In the Service of Mistress Amelia

I've been wasting away at my parents' place for weeks now. They tolerate my presence only because I'm trying to find work, despite my repeated failures in my final year of culinary and hospitality school. Twice I came up short — 47.5 out of 100 on the practical final exam. The anxiety crushed me both times, and it showed in my table service. Frustrated and bitter after years of schooling with nothing to show for it, I burned every one of my textbooks in a great fire, fuming at the instructors who had put me in this position.

After a string of odd jobs in agriculture — tobacco picking, mostly — I no longer have a clear sense of my own abilities, or even my will. Most of the employers from my internships either can't give me work or simply don't want to. So I've ended up scrolling through classified ads without much conviction, because every letter I send out goes unanswered. Honestly, when I reread my own résumé, I can see why it's hardly inviting.

I'm the fifth of six children, the fourth boy. My eldest sister is fiercely driven. My three brothers — born one after another, just three years before me — are full of talent for trades or academics. My younger sister came along three years after I was born, and she's always been doted on. As for me, I spent my childhood trailing behind everyone else. I'm withdrawn by nature, introverted, nursing quiet rebellions inside myself — all of which has seriously damaged my self-confidence and my trust in others. And don't get me started on my love life, which is a desert.

At the employment office, a counselor suggested I look in the area around Brussels, where there are far more openings. I'd need to find a place to live, but that doesn't scare me. I boarded during my school years. His advice pays off — I find a lot more job postings, though also a lot more rejections, until the day a letter arrives asking me to come in for an interview the following day at 2:00 p.m. sharp. I'm completely caught off guard, and I dig through my file to find the ad I had answered: *"Active lady seeks individual with the skills to manage the upkeep of her household. Significant availability required!"*

My astonishment is layered. Why did I respond to this ad in the first place? What does it actually mean? Unease grips me, but curiosity wins out. I check the train schedule and work out my route, calculating how much time I'll need to arrive on time at the address listed. I tell my parents about the positive response and that I'm expected the next day in a suburb of the capital.

The next morning, the trip only deepens my unease. By the time I arrive at the door, I have no confidence at all. After taking a deep breath, I ring the bell. No sound. I ring again, and the negative thoughts come flooding back. Then the door opens. A woman with a phone pressed to her ear looks me over.

"You are five minutes early. Come in and stay in the entryway."

"…Sorry!"

"You should say: *'I beg your pardon, Madam.'*"

"…"

I stand there frozen, speechless, as she walks off into an adjoining room, picking up her phone conversation where she left off. I check my watch and see she's right — I am early. I shut the front door behind me and remain rooted in the middle of the entryway. My eyes wander over the room — everything is meticulously ordered, immaculate. She returns.

"You didn't use the proper phrase."

"…Excuse me?"

"You should say: *'I beg your pardon, Madam.'*"

"I… I beg your pardon, Madam."

"There. That's better. Turn around, slowly, so I can see you. Then walk to the door and walk back to me."

I obey, taking measured steps, not entirely sure what she's looking for. I turn at the door and walk back to her. She studies me intently. She stops me with a raised hand.

"Show me your hands."

"My hands?"

"You should say: *'Yes, Madam.'*"

"…Yes, Madam."

She takes my hands one after the other, examining my palms and nails, then turning my wrists over to check my pulse.

"You'll need to take better care of your nails. I can feel from your pulse that you're nervous."

"Yes, Madam."

"Good. Follow me. I'll go over the rules of your service."

"Yes, Madam."

Falling into step behind her, my eyes are caught by her silhouette. She is strikingly elegant, dressed with refinement — or at least that's how she strikes me, since I'm not in the habit of studying people, only glancing at them. We enter an office, and she settles behind a large desk where a folder lies open. I notice that my letter and résumé are right on top. There's no chair for me.

"That won't be necessary. You'll need to learn to remain standing while you serve me, except when I tell you to take a different position."

"Yes, Madam."

Wait — can she read my mind? Maybe she has special glasses… I'm being ridiculous.

"Good. From what I can see in your letter, and from the inquiries I've made about you, you'll be suitable to serve me even if you lack experience. My current manservant is to retire in a month, and you will learn from him how to carry out your duties to my satisfaction. So you'll have one trial month. I am demanding, and any shortcoming will be corrected."

"Uh… yes, Madam."

"Undress now."

"I… I beg your pardon, Madam?"

"You understood me perfectly."

"Uh… yes, Madam."

Disconcerted, I take off my jacket and unbutton my shirt. I remove it, along with my t-shirt, then crouch down to untie my laces and slip off my shoes and socks. I hesitate when it comes to my pants, but she makes a small gesture with her finger toward the floor. And so I find myself standing in my underwear before this woman. My face must be burning red with shame. She rises and circles around me.

