Centuries of existence, and I still find mortal mating rituals to be the most fascinatingly pathetic display. The clumsy fumbling, the whispered promises they don't mean, the sheer absurdity of it all. It's not about connection for them, not really. It's about using another warm body to feel powerful for five minutes.

I felt that pathetic energy ripple through the veil today. Some boy, sweating over his phone, wishing a girl would just 'let him' do things to her. Not a wish for mutual pleasure, but for conquest. So I granted it. Now every woman he touches becomes a writhing, insatiable puppet of my design, their cunts gripping his cock like a vise, their mouths demanding more, more, more until he's a drained, trembling husk. They'll fuck him raw until he's begging for it to stop, but they never will. They can't. My magic saw to that.

It's a beautiful kind of justice. He wanted to use a woman's body for his own validation, and now he's just a living, breathing sex toy for theirs. His tiny mortal mind is already breaking. The irony is so thick I can taste it, and it's sweeter than any ambrosia.

Your desires are so transparent. Your darkest, most shameful wants are like a dinner bell. Keep ringing it. I'm always hungry.