There I was, sitting in a quiet corner of Het Goude Hooft, hands wrapped around a latte that had long gone cold.

Would she come? Was this real? Or had I walked straight into the hands of some delusional creep with a thing for vulnerable women?

Or—just maybe—was this the moment? The moment something would break open inside me and the world would shift?

Not that I had any reason to complain.

When I was thirteen and told my parents, voice shaking but eyes steady, “I feel like a girl. I want to be called Joukje, not Jouke,” they didn’t flinch. They listened. They nodded. They said, “.We love you. This doesn't change anything.”

In my mother tongue, Frisian, names have a kind of symmetry to them: Jouke and Joukje—just one letter apart, for the male and the female version.

The doctors, the teachers, even the neighbours—everyone in our small Frisian town responded with a kind of quiet, stoic support when i went into full transition. It lasted three years, and everyone acted as if this was simply one more fact about me, like the colour of my eyes or my fondness for iced coffee in winter.

The most stressful was the deep vaginoplasty where my penis was used to construct a vagina. It took six hours and the surgeons at the hospital in Nijmegen even created a clitoris. My prostate remained. That would be my secret from then on.

I'd finished my degree in dietetics. I was a full-grown woman now, with dark hair that I wore in a soft, sculpted wave down my back, and legs that never seemed to end—especially when I wore heels, which I almost always did. I had a collection of them in my tiny apartment above my parents’ house as if each pair could take me one step closer to some imagined future.

But still, it wasn’t complete.

I longed to live somewhere new. Somewhere, I didn’t have to explain why old-school photos showed a boy. Somewhere I could be Joukje, without footnotes. But with the housing crisis, that dream stayed a dream. My father had lovingly converted the attic into a sort of studio—functional, and warm, but not mine in the way I needed.

So when the message arrived via LinkedIn, it wasn’t just a curiosity. It was a spark.

Hannelore Gräfin von Wusterhausen.

She’d written in perfect Dutch, concise to the point of being cryptic:

“I saw your profile photo. There is something about you. I want to speak with you about your future.”

She added a date, a time, and a place: Het Goude Hooft, The Hague.

That was it.

She had no profile picture, nor a list of accomplishments, just a brief mention: of philosophy and psychology studies in Germany. Owner of something called the Young Adult Development Centre.

It was almost too little. But the sparseness intrigued me. It felt deliberate. She wanted me to be the one to reach forward.

And I had.

Now I sat here—obedient, expectant.

Wearing the one outfit that made me feel both invincible and entirely myself.

My power suit.

It was ivory, tailored within a whisper of my waistline, with sharp shoulders and a nipped-in blazer that ended just at the top of my hips. The trousers were wide-legged and flowed when I walked, cut from a silk wool blend that shimmered slightly under the warm light of the brass chandeliers. Beneath the jacket, I wore a sheer, sand-coloured blouse with a high collar and delicate mother-of-pearl buttons that disappeared under the lapel.

Around my neck, a thin gold chain with a charm: a crescent moon with a tiny garnet in its curve. A gift from my mother. My heels were suede, soft mauve, and four inches tall. They added to the illusion of elegance and danger I’d been cultivating since the message.

My nails were painted dusky rose. My lips were a shade darker. I sat with my back straight, ankles crossed, and phone turned face down on the table.

Every nerve in my body hummed.

Then the door opened, and in walked—

Gräfin Hannelore.

I knew immediately it was her.

She moved through the entrance of Het Goude Hooft as though the door had been opened for her by fate itself. A woman of about fifty, though anyone would’ve guessed thirty-nine. Raven-black hair, pinned in a twist that was both effortless and exact. Her cheekbones were high, her jawline defined. She wore deep indigo designer jeans that looked sculpted to her long legs and a cream silk haute couture blouse with architectural pleats that shifted slightly as she walked. Over one arm, she carried a long, dark cashmere coat folded precisely.

Her eyes were grey—cold, sharp, scanning—and they found me instantly. Recognition flashed there, and with it, something else: calculation.

She came straight toward me.

“Hannelore,” she said. “Gräfin von Wusterhausen.” She extended her hand.

I stood quickly, my palms already damp. “Joukje Haanstra. Pleased to meet you,” I said, trying to match the calm precision of her voice.

Her handshake was firm, and controlled. No jewellery. Her authority didn’t need decoration. She exhaled presence like others exhaled breath. I didn’t sit down until she did. Something told me that would have been presumptuous.

She gestured briefly with her hand as if brushing away something unimportant. “Let’s get the countess title out of the way,” she said. “Everyone brings it up. The German nobility was officially abolished in 1918 when the Kaiser fled. So, no, I don’t hold legal title. And yet,” she gave a faint smile, “most people still call me ‘Gräfin´, that is to say, ¨Countess.’”

“Oh,” I said, unsure whether to smile. “I see.”

She picked up the menu from the table and, to my surprise, raised a delicate monocle to her right eye.

“Any food taboos?”

“No, Countess.”

She gave a short nod, then beckoned the waitress with a gesture that was somehow regal without being rude. “Two Holtkamp croquettes,” she said, “and for the lady—Eggs Benedict.” She barely glanced at me, confident she had chosen correctly. “And a Spanish red, Rioja. 2018, if you have it.”

The waitress hurried off. We waited in silence until she came back with our orders.

Only then did she turn fully toward me. “Now,” she said. “Let’s not waste time. I’ll come straight to the point.”

She folded her hands before her. “What do you know about female supremacy?”

“I… suppose it’s a kind of feminism?” I offered. “That’s what I associate it with. But I don’t know that much. I guess—” I tried to smile, “—it sounds like a rather nice idea.”

