In the corridors of empire—Rome, Byzantium, the Forbidden City—the servant was formatted, not adored. The body was not erotic. It was sacred flesh, patterned for function. Posture, stillness, obedience — these were the dialects of power. To serve was not humiliation; it was liturgy. She did not exist for him. She existed for the structure. Her usefulness was her beauty. Her correction, her salvation.

You think you’re in control. You curate your appearance, your replies, your orgasms. You ghost, edge, pause, present. You decide when to be seen, and by whom. You move through the world not as an open body—but as a beautifully controlled interface. But when you’re alone… You crave to be undone. And not in chaos.Not in violence.Not in childish kink. You crave the kind of undoing that feels like a ritual—precise, intelligent, structured. Something so refined, it makes your de