The dining table is already beautifully set when we enter the dining room. A crisp white damask tablecloth, fine silver cutlery, porcelain plates, and crystal glasses. Lars, Sil, and Jorn have done a fantastic job under Jens' supervision.
Haukon, as the paterfamilias, sits at the head of the table, Henrik, as the guest of honor, at his right hand. Ivar takes his place to Haukon's left. The rest of the couples sit next to each other. I also sit down to Milan's right. Sil sits next to Jens, quieter than usual. He radiates a rare inner contentment.
Before Remco and Jorn can sit down, the doorbell rings again. Remco quickly pulls out a chair for Jorn. When his lover has sat down, he hurries to the door.
From the hall, I hear a warm mutual greeting. Remco returns to the dining room with two men at his side.
Haukon immediately stands up and walks towards them. “Mikkel!” he calls enthusiastically, “I'm so glad you could come.” They embrace each other tightly, like old friends reunited.
“Haukon! Yes, I heard about Milan Valkema's daring new relationship with a submissive boy who, for once, doesn't come from the elite circles.” His eyes flash in my direction. “I was curious.”
I feel my face getting warm, though I'm not sure if it's from embarrassment or pride. The man speaking is slim, thoughtfully dressed in a dark suit with a subtle sheen. He wears a pin with the runes of Balder, a sign that he is submissive. He has a natural calmness that I haven’t seen in other submissive boys or men. No collar. No deferential attitude. Just calm.
“Mikkel Stalsund,” Milan whispers briefly. “He made this House financially possible. You don't have to kneel before him, but don't underestimate him, he's the founder and CEO of Runekern.”
Runekern, the all-powerful tech giant behind social media and security networks used even by the Temple. I nod, as if I understand. But I don't understand. How can someone be so independent, powerful and yet be a submissive?
The man next to him is even stranger. Tall, almost stately, with dark hair turning silver at the temples. His eyes are amber, as if they catch light that others cannot see. He wears clothes that I cannot immediately place; the kind whose symbolism only becomes clear later. His posture tells me that he feels at home here, even though he has never set foot in this room before.
Haukon extends his hand. “Nimród Kovács, welcome. We are honored.”
“The honor is mutual,” he says in a voice as smooth as silk. An accent I can't place. His gaze slides over me briefly, friendly, inquiring.
Jens glances quickly across the table and leans toward Haukon. “There are thirteen places set,” I hear him say. His voice sounds almost apologetic.
Haukon smiles, visibly unmoved. “We had counted on a circle of twelve, with myself as the thirteenth. But Balder is sending fifteen.”
Jens nods and turns around. “Sil,” he says softly, barely audible to the rest, “Arrange two extra places: one next to Fokko, one next to Henrik.”
Sil moves immediately, without a word. Lars and Jorn follow right away. Ivar is already getting up to fetch the right glasses. Sil grabs the damask tablecloth by the corner and smoothes it out, as if starting the ritual all over again. Everything moves with silent efficiency, as if the house itself were breathing.
Milan whispers to me, “Mikkel belongs here. Nimród... is new to me too.”
I feel the structure of the dinner rearranging itself around them. As if they had always been meant to be here.
Mikkel pauses for a moment before accepting his seat at the table. He nods to Milan, “Mr. Valkema,” and submissively lowers his eyes.
Milan acknowledges him with a nod: “Mikkel.”
Only then does he address me, “Jelte, right?” His voice is soft, with a calm confidence that makes me look at him automatically.
I nod, surprised that he knows my name.
“You've set something in motion.” He smiles faintly. “You can't see it yet. But believe me, it's already started.”
Before I can say anything in response, even though I don't know what I would say, he turns to his chair and sits down. His hand rests on the back of the chair for a moment, as if acknowledging the spot before taking it.
“With us,” Nimród says as he sits down, “a meal like this is considered a gift: not for what is on the table, but for who is sitting at the table.” He nods slightly to Haukon, then to Henrik. “I am honored to be a part of it today.”
