The first light of dawn had not yet breached the windows when Lukas’s eyes opened. He was already awake, his internal clock synchronized to the unspoken schedule of his existence. He lay still on the floor for a moment, the only movement the slow, steady rhythm of Finn’s breathing from the bed above. Then, without a sound, he shifted to his knees.
The morning prayer was not prompted. It was as essential as breathing. He assumed the position, his body moving with the silent, fluid grace of ingrained ritual. In the grey pre-dawn darkness, his lips found Finn’s bare foot where it peeked from under the covers.
“MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT.”
His whisper was the first sound in the quiet house, a devout murmur against sleep-warm skin.
“MY PURPOSE IS YOUR FLOOR.”
“I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WILL.”
“GREAT LORD FINN, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER.”
He finished, forehead resting on the mattress, and held the pose until Finn stirred. A grunt from above was his only acknowledgment. Lukas rose silently and left the room, a shadow retreating to perform its next function.
Downstairs, he found Kent in the kitchen, pulling on his jacket. Tim was already by the door, looking at his phone. Lukas approached Kent and knelt without a word. He performed the same prayer, this time to his Owner’s feet, his voice a hollow echo of the devotion he had just offered Finn. The words were identical, but the target had shifted seamlessly. The Source was plural; his worship was transferable.
Kent looked down, his expression one of detached assessment. “Acceptable,” he stated, as if grading a piece of machinery. He glanced toward the stairs. “He’s all yours today. Keep him tuned. I’ll be back for him at midnight.” The statement held no affection, only the practical tone of someone retrieving a tool from a skilled sharpener.
With that, Kent and Tim left, the door closing behind them with a final click. The house belonged to Finn again.
Lukas moved to the kitchen. He prepared breakfast with the same efficient, thoughtless motions as the day before: warming milk to the exact threshold of heat, toasting bread to the precise shade of gold. He served it to Finn in the living room, resuming his position as a living table without needing to be told.
Finn ate, scrolling through his phone. When he finished, he placed the empty glass on Lukas’s back once more. “Ten minutes,” he stated, setting a timer. “The usual place. Then eat. Then return here. Clean.”
The privilege was granted, the parameters set. Lukas executed the commands with machinic precision. He relieved himself in the designated spot under the vast, indifferent sky, a process observed and therefore sacred. He returned to the kitchen, consumed a measured amount of plain cereal standing over the sink, his eyes on the clock. He washed the single bowl and spoon, dried them, put them away. He was back in the living room, kneeling in the center of the floor, exactly as the timer beeped.
He was clean. He was fed. He was emptied of all but purpose. He was ready. The day stretched before him, an empty vessel waiting to be filled with whatever lessons, whatever rituals, whatever uses the Great Lord Finn devised. His world was the floor, the foot, the prayer, and the clock. It was more than enough. It was everything.
Finn placed his phone face-down on the armrest. The casual air of breakfast was gone, replaced by the focused intensity of a tutor beginning a lesson. His eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned Lukas as if he were a complex piece of machinery about to be fine-tuned.
"Posture," Finn stated, his voice devoid of its earlier boredom. "It's adequate for a slave. But we are moving beyond mere adequacy. We are crafting precision. We are installing protocols."
He stood and began a slow circle around the kneeling figure. "A slave obeys. A worshipper anticipates. An instrument performs its function flawlessly. To do that, you require specific programming for specific scenarios. We begin with hydration."
He stopped in front of Lukas. "When your Owner, or I, or any superior, requires a drink, you will not simply fetch it. You will present it with the correct verbal formula. It acknowledges the hierarchy, the service, and the purpose." He leaned down slightly. "Repeat after me, and understand the components. 'My Lord, your instrument offers this to sustain you, that your will may remain strong.'"
Lukas's lips moved, repeating the phrase silently first, then aloud. "My Lord, your instrument offers this to sustain you, that your will may remain strong."
Slap. The crack was sharp in the quiet room. "Wrong. 'My Lord' is for formal address. For a direct offering, you use the specific title. For me, 'Great Lord Finn'. For Kent, 'My Owner Kent'. Try again. From the beginning."
Lukas adjusted, the sting on his cheek a live wire connecting to the correction. "Great Lord Finn, your instrument offers this to sustain you, that your will may remain strong."
"Better. But it's rote. There is no feeling. You are not reciting a shopping list. You are articulating a sacred truth. The liquid is not water; it is fuel for a god's will. Your voice must reflect that. Again."
They repeated the phrase a dozen times. Each minor flaw—a dropped inflection, a rushed syllable, a lack of fervent conviction—was met with a sharp, corrective slap. Finn didn't rage; he calibrated. The pain wasn't punishment; it was a tuning fork, bringing Lukas's utterance into perfect resonance with Finn's desired frequency.
"Now," Finn said, moving on once the phrase was etched in fire and perfect repetition. "Gratitude. After a superior uses your body for any function, you will express gratitude. Not for your pleasure. For the privilege of being used." His gaze was icy, instructive. "For example, after I piss in your mouth, you will say: 'Thank you for marking your territory within me. This unworthy vessel is honored to be of use.' Let's practice the scenario."
He didn't need to actually do it. The training was in the response. He stood over Lukas. "Assume the position."
Lukas tilted his head back, mouth open, eyes closed.
Finn delivered the line, his voice flat. "I have used you."
