Trial week
After dinner, Ivar won't let me go back to my room. Instead, he puts me in the living room, pushes a cup of tea into my hands, and disappears without further explanation. I don't protest. The warmth of the tea feels good, but it feels like a delay. As if something is about to happen.
Haukon enters. He closes the door behind him, quietly, without haste. His gaze slides over me, taking everything in: how I'm sitting here, how I look, how I feel. “Jelte.” His voice is low, calm, but not noncommittal.
I swallow. “Sir.”
He pulls up a chair and sits down opposite me. The space between us shrinks. Not threatening, but... purposeful. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
I want to say “fine,” but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I shrug my shoulders. “Better.”
Haukon nods, as if he doesn't want to immediately dismiss the lie. His fingers tap briefly on the armrest of the chair. Then he looks me straight in the eyes. “Milan has submitted a request.” He doesn't wait for my response. “He has asked for a trial week with you.”
I feel a bolt of lightning shoot through my spine. A trial week. My gaze darts to Haukon, searching for clues. Did he see this coming? Does he approve? Will he pull me out of this situation? But his face remains inscrutable.
“I want to know if you agree to this,” he says calmly.
My heart is racing. Agree. As if I ever had a choice. “Why now?” My voice sounds hoarse.
Haukon takes a slow breath. “Because Milan thought it was time.
That's the only explanation I get. And it makes me angry. Furious, even.
“He's been ignoring me for weeks.” My voice trembles. “He's letting me drown, damn it.”
Haukon nods. “And yet you still want him.”
I want to protest. To say that's not true. But it would be pointless. Haukon knows me. He saw it coming a mile away. My head is spinning. A trial week. A week in which I am his, with no escape, no excuses. A week in which he takes me as he pleases. A week in which I finally get what I want. Or a week in which he breaks me.
I swallow with difficulty. “What if I say no?”
Haukon looks at me for a long time. His gaze isn’t commanding, not ruthless. Just watchful. “If you say no, this ends here,” he says. “You'll remain under my supervision. You'll remain free. Milan will keep his distance.”
Free. As if that's worth anything.
Haukon leans forward slightly. His voice is softer now. “But Jelte, be honest. Is that really what you want?”
I take a breath. I want to protest. I want to say that it's not fair. That Milan can't just ignore me and then demand that I come back. But the words don't come.
Haukon waits. He doesn't push. He leaves it up to me.
I close my eyes and whisper, “Yes.”
A short silence. Then I hear Haukon exhale slowly. Not triumphantly. Just affirmatively. “Good,” he says calmly. “I'll let Milan know you agree.”
This is it. One week. My trial week.
------
“This afternoon it’s going to happen,” says Haukon, leaning against his desk in his study. His voice is controlled, confident, as always. “That's when your trial period with Milan begins.”
His gaze slides over me, slowly, calculatingly. An inspection. My skin tingles under his eyes.
“Good,” he murmurs. “You're already wearing your nice leather clothes, as I instructed. You must look your best for your Master.”
My stomach tightens. My Master. Those words give me butterflies in my stomach. It feels like a new hunger.
“Yes, Haukon,” I say softly. My fingers search for something to hold on to, find the buckle of my belt. I play with it, feel my cock begin to swell, inappropriately.
Haukon sees it. Of course he sees it.
The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, but his gaze remains unmoved. “Don't worry, boy,” he says calmly. “I spoke to Milan. No more passive-aggressive games. No more doubt, no distance.
He pushes himself away from his desk and walks over to me. His hand rests briefly on my shoulder. “Just pure, direct Dominance.” His voice drops slightly. “And believe me, Jelte...” He squeezes my shoulder gently. Not hard, but I can feel it. “You'll enjoy it. I know you will.”
To my surprise, Haukon pulls me into an embrace. His arms are strong, warm, and protective. Not like a Dominant. Not like a mentor. But like someone who truly cares about the boy in front of him.
I freeze, taken aback. Haukon rarely touches me like this. The way he holds me, the way his hand briefly slides down my back, forces me to surrender gently.
“Be obedient, my boy,” he whispers. There is genuine emotion in his voice. He releases me from his embrace and takes a step back. He nods briefly, as if forcing himself to continue. “Now go to your Master.”
------
When I arrive at Milan's room, a tough, impassive Dominant boy is standing at the door, his hands loosely in his leather trouser pockets. Confident. Nonchalant but in control. I don't know him from the home. He must be one of Milan's friends from the city.
