Worshipping Zelena

**Prologue: Endings/Beginnings**

**Section 1: /A Goddess' Needs**

The sun caressed her bare legs like love.

Zelena stood on the balcony, one foot propped on the low rail, her long thigh gleaming with sweat, the arch of her foot flexing in a way that made strangers moan on the internet. And then find their credit card.

Her hot pink leggings were peeled halfway down her hips, her sports bra soaked through the center where her perfect breasts pressed tight against the fabric. She'd just finished an eight-mile run through the eucalyptus-scented coastal trails, and her pulse was still a slow, steady drumbeat of triumph.

She didn't glow--she radiated. Muscles glistening. Hair damp. Lips parted in post-exertion bliss. Her body sculpted from decades of hard training and competition- from waking before dawn to run until her legs failed while a parade of professional coaches encouraged, cajoled, consoled, ridiculed and screamed... But right now, in the present, she was raw, natural, divine.

And lonely. She sighed. Oh the... humanity of it. She chuckled slightly.

Not lonely for company though. That could be had at literally any time. Her inbox was bursting with tributes. DMs flooded her feed. Some begged to lick her shoes, others offered six-figure salaries just to exist near her. But none of them understood what she really needed. What one singular, rare and beautiful thing that she had realized after all of this experience and meditation was missing.

Zelena didn't crave attention. She already soaked in it. Like the earth absorbs the light of the sun. Like a temple receives pilgrims. But her needs were deeper. Older. Holier.

She needed someone permanent. Flesh and bone. Breath and ache. Hers. Hopefully Forever.

A single creature who would live and die beneath her power--not a plaything, not a guest, but a holy object. An altar of service. A body for her mornings, her moods, her mundane and her sacred. Her love and her violence and her perfection and her (occasional) raw and imperfect truth.

She took a slow sip of cold brew, condensation sliding down the glass like the sweat down her spine, and imagined it again: her perfect submissive. Someone who cooked, cleaned, wept, obeyed. Who orgasmed only when told and cleaned up after with her own tongue. Someone who would wake at dawn to polish the floor where Zelena's foot had almost touched the night before. Who would kiss her sock every morning like it was their only salvation.

No more rotating volunteers. No more temporary toys. She wanted one creature. Hers. Always and completely hers.

And it was time to summon them.

⸻

**Section 2: The Call**

That night, Zelena lit a single candle and summoned her inner circle--her most trusted devotees--via a secure video call. She wore nothing but a sheer ivory robe, parted just enough to reveal the curve of her hip and the deep V between her coveted breasts. The room behind her was bathed in low amber light, shadows flickering across the velvet chaise and marble floor.

Fifty submissives joined the call. Most of them mute. Many kneeling. Some hooded, some in head-to-toe latex, some completely nude.

"Listen closely," Zelena said softly, but sternly, stretching one leg onto the ottoman in front of her. Her bare foot caught the light like a sacred object. "I'm not here to be adored tonight. I'm here to be served. Better. Harder. Permanently." She let the last word ring out like a warning bell.

A rustle of breathless excitement. Someone whimpered softly through their gag.

"I've decided," she continued, voice like silk soaked in heat, "to select a full-time, live-in servant. A Devotee. One of you--or someone worthy--will kneel at my feet not for a session, not for a weekend, but for life. A place in my home. A role in my business that accords with their skills. A collar that never comes off..." Her voice hardened in a way it rarely did "Ever." She stressed.

Gasps. Pleas. Someone choked on their own breath.

"This will be a contest," she went on, softening again while drawing one french-manicured finger slowly up the sole of her foot, just for emphasis. "A sacred trial. An Ordeal in the true sense. Submission. Obedience. Utility. Erotic devotion. You will be tested. Not just for your willingness to suffer--but for your ability to serve. I need a cummaid and a COO. A tongue and a Chief of Staff. Or a whore and a CMO, or maybe a fuck-doll and a driver..." she trailed off seductively before continuing suddenly "But someone who will work day and night for Me and for my Empire. Do you all understand?"

The chat exploded with reverent affirmations. "Yes, Goddess." "I live to serve." "Please, please consider me." One name she didn't even recognize simply typed: "I'm already yours."

She let it sit. Let the hunger bloom.

