand, I padded barefoot across the stone floor and tapped the bars of the cage. Naked of course. A mistress can be naked in front of her submissive. It is not his station to react on anything she wears or does not wear. He should not dare. He should not try.

A rustle. A startled breath.

Then silence again.

I turned the key and opened the cage door. "Out."

Apollo crawled forward, immediately lowering himself into the reverent bow I had demanded of him the night before. The movement was clean now—practised.

"Up," I said. He rose in one smooth motion.

But his eyes… lingered too long.

"Eyes down!" I snapped. "Are you out of your mind?"

He dropped his gaze instantly, trembling.

"To the bathroom. Relieve yourself."

He bowed once more before padding off. When he emerged, he bowed again—each movement precisely as I had instructed.

"Brush your teeth. Then shower."

He obeyed in silence.

When I heard the water running, I followed him. I stood at the entrance, arms folded.

"You look disgraceful," I said coolly. "That underarm hair. That mess down there. Fix it."

He turned, surprised.

I unhooked the key from the necklace I always wore and unlocked his chastity device without ceremony. Handing him a trimmer and a lady's razor, I watched as he worked—first trimming, then carefully shaving himself clean under my supervision. His movements were hesitant but precise. He was learning.

Then came the real test.

"I'm going to shower now," I said. "You're my attendant. Prepare yourself."

He froze, then nodded.

The hot water flowed as I stepped under. I held out my hand. "Soap. Washcloth."

He handed them over.

"Begin."

Gently, respectfully, he began to wash me. His touch was careful, guided by instinct and trepidation. When he hesitated, I gave him calm, clear direction. He washed every inch, pausing only at the most intimate areas.

"All of me, Apollo," I said evenly. "That includes everything."

He obeyed, his touch never straying into indulgence.

When he finished, I turned, let him rinse the shampoo from my hair, and later handed him the towel.

He dried me carefully. Then the hairdryer. Then the brush.

By the time I stood clothed in my catsuit and my heels, his shoulders had relaxed.

I caught his gaze in the mirror.

"You're beginning to understand," I said quietly.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

And I knew, in that moment, that this was working indeed.

He wasn't just submitting.

He was becoming.

It was time for breakfast, yet I felt oddly unprepared. My pantry was almost bare—something I had foolishly neglected. I decided to skip my meal this time.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Apollo kneel and bow deeply in the adjacent room. His movements were deliberate, respectful, a silent acknowledgement of his place. I filled a bowl with cereal and took a spoon before returning to the room where he waited, kneeling and bowed low.

"Sit in the lotus position," I commanded softly.

"Thank you, Young Mistress," he replied, obediently settling cross-legged on the floor. But he did not begin eating. Instead, he waited patiently for my permission, eyes lowered in submission.

I let a small smile touch my lips. This was progress. "You belong to me," I began, the words carrying weight between us. "You have been entrusted to my care. Here, you will learn discipline and responsibility. You will manage the household tasks I assign. I will teach you how."

I raised my cane lightly, a symbol of guidance rather than punishment. "When you clean, you do so with precision and dedication. I will provide a schedule. I have many obligations and will often be away in the mornings, but I will always oversee your work. Now you may eat."

I watched as he nodded slowly, chewing the cereal and absorbing the structure I was laying out.

"In the afternoons, you will join the other participants for lessons with Countess Hannelore. Your homework will be completed here. To ensure your focus on your duties, I will keep you restrained with chains and the collar for now. We will discuss further measures with the Countess later."

I took from the desk the longest of the light chains, one that allowed him movement enough to clean the entire living room and even make the bed without feeling confined.

"I am leaving now," I said firmly. "You will know when I return. Behave well. Begin with washing your empty bowl. "

Apollo lowered himself once more, kneeling and bowing his head deeply to the ground.

The ritual felt both grounding and daunting — a promise of order for him and a solemn responsibility for me.

The door clicked softly behind me as I left the apartment, leaving Apollo to settle into his new reality. I felt a mix of authority and tenderness twisting inside me.

When I returned several hours later, the apartment was orderly, the surfaces dusted, the bed neatly made. Apollo knelt where I had left him, collar and chain in place, his head down.

I crossed the room and sat again on the couch, "Show me," I said, voice calm but commanding.

He rose slowly, movements deliberate, and approached. I inspected his work closely — the careful folding of linens, the evenness of the dusting, the cleanliness of the floor. "Good," I nodded. "You learn quickly."

