No snuff fetish fantasy is “too extreme” for me. My favorite snuff fantasy role-plays star YOU as the sacrificial lamb. Don’t worry, I’ll be outing your brief candle with plenty of dramatic panache. Are you ready to be my human sacrifice? Die for the sins of other men? Or just your own?
I’ve written about several snuff fetish fantasy scenarios already, including black widow phone sex. Today a new sick thought popped into my deranged slut mind. Recently I started playing with a death metal band composed of like-minded dominant women. Naturally, our lyrics revolve around themes like destroying male domination in this sick patriarchal society. You have a disease. I have the cure.
Killing you onstage at our death metal concert is my snuff fetish fantasy.
I don’t like the unimaginative violence of Slayer. Cannibal Corpse bores me, although occasionally their lyrics are less politically vapid. Most of all, I just don’t like listening to the sound of a man’s voice in my leisure time, especially if he’s screaming violent, hateful bullshit. I have endured enough of this toxic masculinity in my life. Talk about a fucking pandemic! It’s no surprise I have a snuff fetish fantasy for getting rid of you.
Imagine an altar in the middle of the stage surrounded by us and our instruments, with you shackled to the center. Candles burn ominously around your trembling, oh-so vulnerable body. Your mortal coil is approaching its end. Does it turn you on more for your gruesome finale to be consensual? Do you want to be a willing “victim”? Or does your dick twitch thinking about being held (and ruthlessly slaughtered) against your will? Your snuff fetish fantasy preferences will shape our taboo phone sex call.
It takes two to tango, after all — especially during this final Danse Macabre.
Halfway through our set, you’ll feel me hovering above you as the crowd goes wild. You’ll only sense my presence because you’ll be blindfolded and gagged, of course. You were already drenched in a nervous sweat, but now your full-body, visceral panic cold sweat is soaking into the altar cloth. Disgusting. Can’t you face your demise “like a man”? Haha.
Still blindfolded, you can’t see that I’m raising a labrys high into the air above your “chopping block.” Yes, I’ll be decapitating you in front of a live audience of vicious, beautiful women just like me. And they’ll be cheering me on. Your head will roll off stage, and one of them will pick it up and start throwing it up into the crowd. What a fun game! Your male body has so many more uses now that you’re dead. More accurately: now has ANY use whatsoever now that my snuff fetish fantasy has come true.
Perhaps at the after party, we’ll roast your remains. I am a femcan Mistress, after all. And Goddess knows I’m going to be hungry after playing a set with my girls. We all will be just famished.
What better way to finish desecrating your freshly mutilated body than cooking you and eating you?
A good metal or punk show gives me the feeling Catholic mass used to when I was young. Before my mind was poisoned by testosterone-infested LOSERS like you. At least you went out in a blaze of glory, right worm? It was definitely for the “greater good.”
I also enjoy no taboos accomplice play calls where I’m your partner in crime. The co-conspiring murderess of your wildest, sexiest dreams. I’ll help you off your soon-to-be ex-wife (who deserves it) or any random young girl (however innocent). Either situation satisfies my insane bloodlust. And I’ll make Marquis DeSade look like a fucking humanitarian. 100 Days Of Sodom will read like a Disney movie compared to our snuff fetish fantasy phone sex call.
Finally ready to die? Pick up the phone and give me a call!