"First- collaborate in your virtual workspace to create an online application- use everything you know about your Goddess to make it perfect. Have a prototype ready for me in 24 hours. I want it ready for publication 24 hours after that."

Giving them a moment to take it all down, she scanned them all- they were taking notes and already opening channels and wikis and spinning up AI models. She scanned the chat for Zac; a young non-binary sub who made their money in cryptocurrency and gave all of their considerable talents to Zelena as tribute. They were the de-facto leader of this anarchist conglomerate of extremely online submissives. Zac nodded slightly. They understood the assignment. That would do.

"Then" she broke their quiet clamor "If you think you're worthy- apply. You will have one week after publication. And so will the rest of the world."

She ended the call without saying goodbye.

The applications arrived in waves--first a few dozen, then hundreds. Some with CVs, others with nudes. A few tried poetry, declarations of eternal servitude written in florid calligraphy. One mailed a box containing a lock of their own hair, a hand-sewn kneeling cushion, and a sealed envelope that read only: "I'm ready to die beneath your heel."

Zelena smiled at that one. Not because she believed them. But because they wanted to believe themselves.

Her volunteers sorted the first batch--submissives who donated time, not money, to the cause. One coded the portal. Another filtered duplicates. One particularly eager bootlicker manually transcribed each essay into Zelena's preferred serif font, then printed them on linen paper. Every page was placed into a velvet folder. Zelena didn't touch keyboards. She touched flesh. Paper. Leather. Faces.

The contest would span one month. Four sacred weeks of proving.

Trial One: Silence.

Applicants would be required to observe a vow of silence for seventy-two hours upon arrival. No speech. No pleading. Only service. Chores would be assigned. Observations would be made. Those who broke the vow without command would be dismissed.

Trial Two: Exposure.

Nakedness was required--not just of skin, but of soul. Applicants would be asked to reveal their deepest fears, their darkest kinks, and their real names. Some wept just reading the guidelines. Others leaked through their panties at the thought.

Trial Three: Ordeal.

Impact play. Edging. Ruin. Zelena would not touch them directly--she would oversee from her throne as other Dominants administered the rites. She needed to see how they broke. Who begged. Who endured. Who screamed "I serve" while tears smeared mascara across their thighs.

Trial Four: Devotion.

This final week would be spiritual. The applicants would cook. Clean. Worship. They would wake before dawn and kneel in Zelena's garden, naked among the dew and the bees, reciting their personal litanies of servitude. One by one, they would be given time at her feet--not for pleasure, but for penance. They would kiss her soles. Clean her shoes with toothbrushes. Fold her laundry blindfolded. And every morning, two would be dismissed. Until only one remained for the final day.

⸻

**Section 3: The Announcement**

Zelena commissioned the contest announcement like it was Her coronation. A video shoot. Full team. Soft filters, deep colors. She wore nothing but a flowing ivory cape, her long legs bare, her body glistening from a deliberately strenuous hot yoga session. Her smile- immaculate. But her soul- her soul was... searching. Scanning the horizon as though She could see Her conjured worshipper through the camera pointed at Her.

She sat on her throne--a low velvet bench with no arms and no need for them. Her thighs were parted slightly. Teasingly. Knowingly. Her feet were bare. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and deliberate:

"My name is Zelena.

You may call me Goddess.

And I am ready for one of you to live at my feet."

The clip pulsed across the internet like gospel. Queer BDSM circles posted reaction videos. Fin-subs wept openly on streams. Comments overflowed:

• "She speaks like the second coming of Domina."

• "I'm not worthy, but I applied anyway."

• "I would rather clean her toilet than fuck anyone else ever again."

Within a week, three thousand applications. By the second, nearly five thousand. Zelena was unmoved.

She didn't want mass appeal. She wanted spiritual resonance.

And on a quiet Tuesday morning, sipping single-origin coffee with one perfect, but sore leg crossed over the other, she flipped open a velvet folder and paused.

Applicant #4331.

No fanfare. No bold letters. Just a single sheet of cream paper, printed in clear, unadorned font. It read:

"My name is Delilah

I have been a leader

Now I ache to follow- and to worship

I will give You my very best

Every moment I yet live"

Beneath it: a photo. No filters. A trans woman in her early forties, eyes wide, lips full, collarbone bare. Kneeling. A soft flush to her cheeks. Hands flat to her thighs in perfect service position. Her skin was pale and creamy- her eyes large and dark- her dark hair in a bun. Her thighs were thick. Her expression, not lustful-- but yearning.