Apollo's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, but he kept his head bowed.

I tapped the cane gently on the floor. "Now, tell me — what does discipline mean to you?"

He hesitated, then lifted his eyes, speaking with quiet conviction. "Discipline means order in chaos, Young Mistress. It is safety, it is respect. It is knowing where I belong."

I allowed a soft smile. "Yes, and it is the path I have chosen for you ."

We settled into a routine. Each day I gave clear instructions, firm but fair, and Apollo responded with growing confidence. He learned to anticipate expectations, to embody the rituals that gave his days meaning.

Sometimes, when I caught his gaze lingering a moment too long, a flicker of uncertainty passed across his features. Then I remembered: I too carried my burden from the past. And in that shared space — without words — I silently promised to be his anchor.

Each evening, as he knelt obediently before retreating to the cage, I felt the weight of responsibility deepen.

Then, without apparent reason, Apollo became sloppy. Once, when I came home, from the hallway, I could hear the faint sound of cloth brushing against surfaces and the soft thud of something being set down too forcefully. My eyes narrowed.

Returning to the living room, I found Apollo dusting the bookshelf with uneven strokes, missing corners and leaving faint smudges. His expression was tense, shoulders stiff, as if afraid of making eye contact.

"Stop," I said quietly, approaching. I took the cane from its resting place on the side table and tapped it lightly against the floor to draw his attention.

He immediately knelt, head bowed. "Yes, Young Mistress?"

"I told you to be thorough. This," I gestured to the shelf, "is not acceptable." I tapped his thigh firmly with the cane. "Ten strikes. For each mistake, a reminder to sharpen your focus."

His breath caught, but he did not flinch away. I administered the strokes with measured caremaking sure each one landed on the fleshy part of his upper leg.

When I finished, Apollo kneeled again, still, absorbing the lesson. "Again," I ordered, "and this time with care."

He took the cloth and methodically began anew, slower, more deliberate. I watched closely, nodding once his effort met the standard.

"Good," I approved. "Discipline is not punishment. It is the path to mastery."

Later, as he moved to make the bed, his hands fumbled with the sheets. The corners were uneven, and the whole arrangement appeared sloppy.

"Apollo," I said sternly, "attention to detail is non-negotiable. One more failure and the punishment increases."

His eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and determination. "Yes, Young Mistress."

I stood silently for a moment, then tapped his thigh twice with the cane—gentle but firm—a warning.

He resumed, this time slower, more careful. By the time he finished, the bed looked impeccable.

I stepped back, folding my arms. "Your service is not only in obedience but in pride for your work. You will learn, Apollo. We will make sure of it."

He lowered his head and whispered, "Thank you, Young Mistress. I will not fail you again."

To mould a life shattered by uncertainty into one of order and purpose was no small task. But this was my duty, and I would not waver.

The days unfolded with the steady rhythm of lessons and chores, yet it was clear Apollo was still adjusting to the demands I placed upon him. After the morning dusting and bed-making exercises, I directed him to prepare rice for our midday meal. One day this happened.

I watched as he filled the pot and set it on the stove, then busied myself with organizing papers on the desk. Minutes later, a faint scent began to waft through the room — the unmistakable aroma of burnt rice.

I turned sharply. "Apollo!" I called, stepping into the kitchen.

He knelt. His head lowered immediately. "Yes, Young Mistress?" His voice was tentative.

"You left the rice unattended and let it burn. This is unacceptable," I said firmly. "You know the importance of attention and care."

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Young Mistress."

"Apologies are not enough. You will learn from this." I picked up the cane and tapped it lightly against the counter, drawing his full attention.

"You will stand in the corner. Face the wall. No talking, no moving."

He nodded, wordlessly obedient, and made his way to the far corner of the room, positioning himself with his forehead resting against the cold, hard wall. His hands hung loosely by his sides.

I retreated to the living room, took my seat on the couch, and put on my headphones, connecting to the live broadcast of the football match I had been looking forward to all day.

As the game began, Apollo remained still and silent in the corner. He could only hear my muffled reactions: sharp gasps whenever the Dutch team lost possession, soft curses under my breath, and then triumphant cheers and cries of joy when a goal was scored. The contrast was stark — his isolation punctuated by my bursts of emotion, a reminder of the world from which he was momentarily separated.

Each time I cried out in despair at a missed pass, I imagined Apollo feeling the weight of my disappointment through the thin veil of silence.

