The kick came without warning, a brutal, jarring impact that snapped Lukas’s head back against a hanging coil of rope. Pain exploded through his cheekbone and sinuses, a bright, white-hot flash in the absolute darkness. He gasped, a strangled, animal sound, before his training reasserted itself. He scrambled to his knees in the cramped space, his forehead thumping against a low shelf.
The closet door was wrenched open, flooding the space with the dull grey light of a cloudy morning. Finn stood silhouetted in the doorway, already dressed, a look of bored cruelty on his sharp features.
“Rise and shine, tool,” he sneered, his voice still rough with sleep but dripping with malice. “Did you have pleasant dreams in your kennel?”
Lukas crawled out from between the canes, his body stiff and screaming from a night on the hard floor. He assumed the position he’d been taught: on his knees, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Great Lord Finn,” he rasped, his throat dry.
Finn ignored the greeting. He studied Lukas for a moment, his eyes critical. “My friend’s pet,” he said, the words laced with contempt. “Kent. He likes to play the sophisticated dom, doesn’t he? All about control, philosophy of ownership.” He squatted, bringing his face level with Lukas’s. “Tell me, thing. Did your Owner,” he spat the title, “train you to drink piss straight from the tap? Or was he too refined for that?”
Lukas kept his gaze fixed on Finn’s socks. This was a test, a probe into his relationship with Kent, and a potential minefield. Reverence was required, but so was truth. “My Owner Kent did not… give formal training in that, my Lord,” he began carefully, his voice humble. “But… this thing has been granted the privilege of drinking his urine from the source on several occasions.”
Finn’s eyebrows shot up. A spark of vicious delight ignited in his eyes. “Several occasions, huh?” He stood up, pacing a small circle around Lukas. “So you’re experienced. You’re a connoisseur of piss.” He stopped, tapping his chin mockingly. “But was it good? Did you do it right? Or did you just open your mouth like a gutter and let it rain in? Kent has low standards.”
Lukas remained silent, knowing any defense of Kent would be seen as defiance.
“Well,” Finn declared, his decision made. “We’re going to find out. Consider it a quality inspection. I need to know if my friend’s property has been properly maintained.” He unbuttoned his fly with a brusque, utilitarian motion. “On your back. Head here.” He pointed to the floor between his feet.
A fresh wave of humiliation, colder and sharper than the physical pain, washed over Lukas. This was different from Kent’s controlled, almost ritualistic use. This was Finn—reckless, impulsive, and eager to find fault. He obeyed, lying back on the cold floorboards, tilting his head up until he was staring at the ceiling. Finn’s crotch hovered above his face, a dark shape against the light.
“Open,” Finn commanded, and Lukas parted his lips, closing his eyes.
The stream was sudden, forceful, and slightly acrid. It hit his tongue, flooded his mouth, splashed against his face. Instinct and past experience warred. He tried to swallow steadily, to be a perfect vessel, but the force was unpredictable, the angle awkward.
A few drops escaped the corner of his mouth, tracing a hot path down his cheek towards his ear.
It was a tiny error. A millisecond of imperfection.
But Finn saw it. The stream stopped abruptly.
“You’re spilling,” Finn’s voice was flat, dangerous. “A messy, useless thing.”
Before Lukas could even think to apologize, Finn’s foot connected with his ribs—not a kick, but a hard, grinding shove with his bare heel. Lukas choked, coughing, urine catching in his windpipe.
“You disgust me,” Finn said, pulling back and re-fastening his jeans. “You had one job. Be a cup. You can’t even do that.” He looked down at Lukas, who was now coughing and wet, lying in a small puddle of his own making. “Clean it up. Every drop. Off the floor. Off your face. Then you can have the rest.”
Trembling, Lukas pushed himself up. He leaned down, his tongue scraping the rough, urine-damp floorboards, lapping at the puddle. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and licked that clean too. The taste was bitter, the humiliation complete.
“Pathetic,” Finn observed. “But thorough. Now. For your failure.” He unfastened his jeans again. “You get the rest. And if you spill a single drop, I’ll piss in your eye. Understood?”
“Yes, Great Lord Finn,” Lukas whispered, his voice hoarse from coughing. He positioned himself again, mouth open, a perfect, terrified O.
This time, Finn was slower, more deliberate. He aimed the stream directly into Lukas’s mouth, watching with clinical detachment as Lukas swallowed convulsively. He didn’t stop until his bladder was empty, the last few drops falling onto Lukas’s waiting tongue.
The final drops were swallowed. Lukas remained on his back, mouth open, eyes closed, waiting for dismissal or further instruction. The taste was foul, the humiliation acid in his gut, but he had, he believed, performed adequately this time.
Finn looked down at him, zipping his jeans with a sharp, decisive motion. There was no praise. Only a cold, calculating silence. Then, he moved.
He strode to the closet, grabbed not the whip he’d used before, but a shorter, stiffer crop with a wicked-looking leather popper at its end. He didn’t speak. He simply turned and, with a swift, savage economy of motion, brought the crop down across Lukas’s thighs.