His gaze glides briefly over me. An assessment, not a greeting. “Good. You're on time. You're expected.” He opens the door without hesitation.
I take a step forward, but before I can cross the threshold, he says, as casually as he is unyielding: “On your knees would be more appropriate when entering your Master's space.”
My stomach tightens. It feels as if the ground is sinking beneath me. “Yes, Sir,” I whisper. I drop to my hands and knees and crawl inside. The floor is cool against my palms. Behind me, the door closes. A click. There is no way back.
I crawl further. The room is silent. Only the soft sliding of my knees across the floor can be heard. Cautiously, I let my gaze slide upward. Milan. He is already there, like a king in His armchair. Leather pants tight around His thighs, legs wide. His posture is casual, but His presence fills the room.
His fingers slide slowly over the armrest. He has all the time in the world. He doesn't need to say anything. His power is self-evident.
I hold my breath. I can't look anywhere else.
His eyes, blue and sharp, rest on me. “So,” he finally says. His voice is controlled, calm, imbued with certainty. “There's my boy.”
My skin burns. My body reacts before my head can process it. I bow my head, lower my gaze to the floor. I can't help it.
“Look at me.” His words cut effortlessly through my thoughts.
I obey. My gaze climbs up, slowly, until I am caught in His eyes again.
Milan smiles. Lazily. Approvingly. “That's better,” He says softly. His fingers tap briefly on the armrest of His chair. “Come here."
“Yes, Master.” My body tingles. I shuffle forward, toward His feet. I kiss His boot. My lips touch the shiny leather. His scent, the leather, everything fills my senses.
A low, approving grunt sounds above me. Thick with ownership.
I shiver.
“I've let you simmer for a long time, but now you're here. You've chosen to call me Master,” Milan's voice is warm, “that's brave. I'll make sure you never regret that choice.”
His fingers entangle themselves in my hair, forcing my head up. He picks up an elegant leather collar from the table next to Him. He lets the silver tag slide between his fingers. His name, His property. He lets me feel it. In one smooth motion, He puts the collar around my neck.
Click.
“From now on, you are Mine for a week.” His voice is deep, certain. There is no room for doubt. “You are under My authority. Not that of the Temple.”
“Yes, Master.”
Milan opens His leather pants. Teasingly slowly. His cock slides out of the leather, thick and pulsing in front of my face. I take a deep breath. I inhale His scent. Leather. Musk. Pure Dominance. He dominates everything in me. His presence penetrates deep inside me.
“Serve your Master.”
I close my lips around His cock, eager and obedient.
“Such a good little slut.”
The word cuts through me. I tremble. He brands me with it. Hard, but from His mouth it sounds like a caress. Like the truth.
I take in His cock deeper.
My own dick throbs painfully in my pants. But I know better than to reach for it now. I must serve my Master.
Master takes His time, letting me feel how an elite Dominant enjoys Himself. He excels in stamina and self-control. My jaws burn from the effort, stiff and tired, but I don't dare stop.
Master sees it. He pulls out of my mouth. “Good boy. You're an obedient cock sucking slut.” He stands up. His cock is still hanging out of his fly. He grabs me by my collar and drags me to another corner of the room, where a large mirror is set up.
“Look at yourself,” he says.
I inhale sharply. I'm so close that I hardly recognize myself. My cheeks are red, my eyes darkened by horny induced hunger and surrender. My collar glistens brightly against my skin. My lips are still slightly open, red.
I want to look away, but Master grabs my chin and lifts my head up. “No,” he says. “Look.”
I obey. And I see it. My body, tense but devoted. My posture, small but beautiful. My mouth, softly swollen from serving. The look in my own eyes: defeated, submissive... and horny as hell.
“This,” Master whispers, “is what I see in you.”
My throat is dry. This is different from how I knew myself. I was always afraid that submission made me weak, but here, now, I see something else. I see beauty. My beauty.
Master places a hand on my head, His fingers playing lazily with my hair. Slowly He pushes my face towards His crotch, close to His cock.
“This is how you are meant to be,” He says.
I close my eyes for a moment, as if I can protect myself from this truth. But Master won't let me escape.
“Open your eyes.”
I obey. And I see myself. I see how beautiful I am, exactly as He wants me to be. My lips tremble. A wave of excitement and surrender washes over me.
“Say it,” He commands softly. “Tell Me what you see.”
My throat catches. “I...” My voice sounds hoarse and soft.
“Out loud.”
“I... I am...” My voice breaks. But I can't help but speak the truth. “I am beautiful.”
