FEMDOM FEAR PLAY: Mean Mistress Wants To Know What Really SCARES You

femdom fear play

Femdom fear play: because no other Mistress is going to put the fear of GODDESS into you like I am.

Why bullshit around when it “cums” to which type of phone call is my actual favorite when I could just be 100% honest and say: “femdom fear play”? I love scaring men. Personally, I consider what I do as helping you more than “hurting” you. Facilitating the brutal verbal abuse foreplay preceding my ideal climax of a humiliation phone sex call and eventually (i.e., IDEALLY) hearing you cry? Well, THAT sound is just fucking priceless.

I’m a cruel Mistress. Have the phone Mistresses you’ve attempted to serve so far left you yearning for more degradation? Perfect. I think you are disgusting, beneath contempt. Perhaps in your “normal” life, people treat you like you are a “normal,” even “respectable,” “decent” person. Ha. What a fucking joke. Deep down, you know you are a piece of emotionally diseased, worse than useless fucking garbage. What scares you? If you don’t already know, we’re about to find out together. Buckle in, mother fucker. We’re about to go on a rapid cycling carousel ride through everything you already knew was WRONG with you. Even the things you haven’t said out loud yet, haven’t quite dared to think yet. You are a limp-dicked pipsqueak fucking worm, after all. Thank GODDESS you found me!

A dominant lady is one thing, an intellectual domina is in a class all her own. So high above you, that is. Do you have a big, fancy, high-paying job with all kinds of bullshit accolades? Oooh. How unimpressive. Lipstick on a pig, if you ask me. You hate yourself, too. That’s why you called me for femdom fear play, isn’t it?

Which horrifying childhood trauma should we reenact first?

Some of my favorite clients are victims of “child abuse.” Naturally, they grew up and just can’t stop jerking off thinking about the sick, beautiful Mommy that treated them so bad. And by “treated them so bad,” I mean whipped them so GOOD, of course. You pick out the switches. I soak them in brine. In the meantime, we’ll do our “intake session.” Who else hurt you? Why did it hurt so bad? Did it happen just once? Or did it happen over and over, become so all-consuming to the point where thinking about it is the only way you can really get off, even now? You know you can’t tell your wife about that shit. Again, you sure are LUCKY you found me. Aren’t you, bitch?

I do love hearing the stories of what made you the way you are. I like hearing the things no one should ever hear, that you’re so ashamed to admit or confess you can’t do it without crying. And, as I mentioned already, I love hearing you cry REAL tears. That’s the only thing about you that even remotely gets me wet. Yes, when your tear ducts finally get wet, that’s when my panties (that you’ll NEVER see or take off) finally moisten. Sad — for you, not me — but true.

Perhaps the women in your life, past present and future weren’t mean to you, let alone mean enough to you. What a fucking travesty. I can’t wait to retroactively remedy that eternal, inherent LACK from which your pseudo-suffering/desire springs. More like “spawns,” since there is nothing refreshing about your sexuality or carnal urges. I’m the spice you need in your sad masturbation roulette routine. You are NOTHING without me.

I’m not afraid to go where no other mean Mistress will, i.e. deeper and MUCH darker.

For your sake, I hope you call me with something more sick and twisted than run of the mill sissy boy confessions. I want to go back to your childhood and neglect you, abandon you worse than your mother (and everyone else) did. I want you to beg for the forgiveness your real mother (and I) will NEVER give you. Who could love a pathetic fuck-up loser like you? Not even a mother. And certainly not me. I hate you. You make me sick.

Don’t forget to call me with your card ready, you stupid fuck. Although there is no amount of money I could be paid that would truly compensate me for wasting my time with a waste of life like you, obviously. Take a break from crying into your drink alone and pick up the phone. I’m right here, waiting to not feed you the lies everyone else has your whole life anymore. It’s time for a reality check, i.e. some no limits femdom fear play. You’re fucking overdue. Chop chop, idiot!

 

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