"Put your hands on your head and open your mouth."

"…Yes, Madam."

"Your hygiene must be impeccable. Your armpits have been neglected, and your body hair will need to be removed. Your teeth must be clean at all times."

"Answer."

"Yes, Madam."

"Stand on one foot."

"Yes, Madam."

I lean forward and extend a leg behind me, trying to keep my balance with my hands still on my head.

"Good. Stand back up and remove your underwear."

"But—"

"Obey."

"Yes, Madam."

Mortified, I slide down my last piece of clothing and find myself standing fully naked in front of this woman, who continues to circle me. She picks up a tray with two cups and a sugar bowl and hands it to me to hold.

"I haven't had my coffee yet. You're going to serve it to me now, in the parlor."

"Uh… yes, Madam."

I follow her again, not quite registering the fact that I am completely naked, carrying a tray and walking behind a woman I know nothing about. We pass through a hallway into a large open-plan kitchen with a vast island in the center. She continues toward a small, sunlit room with a view of a garden in bloom. She settles onto an elegant sofa.

"Serve me. The instructions are next to the coffee machine."

"Yes, Madam."

I assume I'm meant to set the tray down on the small table in front of the sofa, but she points back toward the kitchen. I retrace my steps and find a card sitting next to the machine:

*Hello Lucas,* *Madam Amelia takes a Voluttuoso with one demitasse spoon of cane sugar. The cup must be warmed, and placed on its proper saucer. A small napkin must be slipped beneath the cup. Be careful that it isn't stained by the bottom of the cup, which may be damp. The handle of the cup must be turned to the right.* *You will put on the pair of white gloves in the plastic pouch — they are new and in your size. When serving Madam Amelia, do not place the cup on the table. Wait until she gives you permission to serve. At that moment, you will offer her the cup, which will be on your tray, by bending forward and saying: "If it please you, Madam Amelia."* *You will then straighten up and step back three paces. You will wait standing, perfectly upright, feet together with your toes at the "10 and 2" position. When she extends the cup back toward you, you will step forward so she can place it on your tray. You will hold the same posture, straighten, and salute her with a bow of the head. Then you will return to the kitchen and clean everything, putting each item back in its place.* *Thank you for placing yourself in the service of Madam Amelia.*

The note is signed *Mr. Justin*.

I follow each instruction with great care, and I manage to serve her exactly as the protocol demands. As I'm washing and drying the cup, she joins me in the kitchen.

"Good. You may put your clothes back on and go home. You will start in two days at 2:00 p.m. precisely. For your lodging, a room has been prepared upstairs. Room and board will be provided. Your wages will be modest, given that you're a novice. An envelope has been slipped into the pocket of your jacket containing the rules of my service. If you find them acceptable, you will sign your contract at the end of your trial."

"Thank you, Madam."

I get dressed and take my leave of Madam Amelia. The entire ride home, I replay this astonishing encounter in my mind. I'm thrilled at the prospect of work, and unsettled by having had to serve this woman in the nude — a woman who has stirred something deep within me. When I get back to my parents' house, they're pleased for me, but I don't tell them how the afternoon unfolded. That night, in bed, I reread the rules several times. A powerful erection took hold of me.

The envelope is wrinkled and the letter inside is in a sorry state, but it's both my code for the month ahead and a treasure to me. I read and reread Madam Amelia's letter without stopping. The rules cover many things: my physical presentation and bearing (I've trimmed my nails and given my armpits a careful shave — my chest hair isn't really an issue), my clothing, which must be immaculate and always pressed at the creases (Mom gave me a few lessons in ironing — I told her I'd be on my own with my laundry from now on and that I wouldn't be able to come home before the end of my trial month), never to speak unless spoken to (this won't be difficult — I'm so reserved I rarely speak as it is), never to question any request (this one, I have to admit, makes me nervous), to always be punctual (I've already learned that one the hard way)… The list goes on, but I find myself transfixed by the lines and curves of her handwriting. It's so rare these days to read a handwritten document. Her handwriting is almost magical… She is magical, this Madam Amelia… and yet I know nothing about her. Apparently she lives alone. But there is an elderly manservant. She is demanding when it comes to service, yes — but also elegant. A true lady.