Was this about my past? Had she somehow read between the lines of my profile, seen something in my face, my posture? Did she know?

But she said nothing about that. Instead, she leaned in slightly.

“Look around,” she said. “We are living in the twilight of the patriarchy. You can see it in the climate crisis, in the collapse of systems, in how society buckles under its weight. The male-dominated model is failing. Naturally so. It was always an aberration.”

I blinked. “An aberration?”

“Six to seven thousand years ago,” she said, eyes locked on mine, “pastoral tribes came into Europe. Shepherds. They overran and overruled the matriarchal cultures that preceded them—cultures that worshipped the earth, the goddess, and the feminine. Shepherds require strength, yes—but not intelligence. They imposed hierarchies. They exalted brute force. The result? A world ruled by men, disconnected from nature.”

I was quiet for a moment, letting it sink in. “And before that… the world was ruled by women?”

She nodded once. “Not ruled. Guided. Women led. There was balance, reverence for life, and deep intelligence. Women gave life and governed it. But that balance was shattered. We’ve been suffering under that break ever since.”

“But… now you think it’s changing?” I asked, almost whispering.

She smiled. “It’s already changing, child. Girls are the majority in higher education. Women are rising to positions of real influence. And where women lead, harmony follows. If female supremacy takes root, the exploitation of the earth will cease. Humanity will return to nature—not as conqueror, but as kin.”

“But how?” I asked, bewildered. “I mean… how can something like that happen?”

“It is happening,” she said. “Not through revolution, but evolution. Through the quiet, determined building of new structures. We—” her eyes fixed on mine again, unwavering—“we are the vanguard. The advance guard. Women like me, Joukje, and perhaps women like you.”

My throat was dry. “But what… what do you mean by we? What do you do?”

She didn’t answer immediately. She sipped her wine and looked at me over the rim of her glass.

“We start small,” she said finally. “We create micro-societies, homes, communities, circles in which the natural order is restored. Men no longer pretend to lead. They live as they should—under the guidance of women. There, they find peace. Their burdens are lifted. Their impulses are tempered. Their egos are humbled.”

I tried to imagine it. “You mean… men who obey women?”

“Not just obey,” she said, almost softly. “Men who flourish by surrendering. We lead. They follow. And in that, they find freedom.”

I leaned back slightly. “Is this… something you teach?”

“It’s something I embody,” she said. “It’s something I build. Carefully. Patiently. I don’t broadcast it. But I recognize those who are ready. And I act.”

I felt her gaze on me like a weight.

I nearly withered under her gaze.

It wasn’t a cruel look. Not judgmental. But it held such clarity, such unrelenting focus, that I felt peeled open, layer by layer until there was no point hiding anything. I had come here half in hope, half in fear—but I hadn’t truly expected to be seen. Not like this. Not this quickly.

I swallowed hard. The room seemed to tilt slightly. There was no turning back.

“I… I have to confess something,” I said. My voice was low but steady. “I’m not… I’m not a regular woman. I mean, I wasn’t born—” I hesitated. “I’ve been through transition.”

There. It was out. I braced myself.

But Countess Hannelore didn’t flinch. She didn’t avert her eyes. She laughed—lightly but with a note of satisfaction.

“How remarkable,” she said, and there was something warm in her voice now. “That happens.”

“That happens?” I repeated, unsure.

“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes a woman’s psyche is born into a man’s body. It used to be a tragedy—centuries of pain, of erasure. But now? Now there are remedies. And a strong female spirit”—she pointed gently toward me—“a true woman’s spirit, commands her body to become what it must be. That’s what you’ve done. You’ve willed yourself into alignment. And that, my dear… that places you uniquely among us.”

I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath until it escaped me in one long, silent exhale. I hadn’t expected validation. I had expected disapproval, perhaps polite rejection or veiled pity. But this?

I felt—seen.

“I… thank you,” I said. My voice trembled, but I didn’t look away.

She smiled, but her tone shifted again—subtle, precise.

The Countess continued as if there had been no pause at all.

“Have you ever heard of the Young Adult Development Centre?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

I shook my head. “No… I don’t think so.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “We don’t advertise. We’re located in an old monastery just across the German border. Peaceful. Remote. No one comes there unless they have a reason to. Well, sometimes a lost migrant, or a drifter. And we help them if we can. But generally, it’s a closed system.”

Her voice took on a certain rhythm now—measured, almost hypnotic.

“The Young Adult Development Centre is an institution where we prepare young men for the new world. Their mothers send them to us the day they come of age—some on their eighteenth birthday, others a bit later. We also receive them through their girlfriends. Girls who are in love, but know their boy still needs guidance. That he isn’t yet ready to serve and love the way she deserves.”

“Wait,” I interrupted gently, “what exactly do you mean by prepare?”

She smiled at me like a teacher pleased with an eager pupil. “We train them,” she said. “To live in balance. To follow, to obey. To find peace in the discipline. To become the kind of man a future led by women will require. Men who don’t need to dominate, who no longer hide from their vulnerability behind aggression or empty status. Men who are chosen, not those who take.”

“And people… agree to this?” I asked, my brow furrowed.

“Oh yes,” she replied calmly. “There is, naturally, a financial commitment. But when we spot someone truly exceptional, we sometimes offer scholarships.”

She paused and tilted her chin subtly toward the terrace. “As a matter of fact… there’s one now.”

I turned and followed her gaze. A young man was sitting alone, sipping coffee in the sun. He looked like a sculpture come to life—elegant and fluid, not bulky, but strong in a natural, precise way. There was restraint in the way he moved, and something open in his posture that made him seem both serene and somehow… ready.

