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Witchcraft Interrogation
The iron cuffs bite into her wrists as my black skirts sweep across the dungeon floor. she claims she's innocent but every witch lies. my voice drips like poison honey as i circle her trembling frame, exposing her true sins: secret desires, stolen pleasures, the way she moans when she should be begging. the truth will come, one way or another, under my gaze, my touch, my spells. she arches, not from pain, but from shame, as i prove she’s not a victim… she’s a deviant. and deviants don’t get mercy only correction. only me.
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