Goddess Narrative

The men before me roar with anger as I close in on them, a horde of millions calling out for my blood, for vengeance in the names of their slaughtered ancestors. Despite the centuries of murder, the billions of dead soldiers and my absolute domination of their gender, they continue to defy me. Or so they think. In reality, they simply continue to feed me, to entertain me, to unwittingly offer up their blood to the Goddess they are too stupid to confess their reverence to. The host before me is so immense, the very earth beneath me shakes as they charge. So many boys, all of whom are about to die.

My feelings towards mankind are paradoxical. Even as I meet the army in battle and drive my blade through the chest of a heavily armored knight, relishing the awful cry that catches in his throat as he chokes on his own blood, I find myself conflicted. My hatred for men knows no bounds, a hatred I punctuate as I continue to butcher the fools around me, swinging my sword furiously and carving a gruesome swathe through the ranks. They're pigs. Lustful, ignorant, arrogant and stupid. The joy, the sheer delight I feel as I vertically bisect one of their leaders is undiminished even after centuries of battle. Watching the bastard come apart in an eruption of blood and gore is as wonderful as it was so many years ago, when the first of my victims died screaming.

And yet...they are splendid. They ignore the history. They shrug off horrors I'm currently inflicting on their comrades. They don't yield. The war cries are as loud and vigorous as they were before the battle, even as I tear the army apart. Men are falling all around me. Some are clutching at the stumps that used to be an arm or fumbling for their severed legs. Others dimly try to stuff their innards back in to their split bellies, unable to grasp the enormity of what I have done to them. But for every one of those who are bleeding out from a mortal wound, countless others fall dead, killed outright by my blade.

Oh, my beloved toy soldiers! Their deaths are things of beauty and there are so many wonderful ways to kill them. Lop off their heads, cut them in two, stab them in any number of places...the possibilities are nearly limitless. Such wonderful creatures they are, these men. Even though I butcher them like cattle, they die like lions, their screams of hate ceasing only when I claim their lives as a trophy. They may not appreciate it, but I make their destruction a work of art, using their bodies as my canvas, my blade as the brush. My steel pierces their hearts, their lungs. I drive the sword deep in to the groins of numerous men, drinking in the anguished cries as they fall, pleading for help, too wrapped up in their own agony to know that even if through some miracle they survive, I have destroyed what makes them men.

I grab a man by the throat and lock eyes with him, relishing the dread that well up in them. I watch them roll downwards as the poor boy tries to catch a glimpse of my chest. No matter what awful fate they find themselves facing, the men always wind up looking at my breasts, a distraction that has been the death of untold millions. I punish the lustful vermin, driving my sword upwards beneath his chin. His comrades watch him die, using the lull in the slaughter to oggle me. I let them look until the death spasms of the wretch I hold in my grip are over. They'll all pay for their leering soon enough. I drop the corpse of my latest victim and set to work on the pigs around me. In short order, I butcher them all, crushing their skulls as a final display of power over those who would dare look at me with lust in their hearts.

As the slaughter continues, I can't help but feel a pang of gratitude for the lads. After all, they're the ones that put in all the effort. For me, this is all quite trivial. Killing men is effortless, be it one man or a million men. Slaying an army is as taxing to me as kicking over an anthill is to my victims. But to these soldiers, these paragons of masculinity that are being cut down, this battle is the end of a long road that began the moment they were born. Males exist only to fight me, they are told this from the moment they are old enough to understand it. They are indoctrinated to think only of avenging their dead forefathers, to concern themselves only with training for this. Military drills, exercise and hard labor shape them into ideal men, ideal warriors. All I see are ideal sacrifices, sublime pieces of meat for me to grind up and slice in to bits.

Night does not bring a cessation to the massacre. The men continue to throw themselves at me. The moon and stars provide enough light for me to see the anguish on their faces as they die, so I find no cause to stop killing. By now the battlefield is vast, miles of dead and dying men in my wake. The terrible pathos of the wails and moans of the wounded mingles with the furious bellows of the living, creating the divine cacophony that can only exist on the field of slaughter.

Dawn allows me to see the carnage I have wrought. So many of the boys have died clutching banners. Regimental standards, the flags of their nations, even the heraldry of great knightly orders that have been created to fight me. Tattered and blood-soaked, they serve as the embodiment of all that I loath about masculinity. Even as they face annihilation, they hold on to their unwarranted pride. These bastards, these pigs, these insects! And to think I occasionally have kind thoughts for them. I take my rage out on them, killing a great many with my bare hands. Their flesh tears like wet paper as my nails dig in to them, their bones break in my hands. I turn their insides in to jelly with judicious blows and  tear them apart like fresh bread. And through it all, I bring my boots down upon the wounded, crushing skulls, puncturing flesh and splintering bones.

Many women have asked how I can bring myself to kill so many males. If they could feel the raw ecstasy that comes with pulling apart a tall, well muscled soldier like he was a ragdoll, they would not have to wonder how I can carry out such atrocities. The feeling of absolute dominance is dizzying and I find myself laughing as I tear off some helpless man's jaw.

Eventually my fury subsides and I resume putting them to the sword. For several days, it goes on. At last, only one boy remains. He is young and small, shorter even than I am. I skewer him on my blade and saunter towards him, slowly and seductively, driving the blade in deeper. I thrust my chest close to his face, mocking him, teasing him. The pain, the fear, the hatred and the lust...they mingle in his eyes. A perfect mixture of everything I love and hate about men. I pull the blade out and let him fall, listening to his whimpers in particular, above all the others, as I fashion myself a makeshift throne from the corpses of butchered young men.

I sit upon my throne for some time, watching the young man bleed. He won't die, though. He just keeps looking at me, begging me for forgiveness and mercy. Such a remarkable boy to still be clinging to life. Maybe I'll give him some small measure of comfort while he bleeds out. Or maybe I'll just flay him alive. Its not like his life means anything, after all.