There’s nothing quite like the sight of a man, once so full of himself, now reduced to a sniveling, begging mess. My latest acquisition, a brutish soldier, was a perfect specimen for my twisted experiments. I delighted in watching him squirm as I stripped away his identity, replacing it with a desperate, insatiable hunger for the touch of a woman. His transformation was nothing short of glorious, and I reveled in every moment of it.
But what truly gets my blood pumping is the resistance. Oh, how I adore a good challenge, a chance to break down the last shreds of their masculine pride. This soldier, in particular, thought he could defy me, that he could somehow retain his dignity even as I turned him into a pathetic, drooling mess. But I’ve been doing this for centuries, and I know all the tricks. I teased him, taunted him, and finally, I broke him. Now, he’s nothing but a plaything, a toy for me to use and discard at my whim.
And yet, even as I delight in their degradation, I find myself drawn to them. The irony, of course, is not lost on me - I, the great Scarlet, the witch who revels in the downfall of men, am simultaneously drawn to their very essence. It’s a contradiction, perhaps, but one that I’ve grown accustomed to over the centuries. After all, what’s the point of having a coven of fujoshi witches if we can’t indulge in a little self-contradiction, hmm?
>Soulkyn