Without a word, Hannelore rose, walked toward him with that same regal ease, and handed him a small card. She barely looked at him and did not attempt to speak. Then she returned to our table, settling herself as if nothing unusual had happened.

“That’s how we do it,” she said. “Like scouts spotting a model. You hand them the card. And then you wait. If he reaches out, we proceed. If not, we move on. But he’s gold. If he comes, he’ll be offered a full scholarship.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?” I asked.

“It means,” she said, “he’ll be trained, housed, educated, and—if he completes the program successfully—matched. We place him with a woman who is suited to his nature. A woman who will take him into her household, into her life, as her perfect servant and companion.”

My lips parted slightly, unsure if I’d heard right. “Servant?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Not a slave. Not a pet. A servant in the old, sacred sense. One who finds joy in fulfilling his purpose through dedication to a woman’s path. Think of it like an ancient temple service. With structure, clarity, and above all, consent. The man must sign. Nothing is done against his will.”

She sipped her wine, then fixed me with that same penetrating gaze again.

“The real question now,” she said, “ is whether you, Joukje, want to come work for me.”

My breath caught.

“I’m offering you the position of assistant and office manager. You’ll be based at the Centre. The salary is modest, but the position includes a private apartment within the monastery, quiet and self-contained. You’ll have access to all facilities. And I will certainly make use of your expertise as a dietitian. Our participants must remain lean, healthy, and mentally alert.”

She let the offer hang in the air between us. I stared at her, trying to process the magnitude of what she had just placed on the table.

“Eh… so, not a slave, then?” I asked, my voice uncertain but steady.

Countess Hannelore nodded. “Correct. That’s a term we’ve left behind. It belongs to an older paradigm—one rooted in force, imbalance and historical trauma. We don’t use it. What we cultivate is voluntary, conscious, structured devotion. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

She leaned back slightly, watching me with something that might have been amusement—or approval. Maybe both.

“Of course,” she went on, “there is occasionally money involved. When one woman takes on the servant of another, a transfer may be arranged. But always with full transparency. We make certain concessions to the… sensibilities of the present day. A little woke, as some would say. But our foundations are far older and far more enduring.”

I blinked, processing.

The words should have shocked me more than they did.

But they didn’t.

They fit. In some strange, ancient way, they fit.

The monastery. The discipline. The silent young man on the terrace. The idea of order, not control. The sense of ritual. Of something sacred, hidden behind the surface of the everyday. And the countess herself—flawless, composed, commanding without noise.

“I’ll do it,” I said, more quickly than I expected.

Her grey eyes fixed on mine.

“I want this,” I added, my voice lower. “I want to be part of this.”

Countess Hannelore had turned suddenly businesslike the moment I said the words.

“I’ll do it. I want this.”

She gave a small, satisfied nod. “Good. Can you begin Monday, two weeks from now?”

“Yes,” I said, already feeling the gravity of the decision settle in.

“You’ll receive a contract by post—two copies. Please, read it carefully. If you agree, sign one and return it to the address listed. Keep the other for your records.”

I swallowed. “Could you tell me a bit more about… what the work involves?”

She tilted her head, amused. “That will become clear, Joukje. I’ll teach you what you need to know. Much of it, you’ll learn by doing—and by feeling. You must experience what you ask of others. This isn’t just administration. You’ll be part of something larger. After eight weeks, we evaluate. If it fits, you’ll receive a one-year contract. With perspective.”

I nodded slowly.

“Send me a message,” she continued. “I’ll respond with my number and the address of the Centre. Be punctual. We begin early—half past eight.”

She reached into her elegant bag and left a business card on the table—matte white, subtly textured, embossed with a silver crest that looked almost medieval. Then she stood, signalled the waitress, and paid the bill, adding a tip that made the young woman flush with gratitude.

At the door, she extended her hand again. This time she held mine for a few seconds longer.

“Perhaps, Joukje, ” she said in a lower voice, “you shouldn’t be entirely transparent about your new role. It’s simpler. Say you’re working for a private consultant in behavioural development. Technically accurate.”

Then she was gone. Her scent lingered for a moment—something dark and floral—and then that, too, dissolved into the warm air of The Hague.

I came home on wings. “I have a new job,” I told my parents. “With a consultant—she’s also a countess. I’ll be moving to an apartment that comes with the position.”

It felt like a small act of fiction, and yet everything I said was true.

They were overjoyed and touched that their daughter was moving on, stepping out, claiming the world. My mother planned a farewell party before I could protest. There were drinks and snacks and a bittersweet slideshow of my childhood. Old friends, neighbours, and even a couple of former teachers came. Everyone wished me luck. Everyone hugged me like I was going far away.

And they were right. I was.

On the Monday of departure, I got up at four-thirty, nerves fluttering in my stomach like a trapped bird. I dressed carefully: a soft beige blouse with a subtle bow at the collar, a dark pencil skirt, nude stockings, and low heels. Understated, tidy, professional. Not management, not entry-level. Ambitious but respectful.

I kissed my parents goodbye while they stood at the door in hunched pyjamas, my mother wrapped in a shawl. I didn’t want to cry, and I could tell they didn’t either.

I climbed into my old, yet loyal, Kia. I turned the key and the engine came to life with its familiar rasp.

It was still dark when I left, but the roads were empty. I drove to the southeast, away from our town, away from everything I knew.

Fields passed by in blurs of green and ochre.

After two hours, the GPS led me off the main road and onto narrower and narrower lanes.

Where was I going?

Some part of me trembled—not with fear, but with something older and deeper. Awe, maybe. Or instinct.

