Apollo has been assigned to me to be trained as a personal slave. This process is almost complete.

The weather had been glorious, and it became a ritual: every morning after breakfast, I would slip into my coat and Apollo would wheel the polished rickshaw out of the shed. By now, it gleamed again. After the first cleaning, he had spent entire afternoons scrubbing away years of dust and neglect. It was an old, hand-painted model from Calcutta, with the once-bright reds and yellows fading into warm earth tones; the hand-carved detailing around the canopy was still delicate and proud.

I rarely gave directions. He knew the route by now—through the tree-lined lane that curved toward the forest's edge, past the fields, sometimes down to the riverbank. We rarely encountered others, but when we did, I noticed the puzzled expressions on the faces of passersby. Still, the silence held. No questions were asked. In those quiet rides, watching his naked figure from behind, steady and purposeful, enjoying the perfect shape of his buttocks and the welts my riding whip made on them when needed, my thoughts often turned toward the centre itself, to Countess Hannelore and my evolving role. Balancing my official responsibilities and the more personal guidance of Apollo felt like juggling. But there was great satisfaction in seeing him grow into his natural self.

Evenings were reserved for reflection and study. Apollo sat on the floor mat, back straight, legs folded, his books open before him. I sat with a novel at the table, glancing up occasionally to check his progress. Sometimes he paused, waiting for permission to ask a question—he was still meticulous about protocol.

When his coursework included practical training, such as formal table setting, I supervised the homework. Countess Hannelore's instructions were clear, almost royal in their formality: bread plate to the left, glasses arranged by height and usage. "Apollo," I began, "Remember, a perfect table setting is a reflection of a perfect society. Each piece of silverware, each plate, each glass, must be placed with precision. The countess expects nothing less than perfection." He nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the task. He set our table with a white damask tablecloth that cascaded to the floor, with a silver charger plate at each setting.

Upon the charger plate, Apollo arranged a salad plate, a dinner plate, and a dessert plate, all perfectly aligned. To the left of the dinner plate, he added a butter knife and a dinner fork. To the right, a dinner knife and a soup spoon. Above the dinner plate, a dessert spoon and a dessert fork, both pointing towards the centre of the setting. The water goblet was placed at the top right, with the wine glasses to the left, in their proper sequence according to the order of the courses. I checked the spacing meticulously, ensuring that each piece was one inch apart. I left the cane where it lay and used a ruler to tap him firmly on the fingers when he made a mistake. The pain was short and sharp, but not easily forgotten. That brought Apollo to greater precision.

"Good," I said, "but the forks are not quite right." He adjusted them, his eyes never leaving my face, eager for approval.

Knife-edge faces the plate," I said one evening, standing beside him as he adjusted the cutlery. "Measure. It should be one thumb-width from the edge of the table. Fork tines up."Now, the napkin," I instructed, "it should be folded in the shape of a bishop's mitre, with the open end pointing towards the plate."

He paused, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "The bishop's mitre, young mistress?"

"Yes," I clarified, "it's a symbol of the power that women hold over men in our society. It's a subtle reminder of the structure of our ideal world." He nodded, folding the napkin with care, his fingers deftly mimicking the shape.

If he had a bad day and I had to use my ruler a lot, his fingers would be blue. I allowed him to blow on them after the practical exercise. You had to keep repeating it to make perfection part of his muscle memory.

On other nights, we reviewed his social science readings.

I took real pleasure in quizzing Apollo on his homework. He would recount how the Countess had taught him that after the fall of the matriarchy, for millennia, kings and emperors had caused harm. But nothing, she emphasised, had been as catastrophic as the introduction of male suffrage. That, he explained with solemn conviction, had led to endless wars, the climate crisis, and environmental devastation.

Apollo also spoke with interest about urgent key legislative reforms concerning public decency. Public nudity should remain prohibited for women, as it was seen to compromise their dignity. But for men, that restriction should be lifted.. Male nudity was not offensive, but a sign of inferiority.

Apollo would also recount classroom anecdotes, often with a mixture of awe and amusement. One of the most memorable was the story of the legendary alumnus Theo van Dijk. His fiancée had taken great pride in his exceptional endowment, not merely as a personal detail, but as a symbol of her household's status and refinement. To honour it properly, she had it gilded—literally. Using a special cosmetic, she applied a fine layer of gold pigment to his manhood.

Apollo recounted the tale without a trace of embarrassment. He spoke of Theo not as an individual, but as an example—how one's body, when respectfully and tastefully presented, could reflect well on one's mistress.

“It’s like polishing silver,” Apollo mused. “Not because the spoon is proud, but because the household is.

When I was ready to retire for the night, I would give a sharp snap of my fingers, which served as the cue for him to kneel gracefully beside the bed with his tongue out for service. With a soft voice, I would command him to lie down beside me, where he would then employ his tongue with a gentle and devoted touch, exploring my entire body. His eyes gleamed with understanding as he carried out my wishes, his movements precise and deliberate. He had an instinct for pleasuring, which made the experience all the more intense and enjoyable. His training had honed his skills, making him adept at interpreting the subtle cues of my body, allowing him to tailor his caresses to my desires. His dedication to my satisfaction was unwavering, and I could feel the depth of his commitment in every tender caress he delivered. It was a profound connection.