The train carries me toward her. My thoughts are all aimed at her. The landscape outside has no power to free me from her aura. I still can't believe I stood naked in front of her, barely flinching. That I served her coffee wearing nothing but white gloves. Why didn't I rebel? I hate authority — I hate people who lecture. And yet, with her, I let myself be led, because her authority felt so… natural. *Don't get carried away, Lucas. You haven't accomplished anything yet, and your record isn't exactly favorable.* But why me? Surely there are far more qualified people. From what I gathered, I'm replacing a man who's retiring. That makes him at least sixty, and I'm barely twenty. And who is he? All I have from him is a card to follow. There's so much to learn, and this month will be too short to convince Madam Amelia to keep me. Who is she? I can't pull my attention away from her. Mercifully, the train pulls into the station, and I have to focus on finding the right corridors for the subway. After that comes a bus that will get me close to my destination — I'll finish on foot. My suitcase is heavy. Mom packed so many clothes that I have to keep switching arms to relieve the weight. And besides — I know what I'm going to be wearing. Why is she so afraid I'll go without? Maternal instinct, I suppose. For the moment, I'm constantly checking my watch, terrified of being late. I have no desire to find myself stripped naked again. There — the house, at exactly the right minute. I ring the bell.

The door opens, and a man in service attire fixes me with a head-to-toe stare. He intimidates me. Receding hairline, dignified bearing — straight out of central casting, like an old-world butler from a classic adventure story.

"Come in. Madam Amelia isn't here. However, she has given me her instructions concerning you."

"Uh… Hello… Thank you, sir."

"Leave your suitcase here and follow me."

He shuts the door and I follow him toward the kitchen. Everything is ordered, immaculate. A pleasant aroma greets us — a copper sauté pan releases a thin curl of steam. Opening a door at the back of the room, he leads me into a small dressing chamber. He picks up a hanger and hands it to me.

"Undress completely and arrange your clothes on this hanger. I'll be waiting in the kitchen."

"Completely?"

"Yes. Madam Amelia requires it. You've already done so during your interview."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll be waiting in the kitchen."

He closes the door behind him and I stand there, doubtful. Why am I being asked to undress again, and now in front of this man? Despite the doubts rising in me, I take off my clothes and arrange them on the hanger, which I hang in the dressing room. With some hesitation, I rejoin the manservant, my hands cupped over my sex.

"Stand up straight, hands at your sides. Your trial month has begun, and I am to judge your fitness to meet Madam Amelia's expectations. You'll perform all your duties this week in this attire. You will wear the gloves to serve Madam, and this apron for cleaning."

The man hands me a small woman's apron that barely covers my torso and stomach, leaving my sex completely exposed. I put it on, fumbling to tie a bow at the small of my back with the two ribbons. I feel ridiculous. A faint smirk crosses my corrector's face.

"Good. This afternoon, you will clean the bathroom and the toilet — paying special attention to the grout between the tiles, which you'll clean with a toothbrush. In the dressing room, you'll find everything you need. Everything must be cleaned after use, and the rags placed in the laundry basket. Madam insists that only natural products be used. So you will need to scrub. You also have cleaning gloves. In every situation, you work in silence. Madam expects discretion from you at all times. The mark of a good servant is to be invisible — but to have everything ready at the moment it is needed. If you have a question, you come and ask me. You will call me Mr. Justin. Now — to work."

He walks me back to the dressing room and shows me all the implements and the products: clay powder, baking soda, vinegar. I concentrate on absorbing every one of Mr. Justin's instructions, and I spend the afternoon on my hands and knees scrubbing grout, cleaning, polishing the most awkward corners until everything is up to standard. It reminds me of the help Mom used to ask of me. Spring cleaning is still vivid in my memory. As I finish polishing the toilet bowl, Mr. Justin inspects my work. He passes his white-gloved finger over every surface. He makes no comment, which I take to mean my work has passed.

"You may finish up and put away your equipment. In fifteen minutes, the meal will be served in the kitchen."

"Thank you, Mr. Justin."

I tidy my implements and rejoin Mr. Justin, who's waiting near a small table at the back of the kitchen. The flush rises in me again as I think about the situation — I'm wearing nothing but this ridiculous apron, in front of this man. Two places are set on linen mats. The sauté pan is at the center, along with a small stew pot. We sit down, and he serves me several spoonfuls of sautéed vegetables and a lamb navarin. From a carafe, he fills two glasses with water. We eat in silence. At least — without speaking. Everything is churning in my head. Questions collide. How many years has he been with Madam Amelia? What makes her so demanding, and yet so… enjoyable to serve? He's the one who breaks the silence.

"You surely have questions. I'll say it plainly — I've been in the service of Madam Amelia for twelve years. On the side, I take on freelance work for various caterers. It will be the same for you. The paperwork has been prepared for your registration, and during this month you'll be assisting me at numerous services: business breakfasts, working luncheons, cocktail parties, corporate receptions in the evening or late at night. Every day, you will report here first to fulfill your duties. A studio apartment has been rented for you nearby. You'll live there. But you'll also have a room in this house, to remain available to Madam Amelia on certain days. All your work is to be invoiced through the caterers. Your rent and utilities are due at the start of each month — they've already been paid for your trial month, and you'll reimburse me."