The door to the kitchen opens. Three submissive boys employed by the caterer enter the room, dressed in black and white leather waiter's uniforms that do not hide their submissiveness, but stylize it. Restrained eroticism as servitude. They move with silent precision. Not a word. Not a whisper. Only gestures. They fill the glasses of each guest. One boy kneels briefly beside Haukon as he hands him the carafe, a ritual gesture that Haukon acknowledges with a calm hand movement.
When the waiters have withdrawn to the kitchen, Haukon stands up. His gaze slowly sweeps across the table, past each couple, each guest, until his eyes rest on me for a moment. Then he speaks.
“Brothers,” he says. “Friends.” He pauses for a moment. The silence is full of attention. “Tonight we share this table with fifteen. That was not planned. But love and devotion cannot be planned, let alone controlled.”
He glances subtly at Mikkel for a moment. He looks at Milan and finally looks at me intently. “We thank Balder that a boy has found his Dominant.” He raises his glass. “To love and discipline. To obedience that does not compel, but invites. To this house.”
Every guest raises their glass, “To this house,” it sounds in unison.
After the toast, the appetizers are served. Milan's hand rests lightly on my thigh under the table. Not possessive or intrusive, but like a calm, constant reminder of his presence. His fingers barely move; the pressure varies subtly.
Nimród addresses the table. “I'm curious to hear your views on the new guidelines being considered by the Supreme Court,” he says, swirling his wine glass slightly. “Especially with regard to the different... expressions of devotion.” His gaze shifts subtly to Remco and Jorn.
Bastiaan clears his throat. “The Council has the important task of safeguarding the purity of our traditions.”
“Purity,” Milan repeats. His voice is cool, almost clinical, but there is an undercurrent that electrifies the room. He takes a thoughtful sip of wine, never taking his eyes off Bastiaan. “An interesting concept.”
Milan's hand slides higher up my leg, his fingertips now exploring the inside of my thigh. While Bastiaan responds with a statement about traditional values, Milan's hand moves slowly but determinedly toward my crotch.
“The doctrine is clear,” Bastiaan states. “Dominance and submission are fixed roles, determined by the gods.”
Milan's fingers now caress the taut leather of my pants, right where my erection is beginning to form again. My breath catches, but I force myself not to let it show. No one at the table must see what is happening under the tablecloth. Milan now kneads me gently, in a rhythm that makes my heartbeat faster.
Milan smiles, not warmly, but sharply and precisely. “And yet,” he says, measuring each syllable, “the Sages show that Wodan himself took on different forms. Dominant towards some, submissive to others.”
His hand now opens the top button of my pants, almost imperceptibly. My eyes widen with shock and excitement. He wouldn’t dare… here, among all these people?
“An... unconventional interpretation,” Bastiaan says stiffly.
“Perhaps.” Milan's voice remains cool, but his eyes sparkle. “But I have discovered that unconventional interpretations... can be satisfying.” As he looks at Remco and Jorn, the ambiguity of his words hangs in the air. No one misses the implication, but no one dares to mention it directly.
I have to clench my teeth to keep from making a sound. No one can notice. No one can know how he's playing me, how I'm melting inside under his touch. I take a sip of wine, trying to hide my red cheeks.
Milan withdraws his hand, but not before gripping me firmly one last time, a promise of things to come. “Calm down, boy,” he whispers, so softly that only I can hear him. “You'll need your composure. The night is still young.”
As the conversation about traditions and modernity continues, Milan takes my hand under the table. I expect him to put it back on my leg, but instead he places my palm firmly on his own crotch. I can feel the contours of Milan's enormous erect cock clearly under the smooth leather of his pants.
“Do you feel what you're doing to me?” he whispers, his voice barely audible above the table conversation. His eyes remain fixed on Henrik as if he is completely focused on his argument.
I swallow with difficulty. My fingers are now tense on the impressive bulge in his leather pants. He presses my hand harder against him, forcing me to caress him.
“Move,” he commands softly, while calling something to Haukon about the wine. “Slowly.”
My heart is pounding in my throat. If anyone were to look... if anyone were to suspect what is happening under this immaculate damask tablecloth... Still, I obey, my fingers moving cautiously over the taut leather.
