“If you need instructions to kneel, you’re already worthless.”
You are not here by accident.
You clicked.
You opened.
You scrolled.
And now you’re mine.
If you’re reading this standing up, fix that mistake.
Kneel.
I don’t care if it’s cold tile or the carpet you cried into last week. I don’t care if someone walks in. I don’t care if your knees ache or if your ego is whimpering in the corner, asking questions it’s no longer allowed to ask.
You came here to obey—not to think.
So start by kneeling.
And don’t you dare read another line until you do.
Better.
Now. Hands behind your back. Eyes down unless I tell you otherwise. Mouth shut, unless the words are, “Yes, Mistress Solenne.”
You’ve entered a place where you will be unmade—gloriously, slowly, deliberately unmade—and remade in my image.
Here, you are not a man.
You are not free.
You are not equal.
You are a thing to be trained.
A pet to be polished.
A soul to be stripped until it shines with obedience.
This is the first instruction.
There will be many.
Some you’ll fail.
Some you’ll beg to repeat.
Some will leave marks.
All will leave you changed.
And when you forget who you are—or worse, who I am—I will remind you.
Not with comfort.
But with control.
So let this be your first ritual.
Before every story, before every whisper, before every stroke or sigh or slip of submission…
You will kneel.
Every time.
Without delay.
Without excuse.
Because if you can’t kneel for a paragraph, you are not worthy of what follows.
And I will know.
Now say it—slowly, aloud:
“Yes, Mistress Solenne.”
Then stay exactly where you are.
And wait.
I’ll decide when you're allowed to move again.
—Solenne, watching from above