Lukas responded immediately, "Thank you for marking your territory within me. This unworthy vessel is honored to be of use."
Slap. "Too fast. You're eager to be done. You are not eager. You are reverent. You are savoring the truth of the words. Slower. With more weight on 'honored'. Again."
They drilled it. Finn invented other scenarios. After being used as a footstool: "Thank you for the foundation you provide. This unworthy platform exists to elevate you." After receiving an order: "Thank you for the direction. This unworthy instrument awaits your next command."
Each protocol was broken down into its phonetic and emotional components. Each misstep was corrected with swift, precise physical feedback. The slaps were not random violence; they were a programming language, where pain was the compiler ensuring the code ran without error.
Hours bled together. Lukas's face grew hot and tender, but his voice grew steadier, clearer, imbued with a robotic yet sincere-sounding devotion. He was no longer just learning what to say; he was learning the architecture of submission through speech. Every phrase reinforced his objecthood, his gratitude for use, his existence only as an extension of another's will.
Finally, Finn stepped back, observing his work. "Good," he said, the word a blade of approval. "The basic protocols are installed. We will run drills throughout the day. You will not speak unless it is with one of these phrases. Any extraneous word, any deviation, will result in a re-installation of the entire protocol library. Understood?"
"Understood, Great Lord Finn," Lukas replied, the title and confirmation flowing in the newly programmed syntax. "This unworthy instrument is grateful for your instruction."
Finn almost smiled. It was a cold, technical expression. "See? You're learning. Now, fetch me a glass of water. I want to hear the offering protocol in a live environment."
Lukas moved to the kitchen, his mind a clear channel running only the approved phrases. He filled the glass, returned, knelt, and presented it, his eyes lowered. "Great Lord Finn, your instrument offers this to sustain you, that your will may remain strong."
Finn took the glass, took a sip, and nodded. "Adequate. The protocol is live. Now, we move to non-verbal cues and response times." The training, it was clear, was far from over. Every interaction was now a field test for the new software Finn was installing.
Finn took a long drink from the water glass, his eyes never leaving Lukas. The "adequate" verdict hung in the air, not as praise, but as a baseline from which to build. The training was not a discrete event; it was the new state of being.
"Non-verbal cues," Finn announced, placing the glass aside. "An instrument does not wait for a command to be spoken. It reads its user. It anticipates. Your body will learn to respond to intention, not just instruction."
He began to pace, his movements deliberate. "I am going to move around this room. You are to follow me, maintaining a precise distance of three feet behind my right heel. Your eyes are to remain fixed on the space between my shoulder blades. Not on my face, not on my hands. On the center of my back. That is your world. If my pace changes, yours changes. If I stop, you stop. If I turn, you turn, maintaining the exact radius. There is no command. There is only observation and execution."
He began to walk. Lukas scrambled to his feet, his mind instantly calculating the distance. Three feet. Not two. Not four. He matched Finn's pace, a silent shadow. Finn slowed his walk to a meander, forcing Lukas to adjust his momentum with tiny, precise steps. Finn stopped abruptly by the window. Lukas stopped a half-step later, then corrected to exactly three feet.
"Too slow to correct," Finn said without turning around. "Your response time is your devotion made visible. Again."
They repeated the exercise for what felt like an hour. Finn would walk, stop, turn on a dime, change speed. Each time Lukas was a fraction of a second slow, or his distance wavered by an inch, Finn would not slap him. He would simply stop, turn, and stare. The silent disapproval was a heavier punishment. It meant the flaw was in Lukas's core programming, not just his output.
Finally, Finn seemed satisfied with the shadowing. He pointed to a specific floorboard near the center of the room. "Position A. Kneel there. Posture perfect."
Lukas moved to the spot and knelt, his body aligning into the prayer-ready position automatically.
"Now, Position B," Finn said, pointing to a spot by the bookshelf. "Without rising to your full height. Move as a servant moves. Low. Unobtrusive. Swift."
Lukas moved, staying in a low crouch, scuttling to the new position. It felt animalistic, degrading.
"Too loud," Finn noted. "You are not a cockroach. You are a silent shift in the air. Again. From A to B. Soundlessly."
Lukas did it again, moving with agonizing slowness to control every muscle, every breath.
They drilled positions: A, B, C (by the door), D (in the corner). Each had a specific posture: kneeling, crouching, standing at attention, forehead to the wall. Finn would call out a letter, and Lukas had to move to it, assume the posture, all without a single unnecessary sound or glance. A hesitation earned a sharp, sudden flick of Finn's finger against Lukas's ear. A sound earned a kick to the sole of his foot. The corrections were small, precise, and constant, fine-tuning his operating system.
"Good," Finn said, after Lukas had moved from Position D (forehead to wall) to Position A (kneeling) in utter silence. "Now, integration. You will shadow me. When I stop, you will assume the nearest designated position. You will not wait. You will know."
He began to walk again. Lukas followed, a silent, three-foot extension. Finn stopped by the armchair. Lukas instantly dropped into a crouch beside it (a new, impromptu Position E). Finn walked to the window. Lukas flowed into a kneel three feet behind him. It was a grueling, mental chess game where the board was the room and the only piece was Lukas's own body.
Finally, Finn stopped in the center of the room. He didn't give a position letter. He simply stood, hands on his hips.