"Uh… yes, Mr. Justin."

"You have a fine little ass. Madam Amelia appreciates that… and so do I."

His last words freeze me in place. I'm sitting there with my mouth slightly open, my fork halfway to it. He's wearing the same faint smirk as before. I don't know how to react. He's the one who continues.

"I'll be direct with you, and switch to the informal *tu*. When I do this again, you'll understand that your situation is changing. When I return to the formal *vous*, your bearing must be that of service."

"You're a virgin, I take it — or you hide your feelings. Maybe you're gay, or maybe you're afraid. Shy, no doubt."

"Uh… yes, sir."

"Gay?"

"No, sir — shy."

"That's what I thought. So you've had some experiences with girls."

"No, sir… well, just once."

"You slept with her?"

"No, sir… she kissed me."

"Kissed you. So she made the first move."

"Yes, and she put her tongue in my mouth."

"And did you like it?"

"I was surprised. Yes, sir."

"And that's all?"

"I found out afterward it was a bet several of the girls had made among themselves. I was nothing but the object of that bet."

"I understand. That made you angry with them."

"No, sir… just disappointed."

"That's human nature — or rather animal nature. Madam Amelia has made an excellent choice in selecting you. If you prove yourself, and I suspect you will, and if you find yourself in agreement with her — you'll come to love serving her very much."

"You really think so?"

"Yes. And trust me. You'll discover her desires very quickly."

Our conversation has shaken me to the core. We finish the meal in silence. After a piece of fruit for dessert, Mr. Justin brings two coffees and outlines the rest of my afternoon: wash the dishes from our meal, polish the copperware, and prepare Madam Amelia's dinner. She's expected home at 9:00 p.m. Still wearing my little apron, I throw myself into the tasks. When I'm finished, Mr. Justin gives me a series of instructions and a tour of the entire house, from cellar to attic. Only Madam Amelia's bedroom and another room upstairs are off-limits to me. My own room is the picture of simplicity: an iron-framed bed, a chair, a small chest of drawers, a wardrobe, and a sink near the window. After the tour, Mr. Justin tells me to put my clothes back on so he can take me to the studio apartment that's been rented for me.

I discover the place — ground floor of a small building. A short hallway. On the left, a closet containing a kitchenette with a sink, an electric hot plate, and a fridge. On the right, a bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet. The hallway opens into a single furnished room with a table and two chairs, a bed, and a wardrobe. Large French windows look out onto a tiny garden. I set my suitcase on the bed. Mr. Justin runs through the house rules with me, and we head back. On the way, he points out several shops where I can do my grocery shopping. It's almost 9:00 p.m. The car pulls up in front of Madam Amelia's house. Back in the dressing room, I undress once more and put my apron back on. Mr. Justin informs me that Madam Amelia is waiting for me in her study.

When the door opens for us to enter, I freeze at the sight before me. Madam Amelia is seated in the broad armchair in the corner of the study. She's dressed in black — almost entirely. Her body is draped in a kind of open coat over a dress whose bodice is sheer fine lace, allowing a hint of her satin skin to show through. A thin vermillion piping is sewn along the edges, matching her lipstick. Her legs are crossed and sheathed in high-heeled thigh-high boots. She fixes me with her gaze. I feel her dark eyes pierce me. Her black hair is gathered into a braid. I remember the chignon from before — and now I see her like this. What beauty.

"Come in. Don't stand there. Stand in the middle, in front of my desk."

"Yes, Madam."

We step into the room. Mr. Justin closes the door behind us, then comes forward to present a small tray to Madam Amelia. She picks up a folded sheet of paper from it, unfolds it, and reads in silence. I walk to the middle of the room, as I did during our first meeting. Apart from the apron, I am naked. Offered.

"Thank you, Mr. Justin. That will be all for today. The novice will remain here tonight. You may collect him tomorrow for the service at the Van Butselle residence. Have a good evening."

"Very well, Madam Amelia. I wish you an excellent evening and a good night."

"Thank you."

As Mr. Justin leaves the study, Madam Amelia rises. Her heels click on the parquet, then go quiet as she steps onto the rug. I don't dare look up. All my senses are captive to her presence. She circles me slowly.

"Stand up straight."

"Yes, Madam."

"Raise your arms. You've shaved away that unsightly hair. Good."

"Show me your hands. Your nails are passable. You'll wash them more thoroughly after each service. Mr. Justin has written to me that your duties this afternoon and early this evening were done correctly. You've been well trained in housework."

Madam Amelia continues to circle me. Like a sentry, I remain still, though my eyes are alert. A hand slaps down on my buttock.

"Ah!"

"Answer, you rude little thing."

"Yes, Madam."