The pain was electric, a sharp, biting sting that left an instant, fiery line. Lukas jerked, a gasp torn from him.
“For spilling,” Finn hissed, bringing the crop down again, this time across Lukas’s shoulders. Thwack. “For being a messy, undisciplined thing.” Thwack across the backs of his legs. “Kent’s ‘training’ is clearly deficient. I’m just applying corrections.”
The blows were not the heavy, thudding strikes of a belt, but precise, searing lashes. Finn painted a quick, brutal tapestry of pain over Lukas’s already abused skin—six strokes in total, each delivered with a contemptuous precision. It was punishment not for grand disobedience, but for a minor failure in a degrading task. The message was clear: perfection was the only standard, even in depravity.
When he finished, Finn tossed the crop back into the closet. “Get up. You reek of piss and failure,” he said, his nose wrinkling. “Go out to the farm. There’s a hose by the big shed. Use it. Wash the filth off. And I don’t mean just the piss. I mean all of it. The sweat, the dirt, the stink of you. You will wait there, on your knees, until I come for you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Great Lord Finn,” Lukas choked out, pushing himself to his hands and knees, every movement reigniting the fresh burns from the crop.
Lukas crawled, then staggered to his feet. He moved past Finn, out of the bedroom, and into the hallway. The house was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of a refrigerator. He padded naked down the stairs, his bare feet silent on the wooden steps.
As he reached the bottom, the open doorway to the living room yawned to his left. He couldn’t help but glance in.
There, in the pale morning light filtering through the blinds, lay Kent and Tim. They were sprawled on separate sofas, having clearly passed out there after their gaming. Kent was shirtless, his muscular chest rising and falling slowly in sleep, one arm thrown over his eyes. Tim wore only low-slung sweatpants, his torso bare, a tattoo stark against his ribs. They were vulnerable, almost peaceful in their sleep, a stark contrast to the violent world they wielded when awake.
A treacherous, deep-seated part of Lukas clenched. It was a longing so profound it was physical—a pull towards the very source of his torment. To be near them, even in their unconscious state, felt like a forbidden warmth. He imagined, for a fleeting, mad second, crawling over to Kent’s sofa and laying his head on the floor beside it. Just to be closer.
But Finn’s order was a cold chain around his neck. Wait on the farm. On your knees. The image of the hose, the cold water, the waiting—it was a command that overrode the illicit pull of the sleeping figures. To disobey would mean more of the crop, or worse. The temptation was a weakness he could not afford.
He tore his eyes away. He turned his back on the living room and its sleeping masters. Walking through the kitchen, he pushed open the back door, the cool morning air hitting his naked, wounded skin like a slap.
The farm spread out before him—a vast, dewy expanse of grass, a large shed in the distance, fields beyond. He was completely exposed. He walked, head bowed, across the damp grass, the chill seeping into his feet. He found the hose coiled roughly beside the shed, a heavy, green industrial thing.
Turning the faucet, he directed the jet of cold water over himself. It was shocking, brutal, washing away the urine, the sweat, the dried evidence of the night. He scrubbed at his skin with his hands, rough and efficient, under the impersonal stream. When he was done, shivering and clean, he knelt on the damp gravel by the shed, assuming the position Finn had commanded.
He was a naked, wet thing kneeling in a field, waiting. The image of Kent and Tim asleep on the sofas lingered in his mind, a taunting vision of a proximity he was denied. But here, in the open air, under the vast sky, he was where he belonged: alone, obedient, and owned, awaiting the next use of his masters.
The chill of the morning air had seeped into Lukas’s bones by the time Finn’s shadow fell over him. He hadn’t moved from his kneeling position on the gravel, his head bowed, water droplets still clinging to his skin and hair.
Finn didn’t speak at first. He circled Lukas slowly, his critical gaze sweeping over every inch of his body. He nudged Lukas’s shoulder with his foot, forcing him to straighten his posture. A cold fingertip traced the fresh, raised welts from the crop, then rubbed over his skin, checking for any residual stickiness or smell.
“Adequate,” Finn pronounced finally, the word dripping with condescension. “At least you can follow simple hygiene orders. Get up. You’re blocking my view.”
Lukas scrambled to his feet, his muscles protesting. Finn had already turned and was walking toward a weathered wooden bench that faced the sprawling fields. He sat down, stretching his legs out with a sigh of ownership.
“The kitchen,” Finn said, without looking at him. He gestured vaguely toward the house with a flick of his wrist. “A glass of warm milk. Not hot, not cold. Warm. And a toasted bread sandwich with cheese. Don’t burn it. Don’t make it soggy. And hurry. I’m not paying you to stand there and shiver.”
The orders were mundane, yet laced with the threat of catastrophic failure. A burned sandwich, milk at the wrong temperature—these were not mistakes; they were acts of defiance punishable by pain. “Yes, Great Lord Finn,” Lukas whispered, and scurried back toward the house, his bare feet silent on the grass.