“That's what you are,” Master says with satisfaction. He smiles. His hand pulls on my collar, a gentle reminder of what I am now.
He looks at me with an intense Dominant gaze in my eyes. “You are beautiful. And you are Mine.”
I feel it deep inside: I am His.
His grip tightens. His other hand slides down, pulling my leather pants over my ass. My cock is free. Pulsing, exposed, hungry for His touch. But He doesn't touch me. Not yet.
“And now, my beautiful boy...” His voice is velvety soft and relentless. “Serve Me again.”
I see my own surrender in the mirror. My eyes and Master's meet in the mirror.
“This is who you are now,” Master says in a tone as if stating a simple fact.
------
A moment later, I am sitting at Master's feet. I lean my face against one of His legs. The leather of His pants feels soft and smooth against my cheek, warm from His body. My body finally relaxes, languid and quivering after all the excitement of a moment ago.
Then the door opens. I startle, my muscles tensing involuntarily. Master places His hand on my neck: heavy, calm, reassuring. I sigh softly and lean against Him gratefully.
The gatekeeper, the Dominant boy who let me in earlier, enters.
“Hey Arvind, grab yourself a beer, man,” Master says casually. Arvind nods and walks to the fridge as if he owns the place. His leather pants stretch tight across his ass when he bends over. My gaze lingers. Wrong. Way too long.
He takes a bottle of beer and plops down on the couch across from Master, legs spread wide. He knows he belongs there. My gaze drifts to his crotch, I can't stop myself. Why do I feel that tingling shock of curiosity? As if my body wants him to see me looking.
Arvind's eyes meet mine. A faint smile. Then he spreads his legs a little further, demonstratively. His hand slides to his crotch, where he rearranges his balls as if they're suddenly uncomfortable.
What would Arvind's cock taste like? The thought forces itself into my mind. I try to look away, but my cock is already responding. Wodan, damn it, not now. Not when Master is here. Not when he's here.
Master massages my neck, a slow movement that brings everything back to His rhythm. A calm reminder: I am safe here. He looks at me briefly with an approving smile. I am allowed to look. I am allowed to feel. He allows it.
Arvind takes a sip of his beer, his gaze lazily fixed on Master, his legs still spread wide. “I heard Marcus had to put a couple of those little bastards in their place again.”
Master plays casually with his fingers in my hair. “Three novices. Thought they could misbehave, that they were an exception.” Master's voice remains controlled, but there is an undercurrent of contempt.
Arvind laughs briefly, without humor. “What did they try?”
Master leans back slightly. “Ignored curfew, talked back to a Dominant, tried to incite each other. Marcus made them kneel in the hall after dinner.”
Arvind raises an eyebrow. “And?”
I feel Master shrug his shoulders, as if it doesn't matter. “After an hour of kneeling, the first legs started to shake. After two hours, they were done. One of them tried to adjust his posture without permission. Stupid mistake.”
Arvind grins, raising his eyebrows slightly. His tongue licks his lower lip. “What did Marcus do?”
“The tawse. Twelve hard strokes. On their bare bottoms, in front of the entire dining hall.” There is satisfaction in Master's voice.
It sounds terrifying and horny at the same time. My buttocks clench involuntarily, as if I can already feel the leather of the tawse myself.
Arvind nods approvingly, takes another sip. His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. His voice remains calm, without any sympathy. “And? Did they learn their lesson?”
“The next morning, they walked silently behind their mentors. No looking up, no more protests.” Master's hand is now on my shoulder, his thumb gently caressing my neck, reassuring me again.
But still, I can't help imagining what it would be like to kneel there. Exposed in front of everyone. My bare ass, presented for all to see, to receive the punishment I deserve. The idea makes me to want it even more, crazy enough.
Arvind laughs briefly. “That's how it should be.” He looks at me now. His gaze lingers. Slow. Dominant. A false smile, he knows what I'm feeling. A few seconds of silence. Then he lets his gaze rest on Master again, but now with a small, amused smile. “When will they learn that disobedience is pointless?”
“Not all of them will learn.”
Arvind leans forward, puts his beer bottle on the table. “Those who don't listen must feel. And luckily there are enough submissives who want to feel.” Arvind looks at me questioning. “Right, boy? You would like to feel the fire of the tawse on your bare ass, wouldn’t you?”
The question comes unexpectedly. I want to open my mouth to say something, but Master beats me to it. “Jelte is obedient, he doesn't need the tawse.” Meanwhile, Master gently massages my neck.