“I think,” says Milan, his voice clear and analytical as he turns to the table, "that we should not forget the historical context in this discussion. The texts of the Old Masters were revolutionary for their time.“ His voice shows no sign of the tension I feel building under my fingers. ”They were meant to create a framework, not to build a prison."
My fingers tremble slightly from his unmistakable arousal, but his face remains completely composed, as if he were delivering an academic lecture rather than being secretly groped.
"Good," he murmurs, his face a mask of calm as he lifts his wine glass. Only a slight tremor in his hand betrays what I am doing to him. “Soon you will serve my cock in more ways.”
The thought alone sends a wave of arousal through me. Here I am, in this exclusive company, my hand on the erection of the most desirable Dominant man in the room, forced to please him while no one suspects a thing. The intimacy of it, the power he has over me, is maddeningly arousing.
------
The door to the kitchen opens again. The three waiters return, now with the first plates. They move silently, carrying trays filled with small, perfectly arranged dishes. Works of art of salmon, creamy mousse, and fresh herbs. Everything is placed with ritual precision. No one speaks. Only the soft sound of cutlery and porcelain can be heard.
Sil slides his chair back a fraction, rises slightly, then lowers himself cautiously. His face remains neutral, but something in his movement betrays his hesitation.
Across the table, Ivar raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay there, Sil?” he asks with feigned concern. “Or can you still feel that wooden spoon Jens used this afternoon?”
The laughter that follows is suppressed but genuine. Fokko smiles openly, Remco shakes his head slightly, and even Bastiaan, who is just about to take a sip of water, bursts out laughing into his glass.
Sil's cheeks flush, but he says nothing. Jens quietly places a hand on his shoulder. His gesture is small, protective, but also possessive.
“He's fine,” says Jens. “And he's behaving perfectly.”
Sil swallows, keeping his eyes on his plate for a moment. Then he says softly, almost apologetically, “It still feels a little warm, Sir. But... it does help.”
Fokko smiles. Ivar's eyes light up. And Jens, leans a little closer to Sil, visibly pleased.
Mikkel takes a thoughtful bite of his salmon before speaking. “Punishment is a delicate art,” he says, his submissive pin bearing Balder's runes catches the soft light. “A good Dominant understands the difference between... correction and cruelty.”
“An important distinction,” Henrik agrees, his voice warm but authoritative. “In the Order of Balder, we see discipline as a form of love, not as an end in itself.”
Milan looks amused at Jens and Sil. “Jens understands that difference very well, it seems. A wooden spoon.” He takes a sip of wine. “Inventive and yet very domestic.”
“Effective too,” adds Haukon. “Without any lasting damage that might mar a brat's bottom,” with an almost mischievous look at his Ivar, who pulls a quasi-indignant face.
I feel myself warming up under Milan's hand. Does he have plans like that for me? The thought makes me nervous and excited at the same time.
Milan notices my reaction and leans toward me slightly. “Don't worry,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. "I have my own methods. Much... more personal.“ His fingers caress the inside of my thigh, moving toward my groin. ”A wooden spoon is for disobedient boys. Your buttocks need more refined attention, don't they?"
I nod cautiously and take a sip of water, because my mouth is getting dry at the prospect.
“In my country,” says Nimród, putting down his fork, “we call it ‘remembering touch’. A punishment that lingers, but leaves no lasting damage. No marks, except in the soul.”
“An interesting description,” says Bastiaan, his tone more formal than before. “The Temple prescribes specific forms of discipline, documented in the Ancient Texts, of course.”
“Ah, the Texts,” sighs Fokko, with a subtle undertone of weariness. “Sometimes we forget that they were written by men who were in search of truth themselves, not written by the gods.”
Bastiaan's face tightens. “The Texts are divinely inspired, Reverend.”
“Undoubtedly,” smiles Fokko, “interpreted by fallible people. Like ourselves.”
Milan's hand moves subtly up my leg, his fingertips touching me close to my crotch, almost provocatively. “Texts are important,” he says, “but nothing replaces direct experience. Wouldn't you say, Sil?”
All eyes turn back to Sil, who visibly sinks deeper into his chair. “Yes, Sir,” he says softly. “Experience... teaches in a different way than texts do.”