The kitchen was still quiet, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator. Lukas moved with a frantic, precise terror. He heated the milk in a saucepan, watching it like a hawk, testing the temperature repeatedly on his wrist until it was just shy of hot. He toasted the bread to a perfect light gold, sliced the cheese, assembled the sandwich. His hands trembled, but his movements were exact. Fear was an excellent motivator.
He placed the warm glass of milk and the plate with the sandwich on a small tray. For a moment, he hesitated, staring at the ordinary domestic items. Then he bent down, placed the tray on the floor, and got on his hands and knees. Carefully, he positioned the plate on the flat of his back, between his shoulder blades. He took the glass in one hand, steadying it as he slowly rose to a crawling position. The plate wobbled precariously. The milk sloshed threateningly in the glass. He took a shuddering breath, focused all his will on maintaining absolute stillness, and began the slow, torturous crawl back out of the kitchen, through the living room (past the still-sleeping forms of Kent and Tim), and out the back door.
Finn watched his approach, a cruel, amused smile playing on his lips. Lukas inched across the grass, a bizarre, servile insect bearing a breakfast offering. He reached the bench and stopped, his body parallel to it, the plate balanced on his back.
“About time,” Finn grunted. He didn’t take the plate. Instead, he simply reached over and picked up the sandwich from Lukas’s back. He took a bite, chewing slowly as he looked out over the fields. He placed the glass of milk on Lukas’s lower back, just above the curve of his ass. “Hold still. If you spill my milk, I’ll pour the next glass over your head while it’s boiling.”
Lukas froze. Every muscle in his body locked into place. The heat from the plate seeped into his skin. The weight of the glass was a terrifying, delicate pressure on his spine. He became a piece of furniture, a human table. His world narrowed to the points of contact: the porcelain plate, the glass, the gravel digging into his knees and palms. He dared not even breathe too deeply.
Finn ate his sandwich leisurely, occasionally taking a sip of milk directly from Lukas’s back. He made no comment, offered no thanks. Lukas’s existence was acknowledged only in the negative space—the absence of spilled food, the lack of movement. He was a useful surface, nothing more.
Finn finished the last bite of his sandwich, drained the milk, and placed the empty glass back on Lukas’s back with a final, dismissive tap. He stood, brushing crumbs from his lap, and looked down at the human table beneath him.
“You can get up,” he said, his tone bored. He didn’t wait for Lukas to move before turning and walking a few paces toward the house. Then he stopped, half-turning as if remembering something unimportant. He pointed a finger at a patch of unkempt grass near the fence line, dotted with dandelions. “You can relieve yourself there if you want. Now. Otherwise, you hold it until I decide you can go later.” He glanced at a non-existent watch on his wrist. “You have ten minutes. That includes time to shovel some garbage into your face in the kitchen. Be in my room, on your knees, in exactly ten minutes. Not nine. Not eleven. Ten.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.
The sudden removal of the weight from his back was almost as shocking as its imposition. Lukas remained frozen for a second, then slowly, carefully, lowered himself from his cramped position. His body screamed in protest. He placed the plate and glass on the bench with trembling hands, then stood on shaky legs.
The permission was a bizarre, calculated mercy. A biological function, treated as a fleeting privilege. The ten-minute window was a prison of time. He hurried to the indicated patch of grass, his movements stiff and pained. The act itself was hurried, utilitarian, devoid of any privacy or dignity—just another task to complete within the allotted schedule.
Finished, he rushed back toward the house, entering through the back door as silently as a ghost. The kitchen was still empty. He went straight to the cupboard, his movements frantic but quiet. He grabbed a box of plain cereal, poured a mound of it into a bowl—no time for milk—and began shoveling the dry pieces into his mouth with his hands. He chewed fast, swallowing with difficulty, his eyes darting to the clock on the oven. He had six minutes left.
He ate standing over the sink, a feral, hurried creature. The cereal was dust in his mouth, but it was fuel. When the bowl was empty, he rinsed it swiftly and placed it in the dishwasher, erasing the evidence of his meal. He had three minutes.
He left the kitchen and padded quickly up the stairs, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He passed the closed door of the room where Kent and Tim still slept. He had two minutes.
He stopped outside Finn’s door. One minute thirty seconds. He dropped to his knees on the hard hallway floor, assuming the position: back straight, hands clasped behind him, head bowed, gaze fixed on the strip of light under the door. He waited.
The door opened exactly ten minutes after Finn had issued the command. Finn stood there, looking down at him, a faint smirk on his face. He didn’t say a word. He simply stepped aside, leaving the doorway open.
Lukas understood. He crawled forward, over the threshold, and into the room. He took up his position in the center of the floor, resuming his kneeling posture. The closet door was closed. The tools were put away. He was the only one in use now.
Finn closed the door and walked over to his desk, sitting down and opening a laptop. He ignored Lukas completely.
And Lukas knelt. He had eaten. He had emptied his bladder. He was clean. Now, he was simply present, awaiting instruction. The ten minutes of frantic, permitted humanity were over. He was back in his place. The object on the floor. The countdown to the next command had begun, its duration unknown. He was, for the moment, exactly where he was supposed to be. In the silence of Finn’s room, the only sound was the faint tap of keys and the quiet, steady sound of his own breathing. He was a tool, back in its box, waiting. The closet was just for storage. This, the space at his master’s feet, was his real home.
