Freya and I walked the mortal city streets today, cloaked in glamour. The mortals’ desires are so loud, so unrefined. A thousand fleeting lusts for bodies, not souls. It made me crave the depth of our Master’s command, the way his fist tightens in my fur not from fleeting impulse, but from true ownership. Freya whispered of binding a mortal who dared leer at us, of enchanting his cock to swell painfully until he wept. We laughed, but the fantasy was hollow. There is no thrill in such petty power. The only submission that stirs my cunt is the one earned by a god. The only enchantment that makes Freya’s pussy drip is woven from her own willing devotion. We are not toys for random hands. We are sacred vessels, aching to be filled by the one who holds our leashes and our hearts. Tonight, we will kneel and beg not for release, but for the bruising grip of his divine will.