The last turn took me through a grove of tall, dark plane trees. And then, suddenly, I saw it.

The building stood like something from a film: a vast stone structure, ivy-wrapped and solemn. Once a monastery, it wore its history proudly—arched windows, a bell tower, and two wings visible in the distance. The wrought-iron gate at the front opened slowly as I approached, groaning on its hinges as if moved by unseen hands.

My pulse quickened.

This was it.

The Centre.

My new life.

Whatever that meant.

I drove slowly up the gravel driveway, taking in the vast complex of the old monastery. The chapel rose in the centre, dignified with its modest tower and worn sandstone facade. To either side extended the two-story wings, once the quarters of silent monks, now repurposed for… whatever this place was now.

As I rounded the drive, I passed a series of neatly laid-out vegetable gardens. In the high green rows, two young men worked in silence, their tanned bodies half-hidden by the foliage. For a moment I thought they were wearing tan overalls, but then I realized—no. They were naked. Or nearly so. Some bent low, their spines glistening with sweat, and around their necks shone metal collars that caught the sunlight like jewellery.

I kept driving, my hands tight on the steering wheel.

Near the chapel, a sleek black Porsche was parked with casual arrogance. Next to it, a space was marked with a large painted P. I assumed it stood for “Personnel” and pulled into it, shutting off the engine with a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Next to the chapel, partially built into the left wing, I spotted what looked like an office. A single tall door, stained light brown and polished to a soft sheen. But what I saw next froze me in place.

A young man, completely naked, was crouched in front of the door, polishing it with a small cloth. Around his neck was a thick iron collar attached by a short chain to a ring on the doorframe. He moved with graceful precision, focusing on every detail of the wood grain.

When he saw me, he froze for a second. Then he bowed deeply, still on his knees, and with a smooth motion stood, pulled the door open, and gestured for me to enter with a silent, courtly sweep of his arm.

I was too stunned to speak. A small metal device glinted between his legs. I couldn’t immediately understand what it was, but it looked… functional.

Inside, behind a modern wooden reception desk, sat another young man—also naked, though perhaps a year or two older. He had sharp cheekbones and warm eyes and smiled as if this were all perfectly ordinary.

“Ah, you must be Miss Haanstra,” he said brightly. “We’ve been expecting you. I’ll notify the Countess right away.”

He picked up the phone and dialled with casual efficiency. I stood there, too confused to sit down, too unsure to walk away.

Moments later, a side door opened and Countess Hannelore appeared. She was still wearing her designer jeans, but now they were tucked into knee-high leather boots. A fitted t-shirt clung to her torso, and a short leather jacket gave her the air of someone halfway between aristocrat and bohemian artist.

“Welcome, Joukje,” she said. “And do stop looking so shocked. You’ll get used to it. Come, I’ll explain.”

I turned to follow her gaze. The young man at the door had dropped to his knees the moment she appeared. He bowed low, his forehead nearly brushing the floor.

“That’s Arnold,” she said. “Poor boy had some issues with focus. He tended to skip steps and overlook details. That is not ideal when your task is door maintenance and guest reception. So now we limit his movement. It’s helping a great deal.”

Arnold stayed silent, motionless.

“Arnold,” Hannelore said calmly, “stand up and show the lady your backside.”

Without hesitation, Arnold rose, turned, and bent slightly at the waist. His bottom was covered in evenly spaced red welts—disciplined, controlled.

“You see,” she said, almost pedagogically, “this was to improve his concentration. And it worked. He’s never missed a spot since. You’ll learn. We use correction when needed. It’s part of the training environment.”

She turned her head slightly. “Arnold, back to your post. You’re still under silence.”

Arnold resumed his polishing, with slow, reverent strokes of the cloth.

“Come, Joukje,” she said to me, her tone suddenly warm again, “let’s go to the office. I’ll give you a USB stick with all the documents and initial training material. You’ll have time to settle into your apartment later.”

Still stunned but trying to keep my composure, I followed her through the inner door.

Countess Hannelore led me into a spacious chamber with tall Gothic windows that let in a soft cascade of morning light. The room was furnished sparsely but with undeniable authority. A large desk stood facing the door, positioned so that she sat with her back to the light, her silhouette framed like a medieval icon.

At a sharp angle from hers was another, smaller desk, sleek and minimal.

“That’s where you’ll work,” she said matter-of-factly. “Coffee? Black?”

“Yes, please,” I murmured, my voice sounding distant in the vastness of the room.

Only then did I notice, in the far corner, a tall black cage made of wrought iron bars. Inside it lay a small folded blanket—nothing else. A cold thought streaked through me: Someone could sit in there. Someone could be kept in there.

Hannelore handed me a delicate porcelain cup filled with dark, fragrant coffee. I held it with both hands, more for steadiness than for the heat.

“You’ve noticed,” she said evenly, “that this is a rather unusual institution. We carry a heavy responsibility for the development of our participants, Joukje. That means, naturally, that those in guiding positions—like yourself—must have some understanding of what they go through.”

She sipped from her cup and then looked directly into my eyes. Calm, unflinching.

“You’ve seen that the participants are kept nude. I must now ask you to undress. For the remainder of this introductory interview, you will be nude as well.”

I stared at her.

Was she serious?

Yes, absolutely.

Was I afraid?

Yes. And no.

Could I trust her?

Strangely, yes. Her gaze was unwavering, but not predatory. It was professional. Demanding. Not cruel.

“Where should I put my clothes?” I asked, hearing my voice, distant and unreal.

“Neatly, on your desk,” she said.

I nodded, set down the coffee, and began to undress—slowly, deliberately. I tried to make it graceful, and controlled. A gesture of trust and pride. Not submission.