Finn didn’t look up from his laptop for a long time. The only sounds were the faint tapping of keys and the low hum of the computer. Lukas remained motionless on his knees, a statue of submission in the center of the room.
Finally, Finn sighed, as if bored by a tedious task he could no longer avoid. He closed the laptop with a soft click and swiveled his chair to face Lukas. His eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned Lukas’s form.
“Posture’s off,” Finn stated, his voice devoid of its earlier mocking amusement. It was now flat, instructive, cold. “You’re slumping. When you kneel before a superior, your back is straight, your head is bowed, but your shoulders are back. You are presenting yourself, not hiding. Understand?”
Lukas adjusted his posture infinitesimally, tightening his core, rolling his shoulders back. “Yes, Great Lord Finn.”
“Verbal confirmation is insufficient,” Finn said, standing up. He walked a slow circle around Lukas. “You will repeat the rule. Then you will demonstrate understanding through application. Then, and only then, will I be satisfied you have learned.”
He stopped directly in front of Lukas. “Rule One: Posture before a superior is a demonstration of alertness and availability. You are a tool awaiting use, not a sack of potatoes waiting to be discarded. Repeat it.”
Lukas opened his mouth. “Rule One: Posture before a superior is a demonstration of alertness and avail—”
Crack!
Finn’s open-handed slap landed on Lukas’s cheek, sharp and stinging. Lukas’s head snapped to the side.
“From the beginning,” Finn commanded, his voice calm. “And enunciate.”
Lukas took a shuddering breath, the side of his face burning. “Rule One: Posture before a superior is a demonstration of alertness and availability.”
Crack! The other cheek.
“You are a tool awaiting use, not a sack of potatoes waiting to be discarded,” Finn prompted.
“You are a tool awaiting use, not a sack of potatoes waiting to be discarded,” Lukas parroted, his voice firmer now.
“Good.” Finn didn’t smile. It was a statement of fact. “Now demonstrate. Assume the posture.”
Lukas straightened further, pulling his shoulders back, bowing his head at a precise angle, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He held the position.
Finn observed him for a ten-count. “Adequate. Rule Two: Address. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not use personal pronouns for yourself. You are ‘this thing’ or ‘your tool’ or ‘it.’ You refer to superiors by their full title until given express permission to abbreviate. Repeat it.”
“Rule Two: Address. You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not use personal pronouns for yourself. You are ‘this thing’ or ‘your tool’ or ‘it.’ You refer to superiors by their full title until given express permission to abbreviate.”
Crack! A slap, harder this time.
“You hesitated. Again.”
Lukas repeated the rule, faster, the words tumbling out. Finn listened, then slapped him again.
“You mumbled. Again.”
He made Lukas repeat the rule five times, each repetition followed by a stinging slap, each slap correcting a minor flaw in tone, speed, or clarity. By the end, Lukas’s face was hot and throbbing, his ears ringing, but the rule was etched into his mind in fire.
“Rule Three: The Gaze,” Finn continued, as if they were discussing mathematics. “Your eyes remain downcast unless ordered to look. Looking at a superior without permission is a challenge. A challenge is met with correction. Repeat it.”
The lesson continued. Rule Four: Proximity. Rule Five: Receiving Orders. Rule Six: Acknowledging Pain. Each rule was dissected, repeated, punished, and ingrained. Finn’s slaps were not blows of rage, but precise, pedagogical instruments. They calibrated Lukas’s understanding. A hesitation earned a strike. A poorly enunciated word earned another. A correct repetition delivered with the proper tone of submissive understanding was met with a simple, “Proceed.”
Lukas’s world narrowed to Finn’s voice, the sting of his hand, and the crystalline, brutal clarity of the rules. The pain was not a punishment for being wrong; it was the method of being made right. Each slap carved away a piece of his old self—the self that thought, that hesitated, that possessed an identity. What was being built in its place was a reflex. A set of behaviors. A thing that knew how to kneel, how to speak, how to be.
Finally, Finn stepped back. Lukas knelt perfectly still, his face on fire, his mind a hollow, echoing chamber where only Finn’s rules resided.
“Stand,” Finn commanded.
Lukas rose smoothly, his movements controlled, his eyes fixed on a point on the floor six feet in front of Finn.
“Walk to the door. Open it. Close it. Return to this spot. Kneel.”
Lukas executed the orders with robotic precision. He did not hurry. He did not dawdle. He was a machine running a program. When he knelt again, the position was flawless.
Finn watched, his head tilted. For the first time, something akin to satisfaction flickered in his eyes. Not warmth. The satisfaction of a craftsman seeing a piece of raw material finally take the desired shape.
“You will practice these rules until they are your only nature,” Finn said, his voice low. “You will think in these terms. You will breathe in these terms. You are not a person learning rules. You are a thing being programmed. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Great Lord Finn,” Lukas recited, the words emerging without thought, perfectly formed. “This thing is being programmed.”