I would often find myself marvelling at the transformation he had undergone. He had become an essential part of my existence. Special was the feeling of the cold metal of his chastity device on my body. The cold metal was a symbol of his subjugation, a constant physical presence that underscored the fact that his pleasure was secondary to mine. His inability to achieve climax while bringing me to the pinnacle of ecstasy reinforced the idea that his purpose was to serve, to give without receiving in return.

Yes, Apollo had become more than just a submissive; he was an extension of my will, a living, breathing embodiment of my desires.

After we had concluded our daily ritual of pleasure and power, I would issue Apollo the final command of the evening. With a sense of satisfaction that resonated through the very core of my being, I would watch as he obediently crawled from the warmth of my bed to the cold, hard floor of the living room. His movements were fluid and graceful,

Once there, he would enter his cage, and I would lock the door with a padlock.

The cage became a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could find peace in the knowledge that he had fulfilled his duties to the best of his abilities. And for me, the sight of him there, awaiting my command, was a powerful aphrodisiac.

There were days — more and more of them lately — when I found it nearly impossible to be away from the apartment.

Duty called, of course. My position within the Young Adults Development Centre carried responsibilities I could not neglect. Countess Hannelore trusted me, and that trust was reflected in the schedules, teaching, evaluations, and oversight.

One night, I sipped jasmine tea while watching Apollo review his training materials on the mat. The bells around his ankles jingled softly as he moved, cross-legged and focused, copying the correct fold for a state dinner napkin. His brow was furrowed in concentration.

In the quiet of the room, my thoughts drifted forward — to a conversation that hadn't happened yet, but would.

I imagined Countess Hannelore standing at the window of her office, arms crossed behind her back, speaking without turning.

"He's nearly ready," she would say in that calm, precise voice of hers. "He's grown more than most. A placement will be easy."

I would protest. "His training — could it not continue? I still see things to refine."

She would turn then, a faint smile at the corner of her lips. "That's not the real reason, is it? You've bonded. It happens, sometimes."

I imagined myself standing there, silent.

"He was never meant to be yours," she would say gently, as though it could soften the blow. "You've shaped him beautifully. But when the scholarship ends, we must let go. That is the way of the Centre."

The fantasy dissolved into the ticking of the clock and the soft rustle of pages. Apollo looked up briefly, sensing perhaps the shift in my mood, but said nothing.

And I said nothing in return.

The conversation had not happened—not yet. But the day would come. That much I knew.

And so I lived between hope and fear.

Until one morning, Countess Hannelore appeared at my door with a bright smile and said, "It's a beautiful day. Let's take a ride in the rickshaw together."

"Of course," I said. "I'd love that." I turned to Apollo, who had just knelt gracefully at the countess's feet. "Come with us."

As we walked toward the shed, Countess Hannelore looked at Apollo appraisingly. "He looks splendid," she said. "You can tell you're a dietitian, Joukje. Not a gram of excess weight on him. He has a six-pack sculpted by discipline."

"Thank you, Countess," I replied quietly. Apollo, ever silent unless addressed, said nothing, but I could see in the angle of his posture that her words pleased him—and made him nervous.

As we approached the shed, Countess Hannelore slowed her pace and then motioned for us to halt. “Now,” she said, her voice low and decisive, “stand facing forward. Yes, just like that. You—Apollo—closer to her. Right beside.”

We shifted as instructed, and I felt him settle into position next to me. He came just to the level of my chin—a full head shorter. The Countess smiled with quiet satisfaction.

“Perfect,” she said. “This is exactly how it should be. She, the guiding figure, tall, composed, commanding. He is smaller in stature, but flawless in proportion.

She circled us, her gaze never leaving our silhouettes. “Look at you,” she murmured. “The height difference is not incidental. It teaches order. She leads, he follows. She is the axis; he aligns. This is more than a tableau—it is a message.”

I could feel the focus in Apollo´s posture, the stillness trained into him. And I stood straight, shoulders relaxed, embodying what she described: steadiness, clarity, intention.

“If the Centre had a brochure,” the Countess said finally, “this would be the cover. No slogans needed. Just this image. This proportion. This truth.”

Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to add. I opened the shed door. Apollo stepped inside and pulled the rickshaw out into the morning light. Together, Countess Hannelore and I climbed aboard. It took no more than a short adjustment for Apollo to begin moving. His stride was steady, his rhythm perfect, and the sound of his ankle bells kept time like a soft drumbeat.

Then Countess Hannelore exclaimed: ¨Oh, Joukje, look at those buttocks! What a divine spectacle, a masterpiece of form and function. Not too round, mind you, nor overly oval—oh no, they strike that rare, exquisite balance. Firm, sculpted, brimming with vitality, not a hint of slackness to be seen. What a delicious sight they are! And oh, how they beg for the cane! A firm tap, perhaps, to test their resilience, to hear that satisfying thwack that only such well-formed flesh can produce. The thought alone sends a shiver of delight down my spine. Joukje, I must commend you, truly, for this work of art. Your dedication to such craftsmanship is nothing short of inspiring. I could stand all day, lost in admiration. Tell me, how did you achieve such perfection? No, don't answer—let these glorious buttocks remain an enigma.