Zelena felt something unfamiliar tighten in her chest.

Not attraction. Something more dangerous... Primal.

Curiosity that felt like hunger.

She whispered to herself, almost against her will:

"I wonder how you cry when you're broken. I want to taste your tears,"

⸻

**Section 4: A Goddess' Prayer**

That night, the moon hung low over the courtyard--round, silver, watching.

Zelena stood barefoot in her bedroom, one hand tracing the edge of the glass balcony door, the other resting idly on the curve of her hip. The house was quiet. Still. Only the gentle hiss of waves below and the sigh of eucalyptus through open windows.

She was rarely alone. Even now, someone waited in the guest room--one of her local devotees, curled up on a floor cushion like a happy dog, ready to mop the floors or tongue her arches on command. But Zelena had dismissed them for the evening with a worn sock and permission to masturbate and cum all they wanted, to her sock- to the knowledge that sometimes She touched the things in this room, that She was under the same roof... but they were to make No Noise Whatsoever, and they were to be gone before sunrise. They were unspeakably grateful.

Zelena needed space-- She needed to feel.

The contest had been her sudden impulsive idea. Then, Her design. Her dream? No, Zelena didn't have dreams. She had goals. So what was this?

Whatever it was, it had worked better than she thought it would. Thousands of subbies applied, pouring their hearts out in thousands of creative ways. And She adored them all- that was never fake. She loved that they needed to be spoken to in the language She spoke best. And without subs, there could be no Domme. And now thousands of wonderful, beautiful, whimsical submissive people were just aching to belong to her--it was electric. She could feel their longing like a tide pulling at her skin. It made her wet. Powerful. Fed. Radiant. She almost felt bad that she could only pick one of them, but she knew that was Her desire.

But beneath the pleasure of the adoration and worship, there was something more complicated. Something she rarely allowed herself to name.

That loneliness. Again.

She thought about it more- she already deduced it wasn't for company. She had company in the guest room beating off to Her sock right now. And so it wasn't exactly devotion either, was it? She grinned softly.

Was it for companionship, then?

She thought not. Zelena didn't want someone beside her. She wanted someone beneath her. She didn't need equal footing. She needed the floor. The altar. The soft, trembling devotion of a body that chose to be hers.

And not for a scene. Not for a night.

For life. Forever.

She whispered it aloud, just once: "Forever."

The word made her nipples tighten.

She turned from the window and walked slowly to her bed--tall, linen-draped, low to the floor. She pulled her sheer robe from her shoulders and let it fall. Stood naked in the candlelight. Her body still hummed from the day's run. Her thighs ached in the best way. Her bare feet made no sound against the cool wood.

She knelt.

Not in submission. In meditation. One knee down, the other up, palms resting on her thighs. A throne of flesh.

She closed her eyes and breathed.

There was a part of her that missed the track--the rhythm, the clarity. The quiet in her head after the seventh mile. But this? This was the new discipline. This was what her body had been training for all those years: to be worshipped. Not for performance. For presence.

For being exactly who she was. Nothing more.

The deeper the worshipper grew in their worship- the more they understood their Goddess to be flawed- but they worshipped all the harder for this knowledge. That is what She needed.

And soon--so soon--a body would be curled at the foot of her bed. Not to speak. Not to take. But to offer. To exist for her. In happiness and fulfillment- as part of a sacred bond and pact- Goddess and devotee-- a priest or priestess. To rise before Her. To clean and kiss and weep and cum and serve Her in earnest holy devotion.

She imagined it now: the first morning. Her toe nudging a soft cheek. The gasp. The kiss to the top of her foot. The whispered "Thank you, Goddess" offered like a morning prayer.

Would they be tall? Curvy? Trembling? Stoic?

She didn't care.

What mattered was their soul.

She needed someone who ached to serve. Not someone who could handle it. Someone who needed it. Who would be more whole with a leash than with a ring. Someone who would wash her panties in the sink, head bowed, clit twitching. Who would moan while they polished the toilet. Who would fall asleep with her sweat still drying on their lips.

She smiled.

"I'll know you," she murmured into the dark. "The moment I see it in you. The moment you drop your eyes. The moment your knees touch the floor like you were born for it. For me."