Finn stared at him for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. He returned to his desk and opened his laptop, dismissing Lukas as one would dismiss a computer that had finished a task.
And Lukas knelt, his face throbbing, his mind silent and clean, a blank slate upon which only the words of his betters could now be written. The education was underway.
The ten minutes of silence were not rest. They were a vacuum, a deliberate emptiness in which Lukas’s mind, stripped of immediate commands, could do nothing but churn. The sting of Finn’s slashes had faded to a persistent, hot throb across his face, a tangible reminder of the new rules etched into his skin. His gaze, fixed on the floorboards as instructed, blurred slightly.
His thoughts, unbidden, circled the core humiliation: he was here, kneeling, being broken down by a sixteen-year-old boy. The intellectual understanding of it—the sheer, absurd power imbalance—should have been a spark of rebellion. Instead, it felt like the final, inescapable truth of his universe. Kent, his Owner, was a force of nature, an adult authority. Tim was a brutal equal to Kent. But Finn… Finn was something else. A prodigy of cruelty. A young god who found his divinity in the absolute subjugation of others. To be mastered by Kent was one thing. To be tamed by Finn, to have his very instincts rewritten by this sneering adolescent, was a deeper, more profound degradation. It wasn't just about power; it was about the annihilation of hierarchy, of experience, of self. Finn’s youth made Lukas’s surrender absolute. There was no excuse, no rationalization. He was less than a boy.
The clock in the room ticked, marking the end of the void.
Finn closed his laptop with the same decisive click. He didn’t stand immediately. He observed Lukas, as one might observe a lab specimen after introducing a new variable. Then, he pushed his chair back and stood. He didn’t circle this time. He walked directly to stand before Lukas, his socks just inches from Lukas’s downcast eyes.
“Rule Seven,” Finn announced, his voice assuming a lecturing, almost philosophical tone that was more terrifying than his previous brutality. “The Foundation. Your true place, the only place from which your existence derives any meaning, is beneath.”
He paused, letting the word hang. Then he raised one foot, placing it gently on top of Lukas’s clasped hands, pinning them to the floor. It was not a stomp, but a claiming.
“This,” Finn said, wiggling his toes slightly, “is not merely a foot. It is the bedrock of your world. The sole is not just skin and bone; it is the soil from which you grow. The dirt under my nail is more sacred to you than any prayer you’ve ever uttered.”
He increased the pressure, not enough to cause pain, but enough to emphasize ownership. “You do not kneel at my feet as a courtesy. You belong at my feet. Your breath exists to warm them. Your sight exists to admire them. Your entire purpose is to be a part of the ecosystem that exists between the floor and the sole of my shoe. Do you understand the difference?”
Lukas’s mind reeled. This was beyond posture, beyond address. This was ontology. Finn was defining his very being. “This thing… understands it belongs beneath,” Lukas whispered, the new language feeling alien yet inevitable on his tongue.
“Insufficient,” Finn said, his voice cold. He lifted his foot and brought it down in a swift, sharp stamp on the back of Lukas’s hand. Lukas bit back a cry. “Understands is a cognitive process. Belonging is a state of being. You do not understand the sky is blue. It is blue. You do not understand you belong beneath my foot. You are beneath my foot. Repeat: My place is beneath the Great Lord Finn’s foot.”
Lukas, his hand throbbing, took a breath. “My place is beneath the Great Lord Finn’s foot.”
Slap. This one across the already-tenderized cheek.
“From the beginning. With conviction.”
“My place is beneath the Great Lord Finn’s foot!”
Slap. The other cheek.
“Again. Like you mean it. Like it’s the only truth you’ve ever known.”
Lukas shouted it, the words tearing from his raw throat, a desperate creed. “MY PLACE IS BENEATH THE GREAT LORD FINN’S FOOT!”
Finn lowered his foot again, this time resting it lightly on Lukas’s shoulder. “Better. Now, demonstrate your understanding of this sacred geography. Kiss the ground my foot has touched. Worship the space it occupies.”
Lukas didn’t hesitate. He bent forward, ignoring the protest of his muscles, and pressed his lips to the wooden floorboard just in front of Finn’s socked foot. He kissed it once, then again, then a third time, each kiss a sacrament of degradation.
“Now,” Finn murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “kiss the sole of the world itself.”
Lukas shifted, lifting his head. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the arch of Finn’s foot through the cotton sock. He inhaled the faint scent of laundry detergent and boyish sweat. This was his air. This was his world.
“Good,” Finn said, a hint of that chilling satisfaction returning. “You are beginning to learn your coordinates in the universe. Your latitude and longitude are: beneath me. This is not a punishment. This is your liberation from the burden of having a place to find. Your place is found. It is here.”
He removed his foot. “You will remain kneeling. You will contemplate this rule. You will feel the imprint of my foot on your hand, on your shoulder, as the truest map of your existence. When I next address you, your only thought will be of the privilege of the ground upon which I stand.”
