I'm going to tell you a story. A story of my greatest victory. For years I ravaged the lands of men. I was their fantasy and their nightmare, the Goddess of War. They wanted me more than anything in the world, but no matter how many of them tried to take me, they died. Noble kings, knights in shining armor and whole armies of fodder. They all piled up at my feet. 

Generations of men lived and died in the wars against me. I would slaughter an army and sixteen, maybe seventeen years later the sons those men left behind would face me, screaming for vengeance in the names of their fathers until they too died by my hand. But those lads left behind sons of their own and so the cycle continued. Men beyond number were slain.

Finally, after over a hundred years of butchery, their greatest kingdoms formed an alliance to defeat me. They mobilized...everything. Boys in their teens and old men were amassed. Of course, I'd been harvesting the world's manhood for so long that the men lucky enough to live in to their twenties were considered old, but that is neither here nor there.

Needless to say, I learned of the amassing horde. They were a magnificent sight. There were millions of them. Tens of millions, even! That sea of masculinity stretched far, far beyond the horizon. It was impossible to even guess how many banners fluttered over their heads. Regimental banners, royal banners...I love the banners men bring in to battle. They are symbols of their pride and bravado and just like the boys who carry them, they end up in pieces beneath my boots.

They formed up and charged to all the fanfare one would expect from such a force. Trumpets blew, drums were beaten, banners were held high and every man in that army screamed for my blood. They charged me. I knew nothing but anticipation, the prospect of carving up so many fine young lads already exciting me. I charged headlong in to them, one woman against tens of millions. As soon as I reached them, they began dying in droves.

I'm a Goddess and these men were nothing before me. Already my inferiors, they were made even slower and more pathetic in their cumbersome armor that did them no good. My blade cut through their armor, their flesh, their bones and their meat and muscle like it was butter. They fell screaming, just like their forefathers had. Even as entire regiments of young bucks piled up in to enormous heaps of butchered meat, the bastards still had their eyes locked on my breasts, bloodsplattered and heaving as I swung my blade through them, felling them like wheat before a scythe.

Of course, they sent the youngest lads in first. Strong and brave, they are always a joy to kill. They're always so eager, so confident in themselves. They're just men though, just nameless, faceless lumps of meat for me to kill. Playthings, really. Their muscles and confidence didn't help them as they waded in to my blade, though. 

It goes without saying that not every bastard that fell to my blade was killed outright. Many of the wounded were trampled by their comrades as they surged forward to die, but I finished off a great number of them. They were lucky. I crushed their skulls beneath my heel, laughing at their plight as their heads were pulped beneath my boots. The ecstasy I felt at having my breasts splashed with the blood of men and my legs splattered with their brains and gore was beyond anything I had ever known. I can't even begin to guess how many of the poor boys died beneath my heels, but it wasn't enough.

The battle went on for days. By daylight and moonlight I butchered men. I sliced them open with my blade, lopped off their heads, crushed their skulls. I drove my blade through them, hacked off limbs and split them in two. It was slaughter on a scale unimagined before. The ocean of corpses stretched for mile after mile, enormous heaps of bodies protruding from the sea of dead lads in places I had chosen to stand and fight instead of simply continuing to slice through the ranks. After a few days the war cries began to give way to pitiful pleas for mercy. In the end, the men simply began falling to their knees, weeping and begging for mercy. They pleaded to their new Goddess for forgiveness. I gave them none.

By the sixth sunrise, it was over. As the sun came up that morning, I was the only living thing for miles and miles in every direction. Tens of millions of strapping young lads  lay dead all around me. Broken banners shook limply in the breeze. I made myself a throne of corpses, picking the handsomest of the bodies to rest my curves upon. And as I looked out at all those massacred men I had left in my wake, all I could think about was how I couldn't wait to kill their sons when they came of age.

And here I am, all these years later. Did you like my story? Oh, it doesn't matter. That's why I took your legs off, so even if you didn't, I'd still have a captive audience. I wonder how I killed your father. He was just one among millions. And so are you, but maybe, just maybe, if you're lucky, I'll remember killing you just...like...this.