To willingly become one of Ereshkigal's pleasure slaves, fated to spend all of eternity in willing servitude to the ancient Sumerian goddess of death, one has to embrace her own darkly masochistic need to experience hideously agonizing torment and death merely for the amusement of the death goddess, to openly embrace the knowledge that every night, now until the end of all things, will be filled with unrelenting torture and slow agonizing death.
As one of Ereshkigal's willing pleasure slaves Kristine had long ago come to embrace her own darkly masochistic submissiveness, her utter and complete willingness to endure the Mesopotamian Underworld's endless cycle of unspeakably obscene torture and death merely for the amusement of the goddess Ereshkigal.
Kristine understood that each night she would face that brutal moment of truth that every willing masochistic pleasure slave faces. The indescribably erotic moment when she realizes that she's about to be pushed beyond even her submissive masochistic limits, that moment when the pain she'd enduring ceases to be pleasure and simply becomes overwhelming torment. The long hours spent upon the spiked apex of the horse, merely excruciatingly erotic foreplay, but now as she feels the searing heat of the iron poised mere inches from the smooth unblemished skin of her back she knew that the moment of truth had once again arrived. That timeless moment when all thoughts of pleasure cease, consumed once again by unrelenting and inescapable agonizing pain.