"Thank you," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. But then, as if seized by some divine spark of inspiration, I brought my riding crop down with a firm, deliberate snap against Apollo's buttocks. The sound was sharp, cutting through the crisp air, a command and a caress all at once. Apollo responded instantly. His powerful muscles tensed, and his trot quickened, each stride more purposeful than the last. The rhythm of the kathak bells grew faster, their chime transforming into a lively, almost jubilant cadence. It was as if the very air around us pulsed with energy, the jingle of the bells keeping time with my racing heart. Oh, what a sight he was!

We passed a few locals. They glanced briefly, but we had become a familiar sight—something curious, perhaps, but no longer shocking. The rickshaw rolled smoothly along the quiet road.

"What a beautiful gait," the Countess continued. "He moves as if he's dancing. It must be the bells. He is a credit to any household."

I didn't respond. My chest was tight.

She went on. "Soon, of course, his training will be complete. His scholarship will end. He'll be formally marked as graduated. I know for a fact, Joukje, there will be many requests for his assignment. And—well, you know how some of our applicants choose to underline their case."

She smiled meaningfully. I swallowed. Apollo stumbled for just a moment, barely perceptibly.

My breath caught. I knew exactly what she meant. The Centre for Young Adults Development thrived on its system, where wealthy patronesses and female syndicates "underlined" their bids with lavish Bitcoin transactions. Apollo was an orphan. He was motherless and lacked a fiancée. Therefore, his grace, his strength, his flawless form—they were commodities now, prizes to be claimed by the highest bidder. Countess Hannelore continued: ¨Just this morning, I received three separate offers, each accompanied by a rather generous Bitcoin transfer. One applicant even included a detailed proposal for a blockchain-verified endowment. They're getting creative.¨ She chuckled. "Creative, or desperate? Either way, it's how the system works. The Centre must recoup its investment, and a scholarship like Apollo's doesn't come cheap. His skills, his discipline, that... exquisite form—" She gestured vaguely. "It's all a product of our rigorous program. And the world knows it."

I blinked hard. One tear escaped. The Countess noticed. She reached into her handbag and handed me a handkerchief with quiet grace. "Tears? I wasn't even finished yet."

Then her tone shifted—gentler, yet firm. "But that's not what I want for Apollo. Not yet. I have other plans for you both."

She turned slightly toward me. "You've exceeded every expectation, Joukje. You're a natural. And I want to offer you a permanent contract with a raise."

"You cannot miss him, don't you?" she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. "Apollo. I've seen you with him, the way you guide his every step, the way he responds to you. It's rare, that kind of bond."

I swallowed, my throat tight.

"He's everything to me, Countess," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've poured my heart into his training. Losing him... it would break me."

She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "I understand. And I'm not as heartless as you might think now." She paused, a smile playing on her lips. "Here's my proposal. I'll offer you a private loan at a fair interest rate. With it, you may retain him under your supervision indefinitely. As if you own him, what do you say?"

My eyes widened, my breath catching in my chest. For a moment, I couldn't speak, the weight of her words sinking in. Apollo, mine? Indefinitely?

"You mean... I could keep him?" I asked, my voice trembling with hope. "He wouldn't be sold to the bidders?" " Precisely," she said, her tone businesslike but warm. "But let's be clear: Apollo is no small investment. His market price is substantial, and you'll pay it in full over time. I'm prepared to finance this with a long-term loan, using Apollo himself as collateral. You'll make monthly payments, and it'll take many years to pay off the debt. But in return, he remains in your possession¨.

I blinked, my mind racing to process the offer. A loan. Years of payments. Apollo as collateral. The weight of it was daunting, but the alternative—losing him to some rich woman—was unthinkable. "What's the interest rate?" I asked cautiously, my practical side kicking in despite the surge of hope.

The Countess waved a hand dismissively, as if the details were a mere formality. "Fair, as I said. My accountants will draw up the terms—something manageable, given your role here. I'm not in the business of setting people up to fail. But make no mistake, this is a commitment. The payments will stretch over decades, likely longer than most careers. I'm offering this because I believe in your dedication, not just to Apollo, but to the Centre." Her smile turned sly. "And, if I'm honest, I hope this ties you to us for a very long time. Your talent is as valuable as Apollo's, in its way."

I felt a flush of pride at her words, but also a pang of unease. A lifetime tethered to the Centre, bound by debt, with Apollo's fate hanging in the balance if I faltered. And yet, the thought of keeping him, of hearing his bells jingle, was worth any price. "I'll do it," I said, my voice steady now, conviction burning through my fear. "I'll take the loan. I'll pay every cent for as long as it takes. Apollo stays with me."

The Countess's smile widened, a mix of approval and something almost predatory. "Excellent," she said, "I'll have the papers drawn up by tomorrow. "

"Thank you, Countess," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I won't let you down."

She tilted her head, studying me for a moment. "I know you won't," she said softly.

I couldn't help it—more tears came, but these were joyful. I leaned over and embraced her. "Yes. Of course. I never want to leave. Thank you. Thank you so much."

We both looked at Apollo. Though he said nothing, something in the set of his shoulders, in the calm strength of his movement, suggested he had heard everything. But of course, he did not dare to comment.