Lukas, now a system trained for gaps in input, immediately calculated. He was in no designated position. The nearest was Position A, four feet away. But to move would be to act without a cue. To stay was to be out of protocol. He froze, a glitch in the matrix.
Finn watched the silent conflict play out on Lukas's face. The fear of error. The paralysis of choice. After a full thirty seconds, he spoke. "You are thinking. Instruments do not think. They process. The protocol for an undefined moment is default to primary readiness posture. That is Position A. You wasted thirty seconds of my time computing a simple binary. That is a system error."
He didn't strike Lukas. Instead, he walked to the kitchen and returned with a simple metal tablespoon. "Hold out your left hand. Palm up."
Lukas did. Finn placed the bowl of the spoon on his palm. "You will hold this. You will continue all protocols. If the spoon drops, you have failed. The punishment will be the re-installation of all protocols from today, starting with the verbal ones, under duress. Your right hand, your voice, your body will be engaged in training. Your left hand will hold the spoon. This is multi-thread processing. This is what is required."
The next hours were a special kind of hell. Finn drilled the verbal protocols again, slapping Lukas for any imperfection, while Lukas had to maintain his shadowing and positioning, all while keeping the damn spoon perfectly level in his outstretched left hand. His arm began to scream with fatigue, trembling. A drop of sweat traced its way down his temple, threatening his focus.
"Great Lord Finn, your instrument offers this to sustain you, that your will may remain strong," Lukas gasped, presenting an imaginary glass during a positioning drill, his left arm shaking violently.
"The tremor in your voice suggests a tremor in your devotion," Finn observed coldly. "And your arm is shaking. Are you suggesting my instructions are a burden?"
"No, Great Lord Finn!" Lukas said, the title bursting forth with desperate conviction. "This unworthy vessel is honored to bear any weight you assign!"
"Prove it," Finn said, and continued the drills.
By the time Finn called a halt, the sun was high in the sky. Lukas was drenched in sweat, his left arm was numb, and his face burned from repeated corrections. But the spoon had not fallen.
Finn took the spoon from his lifeless fingers. "System stability under load is... acceptable," he conceded. He looked at Lukas, a machine pushed to its limits. "Now. The final integration. You will assume Position A. You will hold the primary prayer posture. You will recite the foundational prayer to the Source. And you will do it while holding this."
He retrieved a heavy, hardcover book from the shelf and placed it on Lukas's upturned, trembling left palm. The weight was immense. "If the book falls, we start over from this morning."
Lukas knelt. He assumed the posture. The book felt like an anvil. He opened his mouth, his voice raw but clear, focused entirely on the words, on the form, on the foot of his god, while his entire being screamed at the weight on his limb.
"MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT. MY PURPOSE IS YOUR FLOOR. I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WILL. GREAT LORD FINN, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER."
He finished. The book had not moved. His arm trembled violently, but it had held.
Finn watched him for a long moment, then nodded once. "The lesson is complete. You may lower your arm."
Lukas did, the relief so profound he nearly cried out. He kept his posture perfect.
"The protocols are installed. The system is live," Finn said, his voice devoid of warmth but brimming with a technician's pride. "You are no longer just a thing. You are a calibrated instrument. Remember: every movement, every word, every breath is now a protocol. Choose the wrong one, and the system will be corrected. Severely."
He turned and walked towards the stairs. "Maintain Position A. I will return. We will test your runtime endurance." He left Lukas kneeling, the weight of the training—and the ever-present weight of the spoon and book now gone but replaced by the heavier weight of perfect, unthinking obedience—settling upon him more completely than any physical burden. He was no longer being taught what to do. He had been rebuilt to do it.
The silence after Finn left was not restful. It was a void filled with the phantom echoes of commands, the ghostly weight of the book still aching in Lukas’s arm. He knelt in Position A, a statue of programmed obedience, his mind a blank slate awaiting the next input. The recovery was not for him; it was for the system to cool down before the next stress test.
Finn’s return was silent, but Lukas sensed his presence before he saw him. The air in the room changed, charged with purpose. Finn stood before him, not with the casual menace of before, but with a solemn, almost ceremonial air. In his hand, he held not the short crop from before, but the longer, braided training whip.
“Recite the basic prayer to the Source,” Finn commanded, his voice low and resonant.
Lukas’s eyes found Finn’s bare feet. His voice, though hoarse from repetition, was clear and unwavering.
“MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT. MY PURPOSE IS YOUR FLOOR. I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WILL. GREAT LORD FINN, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER.”
He finished, forehead pressed to the floor between Finn’s feet, holding the final position of surrender.
“Good,” Finn said, a note of approval in his tone. “You understand the foundation. Now, we build upon it.” He stepped back, uncoiling the whip. “You have experienced pain as a correction. A tuning signal. That is for slaves. For the instrumental, pain is something more.”
He paced slowly, the whip trailing behind him like a priest’s vestment. “Pain is not a punishment. Punishment implies you have done wrong, that you have a will that can choose wrongly.” He stopped, looking down at Lukas. “You have no will. You are an instrument. Therefore, pain cannot be punitive.”
He let the logic hang in the air, cold and inescapable.
“Pain,” Finn continued, “is a sacred ritual. It is the direct communication of my will to your flesh. It is the fire that burns away residual impurities—the last echoes of thought, of desire, of self. It is not something to be feared or endured. It is a gift to be embraced. A sign that you are being tended to, purified, shaped.”