“I think I saw him perk up a little when the tawse was mentioned,” says Arvind. “Maybe you should give him a spanking every now and then, just to remind him of his place.” A lecherous smile plays around his mouth. “Not as punishment,” Arvind adds with a grin, “just because it makes such a pleasant sound, a tawse on a submissive butt.”
Master smiles faintly. “I decide when he needs it.” His voice is not loud, but it is laced with authority.
Arvind is silent. His grin shrinks, but his eyes still twinkle, looking questioningly at Master. Master gives him a subtle nod.
Arvind now addresses me directly. “I've heard stories about Milan and his tawse, boy...” Arvind's voice is sultry, his eyes stare at me just a little too long to be comfortable. He leans forward further, his scent reaching me. “Submissive boys say that once you've felt the leather of his tawse on your ass, it never leaves your system. Their bodies learn his name in the rhythm of the blows he delivers to their asses. And after that?” He pauses, letting the tension hang. "After that, they want nothing else. Only him. Only his hand guiding his tawse. His voice commanding them."
I feel my buttocks clench in anticipation of Milan's discipline, the leather of his tawse on my ass. My breathing becomes irregular. Arvind gives me a smug smile, he seems to know what I'm thinking and feeling. His gaze slides back to my crotch.
“You give me too much credit, Arvind,” Master says.
“No, Milan, no false modesty!” He smiles broadly and stands up. His movement is fluid, powerful. “Well, I'd better get going.”
“Thank you very much for your help.”
“No problem, man.” Arvind looks at me again with a friendly smile, but his eyes promise something dark; a promise of a punishment that will turn into pleasure. “And you, enjoy the next week in service of Milan. He really is one of the best Masters you could wish for.”
The door closes with a click. Master says nothing for a moment. His hand is still resting on my neck, but his fingers have fallen still. He gently presses me against him. The warm leather of his pants against my face feels hot and reassuring at the same time.
“You're allowed to be horny, Jelte. I want you to be horny. You're allowed to desire dominant men, to let dominant men turn you on, you're allowed to look at them, admire them. It's all allowed.” Master caresses my cheek. “But I decide if, how, when, and how much of your desires are fulfilled.”
Master is silent as he continues to caress my cheek.
“Yes, Master.”
I feel that I have to ask the question. “Does it really hurt that much?” I hear myself say. My voice sounds thin, almost boyish. As if I've asked something stupid. Maybe I have.
Master doesn't look up right away. He lifts His head slightly, His gaze remaining on the spot where Arvind was just sitting. He turns toward me. “Do you want to know?” His voice is calm. No threat. No promise. Only authority.
I swallow. My body says “yes.” My head hesitates. I say nothing.
Master finally moves. He stands up, walks with calm steps to a chest of drawers against the wall. He opens a drawer, takes something out. A tawse.
He drops it on the table with a soft, dull sound. Not threatening, almost tender. My balls clench together.
But Master doesn't pick it up. Instead, he turns toward me and says, “You think you want this.”
I don't dare look at him. My gaze remains fixed on the leather on the table, dark and heavy, like something sacred. And dangerous.
“Come on over, Jelte, pick up the tawse, get a feel for it.”
I step to the table and my hand reaches for the leather. It's heavier than I expected. The surface smooth. Seductive. I imagine the sound it would make. As I feel the sensual smoothness of the tawse’s leather, my dick starts to throb even harder.
SMACK
Master’s hand delivers a sharp smack to my leathered ass. It feels so good.
“Not today, Jelte”. There is some amusement in His voice.
“You're horny. I understand that. The idea makes you hard. The stories make you curious. But the tawse is not a toy.” His voice is not loud. Just unyielding. “The tawse is for boys who have crossed a line. Not for boys who just want to feel how horny it can make them.”
I want to protest. I want to say that I know that too. But I feel smaller, because I know He is right. I didn't ask for discipline. I asked out of horny curiosity.
Master sees it. He steps closer, leans toward me, and places His hand under my chin, gently forcing me to look at Him. “And you haven't crossed a line, Jelte. Not yet.”
I nod slowly, reluctantly. His gaze lingers on mine, long enough to make me feel that he knows me. Completely. Then He smiles. Not teasingly. Not mockingly. Warmly. And yet so sure of His power. “Come,” He says quietly. “Let's have a drink.”
I want to say something. I don't know if I should be disappointed or grateful. I nod. My cock throbs, still excited by the idea of the tawse. But it's not up to me, and certainly not up to my cock. Master decides.