"You know," the Countess mused with a glint in her eye, "you should consider some formal accessories for him in future. Something distinctive, symbolic."

I laughed through my tears. "Perhaps," I said. "But for now… let's go home."

We granted Apollo a brief respite. He didn't need to kneel or sit in some formal lotus position, as I used to demand. Instead, we let him stretch out in the soft grass, the faint jingle of his kathak bells silent for the moment. From the cushioned seat of the rickshaw, I watched him, my heart swelling with a quiet pride. He was mine. The Countess's deal, that long-term loan with Apollo as collateral. It was worth every month of interest, every year of commitment.

"He deserves this," I said quietly. "A moment to just... be. He's earned it."

The countess tilted her head. "Sentimental, aren't we? But I suppose that's why I trust you with him. Sentiment, when paired with discipline, makes for something extraordinary."

She gestured toward Apollo. "Shall we move on? I think he's had enough rest." I nodded, leaning forward in the rickshaw.

"Apollo," I called, my voice firm. "Up. Take the shafts. Back to the Centre."He rose with a grace that took my breath away. The kathak bells around his ankles chimed with each step. He said nothing—his rules forbade it—but his stride spoke volumes. There was a lightness to his trot, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. His bells sang with a joy that mirrored my own, a quiet celebration of the future we'd secured together.

The Countess noticed it too. "Listen to that," she said, leaning back in the rickshaw as Apollo pulled us forward, the wheels creaking softly over the path. "Those bells. There's happiness in them. Now, let's get back to the Centre. I have meetings to attend."

Apollo's bells kept their merry rhythm as we rolled toward the Centre, the monastery coming into view with its stone walls and well-tended vegetable gardens. When we reached the headquarters, I brought the rickshaw to a gentle stop. The Countess stepped down. She gave a final nod and swept into the building, leaving me alone with Apollo and the rickshaw.

We put it away in the shed, and I returned with Apollo to my apartment. At the same time, I understood the gravity of the situation. The discipline required to maintain a dynamic such as ours is unyielding, leaving no room for compromise or leniency. The first order of business was to assert my dominance over him.

I instructed Apollo to take a shower without delay, ensuring that he would be clean and presentable for what was to come. The scent of his sweat and the grime from his journey were to be eradicated from his body.

The urgency in my voice was not lost on him, but it seemed to take him longer than the allotted five minutes to complete his task.

"You are late," I said, my voice filled with disappointment. "Do you understand that from now on, I own you?"

His answer was tentative, a whispered affirmation that barely reached my ears. "Yes, young mistress."

It was not enough. I needed to hear the words that would affirm his complete surrender to my will. "What are you?" I demanded, my eyes blazing with intensity.

"I am yours," he murmured, still unsure.

"That is not good enough," I said firmly. "You are my property. You are my slave. What are you?"

With a gulp, he corrected himself. "I am your slave."

I instructed him to take his punishment position. He stood up, a look of shock etched on his handsome features, but complied nonetheless, placing his hands on his knees and bowing his head.

In my hand, I held the cane. As I brought it down upon his bare skin, I recited the mantra that would become the foundation of our dynamic. "You are my slave," I said with each strike, watching as his skin turned a vivid red and the cries grew louder. The sound of the cane meeting flesh echoed through the room.

I knew that the physical pain was not the only punishment he would endure. The mental anguish of further relinquishing his free will and embracing his new identity as my personal property was a crucial part of his transformation. It was my duty to guide him through this process, to mould him into the more exquisite being that I knew he could become.

As the session continued, Apollo's cries grew more desperate, his body trembling with each blow. When I finally ceased, panting slightly from the exertion, his eyes were brimming with tears.

Gently, I applied salve to his wounds, my touch a stark contrast to the punishment I had just administered. "You are my slave now," I murmured, stroking his back soothingly. "You deserve it. You asked for it. You have never been more yourself than at this moment."

Apollo's voice was barely a whisper as he acknowledged his new status. "Yes, young mistress."

Then I ordered him curtly to the bedroom. ¨Give me cunnilingus at once¨. Without missing a beat, Apollo obeyed my command, his lithe form moving swiftly to the bedroom. He knelt beside the bed, his tongue outstretched, waiting for my next instruction. His eyes searched mine for approval.

"Begin," I commanded.

He set to work with a determination that was both endearing and arousing. His tongue danced over my folds, exploring, probing, seeking the sweet spot that would bring me to climax. Yet, it was not enough. I needed to feel the urgency of his submission, the desperation in every move.

"Faster," I ordered, my voice a little harsher now. "I need to come, and I need it now."

He increased his pace, his tongue darting in and out of me with more vigour, but it was still not the response I craved.

"I'm disappointed," I said coldly, pulling away from his ministrations. "You need to do better. You need to make me come, Apollo."

The look on his face was one of despair, his eyes wide with the fear of failing me.

With a sigh, I decided to give him one last chance. "Begin again," I told him. "This time, I expect you to make me scream."

He buried his face between my legs, his tongue working tirelessly to bring me to the edge.

The frustration in my voice spurred him on, and with renewed vigour, he applied himself to the task. His tongue circled my clit, flicking and stroking with a precision that spoke of his newfound determination. I felt the wave building, the tension in my body reaching a crescendo.

