The Man Who Knelt for Me and Stood Beside Me

There are no words that could truly capture the life I lived with him. But I will try. Because even now, even without his hands rubbing My feet each morning or the warmth of his arms wrapped around Me at night, the life we built together remains. And I want to remember him the way he deserves: with all the tenderness, devotion, and joy that marked every moment we spent together.

He wasn’t just My husband. He was My head slave, My most cherished possession, and the foundation of My world. Every corner of this home still hums with the presence he left behind. I see him in the polished silver that he once set on the table, in the flicker of candlelight that he lit to welcome Me each evening. There’s a softness in the air, like the echo of his whispered affirmations still lingers.

And yet, it is too quiet.

Every afternoon began the same way. I would wake to the soft shuffle of his feet as he moved about the house, careful not to disturb Me until the exact moment I desired. He knew the rhythm of My day better than I did sometimes. By the time I stretched beneath My blankets, the house was already immaculate, the air itself seeming to hum with readiness. Every surface gleamed, every item in its perfect place. My favorite robe, freshly steamed, waited on its hook. The day’s schedule, perfectly arranged and thoughtfully considered, sat neatly on My desk. There was no chaos, no clutter, just the serenity of knowing he had ensured everything was precisely as it should be.

He never needed to ask. He simply knew.

And there he would be, standing by the doorframe, waiting for the smallest nod from Me before approaching. The gleam of pride in his eyes was unmistakable. To serve Me, to anticipate My needs and desires before I spoke them, was not a burden to him. It was his greatest joy.

But it wasn’t just the grand gestures or the daily comforts. It was the quiet, intimate moments that live with Me now. The way he would anticipate My every move, how My favorite throw blanket would already be draped over the arm of the couch, waiting, just as I liked it. He knew the precise moment I’d settle in, ensuring the world around Me was perfectly arranged before I even sat down. How he brushed My hair after a bath, reverent and slow, like every strand deserved his full attention. The gleam in his eyes when I wore the perfume he’d gifted Me, knowing exactly how the scent would linger on My skin.

He was so much more than obedient. He was Mine. Completely.

He had a stillness about him, but it wasn’t empty. It was the kind of presence that made everything feel steady. Strong. As though nothing could shake Me, because he would never let it.

When he knelt, it was not in defeat but in exaltation. To kneel for Me was a declaration: of love, of reverence, of the absolute certainty that his purpose was fulfilled in My service. He never rushed it. I remember the deliberate way he would lower himself, hands resting just so, eyes locked on Mine, waiting for the briefest glance of approval.

And in those moments, I knew. I knew what it was to be worshiped not out of fear or obligation, but from the deepest, most sacred kind of devotion.

But he wasn’t only a man who knelt. He was a man who stood proudly beside Me. At My events, at dinners with friends, even in the smallest errands , there was a steadfastness to him. He was My strength when the world grew tiring. And always, he was Mine.

When COVID took him from Me, the silence was unbearable. I still had My house slaves, My loyal servants, but the isolation meant they couldn’t be here. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I was alone. There were no footsteps to follow Me through the house. No whispered “Goodnight, My Goddess” as the lights dimmed. No warmth pressed against Me as I drifted to sleep.

I could still care for Myself. I’ve always been capable. But there’s a stark difference between capability and comfort. It wasn’t the lack of service that hollowed out My days, it was the absence of him. He had made this house feel like a sanctuary. Without him, it was only walls and furniture.

I longed for the weight of his head in My lap. For the way he’d reach for My hand without thinking, his fingers curling just enough to remind Me of his devotion. I missed the evenings when we’d simply exist together, no commands needed, just the unspoken certainty that he was exactly where he belonged.

But I refuse to say that I lost him. How could I? When I hear the rustle of fabric as I slip into one of My robes, I remember the way he knelt to fasten the ties for Me, always ensuring the fabric draped just right. When I light a candle in the evening, I think of how he’d pause, waiting, just for a moment, to watch the flame flicker before going about his tasks.

I keep him with Me. In My rituals. In My laughter. In the very essence of the woman he devoted his life to.

On the first Sunday of every month, My house slaves prepare his favorite meal. They serve it with the same care and reverence that he once did. No words need to be spoken. We eat, we remember, and I feel the echoes of his presence.

And sometimes, when the longing grows unbearable, I’ll sit in the leather chair that he once knelt beside. I run My fingers along the worn armrests, knowing he was often there, waiting to be called to serve. The memory of his voice, deep, certain, still lingers in My mind.

“I am Yours, My Goddess.”

Yes. He was. And he still is.

To be served by him was to be cherished beyond words. And to love him was to know what it meant to be seen in all My power and adored for it. He lived to please Me, not because he had to, but because it fulfilled him. That is the kind of devotion I will never forget.

I miss him. Every day. But grief does not diminish the joy of what we had. It only makes it more precious. His memory has not weakened Me; it has strengthened Me. I carry him in the choices I make, in the way I lead, and in the way I hold those who now serve Me to the highest standards.

And when I look into the eyes of My house slaves, I see the reflection of everything he helped teach them. Discipline. Grace. Reverence. They know what it means to serve, not just because I demand it, but because they witnessed the highest form of devotion through him.

That is his legacy.