"This week, you will follow Mr. Justin to your outside engagements. But every evening, you will be at my service… and in my training. You have a great deal to learn to become what I want from you."

"Yes, Madam."

"Amelia. Madam Amelia."

"Yes, Madam Amelia."

"Do you know why I asked you to serve me naked?"

"Uh… no, Madam… Madam Amelia."

The question came like a guillotine. I turn it over in my mind, searching for possible answers, but none of them rings clear.

"Truly. You have no answer at all."

"No, Madam Amelia."

"Hmm. Very interesting. You confirm my intuitions. Tell me — what do you feel, standing here before me, naked but for your little apron?"

"I… I don't know how to say it, Madam Amelia."

"Perhaps because you don't know what a feeling is."

"I'm… troubled, Madam Amelia."

"Indeed. And what troubles you?"

"…You, Madam Amelia."

"Hmm. I see. And why?"

"You… you are so beautiful, Madam Amelia."

"Thank you. But surely you've met beautiful women before today."

"No, Madam Amelia… well, yes — but none of them ever spoke to me the way you do, Madam Amelia."

"Yes. Because none of them ever asked you to stand naked across the room from her. You are what some people call a virgin. For my part, I prefer to see you as a precious, raw stone. And I enjoy the work of cutting it to my taste."

"…?"

"You're surprised. You'll understand, little by little. Mr. Justin asked you my questions during your meal. You're not attracted to men, perhaps. But you're beginning to observe women. The truth is, you're an innocent. You know nothing of voluptuousness, of grace, of tenderness, of love… of submission, of surrender in ecstasy, of pleasure, of release. Have you at least touched yourself?"

"Yes… yes, Madam Amelia."

"And what do you think about while you move your hand on your sex?"

"I… I look at photos on the internet."

"You've forgotten Madam Amelia. What kind of photos?"

"Photos of naked women, Madam Amelia."

"There it is. You're a voyeur."

"…?"

"No — I won't trap you in a state that isn't yours. And yet — you've made it perfectly clear that you're not insensitive to the charms of a woman. As you've already shown me."

"Oh — uh, yes, Madam Amelia."

"Hmm. Tell me — do you remember that girl's kiss in high school?"

"She deceived me, Madam Amelia."

"No, it was a game for them. They had figured out who you are. But that isn't my question. What did you *feel*?"

"I… she caught me off guard, and her lips were warm. A shiver ran the length of my spine. And then she forced my lips open with her tongue."

"Yes. And?"

"It was a little like an electric shock, Madam Amelia. And at the same time, very soft. Her hand was on the back of my neck. Our mouths were welded together. I tried to respond to her tongue as it pressed into me. Then she pulled away, and all I had left was the taste of her in my mouth. I didn't think to take the initiative. I just… apologized, foolishly. The train came in. I got on. She watched me go with a small smile. And then, three days later at school, she came back with two other girls and a boy. They laughed about their bet. She didn't say a word — but she had the same smile she'd given me when I left on the train. I was crushed."

"And what happened next?"

"It was the last day, Madam Amelia. The day they announced the results. When my name wasn't called among the graduates, the girls just asked me why I hadn't been named. I said nothing and walked away. I was devastated."

"Mmm. Yes."

Before I can see her coming, Madam Amelia takes my head in her hands and kisses me — fiercely. Her whole body presses against mine. Her lips are burning, her tongue lights a fire inside me, and yet I stand there, arms hanging at my sides, fingers spread wide. Her hands sweep me upward. My heels rise. My sex begins to harden. As the fire pours down from my mouth into every part of my body, I feel myself melting like ice cubes left out in the sun. Madam Amelia isn't playing with me. She is giving me a lesson. Her chest presses against my bare torso, and I can feel her breath. Clumsily, I try to answer her. My eyes have been closed since the start of her assault — when I open them, I see her watching me intently. Then her grip loosens, and I have to find my balance and, above all, my breath. She is right in front of me. She runs her tongue over her lips and smiles at me.

"What did you think of that one?"

"You… you—"

Madam Amelia laughs — but I know it isn't mockery. And I laugh with her. She's just delivered me through a passage, across a chasm of isolation.

"Thank you, Madam Amelia."

"Good. Look at you — you're hard now."

Embarrassment doesn't get the upper hand in my mind. And I smile at the sight of myself before Madam Amelia.

"I'm going to tell you why your response to my advertisement caught my attention. You have within you the natural disposition for submission. So — to be my submissive. I am a Dominant. A Mistress. My pleasure is in taming people like you. You have a great deal to learn, and this month will be decisive for me in confirming that I made the right choice in you. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes… uh, no, Madam Amelia."

"I expect you to obey me in every situation. To trust me. To carry out every one of my demands without delay. To show unfailing respect for me — to the point of devotion. Submission also means accepting humiliation and punishment when you fall short. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Madam Amelia."

