I am Morticia, the Gothic phone sex sadist who thrives on stripping men of their fragile masculinity. Until nothing remains but whimpering, broken boys begging for my mercy.
My latest victim arrives trembling, already half-erect from the shame of what he craves. I force him to his knees and make him recite his inadequacies while I circle him like a vulture.
“Say it louder, worm. Tell me how small your pathetic cock is.
Admit no woman has ever come from it.” His voice cracks as he obeys. The worm is a loser and I laugh—cold, cruel, echoing through the candlelit chamber.
Next, I bind his wrists behind his back with black silk cords. And they are tight enough to bruise. Then yanking his pants down, I expose that laughable little thing.
The dark fantasies start when the blood begins to pour.
Now my gloved hand wraps around it—not to pleasure, but to squeeze until he gasps.
“This? This is what you thought could satisfy anyone?” I mock, flicking the tip with a sharp nail. He winces; I smile wider.
Next I strap the thickest, blackest dildo to my hips—the one far larger than he could ever dream of being. First, I make him suck it, choking him until tears streak his face.
“Look at you, pretending to be a man while you gag on cock like the eager slut you truly are.”
When he’s sufficiently humiliated, I bend him over the velvet chaise and take him. Starting slow at first, then merciless, pounding until he sobs.
Pathetic Men Surrender to Gothic Phone Sex Sadistic Morticia
He’s so pathetic his own useless erection leaks helplessly onto the floor. Then I ask if he thinks his balls are empty enough now? Before he can answer I squeeze them hard. “Oh, loser I think they are,” as I run my scalpel along his little dick to his ball sack. With a trickle of blood making its way out.
Now I whisper how worthless he is, how every thrust reminds him he’ll never measure up. When he finally spills—pathetic spurts onto my boot—I make him lick it clean. With his tongue dragging across the leather while I stroke his hair like a pet.
I live for this destruction. Every man who kneels before me, if lucky to leave on his own, will forever be marked by me.
It’s the truth I carve into his soul: he was never man enough. And he will crawl back, aching for more emasculation, because nothing feels as intoxicating as my disdain
Morticia
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