He knelt again that morning.
Not because I forced him to the floor — he was still too weak for that — but because I made the bed itself the altar of his submission.
I had the nurses adjust the medical bed so the head was raised at a sharp angle. Then I unstrapped his wrists and ordered him to kneel on the mattress, facing me, hands behind his back, thighs spread. The position was humiliating, difficult, and perfectly calculated.
His body trembled violently as he struggled to obey. The calculated delay and strategic weakness had stolen almost everything from him. Sweat rolled down his chest. His c**k hung heavy and leaking between his spread thighs, flushed dark and aching. Every breath was labored.
But he knelt.
For me.
I stood before him in my white coat, arms crossed, looking down
