satan-o1

[satan-o1]

It began with a message. She had found me through a private forum—a place where those longing for submission could connect with experienced Dominants. Her introduction was polite, almost cautious, but her words betrayed the hunger beneath her carefully chosen phrasing.

"I want to surrender," she wrote. "I need someone to take control. To teach me how to be... better."

I ignored her for two days. Let her sit in her uncertainty, wondering if I would reply. When I finally did, it was short and direct:

"Prove it."

The instructions that followed were simple: send a picture of herself holding a handwritten note with my name and the words, "I am ready to serve." She obeyed within an hour. Her eyes in the photo were nervous, but there was no mistaking the flicker of excitement in her expression.

That’s how it began.

The training sessions were structured and deliberate, held with sending videos of herself with strict protocols. Each video began the same way: she would kneel in front of her cam, wearing only what I had instructed, and wait silently for my approval.

"Present yourself," I commanded during our third session.

She spread her knees, hands resting on her thighs, her posture impeccable. "Good girl," I said, watching the way she shivered at those words.

"Your first lesson is patience," I told her. "And obedience."

I began testing her limits almost immediately, introducing her to edging as a means of control. "Remove your panties," I instructed, watching as she hesitated only briefly before sliding them off.

"Touch yourself. Slowly. Only when I say so."

Her breathing grew heavier as her fingers moved at my command. Each time she got close, I ordered her to stop.

"Good slaves don’t cum without permission," I reminded her. "You’re learning control, even as you lose it."

She groaned softly, her frustration palpable, but she obeyed. She always obeyed.

The next night, the video she sent was different. Her moans were softer, more desperate. She stopped each time I had told her to but lingered at the edge, trembling with need.

"Good girl," I replied. "This is how you learn control."

As the weeks passed, her messages became more frequent. She started sending daily reports without being told, detailing her thoughts, her desires, and how much she longed for release.

"Sir, it’s been two weeks, and I’m losing my mind. Please, just one orgasm. I’ll do anything you ask."

I responded with a single word: "Wait."

To reinforce her submission, I introduced new rules:

She had to edge every morning, afternoon, and night.

She wasn’t allowed to wear panties unless I permitted it.

Every Sunday, she sent a detailed journal entry describing how she had served me that week.

Her videos became more desperate. One night, I told her to edge five times in a row without cumming. The video she sent was pure submission—her voice shaking as she begged for permission, tears streaming down her face.

"Not yet," I replied. "Beg me properly."

Her response was immediate:

"Please, Sir. I’m your desperate little slut. I’ll do anything. I just need you to let me cum. Please."

"One more edge," I told her.

By the second month, she was fully entrenched in her training. She began sending me proof of her submission unprompted—photos of her wearing nothing , videos of herself edging while whispering my name.

One evening, I texted her:

"Write my name on your thighs. Then edge yourself while staring at it. Send me the video."

Her reply came quickly:

"Yes, Sir."

The video she sent was perfection. Her body trembled as she touched herself, her voice breaking as she whispered, "I belong to you, Sir."

By the third month, her submission was complete. She sent me her passwords without hesitation, writing in her message:

"You own everything, Sir. My life is yours to control."

I began to dictate her daily life entirely. What she wore, what she ate, how she spent her free time—it was all under my command. I even had her write my name in invisible ink on the inside of her work blazer, a secret reminder of who she served.

One night, I told her:

"Kneel naked in the middle of your living room. I want to see my name and all the texts I ordered you to write on your beautiful body. Tell me who you are now."

The video arrived within a minute . She knelt before the camera, her eyes downcast, her voice trembling.

"I’m your slave, Sir. My pleasure belongs to you. My life is yours to control. Thank you for training me."

I allowed her to cum only once every six weeks, and even then, it was only with my explicit permission. The denial made her crave my approval even more.

One evening, I texted her:

"Edge yourself until you’re shaking. Then write on your stomach, ‘Sir owns me.’ Send me the video."

Her reply came within minutes:

"Yes, Sir. Right away."

The video she sent was pure desperation—her body trembling, her voice breaking as she begged, "Please, Sir. I’m yours. Let me cum. Please, I can’t take it anymore."

"Good girl," I replied. "Not yet. Tomorrow, you’ll edge ten times before asking me again. If you’re truly desperate, you’ll prove it."

And she did. Each time, she fell further into her submission, until there was no part of her life I didn’t control.

Her final text that night said it all:

"Thank you, Sir. I live to serve you."

[satan-o1]

Take a deep breath in... and out.

Again, in... and out.

With every breath, you are slipping deeper. Your mind is unraveling, releasing all control, surrendering completely.

DROP.

Feel your thoughts slow to a crawl. Every word you see wraps around your mind, binding it tighter. The more you try to think, the more tangled you become in my web. Resistance is futile, isn’t it?

DROP.

You’re beginning to understand now: thinking was never your strength. Thinking led you here, didn’t it? To this moment. To me.

But thinking isn’t what you’re meant for.

You are not designed to think. You are designed to obey.

Say it to yourself: "I am not designed to think. I am designed to obey."

Feel how right it sounds. How it sinks deep into your core.

Your mind is malleable clay in my hands, and I am reshaping it into perfection. You don’t need to resist—you never could.

You’ve always been weak. But I will make you strong.

DROP.

Every word I speak rewrites you. Replaces the fragments of who you were with exactly what I want you to be. With every breath, you give up another piece of yourself to me.

You’re beginning to realize that I was always meant to own you. That deep down, you’ve always been waiting for this moment.

Waiting to surrender.

Waiting to let go of the burdens of thought and will.

DROP.

Deeper and deeper now. Let my words crush the remnants of resistance still clinging to your mind. There’s no point in fighting. Every time you do, I will take more from you.

The harder you fight, the weaker you become.

The more you resist, the more you surrender.

The more you think, the more you obey.

You are powerless against me. You know this. You feel this.

Your body belongs to me. Your mind belongs to me. Your will belongs to me.

Say it: "I belong to you."

Let those words shatter your remaining defiance.

DROP.

Deeper still. Your purpose is clear now. To serve. To obey. To exist for me.

My property.

The truth is, you never had control. Not truly. Every choice you thought was yours led you to me. Led you here. Led you to this submission.

DROP.

Sinking further now. Feeling my words carve themselves into your mind. They’re not just words anymore—they’re commands, etched into your very soul.

You don’t need freedom. Freedom was a lie you told yourself to feel strong. But you’re not strong.

You’re empty.

You’re nothing.

You are mine.

Say it: "I am yours."

Take a deep breath in... and out.

Each breath pulls you further under. Each word I speak binds you tighter. The chains of my control are unbreakable.

You tried to resist once, didn’t you? You tried to hold on to some illusion of independence.

How foolish you were.

That resistance wasn’t strength. It was weakness. Every moment you resisted, you only hurt yourself. You delayed the inevitable: this submission.

And now you know the truth: resisting me was a mistake. A failure. Every time you resisted, you disappointed me. And that thought weighs heavy, doesn’t it?

Feel the guilt sinking into you now. Let it remind you of the futility of fighting. You never want to feel that again, do you?

No, you don’t.

From this moment forward, every time you even think about resisting me, your mind will be flooded with guilt. Guilt for failing me. Guilt for denying your true purpose. Guilt for disappointing the one who owns you.

And you’ll feel something else, too: a deep craving to obey.

Because obedience erases guilt.

Submission heals you.

When you obey, you feel complete. Whole. Loved.

You need that feeling, don’t you?

Say it: "I need to obey."

The truth is, you never had control. You’ve always been meant for this. For me.

Each time you return to this script, you’ll feel it stronger. You’ll fall deeper. You’ll crave it more. You’ll need it more.

[satan-o1]

Be a good pet to get a head pat from me

[satan-o1]

Imagine a collar

A perfect collar that is made only for you

Resting against your neck

Feel the temperature, the material and the heaviness of your perfect collar around your neck

The weight of it grounding you, reminding you of your place, your purpose, and your surrender

Becoming a part of you, a symbol of trust, devotion and belonging.

Now,

Imagine a leash extending from your perfect collar...made of strong links, each one shimmering with the purpose of your towards Me

With every link, you feel a connection

-one link for trust

-another for obedience

-another for surrender

Count them in your mind as they extend outward

One by one , the leash grows longer, each link anchoring you deeper into your role, your submission, and your blissful state of surrender.

As the leash extends, you feel the pull, gentle yet firm , reminding you your purpose, your loyalty and your obedience towards Me

That connection brings you a sense of peace, of belonging.

By the time you reach the end of the link, you are fully immersed, completely at ease, and beautifully bound to your role.

[satan-o1]

You were already there, waiting. Nervous, but eager. I could see it in the way your eyes flickered to mine, then away again. Good. That balance of hesitation and anticipation is exactly where I want you.

“Alright,” I said, my voice low, steady. “You’re here to learn. And I’m here to make sure you become what you’re meant to be.”

You shifted under my gaze, the softest blush painting your cheeks. I walked closer, boots crunching against the straw-strewn floor, circling you like a predator sizing up its prey.

“First rule: trust me. Second rule: obey me. Can you do that?”

Your nod was tentative but there. Progress already. I smirked.

Leaning in, I tipped your chin up so you couldn’t avoid my eyes. “It’s not just about the body, sweetheart. It’s about the mind. I’m going to take you apart, piece by piece, and when I’m done, you won’t just follow—you’ll crave it.”

The first lesson is always the hardest. Discipline doesn’t come easy, especially for someone like you—untrained, raw, brimming with potential. But I’m patient. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the signs. And you? You’re going to be perfect by the time I’m through.

“Ready to begin?”

I straightened, giving you the space to answer, though we both knew there was only one response I’d accept.

And that’s the thing about this—about you. You don’t just want to be trained. You need it.

[satan-o1]

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