Your femcan fetish really translates into something more like: “You’re What’s For Dinner”

I am fucking starved, and your femcan fetish phone sex call is the only meal that satisfies my perverse, insatiable appetite. Right now, as I write this, I’m whipping up a casual, leisurely dinner. I struggled to decide what to make for my supper this evening. And guess what? I know exactly why. Do you? (Answer: it’s because I would MUCH rather be eating YOU!)

Men. Are. Worthless. As Valerie Solanis, author of my personal Bible (The S.C.U.M. Manifesto) shows us, men are at best “an inoffensive blob, an utter bore.” In my real life, I’ve been vegan for fifteen years — but in my femcan fetish fantasy life, I’m licking my lips looking at you. I’m hungry. Really fucking hungry.

I can tell you’re going to become my tasty veal by the way you walk. Well, the way you don’t walk — or exercise at all, actually. The fatter the piggie the more servings I can prepare for myself and my lovely, famished femdom fatale ladyfriends. Will we have to (pretend to) use deceit and guile to “lure” you into your feeding chambers/holding cell? Or are you a more willing, masochistically eager turkey-to-be?

Maybe my appetite’s so worked up after smelling the ubiquitous, thick aroma of patriotic-type barbecue all last week. Then again, I’m probably just biding my time until your debut on my plate because be-cumming my dinner is the pinnacle of your life’s possible success And by “success” (in your case) I mean use, of course . . . i.e., the only logical (not to mention most palatable) use!

If you’re looking for the most sadistic AND chef-ly vore Mistress of your sick dreams: GOOD. You just found me.

Femcan fetish fantasy phone sex with me is like the perfect medley female prison guard sex stories and femdom snuff porn. Your brief candle will get “out, out” -ed eventually. Everyone does. Why not live a life (and/or die a death) of service, perfect submission?

I remember years ago when I first watched The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover. The Romeo and Juliet-type doomed romance between the “wife” and her “lover character is tragic. A real tear-jerker. But the poetic justice the villain/the cook’s wife dishes out in the film’s ending still leaves a refreshing taste in my mouth.

Rather than losing herself in the grief of her lover’s murder (at the hands of her brutish, miserable, endlessly brooding gluttonous prick of a husband), she transforms his corpse into a decadent spitroast. Sexual intimacy is, in a way, a kind of consuming The Other. Thinking of closeness to another person this way, to be consumed is true full-body, visceral intimacy. There’s a reason Catholics believe in transubstantiation. You are my dinner. You are savorier and more sacrilegious than the Body Of Christ, my prize longpig hog. No savior for me — just you, my eager dinner hopeful.

And of course, there will be a period of ritualistic marination, fattening up further, among other things. It’s up to you — and me.

Some of my pet piggies like to play both the server AND the main course of my very exclusive restaurant, Chez Femcan. I can play the more sensual, comforting Angel Of “You Are My Meat Now And Forever” Death in our taboo phone sex role play if you like. And of COURSE, I am also thrilled to be a more sadistic maitre d’ Mistress. Perhaps I can cut off just one leg, one limb, appendage at a time? That way you can watch the blissful expressions of our patronesses as they devour you, one forkful at a time.

And if you are the kind of femcan fetish fantasist that longs to hear about all the ways I will prepare you, I am waiting to pull back the charcuterie curtain for you. The voracity of my empty stomach is matched only by my culinary prowess. So, in other words, preparing you is like foreplay for my hungry mouth.

Well, now I’ve finished preparing my “regular” supper. Hmm. It tastes delicious, but it’s definitely missing something. I know what it’s missing. It’s missing an ingredient so rare and exotic even Whole Foods doesn’t sell it. Any guesses, piggie??

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