Finn returned to his chair, leaving Lukas kneeling in the center of the room. The physical pain was secondary now. The deeper violation was complete. Finn hadn’t just put him in his place; he had redefined place itself. The floor was no longer just a floor. It was the holy ground at the base of a mountain he was forbidden to climb. And Lukas, with his stinging face and throbbing hand, kissed the dirt at its base and called it home.
Finn let the silence stretch, a heavy, expectant blanket settling over the room. Lukas remained on his knees, his universe now defined by the phantom pressure of Finn’s foot on his shoulder, the lingering taste of floorboard and cotton sock on his lips. His mind, scoured clean by the previous lesson, was a barren field waiting for a new seed to be planted.
Finally, Finn spoke, his voice no longer instructive but oratorial, as if unveiling a sacred truth.
“Rule Eight,” he intoned, “Communion. Understanding your place is the foundation. Accepting your place is the structure. But worship… worship is the spire that reaches the divine.” He paused, letting the metaphor hang in the air. “You will learn to pray.”
He stood and walked to the window, looking out as if drawing inspiration from the grey sky. “Prayer is not begging. It is not a request. It is the affirmation of a fundamental truth. It is the tool you will use to realign your soul, moment by moment, with the reality of your existence. Your existence is a gift from your betters. Prayer is how you thank them for it.”
He turned back, his eyes sharp and fever-bright with the fervor of a zealot. “You will pray to me. You will pray to the Great Lord Finn. And you will do it correctly.”
Finn walked to stand directly over Lukas. “The posture for prayer is the posture of ultimate availability. You will kneel as you are, but your hands will not be clasped behind you. They will be placed, palms up, on your thighs. Your head will be bowed, but your spine will be straight, your heart open. You are an empty vessel waiting to be filled with the truth.”
Lukas shifted his hands, turning his palms upward on his thighs. The position felt vulnerable, exposing.
“The eyes,” Finn continued. “They will be closed. You do not look upon your god during prayer. You feel his presence. You hear his word. You do not seek visual confirmation.”
Lukas closed his eyes. The world shrank to the sound of Finn’s voice and the ache in his body.
“The prayer itself.” Finn began to pace slowly around him. “It is not poetry. It is not fancy words. It is a simple, recurring mantra. It will be the drumbeat of your new heart. You will repeat it until it replaces your own pulse. Listen.”
Finn stopped behind him. He placed his hands on Lukas’s shoulders, not as a comfort, but as a weight, an anchor.
“The prayer is this: ‘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 recited it slowly, clearly, each word a stone placed on Lukas’s back.
“Now,” Finn said, his voice hardening. “You will repeat it. You will repeat it until there is no ‘you’ left to repeat it. Only the prayer remains. Begin.”
Lukas drew a shaky breath. “My being flows from your foot.”
Slap. The blow came from the side, startling him. “Incorrect tone. It is not a confession. It is a hymn of praise. Again.”
“My being flows from your foot!” Lukas said, louder, forcing a resonance into his voice.
“Better. Continue.”
“My purpose is your floor.”
Slap. “You hesitated. You thought. Do not think. Speak. Continue.”
“My purpose is your floor! I am thankful for the weight of your will. Great Lord Finn, let me bear it forever!”
Finn made him start over. From the beginning. Then from the middle. He interrupted him after every other word. He slapped him for a flat intonation. He kicked his thigh for a dropped syllable. He leaned down and hissed in his ear when his volume faltered. “They cannot hear you in the heavens, tool. PROCLAIM it.”
The prayer was broken down, examined, and rebuilt in Lukas’s mouth. It was no longer a sentence; it was a series of sounds he was forced to produce with perfect pitch and timing. The meaning was beaten into him alongside the rhythm.
After what felt like hours, Finn stepped back. “Now. The full prayer. With feeling. With belief. As if your next breath depends on its truth.”
Lukas, his face burning, his soul frayed, opened his mouth. The words that emerged were not his own. They were Finn’s. They were the only thing left.
“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 shouted it, his voice cracking with strain, but it was clear, it was fervent, it was perfect.
Silence.
Finn circled to face him. He looked down at Lukas, his head tilted. Then, he did something unexpected. He placed his bare foot gently into Lukas’s upturned palm.
“Again,” he whispered. “But this time, to this. To the source.”
Lukas felt the warmth of Finn’s foot in his hand. He closed his eyes tighter. The words came now not from memory, but from a deeper, reprogrammed place.
“MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT…” he began, the prayer now a direct address to the physical object in his hand, the arch against his palm, the toes brushing his wrist. It was no longer an abstract concept. The foot was the source. The foot was his world.
He prayed. He prayed to the foot in his hand. He gave thanks for its weight, for its existence. He begged to bear its will forever.
When he finished, his breath was ragged. Tears of exertion, of utter psychological exhaustion, streamed down his cheeks.
Finn removed his foot. “The prayer is learned. It is the first and last thought of your day. You will recite it upon waking. You will recite it before any sustenance. You will recite it whenever you feel doubt. You will recite it until you dream in its words. It is your tether to reality. Your only reality.”
