They howl when they wake up, facing the harsh grey stone - flinch as they see the iron shackles, welded tight - already, deep down inside they know, it’s far too late.
They scream, anyway.
And finally, hoarse, as though throatfucked by their own confrontation with reality, they gratefully drink the water provided, in a small beaten pewter cup by their side… and with that first acceptance of the Divine Feminine, and Her healing grace, comes the dawning acceptance of What Must Be.
It’s never easy, and they always fear the drug in that first sip - not realising that the red pill lay within them, all along.
Later comes the lash of the whip, the sharp uncompromising penetrating finger, tipped with a nail so sharp, so cruel, and the twist it will administer, to those tender muscles and glands… more painfully yet, the undignified kick of of the stilettoed boot they come to first reject, then hate - then fear, respect, and love.
Every time it begins, the hope “I will withstand it, this time” gives way rapidly to howling horror, a wish for it just to END - accompanied finally by submission, and a deep, deep, state of grace, and the merciful oblivion that inevitably comes.
Finally, comes the moment they accept The Goddess - in all My Glorious Forms, as they are penetrated, desecrated, and consecrated, writhing in a defilement and a glory, beyond a man’s wildest dreams of mercy and romance.
Finally, I release them upon the world - cleansed, purified, and gloriously insane.
(Yeah not really you Nagathex you daft bastard, but more worthy men may yet make this journey - My basement hears many screams, some of them are even, of pleasure and delight. 
)