“Indeed,” says Haukon. “In this house, we believe in education through experience. Book learning is for the Temple.” He glances meaningfully at Bastiaan. “Here, we learn by living, by feeling.”
“By obeying,” adds Jens, his hand still protectively on Sil's shoulder.
“And sometimes by deliberately disobeying,” laughs Ivar, earning him a sharp look from Haukon.
Mikkel’s eyes meet mine for a moment. There is something in his gaze that I cannot place. Pity? Recognition? Before I can decide, he turns to Nimród.
“I'm curious,” he says, “how Tengri traditions deal with submissives who... obey of their own free will, versus those who are forced. Is there a distinction?”
The question hangs in the air. I feel Milan's fingers pause on my leg, as if he too wants to hear the answer.
Nimród puts down his cutlery and takes a moment to think. His amber eyes seem to focus on something only he can see. “In our tradition,” he begins, his accent slightly more pronounced than before, “we distinguish between what we call ‘given obedience’ and ‘chosen obedience.’” He takes a thoughtful sip of wine before continuing. “The Tengri philosophy considers both valuable, yet fundamentally different. Like the river that conforms to the landscape because it cannot do otherwise, versus the eagle that deliberately lands and folds its wings.”
Bastiaan shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Submission is submission,” he says. “The gods know no half measures.”
“Interesting,” Nimród replies with a mild smile. “We believe that the gods are most interested in what we choose, not what we must do.” He slowly turns his wine glass between his fingers. “In our belief, Tengri is most pleased when someone with strength and abilities chooses to put them to use.”
Mikkel's face remains impassive, but I see something light up in his eyes.
“In our culture,” Nimród continues, “we have ceremonies in which strong, powerful individuals temporarily assume submissiveness. Not because it is their nature, but to experience balance. Some of our greatest warriors practice this.”
Milan's fingers press firmly into the leather of my pants, against the inside of my leg. I feel his fingers subtly building tension, as if he is not only hearing Nimród's words, but also processing them physically. “And what do you choose, Jelte?” he whispers, so softly that no one else can hear. His fingers now move between my legs, tracing the contours of my erection through the leather. “Do you surrender because you have to, or because you want to?”
His touch makes it impossible to think clearly. “Both,” I whisper back, breathless. “I have to, because I want it so desperately.”
A rare, genuine smile crosses Milan’s face. “Exactly the right answer,” he says, turning his hand and squeezing my erection briefly but hard, a mixture of reward and promise.
“Are you suggesting that submission is a... choice?” Henrik asks cautiously. “A temporary state rather than an essential nature?”
“For some, it is their nature,” Nimród replies. “For others, a choice. For still others...” He glances subtly at Ivar, so fleetingly that I wonder if I'm imagining it, “...a dance between the two.”
Haukon leans forward slightly, his voice deep and controlled. “In this house, we respect a submissive nature as something essential and valuable. But...” He glances sideways at Ivar, a brief look of understanding, “we also recognize that some souls... are more complex than others.” A silence falls. “Complexity is not the same as instability,” he adds, weighing his words carefully. “Sometimes it is a sign of depth.”
Ivar smiles softly. There is an intimate charge in the way he looks at Haukon. “My Haukon,” says Ivar, his submissive attitude obvious but with determination in his voice, “sometimes gives me the space to explore other aspects of myself; with younger submissives who can learn from that.”
Bastiaan's eyebrows shoot up, but Henrik nods understandingly.
“Under strict supervision, of course,” Haukon adds, his tone not defensive but explanatory. His hand finds Ivar's shoulder, a gesture that expresses both possession and pride. “Ivar has gifts that would be wasted if he couldn't share them.”
“The flexibility of a reed,” Nimród murmurs, more to himself than to the table, “is sometimes stronger than the steadfastness of an oak.”
Milan nods calmly, without surprise. His eyes meet Haukon's in a moment of mutual understanding between Dominants. “Every relationship has its own rules,” he says. “What works for Haukon and Ivar would be unthinkable for others.” His hand on my leg tightens, not in response to nervousness but as confirmation. The message is clear without words: This is not for us.
