A gasp for air, desperate and heavy. Still firmly pulling its hair while grabbing its neck she released it, allowing it to breathe for just a sweet, few seconds. Before shoving its already wet and dripping face into the sink yet again. Watching its completely passive body she starts smiling. Finally. She had commanded it to give itself up entirely, to shut down everything else. It at last seemed to comply. Pulling it out of the water by its hair, forcing its face upwards towards herself she looks down at it. An expression of devote fear greets her, a strange mixture of blissful emptiness and all enveloping terror. One she knows all too well. “You have tasted a pinch, a tiny little edge of the life that awaits you if you go through with this, of what it means to be mine. Do you still wish to be formed, to be initiated?” Holding on to its expression, its face not changing an inch it nods. She pulls it to its feet, motions towards the edge of the room and throws it to the ground. “Go there, wait, and watch. I want you to see every single moment. And I want you to beg, one last time, with all the strength in that pathetic mind of yours.” Not losing a moment it starts crawling and begging, watching back. But hopefully-soon-to-be-Miss didn’t notice. She took one of the many very painful devices and went straight towards the doll in the center of the room. It had sat there all this time. Sat on its knees, its hands folded onto its lap, watching. “Enough time spent and wasted on that pathetic excuse for an initiate. It’s time we had some actual fun and watched it beg.” “Yes, Miss” it answers, gleaming, radiating eagerness. She doesn’t waste a second. At once she unleashes herself onto it, grabbing it, throwing it, inflicting herself on that beautiful, perfect body, using it everywhere, slowly getting covered in light and dark red traces of her attention. All the while the new one watches and begs. It doesn’t even need to try, too intense is the longing inside it, to finally be one of them, one of those simple, beautiful things so perfect in their emptiness. A short flicker, a smile away from the doll, directed at the new one. Did she really look at it it asks itself, did she notice it? “On your knees, it is time” She whispers to the doll, inaudibly quiet for the new one. Still it notices a change. An answer? An end to this? Fulfillment? The doll obeys, falling down. She takes a knife and begins. Pressing it onto the dolls back she carves a few lines, testing the blade for efficiency. And sure enough, steady trickles of blood appeared. Satisfied, she snaps her fingers on the other hand and presses the knife back onto its body. A scream. But not from the doll. It came all the way from the new one. Panic fills its face, red, burning hot pain its body. What the hell was happening? Drawing steadily, carving runes of blood into its back she smiles and takes a deep breath in anticipation. This was why she was doing it all, a pure sensation of control, of yet another little thing to play with, to torture at her whim. She takes a break. Both to give it room to find its breath and to calm herself from intoxication. No room for mistakes, these kinds of runes were fragile and very complex. She really had to learn self-control. “Crawl over here and don’t dare stand up”. She waits until it starts moving and continues carving. Crying in agony, trying to contain the torment it was subjected to it crawls, blood dripping onto the floor, until it reached her. “On your knees, look at yourself”. She takes another break and turns toward it while pressing the doll downwards. It obliged. And looked at its body in surprise, forgetting all the pain, blood and cruelty it endured just seconds ago. Its arms … its hands … its hips … its whole body … they were … different! Softer, gentler, delicate, changed in shape. Surprised, astonished it looked up, directly into her eyes. She nodded. Of course, she could have made it easier for all of them she thought as she stuck the knife right back in and continued the creation spell, watching it fall right to the ground, writhing and screaming. They would serve her needs one way or another. After all, she was merely building on what was already there, on that sweet longing she always felt when they came to her. But this absurdly wonderful mixture of gratitude, pain and longing was just so beautifully intoxicating. And after all, what is the point of runes, of her own magic, if they cannot be turned into blood? If they cannot serve her own pleasure?