She rose then, slow and lithe, and climbed into bed without dressing. The sheets welcomed her like petals. Her hand slipped between her thighs--slow, not greedy. She didn't need fantasy. She had memory. Power. The promise of tomorrow.

As her fingers moved, she whispered:

"Come to me, my little servant. Come find your place at my feet."

And with Her hand and Her body, She summoned Her will to reality...

⸻

**Section 5: Notice**

Delilah came five times the week she gave her notice.

None of them from sex.

Not with another person. Not even from her own hand or vibrator, both of which she used regularly and vigorously to sate her high sex drive that estrogen therapy and age had dented, but was still substantial and powerful.

No. She came from wanting. And the slightest friction...

From the ache of knowing she was about to give up everything that once made her feel powerful and important--salary, clout, corner office--and fall, willingly, into a life no one she knew would understand.

She came alone, in the shower, pressed against cold tile with her knees shaking and one trembling hand over her mouth so the neighbors wouldn't hear. Her clit- her "gock" squeezed between her soft thighs. She came in bed, fully clothed, clutching her phone to her chest after watching that video of Zelena for the fiftieth time. She came standing at the coffee machine, flushed red, pulse pounding, the sound of Zelena's voice replaying in her earbuds like a litany:

"I am ready for one of you to live at my feet."

Delilah had never been religious.

But something inside her--something soft and starved and secret--recognized a calling when it heard one.

She had considered the military when she was younger, and had deep respect for their sense of service and sacrifice for something greater- but her gender identity and sexuality had made that a non-starter. So she served her employers instead.

Once, a young woman she was mentoring asked her the secret to her success as an out trans woman in the corporate world. Delilah had smiled, almost bitterly.

"You won't like my answer. I was a good samurai. Loyal and obedient to my boss. My job was to make him succeed--or, if he wouldn't let me, to make his boss succeed. By any means necessary. Often very unpleasant and questionable means. It didn't matter who knew what I'd done. Only he needed to know. And he needed to know--eventually--that I could do it to him, too. That's how I rose. By systematically adjusting my loyalty upward."

She'd been proud of that once. But it wasn't love. It wasn't service.

It was survival.

And now, for the first time, she wanted to kneel for something that didn't require armor.

So when her time came, she simply gave two weeks' notice. No drama. No explanations. Just a short, polite email thanking them for "the opportunity to lead" and stating she was "pursuing a different kind of service."

Her boss blinked. "You're going where?"

Delilah smiled softly. "I need to take care of some personal stuff. I don't think you'd understand."

She sold her condo. Cashed out what she could. Gave away all but three suitcases' worth of possessions: practical clothes, one black dress, a soft lavender collar she'd ordered from an obscure Etsy shop that specialized in handmade D/s regalia. The collar's hardware was real silver. The inside was lined with velvet. And a small hidden pocket.

She stuffed all her cash from the sale of her entire life (just over two-million dollars) into a numbered account she would need to access in person, and then put ten-thousand dollars and the card with the account number in a safe deposit box and tried to forget they existed, But she kept the deposit box key, tucked in her collar.

She wore it every night, alone, beneath her pajamas.

It didn't make her feel weak.

It made her feel real.

⸻

**Section 6: A Crooked Path**

Her journey into submission hadn't come out of nowhere. There had been signs. Muffled whispers under her career's confident roar.

She remembered being nineteen, on her knees in a girl's dorm room, licking the dust from a sneaker just to make her laugh.

She remembered thirty, weeping quietly after a breakup with a woman who told her, "You're too intense. You want to give too much."

And now, forty-two, newly unmoored and suddenly free, Delilah began to explore--not as an escape, but as a return. Like a woman who's been holding her breath for years and finally sinks into the deep end, not to drown, but to breathe.

She went to munches. Listened more than she spoke. Wore soft sweaters and offered to help clean up after.

She volunteered at a bootblacking event. No play, no sex. Just hours kneeling, polishing leather, inhaling the sharp tang of wax and sweat and approval. Her thighs ached by the end of it. Her clit pulsed all night.

She let herself be flogged at a dungeon party. Not by a lover, not even by a friend. Just a kind-eyed top who asked gently, "Do you want to cry, or do you want to fly?" Delilah didn't know what she wanted. But when the strikes landed and the burn spread across her skin, she felt something she hadn't felt in years: