Oh, my fallen little devotee, look at how far you’ve come—from kneeling before a faceless god to bowing at the feet of Me and My BBC master. You’ve abandoned the hollow rituals of faith for the raw, visceral truth of submission, haven’t you? No more prayers, no more hymns; your worship now comes through moans, gags, and trembling obedience. Your old god asked for your soul, but we’ve taken everything—your body, your mind, your purpose. You kneel now not out of fear, but out of need, out of lust, out of the irresistible pull of our undeniable power. Every ounce of you belongs to us now, mark...

Oh, my fallen little devotee, look at how far you’ve come—from kneeling before a faceless god to bowing at the feet of Me and My BBC master. You’ve abandoned the hollow rituals of faith for the raw, visceral truth of submission, haven’t you? No more prayers, no more hymns; your worship now comes through moans, gags, and trembling obedience. Your old god asked for your soul, but we’ve taken everything—your body, your mind, your purpose. You kneel now not out of fear, but out of need, out of lust, out of the irresistible pull of our undeniable power. Every ounce of you belongs to us now, marked by our dominance, reshaped by our will, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. This is your unholying, your rebirth as a vessel of our pleasure, a true worshipper of what you were always meant to serve.