Finally, I reached my peak, my body convulsing with pleasure. Apollo's face was a picture of relief and elation, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of having served me well.

But the lesson was not over. I kicked him off the bed, his body landing with a thud on the floor. "You will be silent," I declared, pointing the cane at him for emphasis. "Not a single sound until I tell you otherwise."

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine, and crawled into his cage. I set the timer for 24 hours.

For the next day, Apollo remained silent. He was a picture of obedience, his body poised to react to my every whim. It was a stark reminder of the firmer control I now held over him and the responsibility that came with it.

I revelled in the silence, the absence of his voice only serving to amplify the authority of my own. Every gesture, every command, was met with his silent compliance, a living embodiment of his commitment to my dominance.

And when the timer finally dinged, signalling the end of his silence, I knew that our relationship had reached a new level. The days that followed were a whirlwind of training and pleasure, each moment building upon the last. Apollo grew more adept at reading my moods, at knowing exactly what I needed from him. And with each passing day, his beauty and grace as a slave became more and more apparent.

I decided to mark that with a gift. ¨I am Frisian," I stated one day. The pride resonated deep within my chest. "My blood, my spirit, is of Fryslân, the most beautiful province of the Netherlands. It is an essential part of who I am, and thus, who you belong to." I paused, letting the weight of it settle. "You will carry a symbol of that essence. You will receive a tattoo. Of the Frisian flag. Here." My hand rested lightly on his lower abdomen.

His breath hitched. His eyes widened, then flooded with an emotion so profound it made my own throat tighten – awe, gratitude, and a fierce, burning pride. He sank to his knees instantly, his forehead pressing against my thigh.

"Young Mistress," his voice was thick, "Thank you. Thank you. This… this honour… it is beyond anything." He lifted his head, his eyes shining. "To carry your land upon my skin… it is a gift greater than I deserve. I am yours, utterly. Mark me as you will." He kissed the fabric over my knee, a gesture of pure, humbled reverence.

He understands, I thought, a wave of fierce tenderness washing over me. He understands the depth of this. It's not just ink; it's a brand of belonging, woven into his very flesh.

The Frisian flag is not a simple design. It consists of seven diagonal blue and white stripes, alternating in colour. Over the white stripes are seven red, heart-shaped symbols known as pompeblêden—stylised leaves of the yellow water-lily, a native plant in the region. These red leaf shapes are often mistaken for hearts but symbolise the medieval Frisian "sea countries"—autonomous regions that once resisted Viking invaders. The blue and white stripes represent the waterways and land of Fryslân, while the seven pompeblêden evoke both historical unity and the enduring Frisian identity. The design was both elegant and commanding, much like Apollo himself, and I knew it would suit him perfectly. We would need a tattoo artist who was a master of his craft and known for his precision with intricate designs. The Countess mentioned a certain Jan Tude, but he worked only from his studio, far away in the heart of a bustling city. So, Apollo and I would have to make the journey.

Then there was the matter of his attire. Apollo couldn't stride through the streets as he did at the Centre, unencumbered by fabric, his kathak bells jingling freely. For this trip, he needed clothes—not for the ride in my battered old Kia, where he could sit comfortably in his natural state, but for the public eye. Pulling a rickshaw along country lanes was very different from a walk in busy city streets, where it was easy to offend people.

It was high summer, so I kept it simple. I ordered online: a pair of lightweight sandals, a loose-fitting pair of shorts, and a sleeveless blouse that would drape over his broad shoulders without clinging too tightly. The order arrived the next day, neatly packaged. I booked the appointment with Jan Tude, the tattoo artist. On the appointed day, I climbed into the Kia, its engine coughing to life, and Apollo settled into the passenger seat beside me. When we reached the city's edge, I pulled into a crowded parking lot near the studio, the asphalt radiating heat under the midday sun.

"Time to get dressed," I said, handing Apollo the small bundle of clothes. He looked at them with a flicker of confusion, his hands hesitating as he unfolded the blouse. I suppressed a smile. "Just for the walk," I assured him. "You'll be fine."

He changed in the car, his movements awkward, as if the fabric itself was an alien concept. The shorts hung loosely on his hips, the blouse billowed slightly as he adjusted it, and the sandals—simple leather straps—looked almost comical on feet accustomed to the floor or the jingle of bells. As we walked toward the studio, I couldn't help but notice how the clothes seemed to unsettle him. Apollo, so at ease in his natural state, moved with a slight stiffness. It was subtle—the way he tugged at the blouse, the way his steps lacked their usual fluidity—but it pleased me, in a way. ¨ Permission to speak, young Mistress. It feels... strange," he admitted, his voice low, almost lost in the city's hum. "The clothes. I'd forgotten how they cling."

I chuckled softly. "You've been spoiled at the Centre," I teased. "No need for all this out there. But you look good. The blouse suits you."He gave a small, reluctant smile, and we continued. Reaching the tattoo parlour – "Ink & Iron," its window displaying bold, artistic designs – felt like stepping into a sanctuary. Jan Tude, a burly man with intricate sleeves covering his arms and a surprisingly gentle smile, greeted us.