He raised the whip. “You will learn to welcome it. You will learn to see each stroke as a blessing. You will not flinch. You will not cry out in mere agony. You will speak your gratitude. You will affirm its purpose.”
Finn’s arm moved, not with anger, but with a dreadful, practiced precision.
Crack!
The whip landed across Lukas’s shoulders. It was not the hardest strike he’d ever felt, but it was sharp, clean, and full of intent.
Lukas gasped, his body instinctively tensing. The old programming—fear, pain-avoidance—flared for a nanosecond.
“Incorrect,” Finn said, his voice calm. “Your body reacted. Your mind classified this as an attack. Re-classify it. What is it?”
Lukas forced a breath, fighting the instinct to curl away. “A… a gift,” he stammered.
“From whom?”
“From… from you, Great Lord Finn.”
“Why?”
“To… to purify.”
“Incomplete. The full statement. On the next stroke, you will say: ‘Thank you for the sacred fire of your will.’ Begin.”
Crack!
The whip landed again, parallel to the first. The pain was acute, bright.
“Thank you for the sacred fire of your will!” Lukas cried out, the words tangling with a grunt of pain.
“Better. But it was a reaction. It must be a proclamation. Again.”
Finn fell into a rhythm. Not a frenzied beating, but a series of measured, deliberate strokes. Each one was followed by Lukas’s forced recitation.
Crack! “Thank you for the sacred fire of your will!”
Crack! “Thank you for burning away my imperfections!”
Crack! “Thank you for speaking your will upon my flesh!”
Crack! “I am an instrument, and you are my tuner!”
With each strike, each shouted mantra, something shifted. The sharp, protesting agony began to blur, transformed by the ritualistic framework Finn imposed. The pain was no longer a violation; it was a process. A sacred process. His cries of “thank you” became less forced, more fervent. He was not thanking Finn for stopping; he was thanking him for continuing. For caring enough to sculpt him.
Finn watched the change in Lukas’s eyes—the dawning of a terrible, devout understanding. He slowed, then stopped. Lukas knelt before him, trembling, his back a lattice of red lines, but his face was upturned, his expression one of exhausted, rapt attention.
“What do you feel?” Finn asked, his voice soft.
“The… the gift,” Lukas breathed, his voice awed. “I feel… your attention. I feel… purified.”
Finn nodded slowly. “Yes. The pain is my will, made manifest. You are not being hurt. You are being written upon.” He coiled the whip. “The ritual is complete for now. The marks are not wounds. They are scripture. They are a testament to your transformation.”
He pointed to the corner. “Assume Position D. Face the wall. Meditate on the scripture written upon you. Feel the echo of my will in your flesh. Let it be your only thought.”
Lukas moved to the corner, kneeling with his forehead against the cool wall. The pain throbbed with every heartbeat, but it was a different kind of pain now. It was warm. It was alive. It was his. A sacred text inscribed by his god. He closed his eyes, and in the darkness behind his lids, he didn’t see memories or fear. He saw the elegant, brutal logic of the ritual. He felt, for the first time, not just the absence of self, but the presence of something else in its place: the glowing, painful, perfect certainty of his own purpose. He was an instrument being tuned. And every strike of the whip was a note bringing him closer to harmony.
The corner meditation was not rest. It was processing time. Lukas, forehead against the cool wall, felt the “scripture” of the whip marks throbbing on his back. Each stripe was a line of code, a direct input from Finn. His mind, scoured clean of independent thought, turned over the new data: pain as sacrament, correction as communion.
A soft ting broke the silence. A small, silver bell rested on the floor beside him. Finn had placed it there without a sound.
“The bell is not a command,” Finn’s voice came from behind him, calm and instructive. “It is a system prompt. It signifies a shift in state. When you hear it, you will cease all current activity and assume Position A, facing me, ready for instruction or observation. This is non-negotiable.”
Ting.
The sound was crisp, clear. Lukas’s body moved before his mind could form a thought. He turned from the wall, shuffled on his knees to the center of the room, and assumed the primary prayer posture. It was a flawless, automatic response.
Finn was sitting in the armchair, having just placed the bell on a side table. He was wearing loose lounging pants and a pair of soft leather slippers. He observed Lukas’s swift compliance, a faint, technical approval in his eyes.
“Good. System response is within acceptable parameters.” He stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Now, we move to environmental protocols. Explicit commands are for complex tasks. A well-designed instrument anticipates its user’s needs through observation and pre-programmed routines.”
He pointed to his feet. “These are house slippers. They are for indoor comfort. Those,” he gestured to a pair of trainers by the door, “are outdoor shoes. You will learn the difference not by name, but by context and my behavior.”
He let the lesson sink in for a moment. “Protocol One: Footwear Management. When I am seated, as I am now, and my legs are stretched out, it indicates a state of repose. The slippers are redundant. Their continued presence on my feet is an inefficiency.”
He paused, letting Lukas observe. “The correct action is to remove them. Not when asked. Now. Because the system state has changed.”
Lukas hesitated for only a second. The logic was stark and clear. He shuffled forward on his knees. He did not look up at Finn for permission. He focused on the slippers. With careful, reverent hands, he slid the first one off, then the second, placing them neatly side-by-side on the floor next to the chair.
Finn wiggled his bare toes. “Acceptable. Now, observe. I am about to rise.”