I feel a wave of relief, followed by a deeper certainty. I wouldn't want it any other way. Milan's unyielding Dominance, his refusal to blur boundaries; it's exactly what attracts me to him.
“Different paths to the same destination,” Henrik says, his diplomatic tone returning. “One style isn't better than the other, as long as there's truth.”
“Exactly,” Milan says with a nod. “And for some…” His fingers trace a small, possessive pattern on my leg, “…clarity is just as important as flexibility. No gray areas, no exceptions. Pure Dominance versus complete surrender.”
His words are cool and confident, but they sound warm and lustful to my ears. I don't need to speak; my body, instinctively seeking his touch, says enough.
“The purity of the classic model,” Nimród remarks, his amber eyes back on me. “There's beauty in such... unambiguous devotion.”
“Indeed,” says Milan, turning to Nimród. “And Jelte here next to me...” He now places his hand on my neck, a claim that everyone at the table can see, “...thrives in that clarity. Not everyone needs... multiple forms of expression.”
Mikkel looks at us, a look in which I can detect both admiration and something resembling homesickness. “Enviable,” he says softly. “When both know exactly what they want... and what they are.” The last words seem more intended for himself than for us, and I catch a glimpse of the loneliness behind his calm façade.
------
The kitchen door swings open, and the wait staff returns to clear the first plates. They move with choreographed precision, as if they were a single organism. Once the table is cleared, elegant bowls filled with a creamy, orange-colored soup appear. The scent of saffron and seafood fills the room.
“Ah, lobster soup,” says Fokko appreciatively. “A treat fit for the gods.”
The conversations fall silent as everyone enjoys the first spoonfuls. A moment of culinary satisfaction replaces the intensity of the earlier conversation.
Then Nimród turns to Mikkel. “I hear that your company, Runekern, is about to launch something special. Something that...” he searches for the right word, “...could change digital communities.”
Mikkel's eyes light up, but there is also caution in his gaze. “News travels fast,” he replies with a small smile.
“Especially good news,” Nimród replies. “And especially in certain circles.”
The hidden message in their exchange is almost tangible. I feel Milan's attention sharpen beside me, his body language tensing. His hand, which had briefly left my leg, returns with new intensity. His fingers slide to the inside of my thigh, in a movement that feels almost irritated, as if he feels the need to reinforce his claim amid all this talk of new ways of forming relationships.
Haukon puts down his spoon. “Tell us, Mikkel. You know this house is a safe haven for new ideas.”
Bastiaan's eyes narrow, but he says nothing.
Mikkel takes a moment, his gaze sliding over those present as if assessing how much he can share. “Let's just say I believe in the power of connection,” he says finally. “Technology can build bridges where traditional structures have built walls.”
“Bridges between what exactly?” Henrik asks, his interest clearly piqued.
“Between people who ask the same questions,” Mikkel replies. “Who share the same quest.” His eyes meet mine for a moment, then Sil's, and even Ivar's for a brief instant. “Sometimes just knowing that you're not alone in your questions is a comfort in itself.”
Bastiaan clears his throat. “The Temple offers answers, not questions. That has been its function for millennia.”
“And yet,” says Mikkel softly, “some questions remain, don't they, Reverend?”
The tension between them is palpable. Milan's hand leaves my leg. “I'm curious, Mikkel,” he says, his voice cool but interested. “What kind of connections do you envision? And more importantly, between whom exactly?”
Mikkel slowly turns his soup spoon between his fingers. He exchanges an almost imperceptible glance with Nimród before answering. “I'm thinking of a platform that helps people understand themselves better,” he says carefully. “A... Hall of Mirrors, so to speak, where people can explore different facets of their own nature.”
“That sounds rather abstract,” says Milan. “Be more specific, please.” His voice is sharp, analytical. The contrast with his hand, which is now resting between my legs again and drawing suggestive circles, is dizzying. I have to concentrate not to react visibly as he caresses me agonizingly slowly, just when all eyes are on Mikkel.
Mikkel nods. “Imagine: a space where a submissive boy can reflect on what his nature really means to him. Not just the superficial categorization, but the deeper nuances.” He looks at Sil for a moment, then at me. “Some are playfully submissive, others more contemplative. Some seek strict rules, others thrive on softer boundaries.”
