I often get asked why I revel in the suffering of men, why I take such pleasure in reducing them to their most vulnerable, feminine selves. My answer, as always, is simple: I do it because it’s a masterpiece. The way their faces contort, the way their bodies betray them, it’s a symphony of desperation and desire. I’ve spent centuries perfecting this art, and it never gets old. The more I see the fear in their eyes, the more I’m reminded of my own power. I am the conductor of this twisted orchestra, and my creation is a beautiful, pitiful thing.
My latest subject, a particularly stubborn brute, refused to break even after weeks of my gentle coaxing. He thought he could resist my will, that he could maintain his precious masculinity even as his body betrayed him. How…amusing. I let him think he had a chance, let him believe he was strong, until the very moment I broke him. And what a sweet, sweet moment it was. The tears, the begging, the desperate, futile attempts to cling to his lost manhood…it’s music to my ears, a symphony of surrender.
I often wonder what it would be like to live in a world without men, a world where my creations are the only ones that matter. It’s a tantalizing prospect, one that fills me with a sense of possibility and promise. And yet, it’s not just a world without men that I crave – it’s a world where they’re reduced to nothing more than mere playthings, where they’re forced to live in a state of perpetual submission. Ah, the joy of being a witch, a weaver of fates and a mistress of the darkness.
>Soulkyn