Knife play phone sex remains my favorite. I inherited a massive knife collection from my grandpa when he died. Some of these knifes historians would consider priceless because they date back hundreds of years. My grandpa bought most of them on the black market, so they are not traceable. No one knows I have these knives. But I never leave a dead body anywhere for folks to discover. I let nature take care of the remains. But when I castrate or mutilate men, the knife pattern will not be traceable if a victim goes to the police.
Did you know that a forensic specialist can tell you the type of knife used to stab someone. Then they can see who has purchased one of those knives in recent months. So, when I do a free castration phone sex visit, I use an untraceable knife. Plus, I enjoy using ancient knives to remove a man’s junk. It offers a more barbaric or medieval feel to the torture.
Knives just have more versatility than a gun. You cannot torture someone with a gun. You aim, you shoot, they die or bleed out. It’s quick. The pain does not last long. Although I often cauterize the wound after I remove the balls, the pain lasts. It’s a physical and psychological pain. If a man did not want to be castrated, he lives with the pain of never being erect again. Psychological pain can last forever.
A Knife I Feel is More Versatile Than a Gun
I gave a free castration over the weekend. He deserved it. This hipster douche bag tried to spike drinks at the Goth bar. Did you know a girl can wear a certain nail polish that if she dips her finger in a drink, it turns a different color when the drink contains roofies? Few men do. But I tested a few drinks and lured the culprit back to his place. He wanted to fuck a Goth girl.
But I did not want to fuck him. However, I did want to inflict maximum cock and ball torture sex pain. So, I used a rustic knife to chop his balls off. And I did let him bleed a little before I cauterized his wound. Normally, I take the balls as a souvenir. In my dungeon torture chamber, I have over 100 balls in a jar fermenting as a reminder. Sort of my trophies. But I left this bastard’s balls in his mouth to shut him up.
He appeared to still be breathing when I left. But he passed out from the shock. Dumbass. You do not come into a Goth bar and spike drinks to force fuck women. Not in my bar. Not on my watch.
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