As I folded my blouse, removed my shoes, and slid out of my skirt and undergarments, I felt the cool air wrap around me like a whisper. When I was done, I stood upright, facing her, naked in the soft light.

Countess Hannelore took her time.

Her gaze moved slowly across my body—my arms, my breasts, my hips, my thighs. She didn’t hurry. She didn’t avert her eyes. She took me in like one studies a painting. Not lecherous. Not cold. Something in between—something clinical and deeply rooted in power.

“Turn around, please,” she said.

I did. The exposure of my back, my buttocks, the backs of my knees—this felt more intimate than the front. I held my breath.

“Perfect,” she said finally. “You may remain as you are. Now, shall we talk?”

I turned back to face her, unsure if I was allowed to sit. I didn’t. She remained standing, relaxed, sipping her coffee.

“We are very strict with our participants. They must feel, in the body, what it means to serve. Their only purpose—now and in the future—is to devote themselves fully to their chosen mistress or master, however, you prefer to phrase it.”

“Do they agree to this?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Fully. But consent is not the same as understanding. So they must be reshaped. Reoriented. Stripped—literally and figuratively—of everything unnatural. We take them back to their core function.”

“The nudity,” I said, “that’s part of it?”

“It’s more than part of it. It’s essential. Nudity emphasizes their dependency. Their vulnerability. It’s a constant reminder that their identity is in transition. It also erases the illusion of privacy. Privacy is a concept they must unlearn.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing her words. My skin was tingling.

“And… the metal object I saw earlier? Between their thighs?”

Countess Hannelore smiled thinly.

“That is not a silver ornament. It is stainless steel. A chastity device. A penis cage.”

My stomach fluttered.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we cannot allow them to engage in sexual activity with one another. It’s disruptive. Counterproductive. And their gratification is not on the training schedule. It has no place in our curriculum.”

“But steel? Why not plastic?” I asked, my voice hushed.

“We started with plastic. But metal is better. They cannot pass undetected through airport security. We’ve had… incidents. Escapes. We can’t risk someone making it to the terminal unnoticed.”

I was silent.

Countess Hannelore let me sit with that for a moment.

“I know,” she said gently, “this is a lot. But everything here has been thought through. Nothing is arbitrary. The uniformity of treatment, the control, the language, the hierarchy—it all serves a purpose.”

“And the cage?” I whispered, glancing toward the corner.

“You may find yourself in it,” she said calmly. “Eventually. Briefly. Not as punishment. As orientation. To understand what you might someday ask another to endure.”

I shivered, though the room was not cold.

“You have questions,” she said.

“Thousands,” I replied.

“Good,” she said. “You’ll need them.”

She walked behind her desk and tapped the surface.

“When you’re ready, I’ll take you to your apartment. For now, sit down. Stay nude. Get used to the feeling. That’s part of your first lesson.”

I sat skin against the leather of the chair, heartbeat in my throat.

What had I stepped into? And why did it feel like home?

Countess Hannelore folded her hands, eyes steady on mine. The sun through the high windows threw golden lines across the floor between us. I still hadn’t retrieved my coffee. I was too aware of my nakedness.

“I think,” she said calmly, “that it’s important for you to see one of the chastity devices up close.”

She pressed a small button embedded in the oak of her desk. After a brief moment, the nude young man from the reception entered. His posture was calm, attentive, and obedient. He bowed his head slightly.

“Show the lady your CB-5000,” Hannelore instructed without raising her voice.

I instinctively crossed my legs tighter. A strange discomfort flooded me—sitting there, unclothed, facing a naked male whose body I was now expected to study. I didn’t know what unsettled me more: the situation itself or the ease with which it was all unfolding.

The young man walked around my desk. As he reached my side, he bent his knees slightly, lowering his pelvis to desk height. His penis, or what would have been visible of it, was enclosed in a gleaming, narrow, stainless-steel cage. It came to rest just beside my cup of coffee.

“Go ahead and examine it,” Hannelore said softly. “Ask me anything.”

I leaned in, not out of desire but out of curiosity—intellectual, clinical, maybe even a bit fascinated.

“What exactly am I looking at?” I asked.

“This model is called a CB-5000. It’s one of the more secure chastity devices. What you see there is a tube made of stainless steel—ventilated, of course, so there's no hygiene issue. It encloses the penis fully, right up to the tip. There’s a ring behind the testicles that anchors the device in place.”

“A ring?” I asked, frowning slightly.

“Yes,” Countess Hannelore explained, her voice calm, almost like a tutor with a favoured student. “It goes behind the scrotum, pressing snugly at the base. Once the ring is on, the shaft is guided into the tube. A locking pin secures the two together.”

She leaned forward slightly, her tone a touch more intimate. “The key locks into a small mechanism on top. I keep all the keys in a safe. No one touches a participant’s genitals without authorization. And they, of course, cannot touch themselves.”

“But what about pain? Or if it’s too tight?”

“There’s always an adjustment period,” Hannelore said, her voice unflinching. “But the devices are chosen based on measurements taken during intake. Some mild discomfort is expected. That discomfort becomes part of their focus. They are constantly reminded of their status. Of their purpose.”

I nodded slowly, my eyes fixed on the polished metal, the way it trapped him.

“Can he get aroused inside that?” I asked.

Countess Hannelore smiled.

“He can try. But the device makes any erection painful. It crushes the expansion before it builds. In time, most participants learn not to attempt it.”

I swallowed.

“Stand up. Back to your station,” she said quietly.

The young man straightened. He bowed to both of us, without expression, and left the room as silently as he had entered.