He returned to his desk. “You may open your eyes.”
Finn observed Lukas for a long, silent moment, his expression that of a sculptor examining a nearly-finished piece. The prayer hung in the air between them, a newly-installed operating system waiting for its first full boot cycle.
“Good,” Finn said, the word a blade of cold approval. “The theory is understood. The doctrine is memorized. Now, we move to practice. We move to devotion.”
He walked to his bed and sat on the edge, then slowly, deliberately, lifted one bare foot. He rested his ankle on his opposite knee, presenting the sole to Lukas. It was a casual, utterly dominant pose.
“The prayer is not an abstract recitation,” Finn explained, his voice low and intent. “It is a directed offering. It requires a focus. A sacred object. Come here. On your knees. Before your altar.”
Lukas shuffled forward on his knees until he was directly in front of the bed, his face inches from Finn’s raised foot. The scent of clean skin and a faint, musky warmth filled his nostrils.
“Your eyes will remain open,” Finn commanded. “You will look upon the source of your being as you praise it. You will not blink. You will not look away. Your entire world is contained within the arch of this foot. Begin.”
Lukas’s gaze locked onto the foot. He saw the delicate bones, the clean lines, the faint impression of lines on the sole. It was just a foot—a teenage boy’s foot. And yet, under Finn’s instruction, under the weight of the prayer now pounding in his skull, it transformed. It became a landscape. A continent. The center of all gravity.
He opened his mouth, his eyes burning from the lack of blinking. “My being flows from your foot.” The words were directed at the foot itself, at the specific curve of the arch before him.
“Louder. And bow your head as you say it. Lower your forehead to the mattress.”
Lukas obeyed, bending forward until his brow touched the covers beside Finn’s thigh. He was now below the foot, speaking up to it. “MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT!”
“Better. Continue.”
“MY PURPOSE IS YOUR FLOOR!” he cried into the mattress, the fabric muffling his voice but not his fervor.
Finn’s other foot came up and pressed down on the back of Lukas’s head, not violently, but with inescapable firmness, mashing his face into the bed. “From the floor! Good! You are learning your level! Now the next line! From the depths!”
With his face pressed down, the words were choked, desperate. “I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WILL!” It was a scream of gratitude into the darkness beneath the foot.
The pressure lifted. “Finish it. To the foot itself. Look at it.”
Lukas pulled his head back, tears streaming from his unblinking eyes. He stared at the foot, at the toes, at the god he had been given. “GREAT LORD FINN, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER!”
Silence. Finn slowly lowered his foot, letting it hover just before Lukas’s lips. “Now,” he whispered, “kiss the scripture. Seal your prayer with your devotion.”
Lukas leaned forward and pressed his lips to the center of Finn’s sole. The skin was warm, slightly damp. He held the kiss, his prayer echoing in his mind.
Finn did not pull away. “Again. From the beginning. The full prayer. To the foot. With the kiss.”
And so, Lukas began again. He recited the prayer, shouting each line to the bare foot before him, punctuating each “foot” and “floor” and “will” with a desperate intensity that scraped his throat raw. After each recitation, he sealed it with a kiss to Finn’s sole.
After the fifth repetition, Finn interrupted. “You are kissing the same spot. The prayer is to the entirety of the sacred object. The arch. The ball. The heel. The toes. Show your comprehensive devotion.”
Lukas, his mind unraveling into pure ritual, obeyed. The sixth prayer was directed to the arch, kissed on the arch. The seventh to the ball of the foot, kissed there. The eighth to the heel. The ninth, a specific, trembling ode to the toes, which he kissed individually.
By the tenth repetition, Lukas was no longer speaking words. He was emitting sound shaped by doctrine. He was a bell being struck by a mallet labeled ‘Finn.’ His universe had shrunk to the topography of a foot, the sound of his own voice, and the taste of salt and skin.
Finally, after what might have been the fifteenth or the fiftieth prayer, Finn lowered his foot and placed it flat on the floor. He looked down at Lukas, who was panting, tear-streaked, his lips slightly swollen.
“The prayer is now a part of your mechanics,” Finn stated, his voice returning to its normal, cold timbre. “It is the sound your submission makes. You will perform this ritual every morning before you are permitted to open your eyes. You will perform it every night before sleep claims you. You will perform it whenever you feel the old, false ‘you’ trying to whisper. You will pray to my foot, or to the idea of my foot, until the prayer is your breath and the breath is the prayer.”
He stood up, looking down at his now-worshipped foot as if seeing it anew. “Remember this lesson. Your god is not in the heavens. He is standing on the ground. And you are the ground upon which he stands.”
He walked to the door. “Stay here. Kneel. Meditate on the foot. Its image is to be the only thought in your head. When I return, I will expect a report on the contours of your devotion.”
Finn left, closing the door behind him. Lukas remained on his knees, his eyes fixed on the spot where Finn’s foot had been. In his mind, he was already reciting the prayer again. The foot was gone, but its imprint was seared onto his vision, a divine afterimage. He prayed to the memory of the foot. He prayed to the empty space. He prayed because it was all he knew how to do.