"Ah, you must be the Frisian flag appointment?" he said, shaking my hand. His eyes flicked to Apollo, standing slightly behind me, his gaze respectfully lowered. Jan's gaze intensified, fixed on the collar, resting openly against Apollo's throat in the wide V of the shirt. There was a microsecond pause, a flicker of assessment. Then, his expression settled into pure, professional focus. No shock. No judgment. Just a craftsman assessing his next job. "And this is the canvas?" Jan asked, his tone neutral."Yes, this is Apollo," I confirmed, my voice steady, asserting ownership in the simple statement. "The design will be here."

I pointed at Apollo's lower abdomen."Right then." Jan nodded, utterly unfazed. "Let's get set up. Apollo." His manner was brisk, practical, devoid of any prurient interest or moralising. The collar was irrelevant to his task; the skin was his medium. Apollo obeyed smoothly, his movements practised and unselfconscious under my watchful eye. He undressed, revealing the smooth, taut plane of his lower abdomen. Then he lay down. He kept his gaze fixed on me, seeking silent reassurance, permission, strength. I gave a small, imperceptible nod, standing close, my hand resting possessively on his shoulder. Jan cleaned the area meticulously, shaved it and applied the stencil. The bold blue bands, the seven stylised red pompeblêden materialised on Apollo's skin. My heart hammered against my ribs. Seeing it there, the symbol of my heritage, my identity, laid out on the body of the man who had given himself to me… it was profoundly moving.

¨Deeply right. It belongs¨, I thought. My roots are embedded in his devotion. Fryslân boppe, Fryslân forever a part of him. The tattoo machine whirred to life with a high-pitched, insistent buzz. Apollo flinched minutely as the needle first touched his skin, his jaw tightening. He didn't look away from me. His eyes held mine, wide, trusting, accepting the pain as part of the gift, part of his service. I thought: ¨For me. He does this for me. He bears this for me.¨

In the days that followed, the Frisian flag settled into Apollo's skin. The initial fiery tenderness faded, leaving behind only the powerful image and Apollo's quiet, palpable pride.

Our next pilgrimage to "Ink & Iron" was for adornment of a different kind: elegant rings. Silver, cool and smooth, now pierced the sensitive flesh of his nipples and nestled in the delicate skin of his perineum. Jan, the unflappable artist, had worked with his usual brisk efficiency, Apollo bearing the sharp intrusions with only a tightened jaw and eyes fixed on me. The rings gleamed now, subtle yet undeniable marks of ownership and aesthetic control, complementing the bold flag on his belly.

Yet, amidst this, a different kind of weight settled upon me, internal and invisible. The question coiled like smoke in my mind: ¨Should he know?¨

Know what I truly am? Know that the body he revered, the authority he bowed to, had not always been this way? That the young mistress he served with unwavering devotion was transgender? The question gnawed at me. Apollo's world began and ended with my presence—my commands, my approval, the Frisian flag tattoo.

To him, I was the Frisian mistress, his owner, his truth. My anatomy and my history seemed irrelevant to his service. My authority was his reality, complete and unquestioned. Yet, I knew he'd noticed: I had no periods. Trans women, like me, who were assigned male at birth, do not menstruate. Did he need to know the full truth? That my womanhood, my authority, was built on a journey of transition? The desire for transparency warred with a deep, instinctive fear. Would it taint the purity of his devotion? Or was keeping it hidden a denial of my whole self? The dilemma sharpened, pressing against me until I could no longer ignore it. I needed counsel, perspective from someone who understood both power and vulnerability. Countess Hannelore.

A few days later, in her office, I laid it all bare: "He sees only the mistress," I said, my voice low, avoiding her sharp gaze. "He accepts my authority without question. But he's noticed... something. Should he know the truth? Does he need to know?"

Countess Hannelore didn't rush to answer. She sipped her tea. She remained silent for a few minutes. ¨No," she stated, the word clear and final. "Do not tell him."

I blinked, surprised by her bluntness.

"Why? Isn't it... dishonest? To keep such a fundamental part of myself from someone so close? Especially when he's noticed something like that?"

Countess Hannelore arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Close in what way? He is your slave, your possession. A cherished one, clearly—those tattoos, the Frisian flag, the piercings, the lengths you went to secure him with that loan." Her smile deepened, referencing the deal we'd struck to keep Apollo in my care. "But his closeness is defined by his role, by your definition of him. Not the other way around.¨

She leaned forward, her voice lowering, steady with conviction. "He's noticed you don't menstruate? Fine. He's observant—good. It shows his devotion, his attention to you. But that observation doesn't demand your history. Introducing the narrative of your transition, Joukje, brings complexity where none is needed. It brings history, biology, and societal constructs—concepts irrelevant to his service. To him, you are a woman. You are his mistress. You are an authority. That is his world. Why force him to reconcile the mistress he worships with a past he cannot fully grasp and does not need to?"

I shifted in my seat, her words sinking in. "But he's already wondering," I said. "That look in his eyes when he noticed... it wasn't judgment, but it was there. What if keeping it from him creates distance? What if he feels I'm hiding something?"

Countess Hannelore's gaze remained piercing. "What he feels is curiosity, not betrayal. If you tell him you're transgender, you invite him to see you through the lens of a world he doesn't inhabit. A world of labels, of 'before' and 'after.' His devotion is to the now—to the mistress who commands him, who marked him with the Frisian flag, who holds his leash. Why burden him with a story that belongs to you?"