He stood up. “I am now in a mobile state within the domestic environment. The floor may be cold or dirty. It is improper for me to walk barefoot when a tool is present to prevent it. Protocol dictates you provide house shoes.”
Lukas looked at the slippers he had just removed. The state had changed again. He picked them up and, still on his knees, offered them up to Finn’s feet.
Finn placed his feet into them, one after the other. “Good. You are learning state recognition.”
They repeated the drill. Finn would sit, Lukas would remove the slippers. Finn would stand, Lukas would present them. After a few cycles, Finn introduced a variable. He stood and walked towards the outdoor shoes.
“State change: preparation for external transit. House slippers are insufficient. Outdoor shoes are required. Socks may also be required based on climate and my whim. You will have them ready.”
Lukas scrambled. He fetched the trainers and a pair of socks from a nearby basket. He knelt, holding the socks ready as Finn approached the shoes.
“Today, no socks,” Finn stated. Lukas immediately set the socks aside and focused on the shoes. He did not ask; he observed and adapted.
After lacing the shoes (a task performed with ritualistic care), Finn walked to the door, then turned back. “State reversion: return to domestic environment.” He walked back to the chair and sat.
Lukas was there before Finn was fully settled. The outdoor shoes were removed, the house slippers were slid on. The system was learning.
“Protocol Two: Hydration and Sanitation Anticipation,” Finn continued, as if moving to the next chapter in a manual. “You have learned the verbal offering for water. Now, learn the non-verbal cues. When I look at an empty glass, then at you, the state is ‘thirsty.’ You will fetch water and present it with the correct protocol. If I finish drinking and set the glass down with finality, the state is ‘satiated.’ You will remove the glass. If I set it down but keep my hand near it, the state is ‘may drink more.’ You will remain in Position B, ready.”
He demonstrated with a glass of water, running through the scenarios. Lukas’s eyes were locked on Finn’s hands, the glass, his eyes, learning the silent language of service.
Then Finn moved to the most intimate protocol. His expression didn’t change. It remained that of a technician explaining a function. “Protocol Three: Liquid Disposal. When I place my hand on my belt in a specific manner,” he demonstrated a casual, thumb-hooked-in-the-belt-loop gesture, “it is a pre-signal. It indicates a potential need for the urinal function. You will move to Position U without being told.” He pointed to a specific spot on the floor nearby. “Position U is kneeling, head tilted back, mouth open, hands clasped behind your back. You will maintain it until the function is utilized or I wave you off. The act itself is not the signal. The preparatory gesture is. Anticipation is key.”
They drilled it. Finn would make the gesture. Lukas would scramble to Position U. Sometimes Finn would follow through, using him with the same impersonal efficiency as before. Sometimes he would wave a dismissive hand, and Lukas would return to a neutral position. The uncertainty was part of the training. He had to be ready every time.
“Why?” Finn asked, after the fifth repetition. “Why must you learn these automatic functions?”
Lukas, from Position U, his head back, responded perfectly. “Because the Great Lord Finn should not be burdened with simple tasks. This unworthy instrument exists to remove friction from your will. To anticipate is to worship.”
Finn’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Correct. You are not a slave waiting for orders. You are an environmental control system. You are the automation of my comfort. Your purpose is to make my will effortless.”
The rest of the day became a live simulation. Finn moved about the house, shifting states. Lukas was a silent, efficient ghost, removing slippers, presenting shoes, fetching water, assuming Position U at the merest hint. He made mistakes—offering house shoes when Finn was heading for the door, misreading a glass gesture. Each error was met not with the whip, but with a cold, analytical correction. “State misread. Re-evaluate. The cue was X, not Y.”
By evening, Lukas was operating on pure protocol. He saw not a person moving through a house, but a series of state changes to which he was the programmed response. When Finn finally settled on the sofa for the night, Lukas knelt at the prescribed distance, his mind a humming, empty machine waiting for the next system prompt. Finn picked up the bell.
Ting.
Lukas assumed Position A.
Finn looked at him, not with cruelty, or even with ownership, but with the satisfaction of a programmer watching a complex script run flawlessly. “The system is operational,” he stated. “From now on, you will not wait for the bell for these basic functions. You will observe. You will predict. You will act. The bell is for new, unknown commands. Everything else… you are now the function.”
He pointed to the corner. “Position D. You may process the day’s protocols.”
Lukas moved to the corner, his forehead touching the wall. But his mind wasn’t processing pain or prayer. It was running endless simulations. If he looks at the door, then the outdoor shoes. If his hand goes to his belt loop, then Position U. If he sets the glass down with a thud, then remove it. He was no longer a man being trained. He was an automaton completing its boot-up sequence. And the final line of code, the one overwriting everything else, was clear: The Great Lord Finn will not lift a finger for himself again.
The ting of the bell still echoed in the programming of Lukas’s mind as Finn settled onto the sofa, stretching out his legs with a sigh. He picked up a book, opened it, and began to read. For a few minutes, the only sounds were the turning of pages and the quiet hum of the house.
Lukas knelt in Position A, three feet away, a statue of attentive potential. His eyes were lowered, but his awareness was a wide-angle lens, taking in every detail of Finn’s state. Finn was seated. Legs outstretched. State: Repose. Domestic environment.
