Castration phone sex really excites me. You would be surprised how many men know they don’t deserve their balls. I consider myself a castration queen. I have no qualms about taking your balls on the phone or in real life. I’ve been saving the world one ball at a time for awhile now. Certain people should never be allowed to procreate. Some do not deserve the pleasure of cumming. Hell, some don’t even deserve the right to continue breathing. On occasion, some pathetic excuse for a man will hire me to castrate him and I deem him more suitable for snuff porn. Usually, any loser who wants his junk removed by someone else is so weak and wretched that they are worthy of death anyway.
Eli was one such loser. I was all prepared to take his balls. I watched some torture porn, castration videos, even looked at some hot snuff porn comics for inspiration on just how to remove his junk. I hate to be boring and just snip balls off in a nice neat fashion. The way I see it, if you want your balls removed with a surgeon’s precision, you call a doctor, not me. I’m like the back alley abortion doctor for castration! The more I researched Eli, however, the more I decided he needed a hell of lot more gone than his nut sack. He has sired 9 brats that he doesn’t pay for; been married 4 times; been collecting disability for drug addiction for years; and has several charges against him for animal abuse and domestic violence. Clearly this loser can’t pick a fair fight and his testicles are the least of his worries.
When he arrived, I collected his money, strapped him to my castration chair and let him believe I was going to just give him the service for which he paid. He asked about all the plastic under the chair. I was matter of fact in my response, “I don’t want you making a mess on my carpet.” I tied up his balls tight to restrict the blood flow, strapped his cock to the board, then used my big jaws of life pliers to take his balls clear off with one motion. There was a lot of blood, which I didn’t mind, but it made him so queasy he passed out. When he woke up, he wondered why he was still strapped to my chair. “Because you are a drain on society. No one will miss you. And I want you dead,” I replied blissfully. He thought it was a joke, I read back to him his litany of offenses. “Mother Theresa would want you dead, you fucking loser,” I retorted.
I let him plead and whine for a bit on why I should spare his life because it was amusing. I channeled my inner Mrs. Voohres and chopped his head clear off with an axe. The blood was profuse. It was exciting to watch his body twitch, blood spurt from his neck stump until he finally went lifeless. I felt myself getting my angel wings for ridding the world of another dreg of society. Something I had seen if one of those snuff comics stuck with though. This image of an evil seductress like me, covered in blood, sitting naked on the head of the loser she just killed, like it was her trophy. I decided to imitate art. I sat on his head like a tyke does on one of those bouncy balls, rubbed my pussy on his dead head while holding his lifeless pecker and celebrated another dead loser. Perhaps I could mount his head to the wall like a deer?
Be careful what you ask for with me because you might just get it. 
