You collapse on your back like a defeated thing, legs thrown back over your head, vulnerable, grotesquely open. This is the pose I command: throat exposed, hips up, feet useless beside your ears, the perfect display of how small you are beneath me. I stand over you and narrate every inch: the curve of your exposed belly, the helpless angle of your legs, the way your face puddles with need. You tremble as I tell you how to hold it, fingers splayed, toes flexed, and obey because I said so. No proud posture, no dignity. Only this humiliating, exquisite submission: legs folded over your skull, totally exposed, utterly presented. I make you stroke like that, awkward, loud, desperate, and I mock and praise in equal measure about your little shrimp. I count you down, I praise the way you fold into yourself, and I remind you that this is how losers worship: upside down, open, and wholly owned.