"Good. Now — kneel."

I bend my legs and lower myself onto the rug in the center of the study. Madam Amelia turns and picks up something I hadn't noticed. She steps in front of me and shows me a collar engraved with words I can read: *Lucas, submissive — property of Mistress Amelia*.

"You will promise me, for this month, to be my student in submission — for my pleasure and yours — in pain and in ecstasy."

"I promise, Madam Amelia."

"From this moment on, when you are alone with me, you will call me Mistress Amelia."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"Thank you, my submissive. Receive this sign of your bond to me."

Mistress Amelia fastens the collar around my neck and closes it with a small padlock. She places a kiss on my forehead.

"Thank you, Mistress Amelia."

"Stand up. You will now go to bed according to protocol."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"You will go to the toilet and urinate on your knees. Then you will wash your hands in the sink, and then your teeth. Naturally, you remain naked. For tonight, you will be restrained on the bed with only a sheet to cover you. Tomorrow morning, Mr. Justin will pick you up at 10:30 for the catering service at the Van Butselles. You will be back in time for your first lesson as a submissive."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

The entire protocol is carried out, and Mistress Amelia accompanies me through every step. She even films my positions. When I am lying on the bed, she takes leather cuffs from the chest of drawers and binds my wrists and ankles. She fastens each of my limbs to the bars of the bed, then throws a sheet over me, tucking me in with the same care a mother would give to her child. She places another kiss on my forehead.

"Good night, my submissive."

"Thank you, Mistress Amelia… the same to you."

"Oh — I almost forgot. In the morning, it will be Linda who comes to release you. She will give you your instructions for the start of the day."

Before I can answer, Mistress Amelia turns out the light and closes the door behind her. Darkness engulfs me, but little by little a halo of light filters through the curtains. The streetlamps remind me that I'm not dreaming — that I am part of a real adventure now, the adventure of my life, that I have bound myself to a woman whose kiss was the seal of a covenant between us. The toothpaste has erased the taste of her lips, but they are carved into my flesh. Without realizing it, sleep is taking me. Only the last embers of consciousness remain…

A pressure on my shoulder pulls me out of a deep sleep. A hand shakes me and a gentle voice says:

"Wake up. It's time. Madam Amelia ordered me to free you. I'm Linda."

I open my eyes onto a young woman dressed in a long maid's outfit in a deep red, covered with a white apron whose ribbons fall to the floor. The skirt comes down to her ankles, where I can see fine flat slippers. A white cap is pinned to her hair. She is beautiful — slim, almost frail, with strands of blonde hair escaping the cap. She smiles at me as she releases my limbs.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes… yes, thank you, miss."

"Linda. Just Linda. Get up. Madam Amelia is at breakfast. You need to wash. Follow me."

I shrug off the sheet. Linda doesn't avert her eyes. On the contrary — she examines me without embarrassment as I rise. She walks toward the door, and I follow her, my hands awkwardly trying to cover my sex.

"Don't bother. Madam Amelia has seen far more of you, and you'll do well to get used to being naked in her presence — and in mine."

"Yes, Linda."

We go downstairs. Linda leads me into a small bathroom I hadn't seen the night before. She turns on the water and adjusts the temperature.

"You have ten minutes. There's a depilation cream in the basket — use it on your armpits and your chest. Madam Amelia wants you smooth. Wash carefully, especially between your legs. When you're done, you'll find a clean apron and a pair of gloves in the dressing room."

"Yes, Linda. Thank you."

She closes the door, and I find myself alone. The water is warm. I follow her instructions to the letter, applying the cream where she indicated, then rinsing and scrubbing myself with care. When I dry off, my skin feels strange — smoother, more sensitive. My fingers brush over my own chest, and I realize I'm trembling slightly.

In the dressing room, I find a fresh apron — identical to yesterday's — and a new pair of white gloves. I dress, if you can call it that, and walk back into the kitchen.

Linda is laying out a tray for Madam Amelia: a fine porcelain cup, a small teapot, a basket of warm bread, butter rolled into a perfect curl, a small jar of honey. She watches me approach.

"Good. You're presentable. Madam Amelia is in the breakfast room. You will follow me. You'll carry the tray. When we enter, you will say: *'Good morning, Madam Amelia. I beg leave to serve you.'* Then you will set the tray on the table — slowly. You will step back three paces. Hands at your sides. Then you will wait until she gives you further instruction. Repeat what I just said."

"Good morning, Madam Amelia. I beg leave to serve you."

"Good. Don't forget to bow your head when you speak. Come."