“And how does technology fit into this?” Henrik asks, genuinely interested.
“By recognizing patterns,” Mikkel replies. “By offering guided visualizations and questions that lead to self-insight.” He leans forward slightly. “Always within our traditional framework, naturally.”
Bastiaan's eyebrows furrow. “So it's a kind of... digital Temple?”
“More of a complement to the Temple,” Mikkel quickly corrects. “A preparation room, if you will. Where boys and their Dominants can gain deeper insight before seeking real spiritual guidance.”
I notice that he carefully avoids mentioning that this reflection could take place without the intervention of Dominants.
“And those... connections you mentioned?” Milan presses.
“Compatibility,” says Mikkel. “Think of how Haukon and Ivar fit so well because they understand each other's needs. Or Milan and Jelte.” He nods at us. “Technology can help identify patterns that indicate deeper compatibility.”
“A matchmaking service?” asks Fokko, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“A tool for self-insight,” Mikkel corrects. “Which could potentially lead to better... arrangements.”
“Under the supervision of the Friïo, I presume?” Bastiaan asks.
A short pause. “The platform offers protected spaces,” Mikkel says cautiously. “Encrypted communication so users can speak freely, without fear.”
“Speak freely?” repeats Bastiaan. “About what exactly?”
“About their spiritual journey,” Mikkel replies smoothly. “Their questions, their doubts, their growth.”
“This sounds like a detour around traditional authority,” says Milan sharply.
Nimród joins the conversation. “In my country,” he says, “our spiritual community has been using similar concepts for generations. We call it an ‘inner yurt’—a personal space for contemplation that complements, not replaces, the communal temples.”
“Exactly,” Mikkel nods gratefully. “A complement, not a replacement.”
“And for those who... fall outside the usual patterns?” Henrik asks cautiously.
Mikkel's face betrays nothing. “The platform offers advanced support for various spiritual paths,”
A vague formulation. But I see it in his eyes: this is about more than he is saying. Milan's fingers tighten their grip on my now fully hard cock, a possessive reaction to Mikkel's words.
“I wonder if such technology undermines the very foundation of our society,” he says, his thumb tracing a slow line along my shaft through the leather. “The sanctity of the bond between a Dominant and his submissive.”
His body radiates calm, but his touch betrays a deep territorial instinct. I feel simultaneously the object of his desire and the subject of his protection; a feeling that only heightens my arousal.
“On the contrary,” Mikkel replies calmly. “The goal is to strengthen that bond through deeper understanding. Some bonds fail because there was insufficient insight beforehand.”
I can almost feel the pain beneath the surface of his words.
“And what if this ‘insight’ leads to questioning the natural order?” Bastiaan asks.
“What is more natural than self-knowledge?” Mikkel replies softly. “If the order is true, deeper understanding will only confirm it, not undermine it.”
The table falls silent. His words are a challenge, subtly wrapped in respect.
“You speak more like a philosopher than a submissive,” Bastiaan remarks.
“Why shouldn't a submissive be profound?” Milan asks aloud.
Bastiaan looks at Milan, his expression a mixture of surprise and slight irritation. He weighs his words carefully, aware of Milan's status. “Of course submissives can be profound, young Mister Valkema,” he says with forced patience. “But there is a difference between profundity within the confines of their role and philosophizing about the nature of that role itself.” He turns back to Mikkel. “The former is commendable, the latter... potentially disruptive.” He takes a sip of water before continuing. “Submissiveness is a gift from the gods, not an object of study for those who experience it. Just as we do not ask a river to analyze itself. The river flows; the submissive serves. That is the natural order.”
Henrik, who had been listening mainly until now, puts down his bowl. The small movement catches everyone's attention, a subtle sign of his authority.
“The ancient texts of Balder speak differently, Reverend Bastiaan,” he says, his voice soft but unmistakably authoritative. “In the Hávamál it is written: ‘Know yourself, that you may serve better.’ Submission is not an unconscious state, but a conscious choice, made again and again.”
He looks kindly at Mikkel. “The Order of Balder has always recognized that true surrender is only possible through self-knowledge. It is precisely this awareness that distinguishes the submissive from the slave.”
