Domesticity

 The morning sun spills across the kitchen counter. I wring out the dishcloth in the sink. It’s our turn to do chores, and we’re almost done clearing up after breakfast. I’ve been at the House of Loving Authority for about three weeks now, and the routine is starting to feel familiar. Jens’s guidance feels steady.

Today, Jens has decided the kitchen cabinets could use an extra wipe-down. I glance over at Sil, who’s on his knees scrubbing the lower cabinets like the household martyr.

“Sighing won’t help,” Jens says dryly as he puts things back in the upper cabinets.

Sil sighs even louder. “That’s your opinion, sir. My back disagrees.”

I smile. It’s easy to be obedient when Jens speaks. His voice is calm, his instructions clear. He doesn’t need big gestures, just a nod, a look. Sometimes, like now, a firm swat on my butt when I finish the counter. Simple and reassuring. My ass is a little warm, and I secretly enjoy it.

“Nice,” he says softly, and warmth blooms in my belly.

Sil looks up and raises an eyebrow. “You two are very in sync.”

“You can be, too,” Jens says, unruffled.

“Maybe,” Sil grumbles, “but I’m not about to be trained into a good kitchen slave.”

I chuckle. “You say that, but that cabinet is sparkling.”

He gives me a mischievous grin. “Being a brat is a skill, Jelte. Take notes.”

Jens sighs, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “And yet you’ll be the first one finished.”

Sil mutters something unintelligible and bends over again, his butt sticking up in defiance.

I wipe the last water rings and glance at Jens. His posture is relaxed, but I can see what’s changed. Three weeks ago, he hesitated over every little thing. Now he stands tall. Confident. Not harsh, not distant, just sure. As if my obedience has given him something he hadn’t dared to claim for himself.

------

The afternoon drags. The living room is quiet, save for a few soft voices drifting in from the kitchen. Lars sits on the couch, game controller in hand, eyes locked on the screen.

“Lars,” Ries says from the doorway, calm as ever. “You were supposed to fold the laundry.”

“I’ll do it in a minute,” Lars mutters without looking up. “Just this level.”

Ries waits. One breath. Two. “Lars.”

“I heard you,” Lars says, stubborn. “I want to finish this level.”

Silence. Ries steps forward. Without a word, he turns off the TV, takes the controller from Lars’s hands, and sets it on the table. Lars looks up, startled, protesting, but Ries is a step ahead. He pulls Lars off the couch, flips him neatly over his knee, and in one smooth motion tugs down his pants and underwear.

Lars struggles for a moment. “Ries! Not here!”

“Right here,” Ries says, even. “If you’re going to be stubborn in public, you’ll face the consequences in public.”

The first smack lands, loud and sharp. Lars’s body tenses, but he says nothing. The next follows quickly, then another. His ass reddens by degrees. He moans, soft at first, then louder, until finally I hear him whisper, “I’m sorry…”

Ries doesn’t stop until Lars has gone completely limp across his lap. Then he helps him up, sets his clothes to rights, and looks at him for a long moment.

“What are you supposed to be doing?” he asks.

Lars swallows. “Fold the laundry.”

Ries nods. “Then go do it.”

Lars walks away, face blazing, hands visibly shaking.

I stand at the edge of the room. My breath is shallow. Every part of me watched, felt and responded. Not because I want to be Lars, but because I know that surrender. I need it.

Jens appears beside me, eyes searching mine. “Should I have done that to you?” he asks softly.

I shake my head. “No. I don’t want you to. Not like that.”

He nods slowly. “But?”

“But you did well, Jens. Really. You helped me. Guided me. And I obeyed because I wanted to.”

A small smile touches his face. “Thank you.”

I look back at the spot where Lars was sitting, his game forgotten. “It was… beautiful,” I say quietly. “Not just what he got, but how he took it. How he gave himself.”

Jens nods. “I know.”

------

 

I’m still standing in the hallway when Lars comes back with the laundry basket. His steps are a touch slower than usual. His face is calm, but his cheeks are still flushed. Our eyes meet. He stops.

He looks away, then back at me. “You were standing there just now,” he says. No reproach, just a statement of fact.

I nod. “I couldn’t look away.”

