The shadows in my bedroom didn’t just shift; they breathed. I lay there, pinned by the weight of a silhouette I didn’t recognize, the cold steel of a blade pressed firmly against my collarbone. This was the beginning of my Mutilation Phone Sex nightmare, a dark reality where the stranger who broke into my home looked at my limbs like they were trophies to be harvested.
I could see the cold, clinical hunger in his eyes as he traced the sharp edge of a hatchet down my arm, whispering about which part of me he wanted to keep forever as a souvenir of this intrusion. My breath hitched, a mix of genuine terror and a sudden, forbidden spark of adrenaline as I realized I was completely at his mercy.
He moved with a terrifying precision, his gloved hand gripping my chin as he positioned the blade over my trembling fingers. He spoke about the beauty of destruction, about how much more intimate it would be to take a piece of me away. But then, something shifted in the heavy air of the room. As he ripped my silk nightgown to get a better angle for his work, his breath caught.
The clinical detachment in his eyes flickered and died, replaced by a raw, primal heat that made my skin crawl and burn all at once. He wasn’t looking at me like a project anymore; he was looking at me like a feast. I watched, my heart hammering against my ribs, as his gaze traveled from the blade to the curve of my waist.
The hand that was supposed to disfigure me began to shake, not from hesitation, but from a sudden, overwhelming surge of lust. I could see it through his rough denim… the unmistakable, rock-hard evidence that the sight of my vulnerable body had completely overridden his violent intent. The hatchet clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he realized that taking my life or my limbs wouldn’t satisfy him nearly as much as taking my innocence over and over again.
“Change of plans,” he rasped, his voice thick with a hunger that felt even more dangerous than the steel. He didn’t want a souvenir; he wanted the whole, living, breathing thing. He wanted to feel my heartbeat against his chest for hours while he claimed every inch of me he had originally planned to ruin.
Now, the only thing that matters is the friction, the sweat, and the absolute power he holds over me in the dark. I’m his captive, his toy, and the long, grueling night of pleasure he has planned is going to be far more intense than any blade. You don’t want to miss a single moan as he proves that some urges are even more addictive than blood.




