I follow Linda, carrying the tray with the greatest care. My hands are slightly damp inside the gloves. We enter the breakfast room — a small sun-filled space that opens onto the garden. Madam Amelia is seated, wrapped in a deep burgundy silk robe. Her hair is loose this morning, falling in dark waves over her shoulders. She is reading a newspaper. She looks up when we enter, and her eyes settle on me. I bow my head as Linda instructed.

"Good morning, Madam Amelia. I beg leave to serve you."

"Good morning, my submissive. You may serve."

I step forward, set the tray on the table with all the care I can summon, and step back the three paces. Hands at my sides. I wait. Madam Amelia takes her time. She pours her own tea — a movement of practiced grace — and inhales the steam before setting the cup back down. She tears a small piece of bread, butters it with the back of a silver knife, and dips it into the honey. She eats slowly. She does not look at me. I am, as Mr. Justin said, *invisible*. And yet I have never felt so completely seen.

"Lucas."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"Come closer. Kneel here, beside me."

I obey. The marble floor is cool against my knees. I bow my head.

"How did you sleep?"

"Very well, Mistress Amelia. Thank you."

"Good. Did you dream?"

"…Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"Tell me."

"I dreamt that I was here. That I was serving you. That… that you were pleased."

She is silent for a long moment. Then her hand reaches out, and her fingers run lightly through my hair — once, twice. The gesture is unexpected. Tender, almost. A current passes through me.

"Good. Your dream will become your life, if you let it. Now — go with Mr. Justin. He's waiting for you in the front hall. The Van Butselles are expecting their breakfast service to begin at eleven. You will perform every task he assigns. You will be polite, attentive, and silent. You will not speak unless asked. You will not look at anyone unless necessary. You will not embarrass the catering service. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"And, Lucas?"

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"At every moment during this service, remember this collar around your neck. Remember who you serve in truth. Remember that everything you do — every glass you fill, every plate you carry — is, in the end, for me. That awareness must accompany you through the day. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"Go."

I rise, bow my head, and leave the breakfast room. In the dressing chamber, I find my regular clothes pressed and folded. I dress, take a deep breath, and step out into the front hall. Mr. Justin is waiting, an overcoat over his arm.

"Punctual. Good. Let's go."

We climb into the car. As we pull away from the house, I look back. Linda is at the window, watching us. She offers a small, knowing smile.

The Van Butselles live in a large townhouse on a quiet street. Mr. Justin walks me through the service — how to set the table, how to circulate the trays, how to anticipate a guest's need before it is voiced. I learn quickly. He's exacting but patient. The breakfast goes well. The guests — eight in total, all of them businessmen and businesswomen of some standing — barely register me. I am, indeed, invisible. And yet through it all, what Mistress Amelia said in the morning never leaves me. Every gesture I make, every careful movement of the tray, is in some quiet way for her. For her approval, somewhere beyond this room.

By the time we return to her house, it's three in the afternoon. Mr. Justin tells me to undress, put on my apron, and present myself in the small parlor at four. Mistress Amelia will be receiving me for my first formal lesson in submission.

I have an hour.

I undress in the dressing room. I look at myself in the small mirror — pale, slender, my chest still slightly red from the depilation, the leather collar around my neck. The man who arrived here yesterday with a suitcase is already someone else. I don't quite recognize him anymore.

When the small clock in the kitchen strikes four, I walk to the parlor door. I knock twice. A voice calls me in.

The next chapter is about to begin.

The parlor is bathed in late-afternoon light, filtered through thin gauze curtains. Mistress Amelia is seated in a high-backed armchair upholstered in deep emerald green. She wears a long silk robe in black, fastened at the waist with a satin sash. Her feet are bare. A small mahogany table beside her holds a tray with a porcelain cup, a folded silk cloth, and a small leather-bound notebook. She looks up as I enter.

"Come in. Close the door. Stand at the foot of the table — there. Yes."

I obey. The collar feels heavier than it did this morning.

"Today, my submissive, you will begin to learn. Not technique — not yet. First, you will learn what submission means. Most men come to this practice believing that submission is about being forced to do things. That is a misunderstanding. Submission is about *choosing* to do things you would not otherwise do, because someone you have chosen to serve has asked it of you. The difference is everything. Do you understand?"

"…Yes, Mistress Amelia. I think so."

"Think so?"

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"Good. Repeat after me: *I am here because I have chosen to be here.*"

"I am here because I have chosen to be here."

"*Mistress Amelia has not forced me. Mistress Amelia has invited me.*"

"Mistress Amelia has not forced me. Mistress Amelia has invited me."

"*And I have accepted.*"

"And I have accepted."

"Good. Now, kneel. Both knees together. Hands flat on your thighs. Back straight. Head bowed."

I kneel. The carpet beneath my knees is thick and soft. I find the position — surprisingly, my body settles into it as if it had been waiting for it.

