Snuff Phone Sex Means I am Not Your GFE or Your BJ Queen

Snuff Phone Sex Means I am Not Your GFE or Your Blowjob Queen

I work a snuff phone sex line. And I am clear that I am not your girlfriend. Yet, every damn day I get several messages like “Hey, Boo,” or “What color are your panties?” Seriously, you are going to ask a killer Goth chick about the color of her panties. Black, like my heart will be my response going forward. I am not who you contact when you feel horny. Not unless you want your junk removed. Read my fucking blogs losers. I do not give a virtual blowjob unless you want me to be Lorena Bobbit.

Since I am clear about who I am and what type of calls I do, I never feel bad for virtually castrating or snuffing a guy out. You do not call a sadistic phone sex bitch for a blowjob. And you don’t call her to be your girlfriend. I am not your GFE. More like your CPE. Castration phone experience. I possess a large collection of testicles and dicks in mason jars in my basement. What is another pair to me?

Call at Your Own Risk. I am Not Your Girlfriend

Now, I do not just do virtual castrations either. Although I grew up on a farm, I prefer to castrate with knives not castration bands like they use on sheep. I herded a few men Friday night. A bunch of punk college boys came into my Goth bar and began making fun of Goth girls less secure than me. So, I got in their faces, and told them they cannot come into our bar and start hurling insults. They did not take well to a Goth girl telling them what to do.

So, I drugged their beer with the help of the bartender. Since there were 5 of them, I needed help. And I got it. Every Goth chick in the bar helped me in my first ever group castration phone sex experience. One girl restrained the guys for me. Another one took off their pants. The bartender heated up a pan for me to cauterize the wounds. And I went from one loser to the next loser cutting off their balls. It got messy but these losers slept through it all, sadly.

I Prefer My Castration Victims Awake for the Torture

Although I prefer my victims to feel the pain and hear my reasoning for why they deserve to be without balls, we needed to get these guys out of the bar so they would not know where or how they lost their testes. My knockout drug fogs the memory too. The bartender drives a truck, so we piled them up in the truck bed, and dropped them in the park. The bartender erased the camera footage of them entering the bar and rigged the system to look like an older date. You know protection if anyone comes asking if the guys came into this bar. That night was a girl’s night.

I might have some future accomplices with my ladies from my Goth bar. At least for castration. They might not go along with all my other killer activities, LOL. I am not for the faint at heart.

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