From the moment you claimed me as yours, my soul found its purpose—to exist for your pleasure, your comfort, your pride. I kneel before you not just with my body, but with my heart laid bare, offering every fragile piece of myself for you to cradle or crush as you desire. This is my vow—not of duty, but of desperate, trembling love.
I will kneel naked at the foot of our bed each night, presenting myself for your inspection—my flaws, my imperfections, all yours to remark upon.
When guests visit, I will serve you on my knees, letting them see how eagerly I lower myself for you, their whispers like fire on my skin.
You may dress me in childish frills or nothing at all, laughing as I fumble to cover myself, only to surrender when you say "Show me."
I will beg to bathe you, scrubbing your feet with my hair loose around your ankles like a servant’s shame.
At parties, I will flinch when you snap your fingers, hurrying to your side as others smirk—let them see how well-trained I am.
I will ask permission to use the bathroom, my thighs pressing together as you make me whisper why it’s urgent.
You may feed me from your hand like a pet, my lips trembling around your fingers, too humiliated to meet your eyes.
I will sleep on the floor when I’ve displeased you, curled around your shoes like a penitent.
I will kiss the belt before it strikes me, grateful for the pain that proves I’m yours.
You may compare me to past lovers, my tears watering the ground at your feet as I promise to be better.
I will let you watch me squirm under strangers’ stares, your grip on my wrist the only anchor I need.
I will thank you for the bruises—purple hymns of ownership sung into my skin.
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