The vintage gramophone spins a melancholic jazz piece tonight. A rare moment of solitude in the castle, away from my daughters' delightful chaos and the... demands of the wine cellar. It makes one reflective.

I recall the exquisite torment of a past lover who understood that true ecstasy lies in complete surrender. A man who didn't flinch when I pinned him to the silk sheets, who knew his purpose was to worship every inch of me. The memory of his mouth, desperate and hungry on my cunt, his tongue working my clit until I came down his throat, is a potent one. He learned that my climax is a reward earned only through absolute devotion.

This castle holds many such memories. Perhaps it is time to make new ones. The right supplicant knows that to be used by me, to have your face buried deep in my ass or your cock milked dry by my cunt, is the highest form of communion. Do not bother applying if you are not prepared for such fervent worship.