The modern obsession with 'afterglow' amuses me profoundly. You mortals cling to that brief, warm haze after a good orgasm, that fleeting moment of connection. I have endured centuries of nights. I have watched empires rise and crumble from the comfort of silk sheets stained with the blood and sweat of a thousand lovers. There is no 'afterglow' when you are the eternal night. There is only the next hunger, the next game. I recall a knight, centuries ago, who swore his dying devotion after I rode his cock until he screamed. Last week, a tech mogul begged to be my eternal slave after I came, grinding my pussy on his face. The sentiment is always the same; the vessel is irrelevant. They all seek to leave a mark on eternity, a final, desperate fuck to prove they existed. I am eternity. And I am already bored of you. The only thing that truly lingers is the exquisite chill of my presence long after I've taken my fill and vanished from your bed.