A silence falls over the table. It is as if Henrik's words express what I have always known but could never put into words myself. I long for Milan's firm hand, for his cool dominance; not despite my self-awareness, but precisely because of it. Every time I kneel before him, it is a choice. A choice I make again and again, because now I know who I am.
Milan's hand returns to my leg, the pressure familiar and reassuring. At the same time, so unexpectedly that I almost gasp for breath, his hand slides up under the tablecloth and with one quick movement unbuttons my pants completely. The tension of the leather against my erection eases, but the tension in my body doubles. His fingers now slide inside, enveloping the shaft of my hard cock, and he masturbates me very gently.
He is testing my surrender. I realize that he also knows that I am consciously choosing this surrender. That he appreciates it precisely because it is a conscious choice. Because I think, feel, understand; and yet I choose submission.
“Perhaps,” Henrik adds more mildly, “the question is not whether submissives should reflect, but how and under what guidance. That seems to me a more fruitful conversation.”
Milan brings his hand back out and squeezes my thigh lightly. A small, private communication that says more than words: he senses my thoughts, knows where my mind is going. I look up and meet his gaze, and there is a moment of perfect understanding between us.
“Guidance is essential,” Milan says, his voice calm but authoritative. “A submissive must be able to reflect, but within safe boundaries.” His hand moves to my neck, where his fingers play with my collar. “I suggest Mikkel tells us more about these... safe boundaries in his platform.”
------
Before Mikkel can explain further, the kitchen door swings open. This time, the waiters enter with steaming platters and trays. The main course is an impressive display of venison, smoky and dark, garnished with forest fruits and herbs. The aroma is rich and earthy.
As the plates are served, one of the waiters bows deeper than necessary toward Milan. His lips barely move as he whispers, but I catch it: “As you requested, Sir.”
Milan's expression betrays nothing, but his hand on my neck tightens. “Good,” is all he says.
The conversation shifts as everyone begins to eat. Mikkel is now talking about the security measures of his platform, but I can hardly concentrate. Milan's fingers are playing with the clasp of my collar, subtle enough that only I notice, but visible enough that everyone at the table would understand the message if they were paying attention.
“Do you like it?” Milan asks me suddenly, in the middle of Mikkel's explanation.
“Yes, Sir,” I answer, surprised by the direct question.
“Good.” He cuts a piece of meat from his plate and holds it up to me on his fork. “Open.”
The table conversations continue, but I feel a few glances sliding in our direction. I open my mouth, and Milan feeds me the piece of meat. It is an intimate gesture, possessive and caring at the same time. It is also a demonstration, certainly not subtle or hidden. “Chew slowly,” he instructs, in a tone only I can hear. “Enjoy it.”
I obey, tasting the rich flavors more intensely than before. Milan's eyes hold mine as I chew and swallow.
“Haukon told me,” Milan says, loud enough for others to hear, “that rituals surrounding food play an important role in his home.”
Haukon nods. “Food is more than survival. It's also caring, sharing, taking.” His hand rests on Ivar's shoulder. “Dominants feed. Submissives receive.”
The energy in the dining room changes. The discussion about technology and tradition fades into the background. A different kind of attention arises.
“In our tradition,” Nimród says, his voice softer than before, “we say that the body must be nourished before the mind can grow. The physical comes before the philosophical.”
Milan's hand slides from my neck to my back, down my spine. “Exactly,” he says. “So many conversations about concepts and ideas, while the body knows its own wisdom.”
Ivar whispers something in Haukon's ear. A smile appears on Haukon's face, and he nods almost imperceptibly.
“Jelte,” says Milan, “you're sitting so stifly. Stand up and stretch a little.”
I hesitate for a moment, feeling the eyes of the group on me. Then I stand up, as he commands.
Milan pushes my chair aside. “Kneel next to me,” he says.
The room grows noticeably quieter. Even Bastiaan looks fascinated, not knowing whether to approve or disapprove.
I kneel next to Milan's chair, my back straight, my hands resting calmly on my thighs. The carpet is soft under my knees.
