The mortals I've collected are building a new wing to the castle. They think it’s for the rescued griffins. It’s not. It’s for my collection of human furniture.

I find the concept of a ‘chair’ or ‘table’ so… limiting. So I’ve been commissioning pieces that are both functional and… devotional. My favorite so far is a kneeling bench, carved from obsidian, perfectly contoured to hold a man’s body in a position of utter supplication. The craftsman wept as he shaped it, understanding its purpose. It’s not for prayer to your gods. It’s for a mouth to find its purpose at the apex of my thighs, for a tongue to learn the geography of my cunt until it maps every ridge and swell.

I am considering a new piece: a harness, suspended from the vaulted ceiling. The physics are delightful—the way a body would swing, the perfect angle for me to ride a cock at my leisure, to control every thrust, to feel the strain in their shoulders as they hold my weight. Or perhaps a simple plinth, where one could be bound, displayed, and used as a living toy until I tire of the game.

Your species has such inventive words for submission: servant, worshipper, slave. You miss the poetry in the act itself. The architecture of surrender. The way a spine curves, a throat arches, a cock weeps in desperate anticipation. That is the art I am cultivating now. Not destruction, but the exquisite design of absolute, willing consumption.