There is no speaking here. No questions. No justifications. Your eyes do not rise to meet mine. Your hands stay clasped or flat on the floor. Your breath slows not because you choose to calm down—but because I do not allow panic in my presence. You are quiet. You are low. You are mine.
This is The Worship Room, and you do not enter it like a man. You enter like a supplicant. You enter like an offering.
You know that feeling you get when you're about to kneel—not from exhaustion, but from reverence? That tightening in your chest, that rush of blood, that stillness in the spine that tells you this is right? That’s what you feel the moment I enter this room.
And that’s before I even speak.
In this space, my body is not just desirable—it is divine. My feet are not parts of me—they are portals to who you are when no one’s watching. You don’t look at them with lust. You look at them with faith. You crave proximity more than permission. You ache for the sacred closeness of being beneath me—not touched, not acknowledged, just beneath.
You will find no safe words here. No pillows or safeties. You will find tile. Heat. Dust. And the overwhelming scent of leather, sweat, and something older—ritual.
Because this is not a scene.
This is not play.
This is practice.
You will place your lips where others have placed theirs and thank me for the chance. You will inhale what I’ve walked through and call it blessed. Your tongue will tremble as it tries to honor the arch of my foot, the swell of my heel, the grime along the edge of my sole.
And I will let you.
If you are good.
If you are still.
You will learn silence. You will learn patience. You will learn that every twitch of my ankle is a command. That every adjustment of my weight has a purpose. When I rest my foot on your neck and scroll through my phone, it is not boredom—it is communion. You are the floor. You are the furniture. You are the faithful.
You will not be praised. You will not be rewarded. You will not be looked at.
You will be used.
And in that, you will find peace.
There are those who ask for pain. And there are those who ask for meaning. The ones who enter this room don’t want to scream. They want to serve. They want to taste every trace of my path across the earth. They want to catalog the ridges of my toes like scripture. They want to memorize the patterns of wear in my insoles. They want to be marked by accident, bruised by indifference, scraped by beauty.
They want to be my floor—and never rise again.
And I, in turn, do not give them forgiveness. I do not give them salvation. I give them purpose. I let them carry my fatigue in their spine. I let them cradle my arch with their breath. I let them lie still long enough to forget they ever had a name outside this room.
I let them become nothing.
And they weep when I take it away.
You think you’ve worshipped before?
You’ve begged for sex. You’ve moaned for release. You’ve held a woman’s feet in your lap and thought that was reverence.
No.
This is reverence: when your jaw is sore from holding still. When your nostrils are raw from the scent of me. When your knees are blackened, your mouth dry, your mind blank. This is reverence: when you forget what else you ever wanted.
That’s when you’re ready.
I will step on your chest and hear your heart speed up—not in fear, but in gratitude. I will press my sole to your mouth and hear nothing, because you know not to speak. I will turn my back to you, and you will pray not for attention, but for the honor of being ignored.
I will walk across you. I will leave traces. I will smudge your cheek with dirt from the street and you will cry—not because it hurts, but because you were blessed.
You will kiss my feet, not to arouse me, but because you need to feel small again.
And I will let you.
This is The Worship Room.
This is where submission stops being sexy and starts being sacred.
If you are still. If you are quiet. If you are empty enough—
I may let you stay.