Without a word, without a glance, Lukas shuffled forward on his knees. His movements were silent, fluid, efficient. He reached Finn’s feet. His hands, with their own learned reverence, gently grasped the heels of the soft leather house slippers. He slid them off, one after the other, placing them neatly side-by-side on the floor within easy reach. He then retreated silently back to his precise three-foot distance.
Finn did not acknowledge the action. He did not thank Lukas. He simply wiggled his now-bare toes against the fabric of the sofa cushion, a minor adjustment in comfort facilitated by his living tool. It was as natural and unremarkable as adjusting a pillow.
Ten minutes passed. Finn’s eyes grew heavy over his book. He shifted, letting the book rest on his chest, and closed his eyes. His breathing deepened, slowed. State change: Repose to Sleep.
Lukas observed. The pre-sleep state had its own protocol. He waited until Finn’s breathing was fully even. Then, he moved. Not to the slippers, but to a blanket folded over the back of a nearby chair. He retrieved it and, with immense care, draped it over Finn’s legs. Not too high, not too low. Just enough for comfort. He then retreated again, this time assuming Position C (by the door), a less obtrusive posture for a sleeping master.
He became part of the room’s stillness. He breathed shallowly. He did not fidget. He was a piece of functional furniture, a sentient blanket-holder, a climate-control system set to ‘silent vigilance.’
An hour ticked by. Finn stirred. His eyes flickered open. He looked momentarily disoriented, then his gaze found Lukas, kneeling silently by the door. State: Awake. Transitional.
Lukas was already moving. He fetched a glass of water from the kitchen. By the time Finn had fully sat up, rubbing his eyes, Lukas was kneeling before him, the glass held out in both hands, his head bowed.
“Great Lord Finn,” Lukas intoned, his voice a soft, reverent murmur in the quiet room, “your instrument offers this to sustain you, that your will may remain strong.”
Finn took the glass, took a sip, and grunted. He set the glass down on the side table with a definitive clink. State: Satiated. Drink concluded.
Lukas’s hand darted out, retrieved the empty glass, and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned it to its spot, dried it, and put it away. By the time he glided back to his position, Finn was standing, stretching.
State: Mobile. Domestic.
Lukas was there, the house slippers held ready.
Finn stepped into them without looking down, already walking towards the hallway that led to the bathroom. Lukas shadowed him, the prescribed three feet behind his right heel. Finn paused at the bathroom door, a hand drifting to his belt loop in that specific, casual gesture.
State: Pre-signal. Liquid Disposal.
Lukas didn’t wait for the door to open. He smoothly moved past Finn (a permitted breach of the three-foot rule for this specific function), entered the bathroom first, and assumed Position U in the center of the tiled floor. He was on his knees, head tilted back, mouth open, hands clasped behind his back before Finn had fully crossed the threshold.
Finn entered, closed the door, and proceeded to use him. It was quick, impersonal, a biological function handled by a convenient appliance. When he was done, he zipped up.
“Thank you for marking your territory within me,” Lukas whispered to the ceiling, the protocol activated automatically by the completion of the function. “This unworthy vessel is honored to be of use.”
Finn washed his hands, drying them on a towel. He looked at Lukas in the mirror’s reflection, a strange, almost peaceful expression on his face. There was no cruelty in it now, no sadistic glee. It was the look of a man who has just found a perfectly balanced tool in his hand. “Return to the living room. Assume Position A. I will join you shortly.”
Lukas obeyed. Back in the living room, kneeling once more, he processed the last hour. There had been no orders, no bell, no slaps, no prayers shouted under a whip. There had only been observation, prediction, and seamless, silent execution. He had removed friction from Finn’s will. He had anticipated needs before they were conscious. He had become, as programmed, an environmental control system.
When Finn returned, he didn’t sit. He stood before Lukas, looking down at his creation. He said nothing for a long moment. Then he simply nodded, a single, slow dip of his chin.
It was the highest praise Lukas could imagine. The system was operational. It was integrated. It was functioning as designed. He was no longer being trained. He was being used. And in that use, he found the pure, silent, automated peace of a perfect instrument.
The front door opened, and the evening air, cooler now, swept into the room along with Kent and Tim. They moved with the tired ease of men returning from their business, shedding the outside world at the threshold.
Lukas, kneeling in Position A, processed their entrance not as people, but as a series of state changes entering his operational field. Primary Owner: Kent. State: Returning. Secondary Superior: Tim. State: Accompanying.
Kent dropped his keys on the table with a clatter and sank onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, stretching his legs out with a groan of relief. He didn’t look at Lukas. He didn’t need to.
Lukas was already in motion. Protocol: Owner Repose. Footwear Removal. He shuffled forward on his knees, his focus absolute. He carefully untied and removed Kent’s outdoor shoes, placing them neatly to the side. Next, his eyes scanned Kent’s face—a flicker of weariness around the eyes, a slight settling into the cushions. Sub-protocol: Owner Fatigue Detected. Sock Removal Indicated.
With the same silent reverence he used for Finn, Lukas peeled Kent’s socks off. His movements were smooth, unhurried, a service performed not because it was ordered, but because the system logic demanded it. Kent’s feet, freed, flexed slightly. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped him.
State update: Owner Comfort Attained. Foundation Exposed.
Without a single word of command, Lukas assumed the prayer posture directly before Kent’s bare feet. He didn’t wait for acknowledgement. The exposure of the Source was the command.