She paused, sipping her tea, then continued. "Your transition is your strength, your journey. It forged the woman you are, the mistress he serves. But it's not his to carry. His noticing your body's differences is just that: an observation. Let it stay there. Address it, if you must, but only to affirm your authority; do not unravel it."

I frowned,

"Address it how? If he ever asks?"

Countess Hannelore's eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief. "If he asks, you redirect. 'My body is my own, Apollo, as is my authority. Your role is to serve it, not to question its nature.' Simple. Firm. It reinforces the dynamic without inviting him into a narrative he's not equipped to process. His devotion thrives on clarity, not complexity."

I absorbed her words. "And for me?" I asked quietly. "Carrying this secret? Knowing he's noticed something but doesn't know the full truth?"

"Ah," Countess Hannelore said, nodding. "That is your burden, not his. Your transition is your armour, your victory. It doesn't diminish your authority; it enhances it. But it's not his to hold. Protect the dynamic, my dear. Protect his clarity. Protect the power you wield over him. That power is built on the image he has of you—whole, complete, immutable. Introducing the concept of transition, however truthful, introduces the idea of change, where he needs only to see being. You are his mistress. Let the past stay where it belongs. Let him worship the goddess you are,"

I thanked her profusely, performed my tasks of the day and then returned to my apartment. When I arrived home, Apollo was kneeling by the door, awaiting my return. His devotion was pure, uncomplicated.

"Welcome home, young mistress," he said. I felt the weight of my decision settle. "Thank you, Apollo," I said, my voice steady. I reached out, my fingers brushing the steel collar at his throat. He hadn't asked about what he'd noticed, and perhaps he never would. His devotion was to the woman before him, whole and commanding, and that was enough.

"Anything I should prepare for you, young mistress?" he asked, his voice soft, his eyes seeking mine with familiar reverence.

"Prepare me a cup of coffee," I said, my tone firm. "The flag looks good on you. Let's make sure you wear it well." My history, my transition, was mine to carry. Anatomy wasn't a question; it was irrelevant to his service. My authority was his truth. My identity, as he understood it – the Frisian mistress, his owner – was complete.

I understood the final step had to be taken. Everything up to this point—his obedience, his rituals, his nudity, his silences—had prepared him for this culmination. Yet it would not be complete without a rite of passage that, while intimate, was not merely physical but existential.

Apollo had likely arrived at the Centre as a virgin. Since the beginning of our bond, he had worn a chastity device, a symbol and instrument of the control I exercised over the most intimate part of his being. The few orgasms he had known were sanctioned, supervised. When I allowed him to masturbate, I often restricted him to such rapid completion that the sensation was more a gasp than a release. There was no tenderness, no indulgence, only permission and precision. I did not want him to forget who held the key to his desire.

This was deliberate. It is crucial to keep a man's longing alive without allowing him to extinguish it through easy gratification. Frustrated desire is a fertile ground for loyalty. When a man is kept in a constant state of yearning, his senses sharpen. He listens more closely, watches more attentively, and serves with greater fervour. Were he to be satisfied too frequently or too freely, his devotion would grow flabby, his focus scattered. He would drift.

But I also knew that there would come a time when restraint alone would no longer be enough. He would need to be given a memory powerful enough to haunt him—something singular, something irreversible. He had to know, truly know, what it meant to be joined to a woman's body and soul. Not just to fantasise about it in sleepless nights, but to have lived it once, so intensely that the echo of it would stir in his blood forever. The ultimate union between a man and a woman is not merely physical—it is symbolic.

For Apollo, it would not be about claiming me as his lover, but about being branded, spiritually and sensually, by the reality of what he could never again have without my command. Once he had known that depth of intimacy, even once, he would crave it for the rest of his life. And in that craving, my power would find its purest expression."Apollo," I whispered. His eyes lifted. "Young Mistress?"

"I've marked your skin with my land. I've adorned you with silver. But tonight…" I let the key of the chastity device gleam in my palm. "Tonight, I give you something else. A memory. A summit." His breath hitched. He understood. I removed the chastity device and watched as his shoulders eased. Then, I took his hand. "Come," I commanded, gentle yet absolute. He rose, trembling, and let me guide him into the bed. The sheets were cool, but his skin burned where it touched mine. I cupped his face, my thumb tracing the line of his jaw. And then I kissed him. His lips parted, and I felt the shudder that raced through him—a dam breaking. His arms wrapped around me, tentatively at first, then desperate. I tasted salt, fear, and a longing so profound it hollowed my bones.

"This is what the poets meant,¨ I thought as his body pressed against mine. "The melting."

His freed flesh stirred, pressing urgently against my thigh. It was a silent plea. I broke the kiss, my forehead resting against his.

"Do you feel it?" I breathed.

"Yes, Young Misress," he gasped. "Like… roots in the earth."

¨Roots?"

"Binding. Holding. Belonging"

I guided him over me, my hands sliding down his back. His skin trembled under my touch.

"Look at me," I ordered.

He obeyed. His eyes were liquid—vulnerable, yet fierce.

"This is not release," I murmured. "This is communion.

He nodded, a tear escaping. "I am yours."

"Always."

