Locked in chastity and kneeling where he belongs, my owned slave begins by worshipping my heels. He cleans them slowly, knowing his pleasure is not his to have. I make him take his time, reminding him that patience and obedience come before anything else. When I decide he’s earned the next step, he may remove my heels and shift his focus to my nylon-clad legs. Still restrained by chastity, still denied, he learns that worship doesn’t come with rewards only deeper submission. Eventually, I put him fully beneath me. On the ground, powerless and desperate, he exists only to serve as I rest my nylon feet against his face, pressing his limits and watching how far obedience will take him. His body is denied, his will is tested, and his place is made very clear. This is control. This is worship. And chastity ensures he never forgets who owns him.