He takes a deep breath, searching for words. “It wasn’t only because I was being stubborn,” he says softly. “Ries knew that. And I… maybe I hoped he’d step in.”

I say nothing. My body is too tight, and I try in vain to will away the erection from what I saw earlier.

“It was embarrassing,” Lars whispers, “but also… warm. Hot. His hand on me. Everyone watching. The blows…” He swallows. “It’s strange that I liked it.”

My voice trembles. “It isn’t strange. I get how you feel.”

He looks at me, longer now. “Yeah. You looked like you felt it in your own body.”

I nod slowly. “Not because I wanted to be you in that moment. But because I…” I cut myself off. My face is burning hotter than his ass a minute ago.

Lars gives a faint smile. “That’s it.”

Silence stretches between us. The air still smells like rain. Everything feels open.

“I always feel turned on and ashamed at the same time when Ries does this,” he says. “Having someone see it, the way you did, helps.”

I swallow. “Thank you.”

Lars gives a small shrug, as if to brush it off, but his gaze stays soft. “I hope that when it’s your turn… it feels right. That your body knows. Like mine did today.”

He picks up the basket again and walks away, slow and steady.

I stay where I am. My fingers tremble a little. But I smile. Because my body already knows what it really wants.

------

After dinner, the house settles. Sil has vanished, probably upstairs; Jens is absorbed in his notes at the kitchen table. I drift through the rooms, a mug in my hands, looking for a quiet corner.

When I open the living room door, I hear only silence. Haukon sits on the sofa; Ivar lies with his head in Haukon’s lap. The lights are low; the fire still glows. Ivar says nothing, just lies there. His eyes are closed, his breathing slow and deep. Haukon’s fingers move through his hair in an unhurried rhythm.

Nothing is explained. No orders, no corrections. Just… being.

I almost turn back, but Haukon looks up. He gives me a brief nod, warm and open. “Come in if you want,” he says softly. “He’s not really asleep.”

Ivar makes a small sound, almost like a contented cat. The corners of his mouth lift, but his eyes stay closed. I sink into an armchair by the window, hands wrapped tight around my mug. For a while, no one says anything.

Ivar shifts, rolling onto his side, his head still pillowed on Haukon’s lap. Haukon’s hand settles on his shoulder, sure and easy.

Now I see it. This is what I miss. Not just touch. Not just guidance. The effortlessness of it. The way Ivar doesn’t wonder whether he’s allowed to lie there. It simply is. My voice comes out softer than I intend. “I want something like that too.”

Haukon looks at me, no surprise. He nods slowly. “I know, boy. That’s why you’re here.”

Ivar opens his eyes, languid but clear. He looks at me like he truly sees me. “And you’re closer than you think,” he says. Then a crooked smile. “Even though Milan isn’t Haukon.”

I give a short, uneasy laugh. “No. Milan is… different.”

“Stricter,” Ivar says evenly. “He keeps his distance. But he’s precise. He never takes an unnecessary step. And he knows exactly where your weak spots are.”

Heat rises in my cheeks.

Ivar’s look turns knowing. “And you love that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”

Haukon is still stroking Ivar’s hair. He turns to me. “Milan makes you be clear. That’s his strength. He leaves little room for vagueness. But he’s patient.”

“He feels… unyielding,” I say. “As if I’m only allowed one mistake.”

Ivar shakes his head slowly. “No. He isn’t unyielding. He wants you to choose for yourself. He doesn’t scoop you up the way Haukon did with me. He waits for you to come to him.”

“And then?” I ask. “If I choose?”

“Then he’s yours,” Ivar says softly. “And you’re his. But only if you truly mean it. Milan doesn’t do halfway.”

My stomach tightens. My body remembers his voice, his hand, his gaze just after he gives an order. Every part of me wants to go back, but my head still hesitates.

“So I have to choose,” I say.

“Not ‘have to,’” Haukon says. “Feel. Then obey it.”

He holds my gaze, and I nod slowly. The room goes quiet again. Ivar’s eyes close. Haukon’s hand rests on his back.

And me? I sit with my mug as the warmth slowly fades. But deep inside, something glows. Not certainty, yet a direction that might lead there.