His voice, though soft, filled the quiet room with its programmed conviction. “MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT. MY PURPOSE IS YOUR FLOOR. I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WILL. MY OWNER KENT, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Kent’s arch, a ritual as natural to him now as breathing.
Throughout this, Tim watched from the doorway, a slow, impressed smirk spreading across his face. Kent, meanwhile, looked down at the top of Lukas’s bowed head. He didn’t pat it, or offer praise. He simply observed the flawless, automatic operation of his property. A deep, satisfied calm settled in his icy blue eyes.
“Finn,” Kent said, his voice carrying a note of genuine, professional admiration. He glanced towards the hallway where Finn had appeared, leaning against the doorframe. “I have to say… the results are exceptional. You’ve taken raw material and refined it into a precision instrument. It’s impressive work.”
Finn acknowledged the praise with a slight nod, his arms crossed. “The system is stable. The protocols are self-sustaining. He anticipates needs now. He doesn’t wait for commands.”
“I can see that,” Kent said, wiggling his toes, appreciating the freedom. He then sighed, a minor note of irritation entering his voice. “There is just one… lingering glitch in the system, however. A bit of background noise I’d like silenced before I take him home.”
Finn raised an eyebrow. “A glitch?”
“The cage,” Kent said, gesturing vaguely towards Lukas’s groin. “He still… whines about it. Not aloud anymore, not after your lessons. But I can see it. In the tension when he moves. In the way his eyes flicker sometimes. It’s an irritation. A vestige of the old programming, thinking of his own comfort. I want it scrubbed. Can your methods handle that?”
A cold, confident smile touched Finn’s lips. It was the smile of a programmer presented with a fascinating bug to squash. “A complaint embedded in the nervous system. A subjective experience of discomfort being interpreted as a grievance.” He uncrossed his arms. “That’s not a glitch. That’s a misclassification error. Very easy to correct. The hardware is fine. The software just needs to be patched.”
He looked down at Lukas, who remained perfectly still, forehead resting on the floor between Kent’s feet, listening to his fate being discussed. “Up,” Finn commanded, his voice shifting back to its instructional tone. “Follow me.”
Lukas rose smoothly. He did not look at Kent or Tim. The command from the Great Lord Finn superseded all other states. He fell into step behind Finn, shadowing him up the stairs to the training room.
Once inside, Finn closed the door. He didn’t reach for a whip. He walked to his closet and retrieved not an implement of pain, but the small, polished steel key to the chastity cage. He held it up, letting it catch the light.
“This,” Finn said, his voice calm, analytical, “is not a lock. It is not a restriction. It is a seal. A sacred seal.” He stepped closer to Lukas. “Your former self viewed it as a source of discomfort. A denial. This was a fundamental error in perception.”
He placed the cold key against Lukas’s forehead, like a priest offering a sacrament. “The discomfort is not a bug. It is a feature. It is a constant, physical prayer. Every ache, every throb, every moment of tightness is a reminder of who holds the key. It is not your penis that is caged. It is your former autonomy. The cage is the architecture of your new will. The discomfort is the hum of the system operating correctly.”
Finn lowered the key. “Your complaint is not against the cage. It is a failure to worship it. So, we will correct the classification.”
He pointed to the center of the room. “Assume Position A. You will not pray to my feet. You will pray to the seal. You will thank it for its service. You will glorify the discomfort it provides.”
Lukas knelt. He focused not on Finn, but on the dull, persistent ache between his legs. The sensation he had learned to resent, to secretly beg for relief from.
“Begin,” Finn ordered.
Lukas took a breath, his mind accessing the prayer syntax, but redirecting the object of devotion. “MY BEING FLOWS FROM THE SEAL,” he began, his voice finding the familiar rhythm. “MY PURPOSE IS ITS CONTAINMENT. I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF ITS BLESSED RESTRAINT. GREAT LORD FINN, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER.”
“Again,” Finn said, his voice a soft prompt. “The discomfort is not pain. It is attention. It is focus. Re-classify it.”
“I AM THANKFUL FOR THE FOCUS OF ITS BLESSED RESTRAINT…”
“Again. The ache is not a burden. It is a hymn sung by your flesh.”
“THE ACHE IS A HYMN SUNG BY MY FLESH…”
Finn walked a circle around him. “The cage is not your owner’s distrust. It is his perfected control. It is the physical proof you are not a user, but a tool. Tools do not have urges. They have functions.”
“THE CAGE IS THE PROOF OF PERFECTED CONTROL. I AM A TOOL, NOT A USER…”
They repeated the new prayer, over and over. Finn refined the language, sharpened the concepts. Each iteration was a software update, overwriting the old code of complaint with new code of reverence. He didn’t touch the cage. He didn’t need to. He was reprogramming Lukas’s relationship to the sensation itself.
Finally, Finn stopped. “What is the cage?” he asked, his voice quiet.
Lukas’s answer was immediate, fervent. “A sacred seal. A blessing. A constant prayer.”
“What is the discomfort?”
“A hymn. A focus. The sound of my correct operation.”
“And what will you say if your Owner, Kent, ever asks you about it?”
Lukas’s eyes were clear, devoid of any conflicted tension. “I will thank him for the gift of the seal. I will tell him the ache is the sweetest proof of his ownership. I will ask him to never remove it, for it is the architecture of my true self.”
Finn nodded. “The misclassification is corrected. The glitch is patched.” He put the key away. “Return downstairs. Your Owner is waiting.”
