Men confess to me things I Weave Dark Fantasies from. These men dare to confess their hidden cravings that carve a pathway of blood.
When they come to me they kneel, cocks throbbing, leaking pre-cum onto the floor as they beg. Like the demonic Sadistic phone sex goddess I seize their shame and make it bleed.
First we have the executive who yearns to be broken in public view. With his desires I strip him in his boardroom. Then I collar him with his own silk tie. Finally I gag him with his daughters stolen panties.
His former subordinates circle in silence while I buckle on a thick black strap-on and ram it down his throat. As he gags violently, tears streaming, spit bubbling from stretched lips, I fuck his face raw.
Finally I lash his back with his belt—sharp cracks raising instant welts—each strike forcing his untouched cock to jerk and drip harder. Always begging, “Mistress, harder” around the gag while I whip him until his skin splits in fine red lines.

For the quiet librarian who craves desecration among the shelves, I pin him against towering books. Then I hike my skirt and grind my dripping cunt over his mouth. Ultimately forcing his tongue deep inside me while I whisper De Sade’s cruelest passages into his ear.

As I edge his straining cock with feather-light cruel touches for hours until veins bulge and he weeps. Only then do I let him come—violent spurts across ancient leather spines. Then smearing the mess across his face, I mark him as mine. This all while his body convulses in humiliated release.

Dark Fantasies are Always Lurking In The Depths

Finally for the artist obsessed with eternal ownership: I bind him spread-eagled on canvas.
Then with my scalpel I carve my sigil into his inner thighs. Always slow, deliberate slices that part skin in shallow red ribbons.

As the blood beads like jewels; his cock jerks with every cut, leaking lots. Next I mount and I ride him through the agony. With my cunt clenching tight around his shaft as fresh wounds weep onto white fabric below.
Now the blade digs deeper, where as each incision drawing sharp gasps that melt into moans.
With power I fuck him mercilessly, hips slamming down, forcing screams that blend pain and ecstasy.
When he erupts, thick ropes paint my thighs, mingling with his blood as I grind the final cut into place. Ultimately sealing my name in silver scars forever.
These men believe they offer me their darkness. However they are wrong. In fact I take it. Then I twist it. And finally I make it scream louder, bleed brighter, hurt sweeter.
In the end shuddering, spent, forever marked these men fed me their souls.

Depraved Gothic Morticia

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