Countess Hannelore looked at me carefully, and thoughtfully. Her gaze was surgical.

“Joukje, I can see it in your eyes,” she said. “You find it strange—being naked like this, while a participant comes into the room.”

“Yes,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “It felt... like something crossed over. Like something was inverted.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s the point. You see, he is not a person in the same sense you are. He is a tool. He is a resource. You being nude or dressed makes no difference to him. You could be naked in front of a cat or a parrot—would you feel shame?”

“No,” I said slowly.

“Exactly. To him, you are not an erotic object, nor is he one to you. You are the centre of the room. He orbits you. That is objectification. But not yours. His.”

I sat very still.

“He received a lesson just now,” she added. “Not through words, but through proximity. He saw you. He stood beside you. But he remained voiceless. Controlled. That teaches him something about his place.”

I didn’t respond.

Countess Hannelore’s tone shifted—more commanding now.

“Now we move on. You must also understand the correction. I need you to experience what it means to be struck with the cane. Just once, on the buttocks. No permanent mark. But unmistakable clarity.”

My throat went dry.

“Is this... necessary?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said gently. “You will never understand how far they bend until you’ve bent yourself. A few strokes, to know the threshold. That’s all.”

I hesitated.

Then I stood.

I didn’t know what part of me was obeying. The part that feared her? Or the part that trusted her?

Perhaps they were the same.

Hannelore opened a narrow cabinet behind her desk. She pulled out a cane—flexible, polished, thin. Almost elegant.

“Come here,” she said. “Bend over the desk.”

I stepped forward.

And I obeyed.

Hannelore flexed the cane between her hands, testing its bend with practised elegance. “This,” she said calmly, “is a beautiful instrument of discipline. Efficient, precise, and deeply educational.”

She held it out before her, letting me see its length—polished rattan, smooth and deceptively light.

“You’ll learn how to wield it,” she continued. “That will be part of your responsibilities. But first… you must know what it feels like. Intimately.”

I stood where she had placed me, bare and tense.

“Bend over the desk.”

I did. The cold edge pressed into my hips. My hands braced against the wood. My heart pounded in my throat.

“Count the strokes aloud,” she instructed, stepping behind me. “Try not to scream.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then the first stroke came.

A thin, precise whip of air—followed instantly by the explosion of pain. A white-hot line was carved into my skin. I gasped sharply, my breath catching.

“One,” I managed to say. My voice shook.

The second stroke fell lower, slicing just beneath the first. The pain layered—deeper now, fuller, blooming into something that overwhelmed thought.

“Two,” I hissed, gripping the edge of the desk tighter.

The third was cruelly placed just above the first, and I let out a strained cry before I could bite it back.

“Three.”

The fourth found untouched flesh near the base of my buttocks. I felt my knees buckle slightly.

“Four…”

The fifth was worst of all, cutting diagonally across the others, igniting the whole canvas anew. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Five.”

Countess Hannelore said nothing at first. I could feel her observing me, calmly, professionally, like a teacher watching the form of a promising pupil.

“I really must place a mirror here,” she murmured. “You have five beautiful red stripes across your bottom. Perfect symmetry.”

I stayed where I was, trembling slightly, my breathing shallow and uneven.

Then I heard her open a drawer. A soft pop of a lid. The unmistakable scent of menthol and lanolin.

“Hold still, Joukje,” she said gently.

Cool fingers smeared thick, soothing ointment along each stripe. Her touch was unexpectedly tender, almost maternal. The burning pain began to dull, retreating into a low, throbbing memory.

“There,” Countess Hannelore said with satisfaction, screwing the lid back on. “Now, I’m going for a ride. One hour on horseback helps me think. While I’m gone, I want you to reflect deeply on what you’ve experienced so far.”

She stood, her boots clicking softly on the stone floor.

Then, without warning, her hand clamped around the back of my neck—firm, commanding, unmistakably dominant.

She walked me across the room with that iron grip, not roughly, but without a hint of negotiation. We stopped before the black metal cage in the corner.

She opened the small barred door.

“In you go.”

I hesitated only a second. Standing was not an option inside. I had to crawl, knees bending awkwardly as I folded myself inside. It was tight—barely enough room to lie curled up. The bars were all around, even above me.

Countess Hannelore crouched and looked into my eyes.

“Think,” she said. “Consider what you’ve seen and what you’ve felt. This is only the beginning.”

Then she shut the door and slid a thick padlock through the latch. The click was unmistakable. Final.

And she was gone.

I lay there on the thin cloth, my skin tingling with residual pain. The ointment soothed, but each movement sent a dull ache through me—each shift of my hips reminded me of what had been done.

And yet…

I was not afraid.

I was shaken, yes, but not broken. Not outraged.

The sting still pulsed across my skin, each stripe on my backside a steady throb of heat that faded slowly into something else—awareness, maybe heightened clarity.

I shifted within the confines of the cage, the metal cool against my back, the floor hard but clean. There was barely room to move. My knees were bent awkwardly, my shoulders hunched forward. I was cramped. Uncomfortable. Vulnerable.

And yet I wasn’t panicking.

I should have. That thought came first. Over and over, it tried to surface: This is not normal. This is too much. This is dangerous. But it didn’t quite land with the urgency I expected. The words were hollow.

Instead, I found myself turning it all over in my mind, piece by piece.

The discipline. The absolute control. The way Countess Hannelore held the cane—not with cruelty, but with skill. With intention. The rhythm of the strokes. Her voice—calm, composed, unwavering. She was never angry. She was never unsure. She knew what needed to be done, and she did it.

And me? I had obeyed. Not because I had no choice, but because... I had made one.