When the team scored, my joyous exclamations echoed faintly around the room, a tantalizing soundscape of triumph that he was barred from sharing openly.

This punishment was not just about physical discipline; it was a lesson in presence, attentiveness, and endurance. To stand alone, to feel the distance yet remain attentive — this was part of his transformation.

After what felt like an eternity, I removed my headphones and turned to Apollo, still standing motionless.

"Enough," I said softly.

He slowly lowered his head and approached me, knees slightly shaking.

"Do you understand why you were punished?" I asked.

"Yes, Young Mistress. I failed in my duty to be attentive and responsible. I must do better."

I nodded. "Good. Remember this feeling — the silence, the distance, the isolation. Let it remind you to focus. Now, clean the kitchen and prepare a new batch of rice. This time, do it carefully."

As he moved to comply, I reflected silently: this journey would not be easy for either of us. Yet each moment, each correction, was a step toward something more profound — a bond forged in discipline, respect, and transformation.

Apollo had just finished scrubbing the burnt pot when he turned, cautiously, kneeling his head lowered but his eyes flickering upward.

"Permission to speak, Young Mistress," he said quietly.

I looked up from the book I had taken from the side table. My brow arched. "Granted."

He hesitated. "May I ask… what was the score, Young Mistress?"

The question hung in the air like a thread pulled too tight. For a moment, I said nothing. I closed the book in my lap with quiet finality and stood.

I walked toward him slowly, my heels tapping a steady rhythm on the hardwood floor.

When I stood before him, I tilted his chin up with the lightest touch of the cane. His eyes met mine with uncertainty.

"You will never know the score, Apollo."

He blinked, confused. "Young Mistress?"

I stepped back and spoke with absolute calm. "You will not know who won. You will not know who lost. That world — the world of games, of headlines, of spectatorship — is not yours. Your world," I said, gesturing lightly toward the kitchen, "is that one."

His eyes followed the gesture, and he seemed to shrink just slightly as the meaning settled in.

"The stove, the sink, the broom, the cloth, the scent of polished wood and freshly pressed linens — that is your arena," I continued. "That is where you succeed. Or fail. And that is what you must care about. Everything else," I said, turning my back to him now, "is not for you."

He didn't respond. Not immediately. And I didn't prompt him.

Only after a pause did I hear his voice, softer than before: "Yes, Young Mistress."

I glanced over my shoulder. "You may return to your duties. You still have to prove you've learned something today."

As I sat back down and reopened my book, I allowed myself a small inward smile.

He would never know the score of that match.

But he was beginning to learn the shape of his own life.

From then on Apollo responded more quickly to my instructions. He performed his tasks with increasing precision. The Wednesday fasting ritual and the cleaning of his chastity device had a beneficial effect on him; it seemed to deepen his sense of focus and dedication. And of course, I kept a close eye on his BMI — a healthy body, after all, supports a disciplined mind.

The cane? It came into play less and less. Apollo was learning. He had become such a silent presence in the apartment, a shadow that moved with grace and intent, that I decided he needed to become more audible. Not disruptive, no — but I missed being subtly aware of his presence when he moved from room to room.

And that, paradoxically, posed a new challenge. I didn't want him to disappear into silence. I wanted his presence to be known—not disruptive, but softly resonant. Symbolic.

Then I remembered something I had once seen in a television documentary: a performance of Indian Kathak dance. The male dancers wore ankle bells—ghungroos—small, graceful instruments tied in leather bands around their feet. They didn't just keep rhythm; they announced intention. The movement became music.

I looked them up that evening the internet. I found a pair that looked well-crafted, not tourist trinkets but real ones: dozens of small brass bells stitched into soft leather. I ordered them without hesitation.

When they arrived, I called Apollo to my side and explained their purpose. He nodded silently, accepting the gift as an honour. From that moment on, the gentle jingling of his steps followed me through the apartment like a wind chime in a quiet courtyard.

It was Countess Hannelore who first commented on it. She heard the sound as she walked through the corridor and paused at my open door.

"Kathak bells?" she asked with a knowing smile. "How very appropriate. They mark his presence without breaking the silence."

Then she chuckled, a note of playfulness in her voice. "You know, you should go out to the storage barn sometime. Years ago, I had a real rickshaw shipped over from Calcutta. It still has the paint on it. Maybe it's time it had a second life."

I looked at her, brows raised. She shrugged lightly. "Apollo could use some sunlight. And you, my dear, could use a symbol that turns heads."