------

My bedroom is quiet. Outside, rain taps softly at the window. I lie on my side, the blankets half kicked off. The day, especially Lars’s punishment and the talk with Haukon and Ivar, still buzzes through me. I’m turned on. But it isn’t Ries’s decisiveness or Haukon’s natural dominance that fills my head.

It’s Milan. Tight, cool, precise, and scorching in that immaculate leather uniform. Milan.

I roll onto my back, legs falling slightly apart. I close my eyes. “On your knees,” I hear him say; not loud but low. He leaves no room for doubt. In my mind, I kneel before him. My hand drifts down.

“You’re here to serve. Not yourself. Me.”

I shiver. My fingers barely graze my hard cock, just that soft, almost-touching he’d command. I hold my breath.

“You’ll wait for my permission. Until I say when. Until I say how.”

I moan softly. My hand doesn’t speed up. Just a little firmer, as if his gaze keeps me exactly there.

“Show me you can take it. The hunger. The emptiness. The will to obey me, even when it gets hard.”

My lower belly tightens; every muscle is taut. Everything in me wants more, but I hold back, for him.

In my head, he leans in. His hand on my neck. His voice close: “Good boy. You controlled yourself. You waited.”  He unzips his leather pants and frees his hard cock right in front of my face.

One tug. Two.

“Serve me. Now.”

In my mind, I take his delicious cock into my mouth. I feel him, smell him, taste him as if it were happening now, exactly the way it used to be. And I come. Hard. Heat floods me; my body jerks in pulses. My hand is wet; my chest rises and falls.

For a moment I’m nowhere. Then I’m back in bed, alone, sweating, but calm. The desire is still there. No longer a rush, but a whisper from within. Deep and quiet. Clear direction. He’s the reason for my desire. Not just an infatuation, it’s my choice.

I wipe myself clean and toss the towel beside the bed. My hand settles on my chest. I belong with him. I close my eyes again and smile, because there’s no doubt where this is going.

------

The sun isn’t up yet. The house is asleep. Only a soft light glows in the kitchen.

I stand in the doorway, barefoot, a blanket around my shoulders. Haukon sits at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea. He looks up as I come in, not surprised, not worried, simply attentive.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks quietly.

“No,” I say. “You too?”

“I always wake early,” he says. “It’s the only time it’s quiet enough to hear my own thoughts.”

I pour a cup of tea and sit beside him. My voice is rough from the night. “I think… I know what I want. It’s not just desire,” I say. “Not just lust. I’ve waited. I’ve felt. And… I know.”

Haukon says nothing, but his gaze meets mine and holds. No judgment. Only recognition.

“I want him to know,” I whisper. “From me. Not from you, not from Ivar. From me.”

He nods. “That’s good, boy. He’s waiting. Text him. Tell him you’re choosing him.”

------

Later that morning, after breakfast, I retreat to my room. The rain has stopped. I sit down at my desk, open my laptop, and write an email to Milan.

 

————————

Subject: To the man I want to obey.

Message:

 

Milan,

I carry your voice in my head.

Your commands are in my body.

Everything in me longs for your hand, your gaze, your order.

 

I want to kneel before you.

Not to play, but to serve you.

Not temporarily. Not cautiously. But truly.

 

If you still want me,

if you can carry and guide me,

then I give myself to you.

 

Say the word, and I will come.

 

Yours, if you want me,

 

Jelte

 ————————

 

I carefully reread the text of the email. Then I press “send.” There is no turning back. That's okay, I just want to move forward. I sit there for a while. My words have been sent. My surrender is now in his hands.

The room is quiet, except for the soft patter of rain that has started again. I close my laptop. I put my hands in my lap. My heart is no longer pounding. It is beating normally. I don't feel vulnerable. Not afraid. I feel clear. Open. Ready.

Slowly, I get up. Smooth out the duvet. Put my mug in the sink. Small gestures, as if my body is organizing itself. As if it knows: this is the silence after making a choice. Not waiting for an answer, but waiting for confirmation.

There's a noise downstairs. Sil, I suspect. Maybe Jens. The day goes on. But for me, everything has changed.

I belong with him. And now he knows that I know.

------

I run into Jens in the hallway by the broom closet. He’s working on a chore list for tomorrow, but looks up when he sees me. His gaze lingers a little longer than usual, not stern, just fully attentive.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. Fine.”