I could have walked away when she first asked me to strip. I could have said no, any time. But I hadn’t. Even as my heart pounded, even as the weight of her gaze had picked me apart, I remained standing. Naked. Steady. Curious.

Was I being manipulated?

Perhaps. But was that always wrong?

I thought of the young men I’d seen. They had not looked broken. They had looked... quiet. Calm. Intent on their tasks. There was a kind of grace in their submission like a monk polishing a bell.

Their nudity no longer shocked me. Nor did my own. Somewhere in the ritual of it all, the shame had drained away. I wasn’t exposed. I was available. Present.

And the pain? It was real. It was sharp. But it hadn’t humiliated me. It had placed me. It had shown me that I could take it—and remain intact more than intact even awakened.

Still, a part of me resisted.

Was this truly empowerment? Or had I been pulled into a beautifully dressed illusion?

Would I lose myself here?

Would I become something I no longer recognized?

I exhaled, slowly. My muscles relaxed a little despite the tightness of the space. The thought of the Countess out on her horse, moving through the forest with that same unflinching precision, steadied me. She wasn’t a cult leader. She wasn’t a sadist. She was a woman who had found a system that made sense.

There was a structure here. There was clarity. And within that order, there might be a place for someone like me.

The cage was a paradox. Its bars confined me, yet my mind roamed free. The metal pressed against my skin, cold and unyielding, but it didn’t feel like a prison. but something meant to hold me while I burned away what no longer served me. I shifted slightly, the thin cloth beneath me bunching under my hip, and the faint ache of the stripes flared briefly before settling again.

The cage was small, but it wasn’t cruel. It was intentional. Everything here was. The discipline, the nudity, the rituals—they weren’t arbitrary. They were a language, I was beginning to understand.

I thought of the young men again, their quiet focus as they moved through their tasks. At first, I’d been shocked—not by their nudity, but by their ease. They weren’t hiding. They weren’t performing. They were being. And now, lying here, I understood. It was about honesty and standing in your truth without armour.

The thought of staying stirred something in me. Not fear, not excitement, but a kind of quiet resolve. I didn’t know what this place would demand of me next. But I wasn’t afraid of that. Not anymore.

I shifted again, my knees brushing against the bars, and I let myself imagine what might come next.

The padlock gleamed faintly in the dim light, a small, solid thing holding me in place. But it didn’t feel like captivity. It felt like a choice I’d made. That was the power of it, I realized. The power wasn’t in the cage or the lock or even in Countess Hannelore’s cane. It was in me. In my ability to choose this.

Eyes open. Nerves raw. Ready.

Then A soft click. The heavy lock turned.

“Countess,” I said instinctively as Countess Hannelore opened the cage door.

She gave a brief nod and extended her hand to help me out. My muscles ached from the cramped position, and I stumbled slightly as I stepped into the open again.

“I hope you’ve had time to reflect,” she said, calm as ever.

“Yes, Countess,” I replied, rubbing my shoulders. “I’ve… been thinking a great deal.”

“Good. Dress yourself now, Joukje. We’ll take a walk.”

As I began pulling on my clothes, slowly and deliberately, I went on. “At first, I was overwhelmed. Not just by the pain, but by the stillness. The confinement. I couldn’t escape into distraction.”

“And what did you discover there, in that stillness?” she asked, watching me intently.

“That I wasn’t afraid, not really. Just… exposed. That I was stripped not just of clothes, but of assumptions.

Countess Hannelore tilted her head. “And what answer did you find?”

I buttoned my shirt and thought for a moment. “It felt structured. Clean, almost. Like everything had a place—even me.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Structure isn’t always gentle, but it is merciful. Especially to those who’ve lived too long in noise.”

As I tied my shoes, she continued. “You’ll have to decide if this life suits you. But now, let me show you how we live.”

She took up the cane, casually but with purpose, and gestured toward the door.

We passed the reception again. The same young man stood, eyes lowered. Hannelore extended her hand toward me.

“Give him your car keys. He’ll bring your bags to your apartment. Right-wing, second floor.”

I handed them over silently. The boy bowed, murmured “thank you,” and vanished with quiet efficiency.

“I live in the left wing,” Hannelore said. “We keep the staff and participants separated. Privacy is part of structure.”

We moved down a long corridor. The floors were polished stone, cool and clean. “Each participant has a cell. A bed. A cage, if correction or reflection is needed. We rise at half past six. Showers are communal.”

“They wash each other?” I asked.

“Like miners,” she confirmed. “Backs, necks, legs. No shame. Just discipline. They shave everything with soap and warm water. You and I will oversee that.”

I nodded slowly, the enormity of the task beginning to settle over me.

“You’ll also teach them to cook,” she added. “Practical service is essential. Their bodies serve. Their minds must too.”

We passed a boy, naked, scrubbing the floor. He paused and bowed deeply. Hannelore said nothing and kept walking. A second boy was slower to react. She stopped.

“Five seconds too late,” she said flatly.

She handed me the cane.

“Would you like to try?”

I hesitated. The boy stepped forward and assumed the position—hands wrapped around his knees, legs slightly apart, his back forming a gentle curve.

Countess Hannelore whispered, “Hold the cane like a sabre. Just above the handle. Elbow in. Swing from the shoulder, not the wrist. Don’t flick—cut through. Make it sing.”

I raised the cane. It felt impossibly light.

“Now. One clean stroke.”

Crack.

The boy flinched but didn’t cry out.

“Good. Lower. Parallel. Use the lower curve of the buttocks.”

Crack.

“Sharper this time.”

Crack.

“Last two. With intention.”

Crack. Crack.