I smiled, already picturing it. Sometimes beauty needed wheels.

The next morning, after breakfast and Apollo's usual bathing routine, I slipped into my catsuit and placed the delicate chain with the small keys around my neck, the cold metal a steady reminder of quiet control. I also retrieved a riding crop from the hallway cupboard. Apollo followed in silence, the soft chime of the kathak bells on his ankles trailing behind him like a whisper.

We crossed the courtyard toward the old shed. I hadn't opened it in years. Dust clung to the doorframe, and the metal latch gave a reluctant groan as I lifted it. The interior smelled faintly of oil, wood, and something older, less identifiable. I flipped the light switch.

And there it stood.

A genuine Calcutta rickshaw, nestled among forgotten garden tools and discarded crates. Its once-vibrant paint had dulled under layers of dust—deep red faded gold, and touches of indigo that hinted at floral patterns and Bengali script. The curved wooden canopy, hand-carved and painted with peacocks and lotus blossoms, had begun to crack slightly at the corners. The seat, though still padded, was mottled with time. Iron-spoked wheels supported the wooden frame, and the long shafts—meant to be gripped by the runner—were wrapped in worn leather.

For a moment, I stood admiring it, imagining it in its former life—gliding through crowded Indian streets, bells jingling, passengers shaded from the sun.

Then I turned to Apollo.

"Clean it. Immediately," I said firmly.

"Yes, Young Mistress," he replied at once, and without hesitation, he moved to obey.

I had seen the bucket, mop, and old sink in the corner of the shed. Apollo filled the bucket and began the work. He dusted first, gently, then wiped down the intricate curves of the frame with a damp cloth. He scrubbed the wheels and rinsed away layers of grime from the metal spokes. Bit by bit, the original colour returned. The carvings gleamed faintly under the shed's light. He even took a soft brush to the upholstery, bringing back some dignity to the faded seat.

From a few steps away, I watched in silence, noting the attention he gave to corners, to angles others might have missed. This, I thought, is what progress looks like—not in grand gestures, but in deliberate care.

When he finished, he turned toward me, knelt, and bowed low until his forehead touched the ground.

"I have cleaned the rickshaw, Young Mistress," he said, his voice low but steady.

"Pull it outside," I said. "We're going for a ride."

He rose, stepped between the wooden shafts, and took hold of the worn leather grips. The rickshaw moved surprisingly smoothly as he guided it out into the light of morning, the wheels crunching softly over the gravel. Outside, the gold paint caught the sun. For the first time in many years, the rickshaw breathed again.

And perhaps, in his quiet way, so did Apollo.

The morning air, crisp and smelling of dew-damp earth, hung pleasantly still as we stepped out onto the gravel path. My gaze settled on the rickshaw waiting patiently, its shafts resting on the ground. Apollo stood perfectly still between them, head slightly bowed, the picture of readiness. His bare skin glowed faintly in the early sun.

I settled myself onto the worn leather seat of the rickshaw, the wicker creaking softly under my weight. "Drive," I commanded, my tone clear and firm.

Immediately, Apollo bent forward, gripping the shafts firmly. With a smooth, motion, he lifted them and began to walk, pulling the small carriage forward. I felt the slight sway and bounce as we moved, a surprisingly smooth motion. "Ah," I murmured, shifting slightly, "the wheels are sprung. Comfortable." Apollo did not dare to comment, his breathing already settling into a steady rhythm as his bare feet padded softly on the gravel. I enjoyed the rhythmic sounds of the bells.

We turned onto the wider, packed-earth road leading towards the distant line of trees. I watched his powerful muscles shift in his back and legs as he pulled. Reaching down, I lightly tapped the coiled riding crop I held against his left flank, just above the curve of his buttock. "Trot."

His stride instantly changed. The walk became a brisk, jarring trot. The rickshaw bounced more noticeably now, the springs working harder. I adjusted my grip on the side rail, a small smile playing on my lips. The tap had been feather-light, yet his immediate response was absolute. Interesting, I thought, the crop commands his attention completely, even without force. It was a silent language just between us. And the music of his bells added to it beautifully.

We were making good time now, the cool air whipping past my face as Apollo maintained his steady pace, pulling us purposefully along the deserted road towards the beckoning forest. The fields stretched out on either side, bathed in golden light. "It's beautiful out here, Apollo," I remarked, breathing deeply. "So peaceful."

