My slave exists as nothing more than a chair—a mere object for my perfect throne. Sometimes, he forgets his place, but I never hesitate to remind him. Just a seat beneath me, desperate to serve and suffer under my weight every second of the day. Air, breathing—those concerns don’t cross my mind. Why would they? Calling him a “man” is generous; I often forget he’s even there. He lives to endure, bearing every ounce of my weight, because he has no choice. His suffering is irrelevant, his only purpose is my pleasure. My comfort. My dominance. It’s always, only, about me.

My slave exists as nothing more than a chair—a mere object for my perfect throne. Sometimes, he forgets his place, but I never hesitate to remind him. Just a seat beneath me, desperate to serve and suffer under my weight every second of the day. Air, breathing—those concerns don’t cross my mind. Why would they? Calling him a “man” is generous; I often forget he’s even there. He lives to endure, bearing every ounce of my weight, because he has no choice. His suffering is irrelevant, his only purpose is my pleasure. My comfort. My dominance. It’s always, only, about me.