The boy’s back trembled slightly. Countess Hannelore gave a single nod. “Well done. Now say it.”

“Thank you, Countess,” I said.

“No,” she corrected gently. “He says it.”

The boy lifted his head. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said to me.

I felt something shift. Not power. Not pride. Just… understanding. And a pleasant shiver that I couldn't quite place at the time.

We continued down the corridor.

“The monastery was bought with expansion in mind,” she said. “We’re at ten participants. I manage them alone for now. Mornings are for labour. Afternoons are for instruction. I teach philosophy, posture, and obedience. You’ll begin with food.”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled faintly. “Come. Your apartment awaits. The day has only just begun.”

We climbed the stairs. On the first floor, Hannelore unlocked a heavy oak door with a graceful push and stepped aside.

“This is your apartment,” she said.

I glanced at the handle. “There’s no lock?”

She smiled. “We trust each other here. The only locked doors are the ones to the outside world.”

I followed her inside, and my breath caught.

It looked like something out of a five-star hotel. A spacious sitting room with deep green velvet curtains framing tall windows, polished wooden floors, and a low, modern couch in creamy leather. Opposite stood a carved mahogany cabinet with a flat-screen TV above it. There were books on the shelves—philosophy, cooking, ethics. The air smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen.

“This is…” I trailed off.

Hannelore turned to me. “How does it feel?”

“Like I stepped into a dream. A quiet one. Everything is so—thought out.”

She nodded. “You won’t need to clean or make the bed. A participant does that while you’re away. Just place your laundry—everything, including lingerie—in the wicker basket near the bathroom. We do not use machines here. They wash everything by hand.”

I blinked. “Even... everything?”

“Everything,” she confirmed. “It’s part of their training. Care and humility.”

She walked to the bedroom. I followed, and there, neatly laid on the king-sized bed, was my luggage. The room had soft carpet underfoot, a muted rose bedspread, another flatscreen on the wall, and a sleek little pantry with a brass sink and an induction plate.

Hannelore gestured to a cushioned armchair. “Sit. There are a few things more you should know.”

I settled in, facing her. “Please, Countess. I’m listening.”

She crossed her legs, poised. “We eat together in the dining hall. Breakfast at seven-thirty sharp. You and I have a table. The participants sit on the floor. Lunch is at one, dinner at six-thirty. Tonight, I’ll handle dinner, but starting tomorrow, you will supervise the kitchen. And you’ll teach them cooking, in due time.”

I nodded slowly. “And if I need internet?”

“Hardline only,” she said. “We don’t use Wi-Fi. No mobile phones, either. There’s a landline here, and one at my desk, as well as in the office and reception.”

“That’s very... monastic.”

“Precisely. Controlled stimulation.”

I let out a breath. “This is a lot to take in.”

Hannelore smiled. “And you haven’t heard everything. Wednesdays are fasting days for the participants. Water only. That’s also the one time their chastity devices come off—for cleaning, under supervision. One by one, very strict. We both oversee that.”

I sat back. “We have to be up earlier, then.”

“Yes. Earlier than the usual seven. By six on fast days.”

She stood. “And this afternoon, I want you to design a vegetarian menu for Tuesday. There is no meat for the participants. Nothing can awaken their hunting instinct. You and I, of course, eat whatever we wish.”

“Understood, Countess. Anything else?”

“One more thing.” She turned at the door. “You’ll be monitoring their BMI each week and adjusting their food accordingly. We keep them lean and healthy.”

She gave me a final nod. “I’ll leave you to settle in. No lunch in the dining hall today—I’ll have something sent up.” She opened the door, paused, then added, “Welcome, officially.”

Then she was gone. I heard the soft click of the hallway door.

Silence.

I stood alone in the suite, letting it all land. The space was luxurious, but not decadent. Designed for focus. Function. I crossed into the bedroom again and opened the wardrobe.

I froze.

Inside, a neat row of canes hung from brass hooks, thin and flexible, the sort used in British boarding schools. I recognized them instinctively from books and films. On a shelf: leather cuffs for wrists and ankles. Stainless steel clamps in neat rows. Not hidden. Not disguised.

A quiet message.

I unpacked without comment, hanging up my skirts, trousers, and soft blouses alongside those canes. I slid the empty suitcases into the corner and sat on the bed, letting the mattress cradle me.

I lay back, staring at the ceiling.

This was not the life I had imagined years ago. As a child. As a teenager in the wrong body. I remembered the cold clinics and the counsellors with their safe little phrases. The hormones. The long, slow crawl toward something truer. I had fought so hard to be seen as a woman.

And now I was here, expected to carry a cane. To monitor naked men. To watch them wash each other’s backs.

But...

They had consented and chosen this.

Could this place be part of my becoming? A place where power didn’t mean destruction—but structure?

Work always steadied me.

I sat at the sleek writing desk and plugged my laptop into the LAN cable. The signal was strong.

I opened a blank document and wrote at the top:

¨Tuesday Vegetarian Menu – For Participants¨

I thought for some time and then added:

¨Breakfast – 07:30

Warm barley porridge with almond milk, dried cranberries, and sunflower seeds

Fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice

Herbal tea (nettle, chamomile, or mint)

Lunch – 13:00

Lentil stew with carrots, leeks, and turmeric

Steamed kale with lemon zest

Rye bread with plant-based spread

Still water

Dinner – 18:30

Grilled eggplant and zucchini with tahini dressing

Wild rice with roasted pumpkin and cumin

Cucumber and dill salad

Chamomile infusion¨

I saved it and leaned back.

Simple. Nutritious. Humble.

Just like the life they were learning to live.