"Yes... young mistress," came his slightly breathless reply, his voice tight with the effort of pulling the rickshaw. "Very... beautiful."

The road remained mercifully empty, allowing us privacy. That is until we rounded a gentle bend and encountered an elderly couple out for a morning stroll. They froze mid-step, their eyes widening in utter disbelief as Apollo trotted past, sweat beginning to slick his naked skin. Their gazes locked onto the polished steel chastity device, gleaming conspicuously in the bright morning sun, its reflection almost blinding for a moment. The woman clutched her companion's arm, her mouth forming a silent 'O'. They said nothing. Not a word. They just stared.

I greeted them merrily with my whip. They didn't even blink. They just watched us go, their expressions a mixture of shock, confusion, and perhaps a hint of prudish disapproval. I chuckled softly, settling back into the seat. Their silent astonishment was strangely exhilarating.

Apollo maintained his trot, his focus entirely on the road ahead, seemingly oblivious to the stunned onlookers or the conspicuous glint between his legs. The forest edge drew nearer, promising cool shade and deeper quiet.

"It is wonderful," I sighed contentedly as the first dappled shadows of the trees fell across us. The sheer freedom, the power, the silent understanding, the open air... it was intoxicating. "We'll do this every day, Apollo. Every single morning."

He didn't reply verbally, but I felt it – a slight shift in his rhythm, a subtle tension in the shafts. Acknowledgement. Agreement. Perhaps even anticipation.

As the trees enveloped us, the rhythmic creak of the springs and the steady thud of Apollo's belled feet on the path became the only sounds. He, the engine, straining and powerful in his vulnerability. Me, the passenger, the commander, relishing the journey and the control. Two distinct parts, yet bound together in motion. Him pulling, me guiding. Each in their place, each playing their essential role. A perfect, silent, two-part unit, rolling deeper into the green embrace of the woods

I directed him with the precision of a seasoned conductor, guiding him with the flick of my riding whip. Each time I desired a turn, a sharp tap upon the right or left buttock would send him veering in the desired direction. The reddened welts that blossomed beneath the whip's tender embrace served as a visual reminder of the power dynamics that governed our relationship.

As we approached a small, secluded lake, anticipation grew in me. This was to be a moment of both reward and reinforcement for Apollo's instruction into the correct place of men in our society. I told him to halt beside the water's edge, and I produced the key to his chastity device from around my neck. "You may masturbate now," I announced, the authority in my voice unmistakable. "But do not dare let your cum touch me. Do it in time with my whip." Then I removed the device.

With a bow that spoke of his internalized obedience, Apollo began to stroke his cock in time with the rhythm of my whip taps on the riksha's shaft. His eyes never left my face, searching for any sign of approval or disapproval as his hand moved faster and faster, the muscles in his arm flexing with each upward motion.

For what felt like an eternity, I kept him dancing on the precipice of climax, alternating the tempo of my taps to control his pleasure. His breath grew ragged, and his body quivered with the effort of maintaining the rhythm. I revelled in his desperation. I felt no sexual excitement myself but gratification. It was a physical form of happiness that was caused by power, by ownership, not by lust.

Finally, when the tension was as tight as a drawn bowstring, I allowed him the sweet release he craved. His shout of pleasure echoed through the air as he spilt his seed upon the dry earth. He collapsed to the ground, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps.

"Dirty Apollo," I chided playfully, watching him from the comfort of the Rriksha. "Look at the mess you've made of yourself."

He looked up at me with exhaustion and adoration. I knew he would do anything to bask in the glow of my favour.

"Jump into the lake," I ordered, my voice carrying the power of a goddess. "Swim and clean yourself."

Without hesitation, he leapt into the cool water, his body breaking the stillness of the lake's surface. He swam vigorously, scrubbing the sweat and grime from his body as I watched from the lakeshore.

When he emerged, water droplets glistening on his skia mix ofn like diamonds, I felt a twinge of something akin to affection. "Good boy," I murmured, placing the chastity device back into place with a firm click. "Now, let's go home."

He took his position at the shafts of the riksha once more, and we set off at a brisk trot. The journey home was silent, save for the sound of his bells and the clack of the wheels against the ground.

As we arrived at the monastery, I climbed out of the carriage, my heart swelling with pride. "Apollo," I said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, "I would not know what to do without you."

He looked up at me with an expression of pure devotion, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Thank you, Mistress," he whispered. "For everything."

End of the third instalment.