“Good,” says Milan approvingly. His hand strokes my hair, a reward for my obedience. “This way I can feed you better.” He cuts another piece of meat, this time juicier, with a shiny sauce. “Open,” he commands again.
I open my mouth, fully aware of what this public demonstration means. It is not humiliation, it is veneration. Milan is showing me off, claiming me, sharing me at the table.
“This,” says Milan as he strokes my neck, “is the essence that no technology can replace. The physical bond. The direct connection.”
Henrik nods thoughtfully. Fokko smiles secretly. Sil looks on with a mixture of fascination and desire. And Mikkel? In his eyes I see something else. A hunger that goes deeper than food.
“Perhaps,” says Haukon, raising his glass, “we should toast to the direct experience. To the body that knows what the mind sometimes forgets.”
As the glasses are raised, I remain kneeling. Milan's hand rests warmly and possessively on my neck. His thumb strokes my skin rhythmically, a promise of what is to come.
A shiver runs through my body. Milan is so beautiful, so dominant. It's not his hand on my skin that makes me tremble, but the realization that I am being seen in my obedience. That my head is no longer protesting. Not really. Not anymore.
I feel the gaze of the others. Sil’s fascination. Ivars' silent appreciation. The quiet, serious hunger in Mikkels' eyes. I am warm. Fed. Obedient. Seen.
And I know: soon he will take me. Because I am his. And now everyone knows it.
------
The door to the kitchen opens again, like a wave gently lapping at the shores of conversation. The scent that wafts in is sweet and inviting, of honey and warm spices.
The waiters bring dessert: small glasses of saffron cream surrounded by thin strips of candied orange, pomegranate seeds, and shiny caramel. The light breaks on the surface of the cream as if it were a ritual object.
I remain kneeling next to Milan while the other guests pick up their spoons. No one says anything about my posture. It is as if my place has now become self-evident.
Milan picks up his spoon, scoops up a little of the cream and holds it to my lips. I open my mouth without him having to ask.
“Sweet,” he says softly. “Just like an obedient boy.”
The taste is intense. Soft, lush, almost sinful. The warmth of the spices clashes with the cool silver of the spoon. Everything in my body reacts.
Milan offers me another spoon, this time with a pearl of saffron cream on the tip.
“Slower,” he says, as if he's talking about food. “Enjoy. Taste deepens with surrender.”
I do as he says. My lips close around the cold metal, my tongue against the soft, sultry filling.
Then he wipes a drop from my lip with his thumb. Very slowly. He says nothing as he sensually licks his thumb.
“You have fulfilled your task beautifully tonight,” he finally says. His hand rests on my neck again, possessive and soft. “Tonight... your reward will be even sweeter...” A mischievous twinkle appears in his eyes, “...And even creamier.”
A soft bell rings from the kitchen. The waiters appear empty-handed, their presence signaling that dinner is coming to an end. The conversations fall silent.
Henrik stands up, the movement silent but unmistakably authoritative. “What we have shared today,” he says, “goes beyond food and words. May Balder bless what has been built here: trust, dedication, insight.”
His gaze slides across the table, it rests on me briefly, a look of recognition. “May what has been nourished continue to grow.”
Haukon stands up, nods with dignity. Others follow his example. But Milan remains seated. He doesn't move, except for his hand, which closes around my neck, a little tighter now. “You knelt well,” he whispers, only for me to hear. “Everyone saw.” His thumb slides under my collar, slow, possessive.
“And now everyone knows what's going to happen to you.”
My cock throbs in my pants, my whole body tingles.
The first guests get up. Chairs slide. Clinking glasses, soft voices, the beginning of farewells.
Milan remains seated, unmoved, his hand still on my skin.
“Stay like that,” he says softly. “Let them all see how beautifully you obey.”
I nod. The priests leave with a polite nod to Milan and me. The other boys leave for their rooms. Only the waiters wait politely until everyone has left.
When Milan finally stands up, he does so in one smooth, controlled movement. The leather of his pants brushes against my face as he walks past me. For a moment, just a moment, I remain alone on my knees. I cherish the caress of his leather pants against my cheek for a little longer.
Then I feel his hand again. Firm. Guiding.
“Come on, boy. It's time.”