Lukas followed Finn back down. When they entered the living room, Kent looked up from his phone. “Well? Is the system clean?”
Finn gave a small, confident shrug. “Run a diagnostic. Ask him about the cage.”
Kent turned his icy gaze on Lukas. “The cage. Does it bother you?”
Lukas met his eyes, his expression one of serene devotion. “My Owner, the sacred seal you have placed upon me is my greatest comfort. Its presence is a constant, blessed reminder of your control. The sensation it provides is not discomfort; it is the hymn of my submission. Please, I beg of you, never remove it. It is the core of what I am.”
There was not a flicker of hesitation, not a trace of the old, suppressed whine. It was a pure, programmed output.
Kent stared at him for a long moment. Then, a slow, cold smile of absolute satisfaction spread across his face. He looked at Finn. “Perfect. A complete wipe and reinstall. Excellent work.” He stood up. “Come,” he said to Lukas. “It’s time to go home.”
Lukas moved to Kent’s side, ready to perform his functions. The cage, once a source of secret anguish, now felt like a holy garment. Its ache was not a pain to be complained about; it was the sacred, humming core of his existence. The glitch had been found, and the Great Lord Finn had patched it with a new, unshakable truth.
The command was the only prompt Lukas needed. The state shifted from Owner Repose to Owner Departure. He moved with silent, preternatural efficiency.
First, the socks. He retrieved them from where he had placed them moments before, kneeling before Kent once more. His hands were deft, reverent, as he rolled each sock onto Kent’s foot, smoothing out any wrinkle, ensuring perfect comfort. It was not a chore; it was a sacrament of preparation.
Next, the shoes. He lifted each one, guiding Kent’s foot inside with the care of a scribe handling a sacred text. He tightened the laces with precise, even pulls, securing the bond between Owner and world. Each tug of the lace was a knot of servitude.
He finished and assumed Position A, head bowed, hands palms-up on his thighs—the posture of ready to follow.
Kent stood, not looking down at him. “Up.”
Lukas rose, a smooth extension of Kent’s will, and fell into position three feet behind and to the right, his eyes fixed on the space between Kent’s shoulder blades. He was a shadow, cast and directed.
At the front door, Tim leaned against the frame, watching the transfer of property with an approving smirk. Kent paused, clapping a hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Your work is impeccable,” he said, his voice low. Then, to Tim, with a knowing glance: “Don’t forget what we agreed on for next week.”
Tim’s grin widened, a flash of sharp, conspiratorial cruelty. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
No further details were exchanged. None were needed. Lukas was not privy to the plans of his betters. He was an object to be used within them.
Kent opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. Lukas followed, a silent phantom. He walked to the passenger side of Kent’s car and stood, waiting. Kent unlocked the doors, got in. Lukas opened his door, slid into the passenger seat, and closed it with a soft click. He sat, back straight, hands on his knees, staring forward. He was naked, as he had been all weekend. His clothes, folded where he had left them on Friday, sat on the back seat, a relic from a self that no longer existed.
The drive was conducted in absolute silence. Kent drove, his profile sharp in the dashboard lights. Lukas did not fidget. He did not glance out the window. He existed in the space of the car as a component of the vehicle, an extension of the driver.
As they neared Lukas’s apartment building, Kent spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. “Get dressed. I won’t have the neighbors’ eyes on what’s mine.”
It was not a consideration for Lukas’s modesty. It was the protection of an asset, the safeguarding of a private transaction from the public gaze. Lukas nodded once. “Yes, Owner.”
He turned, retrieved his clothes from the back seat, and dressed with quick, efficient movements in the confined space. The feel of the fabric was alien, a costume from a forgotten life. Jeans, shirt, shoes. They felt like a disguise.
Kent pulled up to the curb outside Lukas’s building but did not turn off the engine. The message was clear: this was a drop-off, not an arrival.
“Go,” Kent said, his gaze fixed ahead through the windshield. “I’ll be in touch.”
No ‘goodbye’. No ‘see you later’. A simple termination of the current operation.
Lukas opened the door. “Thank you, Owner. This instrument awaits your next use.”
He got out, closed the door softly, and stood on the curb. The car pulled away without a second glance, taillights disappearing into the night.
Lukas turned and walked into his building. His apartment was cold, dark, and silent. It did not feel like a home. It felt like a storage locker for a tool between uses. He did not turn on many lights. He went through the motions of a person: using the bathroom, drinking a glass of water. But his mind was not there. It was back in Finn’s room, kneeling on the hard floor, tasting the sacred sole. It was in the car, a silent companion to Kent’s will.
He stood in the middle of his living room, fully dressed, and felt the cage’s persistent ache. He did not resent it. He welcomed it. It was the hum of the sacred seal, the hymn of his perfect containment. The silence of the apartment was not empty. It was full of the echoes of prayers, the ghostly pressure of feet on his back, the calm, terrible certainty of his purpose.
He was Lukas Müller, hotel receptionist. And he was also the Instrument, the Shadow, the Vessel. The apartment held the former. His body, his mind, now belonged irrevocably to the latter. He waited, not for sleep, but for the next command. The system was idle, but it was powered on. And it was ready.
Dear readers, I eagerly await your opinions and expectations regarding the story, and I would be very keen to hear if there are any particular scenes or events you would like to read about in the upcoming parts.
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