He narrows his eyes slightly, studying me. Then, calm: “You seemed different this morning. Quieter. As if you’d already made your choice.”

I look at him. He smiles, small but warm. “I was wondering when you’d do it.”

I swallow. “You… know?”

Jens shakes his head. “I felt it.” He slips the list into his back pocket. “You don’t belong with me anymore. I felt that before you said anything.”

I want to say something: thank you, maybe, or sorry, but I stay quiet.

Jens breaks the moment. “I enjoyed your obedience,” he says. “I really did. You made it easy for me to grow.”

“I needed you,” I say softly.

He nods. “And now you need someone else.”

We’re both quiet for a moment.

Then he turns, opens the closet door, and says, “Make sure you’re ready when he comes. Milan is much stricter than I am.”

I smile. No more words are needed.

------

We’re in the kitchen together. Sil is washing the dishes; I’m drying. The motions are familiar, rhythmic. Outside, rain still drizzles against the windows. He cuts me a sidelong look without breaking his rhythm. “You’re glowing,” he says.

I look up. “What?”

He gives me an amused look. “You’re glowing,” he repeats. “That calm, satisfied afterglow. Like someone who either just got very thoroughly fucked,” he shoots me a quick look, “or someone who’s about to be.”

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I grin. “Maybe…”

Sil’s eyes sparkle. “Lucky bastard.” He turns back to the sink and rinses the pan with a little more force than necessary. As he hands me the pan, he says, “When he comes, I want to be there.”

“Be there?”

He nods. “Not when he’s fucking you, idiot. The moment. The meeting. The surrender. I want to see it happen.”

I take the pan from him, and my heartbeat kicks up.

He laughs. “What? You’re about to get a Dominant who’ll make the walls shake. I’m not missing that.”

I glance at him. “I could hear Jens fucking you very hard last night,” I say, teasing.

He snatches the dish towel from my hands and gives my ass a quick swat. “Being a brat is an art. You’re starting to get it.”

When we finish the dishes, I check my phone for new mail. My heart stutters when I see a message from Milan. Sil is still beside me, but the world goes quiet. With trembling fingers, I open it.

 

————————

Subject: Welcome home

Message:

 

Jelte, my boy,

 

Your email was everything I needed.

Your words, your tone, your surrender; I feel it in every line.

You are mine. And now you know it too.

 

I’ll contact Haukon today.

We’ll arrange a time. A ritual.

 

I’m coming to you.

I want to see you kneel, feel you tremble, hear you say you are mine.

 

You gave yourself to me. Now I will give myself to you.

Get ready. We’re almost there.

 

Welcome home,

Milan

————————

 

His voice fills my head as if he were standing right behind me. Everything in me tightens. My throat is dry; warmth blooms low in my stomach. The words sink into me, as if he’s locking me in deeper with every line. “Wow,” slips out of me, almost breathless.

Sil glances over. “What’s wrong?”

I shake my head slowly and smile, not at Sil but at my phone. “He’s coming,” I say. “He’s coming to get me.”

A quiet beat. Then Sil, suddenly soft: “Shit. It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

I nod. My hand tightens around the phone. “I’m his,” I whisper. “And now he knows it too.”

Sil sighs, exaggerated, but not entirely fake. “By Balder, Jelte. You sound like you just had a religious revelation.”

I chuckle. “It feels like one.”

“You’re about to get a Dominant the rest of us can only fantasize about.” He pulls a face. “It’s almost annoying how good you look now that you’ve really submitted.”

I look at him. His eyes are bright, and there’s something else there: not envy, exactly, more a soft ache.

“I’m happy for you,” he says. “Really. But if you keep being this annoyingly perfect, I’m going to start throwing things.”

------

I’m about to head upstairs when Haukon calls my name. “Jelte?”

I turn. He’s standing in the doorway of his study, hand still on the handle.

“Come in.”

The study smells of leather and wood. An open laptop sits on the desk, but his gaze stays on me. He gestures to a chair, and I sit. “He emailed me, too,” he says.

My heart picks up.

“It’s in motion,” he continues. “Milan has proposed a date for your wedding. He’s informing his family. And he’s coming here, within a few days.”

I have no words. Everything in me wants to jump up, run, laugh. I just look at him.