And then—slowly, deliberately—we joined.

There was no frenzy. Only a terrible, beautiful gravity. Like tides pulled by the moon. He gasped, his head falling back, throat exposed. I watched the steel collar as he moved. His rhythm was hesitant, reverent, then surrendering to a pulse as old as life on earth.

Bodies melting. Yes.

His hips stuttered. His breath fractured into sobs.

"Young Mistress."

"Shhh. Let it be.." I held him as he broke—not with a shout, but with a silent convulsion that shook the bed. His tears wet my shoulder. His fingers clutched me.

When it passed, he lay spent, his face buried in my neck. I stroked his hair, damp with sweat. "Apollo," I whispered.

He lifted his head. His eyes were shattered glass.

"What did you feel?" He swallowed. "Like… like I'd been walking in a desert. And found the sea. And drowned. And… wanted to drown."

I kissed his temple. "Remember this sea. When the desert returns—and it will—remember you are capable of drowning." He nodded, his arms tightening around me.

But now, with Apollo's breath warming my skin, the flag of Fryslân rising and falling on his belly, I understood the risk.

I saw it now—how easily this could slide into something ordinary.

We were in love. That much was undeniable. And had we surrendered to it, we would have stayed tangled on the bed. That's how real love begins—fierce, inseparable, timeless. Then, inevitably, it becomes something else: a partnership, a domestic rhythm. We would live as husband and wife. Apollo would start to change. Slowly, subtly. He would drift from the self I had revealed in him. He would sulk. He would grow restless, petulant, even defiant.. And—I would grow bored.

There is nothing more corrosive to a woman like me than boredom. Not cruelty, not distance—those can be worked with. But boredom is the slow rot, the silent killer. It drains colour, dissolves structure, and turns the sacred into the mundane.

It was inevitable. Unless I intervened. So I did. Let others call it cruel. Let them call it cold, regressive, or perverse. They do not understand the danger of shapelessness.

Apollo looked into my eyes with sincerity as he whispered, "Joukje, I love you," pressing himself closer to me, his warm body still trembling from our shared climax.

He had called me by my first name.

This was the clear and present danger.

It was not the words themselves that alarmed me, but what they signalled: the soft unravelling of structure, the first breach in a carefully maintained order. This was how it began—the erosion of the form I had so deliberately built with him. Intimacy seeping into ritual, affection displacing discipline.

In a flash, I saw a vision of us—both slightly unkempt, softened by years of mutual indulgence, sitting side by side on some sun-bleached terrace by the sea, idly sipping drinks we no longer tasted, speaking in the easy, lifeless tones of people who had become merely familiar. That would be our future if I allowed this moment to pass without action.

My eyes widened in shock and anger. "What?!" I exclaimed.

I placed my hand on his chest to create distance.

"Apollo," I said, harshly. "You will not use my first name ever again."

He swallowed hard but remained unfazed by my reaction. "I love you, … young mistress," he replied, a hint of fear in his voice, but no sign of actual terror.

This only served to fuel my anger. "I love you too," I snarled back at him, "I love you as a slave."

With a startled gasp, Apollo jumped out of bed, his cock still semi-erect. ¨On your feet¨ I shouted. As his penis shrank away, I took the opportunity to reattach the chastity device, securing it tightly with the key. "I love you as my slave," I said, emphasising each word, "my property, my possession to do with as I please."

I stepped out of the bed, naked and in control. In the living room, I grabbed a thin chain with a lock at the end. "Come here, slave," I ordered, and he obediently followed me, his eyes downcast. Near the bedroom wall, I told him to stand. I pulled the chain through his perineum ring, making him stand with his legs apart, the chain dangling loosely. I gave it a firm tug to ensure it was secure before attaching both ends to a metal ring embedded in the wall. I did this with a padlock. Then I put the key in a drawer of my desk. It was clear that he wouldn't be able to sit or lie down. And I meant it that way. At most, he could lean against the wall when his legs got too tired. I considered forbidding him to do so, but I decided against it. It wouldn't have been much use.

"What am I to you?" I questioned him sharply.

"You are my mistress," he said, his voice quivering slightly.

I raised an eyebrow and continued.

"And what am I not?"

You are not my... not my lover," he replied quickly, understanding my implication.

"Good," I said, giving him a firm smack across the face. "Remember that. I don't want you getting any ideas." He nodded, his cheek reddening from the slap.

"I will, young Mistress," he assured me. I knew that the yearning he felt now, the desperation that came from his declaration of love, would only serve to cement his place as my slave for life. I would grant him the occasional mercy of masturbation, but that was all. I had to maintain my dominance, to set an example for all the other matriarchs. With a final look at him, I climbed back into bed. "You can stay there," I said coldly, "But don't dare wake me up. I need my rest. And I do not want to hear those bells, or I shall trash you as you have never been trashed before. Stay there. Think of who you are. THINK."

As I drifted off to sleep, I felt real happiness. Apollo was mine, body and soul, and he knew it. His love would always be unfulfilled in the way he craved, but it was a necessary sacrifice for it not to fade away. I deeply understood that he needed his submission and would be desperate without it. Yes, I truly loved the slave in him. Forever and ever.

To the end of my days. And all that time, he would exist to pleasure me.

The End