“Look at yourself. That’s who you are now. Say thank you.”
You’re not bound. Not yet.
I want you kneeling. Slowly. Quietly. Just like that—naked, knees on the cold floor, facing the tall mirror.
Don’t look for me.
Look at you.
The version of yourself you only see when everything’s been stripped away—clothes, control, excuses. I want you to notice the way your mouth tightens when you’re told to be still. The way your eyes flick toward the door. Still hoping you can leave, aren’t you?
You can’t.
This isn’t punishment, darling. It’s clarity. You came here to kneel. But first, you need to know why.
So I stay behind you, dressed in black and silence. I don’t need to raise my voice. I don’t need to touch you. Not yet. This lesson doesn’t begin with pain. It begins with truth.
Look again.
Not at the parts you’re ashamed of—not just the sag of your thighs or the marks on your chest or the way your cock twitches without permission.
Look at what’s behind your eyes. The man who craves to be broken. The boy who was never taught how to kneel properly. The thing that always knew it was meant to be seen like this.
Go on. Tell him.
Say it. Out loud. To the mirror.
“I was never in control.”
Louder.
“I don’t want to be.”
Don’t cry yet.
We’re not done.
I’m walking toward you now—my heels soft against the stone tile. You feel me before you hear me. You smell the leather. You shiver without meaning to. Good.
Now lower your eyes. Not out of fear—out of recognition.
You belong to this moment.
To me.
I place one gloved hand on your shoulder and you flinch—because you weren’t expecting softness. But softness isn’t kindness. It’s precision. I don’t need to harm you. You’ve already broken yourself trying to live like a man. Let me show you how to exist like a worshipper.
I crouch beside you, and you feel the hem of my coat brush your skin. I lean in—not whispering, not commanding—just telling you the truth.
“You weren’t meant to lead.”
And then I slide the collar around your neck.
No lock yet. Just weight.
The mirror catches your gasp. I catch your reflection.
And for a moment—just a flicker—you see something you’ve never seen before:
Peace.
It’s fragile, like glass. Like you. So I press one heel against your thigh, a little firmer now. Just enough to remind you that stillness isn’t passive—it’s earned.
You’re going to stay here.
Five more minutes.
Then ten.
Then until I say otherwise.
You’ll stay and stare at your own submission.
And when you break…
—and you will break—
you’ll do it in front of the only witness who matters.
You.
Because I don’t want your performance.
I want your confession.
I want the shame and the relief tangled in your voice when you finally whisper:
“I was made for this.”
And only then…
Will I lock the collar.