Haukon smiles. “I’ve already prepared a room for you upstairs, overlooking the garden. Quiet, sunny. A beautiful space for you to be together.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

“And,” he says, sitting down again, “I’ve invited him to stay here. Not only to prepare everything, but because this is something that should be celebrated.”

My throat tightens. “Celebrated?”

“Yes,” Haukon says. “Not with a party, but with presence. With recognition. Everyone here knows what’s happening, and we want to share it with you.”

I swallow. It feels like a blessing from Haukon.

He studies me for a moment, then says softly, “You belong to him. And soon he will belong to you.”

------

Lunch is simple: bread, soup, fruit. Everyone sits at the table. People talk and laugh, sipping their drinks. But something feels different. There’s something in the air that’s waiting to be said.

Ivar slides his plate aside and looks at me. “So,” he says with a grin, “you did it.”

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I nod. “Yes.”

Ries gives a calm smile. “That’s a good choice.” Lars beside him beams. “Really, Jelte. I’m so happy for you.”

“Finally, someone you actually have to obey,” Jorn teases. Remco laughs. “Get ready, Jelte. Milan is no pushover.”

“I know,” I say, and I can hear the hunger in my own voice.

Sil taps his spoon against his glass. “A toast!” he calls. “To our dear housemate who will soon be down on one knee for a proposal!”

Jens shakes his head, smiling. “Behave.”

“Why?” Sil says innocently. “If I’d glowed the way Jelte does when I gave myself to you, we could have hired a brass band.”

“You did glow,” Jens says dryly.

“Yes, but you were still shy then.” Sil winks at me. “You’re getting a Dominant who can light up a room without saying a word.” His grin turns wicked. “I want that too, only with Jens making my ass glow with a good leather paddle, not just the room.”

Laughter breaks out. Ivar shakes his head. “You two are going to be something.”

When the laughter fades, Jorn asks, “So you’ll be living with Milan. Who’s doing the dishes?”

“Jelte, obviously,” Sil fires back. “He’s an obedient houseboy.”

I grin. “Maybe Milan will make me watch him do the dishes. Just to drive me crazy.”

Remco laughs. “That sounds like him.”

“Or he’ll order you to help and turn every dish towel into a test,” Ivar says, dry as ever. “If it isn’t folded perfectly, you’ll get a spanking.”

“I’m already looking forward to it.” I mean it.

------

The porch is dark, except for a single warm light bulb dangling above the door. Outside, the smell of rain still hangs in the air. Inside, it is quiet, except for some soft rumbling.

Ivar is sitting on the wooden bench, legs stretched out, a cup of tea in his hand. He looks up when I walk outside.

“Come here,” he says.

I don't hesitate. I sit down. I snuggle up against him. His arm slides around me as if it has always been this way. His skin is warm, his shirt smells of leather, sweat, and something I can only describe as Ivar. We don't say anything for a moment.

“It's crazy,” I finally say. “That it's really going to happen.”

“Not crazy,” he says. “It’s time.”

I lean a little closer to him. “Without you, with all your bratty honesty, I wouldn't be here.”

He shrugs. “You did it yourself.”

“But you... you taught me that obedience isn't a weakness. That it can be something that makes you grow.”

He nods. “You already knew that. I was just the first person you dared to show it to.”

 

Then he slides something toward me: a linen bag, heavy in my lap.

“For tomorrow,” he says.

I pull the cord loose. The leather is black, supple, tightly cut. A pair of pants. Not just any pants, super tight, shiny, with every stitch perfect. The intense shine betrays what they are meant for.

I hold my breath for a moment.

“I secretly took your measurements when you were here,” he says dryly. “They have to fit perfectly.”

I run my fingers over the seams. “Wow.”

Ivar takes a sip of tea. “Milan is going to fall off his chair.”

I grin. “That's the idea.”

He looks at me. “You know what tomorrow means. If you give yourself to him.”

“Yes,” I say. “And I know what I want.”

A nod. He doesn't need to say anything else.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He looks me over. “You have to look your best.”

We sit like this for a while. Me with my pants on my lap. Him with his tea. No big farewell. No overly sentimental stuff, well, maybe a little.

Tomorrow I'll be wearing leather for Milan.

But tonight I'll be here for a while longer. With Ivar.

---

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