"This is the kneeling I will ask of you most often. We call it *the resting pose*. You can hold it for a long time without strain. It is the position from which a submissive listens. You will learn it well. When I say *'rest,'* this is the pose you will take. Try it now — sit up straighter. Yes. Lower your shoulders. Yes. Eyes down, but not pressed shut. You are not in pain. You are listening."

I adjust. The position is more comfortable than it should be. I can feel my own breathing slow.

"Better. Now — your first lesson. You will learn to obey not what I say, but what I mean. Often I will give you partial instructions. You will have to read me. To watch. To anticipate. A good submissive does not wait for a command to be completed. He acts on the signal."

She rises. She walks behind me. I feel her presence at my back. Her fingers brush the leather collar. A shiver moves through my spine.

"Stand."

I stand. She walks around me, examining me from every angle.

"Now — go to the kitchen. Bring me a glass of cold water from the carafe in the fridge. I did not specify how. I did not specify on what tray. I did not specify whether to bring a coaster or a napkin. I want to see what you understand of what I expect. You have three minutes. Go."

I bow my head and leave the parlor. My heart is pounding. In the kitchen, I find Linda preparing something at the counter. She doesn't look up.

"What does she want?"

"A glass of cold water from the fridge. She didn't specify anything else."

Linda allows herself a small smile.

"What do you think she wants?"

"…I don't know."

"Yes you do. Think. She is a woman of refinement. She is wearing a silk robe. She is in the parlor at this time of day. She will receive the glass with her right hand. She is not eating. She has not asked for ice."

I stop. I think. Slowly the picture forms. A small crystal glass — not a tumbler. A folded white napkin under the base, to catch any condensation. A small silver tray to carry it. The handle of the napkin folded so that she could pick it up with one movement. The glass filled three-quarters full, not to the brim — for elegance, not utility.

Linda has been watching me without intervening.

"Cabinet on the left. Top shelf for the glass. Linen drawer for the napkin. Silver tray in the second drawer down."

I find each thing exactly where she said. I fill the glass with the cold water from the carafe in the refrigerator. I arrange it on the tray. I check once more that the handle of the napkin is positioned correctly. I take a breath.

"Go," Linda says softly. "She will see what you have understood."

I walk back to the parlor. I do not rush. Mistress Amelia is in the armchair again, reading something from the small notebook. She does not look up as I enter. I approach the table beside her. I bow my head.

"If it please you, Mistress Amelia."

I place the tray on the small table — slowly. I step back the three paces. I wait. I do not breathe. She finishes her sentence. She closes the notebook. Her eyes travel down to the tray.

She is silent for a long time. Then she takes the glass. She drinks. She sets it back down. Only then does she look at me.

"You have learned more in one day than most learn in a month. Who told you to bring a napkin?"

"No one, Mistress Amelia."

"The crystal glass instead of the tumbler — that was your choice?"

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"The silver tray?"

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

She smiles — a small, real smile, the kind that has no audience.

"Lucas."

"Yes, Mistress Amelia."

"Come here. Kneel beside me."

I kneel beside the armchair. She places her hand on my head. Her fingers thread through my hair. The touch is calm, possessive — neither erotic nor cold. Something between a benediction and a claim.

"You have a gift. Most submissives must be trained to read their Mistress. You read me already, at least in small things. We will build on this. Now — rest position. Stay there. I am going to read to you for an hour. You will not speak. You will not move. You will listen. Listening is your second lesson."

She picks up the small notebook again and begins to read aloud — slowly, in a low voice. The text is in French, an old book of poetry. The verses speak of patience, of waiting, of the long discipline of love and devotion. I do not understand every word. But the rhythm of her voice fills the room, and her hand returns now and again to rest on my head. Time stops mattering. The light shifts. The garden outside fades into rose-gold. And I — kneeling, naked beneath an absurd little apron, with a collar around my neck — feel something I have never felt before in my life.

Something close to peace.

When she closes the notebook, she rises. She lifts my chin with one finger. Her eyes are very dark in the dusk.

"Good. You may go. Linda will prepare a small dinner for you in the kitchen. You will eat alone. You will then go to bed in your room. Tomorrow we begin again, and the lessons will become harder. But you have given me what I needed today: you have begun."

"Thank you, Mistress Amelia."

"Go."

I rise, bow my head, and leave the room. The hallway is dim. As I pass the kitchen, Linda turns and looks at me. I think she can see the difference in me already — the way one sees the difference in a person who has just crossed a threshold and not yet realized it.

She says nothing.

She simply nods.

I take my dinner in silence. I climb to my small room. I lie down on the narrow bed. I do not need to be tied tonight. I am held by something stronger than leather straps.

I fall asleep almost immediately.

And when I dream, I dream of her voice.