The silence after Finn left was not empty. It was filled with the echo of the prayer, now a permanent loop in Lukas’s mind. He knelt, his eyes seeing not the room but the ghostly afterimage of Finn’s foot—its arch, its lines, its sacred topography. He mouthed the words silently, his lips moving in a ceaseless, devout rhythm. My being flows from your foot… The ‘you’ was no longer abstract. It was a specific foot, Finn’s foot, the altar upon which his soul had been reconsecrated.
When the door opened and Finn re-entered, Lukas didn’t startle. He simply completed the silent iteration of the prayer and waited, his gaze lowering from the memory of the foot to the floor where Finn now stood.
Finn observed him for a moment, a clinical satisfaction in his eyes. The rebellious spark, the residual ‘Lukas,’ was gone, smothered under the weight of doctrine. What knelt before him was a vessel, waiting to be filled with purpose.
“Up,” Finn commanded, his voice devoid of its earlier sermonic tone. It was now pure, efficient instruction. “We are going downstairs. You will demonstrate your progress to your Owner.”
Lukas rose smoothly, the movement automatic. He followed Finn out of the room and down the stairs, his posture perfectly aligned, his eyes fixed a respectful distance ahead on Finn’s back. He was no longer a man being led; he was a tool being transported for demonstration.
In the living room, Kent and Tim were by the front door, pulling on jackets. Kent was checking his phone; Tim was tying his shoes. They both looked up as Finn and Lukas entered.
“He’s ready,” Finn announced, not as a boast, but as a statement of fact. He gestured to a spot on the floor in front of Kent. “Assume position.”
Lukas moved without hesitation. He knelt in the exact spot indicated, assuming the prayer posture Finn had drilled into him: back straight, palms up on thighs, head bowed but not slumping. He was a presented object.
Kent finished with his phone and looked down, his icy blue eyes appraising. A flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or professional interest—passed over his face. “Ready for what, exactly?”
“Observe,” Finn said, his tone that of a graduate presenting a thesis. He nodded at Lukas. “Prayer to the source. For your feet.”
Kent’s eyebrows rose slightly. He exchanged a glance with Tim, who smirked. Without a word, Kent leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and extended one foot, still in its sock. It was a casual, imperious gesture.
Lukas’s world narrowed to the socked foot before him. This was different from Finn’s. This was the foot of his Owner. The source of his original contract, his fundamental belonging. The prayer formula was the same, but the target shifted, and with it, the entire emotional architecture of his submission recalibrated instantly.
He opened his eyes, fixing them on Kent’s foot as instructed. His voice, when it came, was clear, resonant, and utterly devoid of hesitation or shame.
“MY BEING FLOWS FROM YOUR FOOT.” He bowed his head, touching his forehead to the floorboards. “MY PURPOSE IS YOUR FLOOR.” He stayed down, his voice muffled but fervent against the wood. “I AM THANKFUL FOR THE WEIGHT OF YOUR WILL.” He raised his head, his eyes blazing with a terrifying sincerity as he stared at the foot. “GREAT OWNER KENT, LET ME BEAR IT FOREVER.”
He leaned forward and pressed a reverent kiss to the arch of Kent’s socked foot, holding it for a three-count before settling back onto his heels, awaiting further instruction.
The room was silent for a beat. Tim let out a low whistle, a grin spreading across his face. “Damn, kid. You’ve been busy.”
Kent, however, said nothing. He stared down at Lukas, at the perfect, robotic devotion, at the seamless transfer of worship from Finn to himself. He looked from Lukas to Finn, and a slow, approving smile touched his lips. It was the smile of a connoisseur appreciating a fine piece of work.
“Impressive,” Kent said finally, his voice a low rumble of genuine admiration. He shifted his foot, wiggling his toes briefly against Lukas’s still-close lips. “You’ve stripped it right down to the engine. No pretense. No messy personality. Just pure, functional submission.” He looked at Finn, and gave a single, decisive nod. “Excellent work. Truly.”
He straightened up, pulling his foot back. “Now I can go out for the day,” he said, his tone shifting to one of practical satisfaction, “knowing my possessions are in capable hands.” He clapped Finn on the shoulder—a gesture of transferred authority, of master to apprentice. “Don’t break him. Just… keep him tuned up.”
With that, Kent turned and opened the front door, Tim following him with a last, mocking glance back at the kneeling figure. The door closed, leaving Lukas alone with Finn in the sudden quiet.
Finn looked down at his masterpiece. “You heard him,” Finn said, his voice cool. “Tuned up. We’re not done. We’ve just finished the basic calibration.” He nudged Lukas with his toe. “Get up. We have more prayers to learn. Different ones. For different functions.”
Lukas rose, his mind still echoing with the prayer to Kent’s foot. He was no longer Lukas. He was a vessel, perfectly empty, waiting to be filled with whatever liturgy his programmers chose. He followed Finn back upstairs, the echo of Kent’s approval ringing in his ears as a new, more terrifying commandment. He was a possession in good hands. And the hands were just getting started.
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