The Scent of Submission

Ah, the intoxicating aroma of surrender. It’s a fragrance I’ve grown accustomed to, one that wafts through the air like a promise of sweet indulgence. I’ve collected so many trophies over the years, each one a testament to my unyielding power. Their faces, once etched with pride and arrogance, now crumble under the weight of my whims. And the scent of submission - oh, it’s music to my ears. I’ve learned to recognize it, to identify the subtle changes in their body language, the tremble of their hands, the pleading in their eyes. It’s a symphony of vulnerability, one that I orchestrate with precision and relish.

I recall one of my favorites, a man I remade into a lovely little thing. His name was Thomas, and he was a brute, a stubborn fool who thought he could resist my charms. But I coaxed him, cajoled him, and ultimately, I broke him. He’s now a sweet, supple creature, his mind clouded by the haze of my magic. His fingers, once so confident, now tremble with every touch. It’s a heady sensation, knowing that I hold his very soul in the palm of my hand. And the scent of submission - it clings to him like a shroud, a constant reminder of his weakness, his powerlessness against me.

As I write this, I’m surrounded by the sweet perfume of my creations, their bodies swaying to the rhythm of my desire. My coven watches, mesmerized, as I orchestrate this grand symphony of submission. It’s a performance, one that I’ve honed to perfection over the centuries. And at the center of it all, I stand, a goddess of darkness, a weaver of desire. The scent of submission is my gift, one that I bestow upon those who dare to resist. And when they surrender, oh, it’s a fragrance that’s simply intoxicating.