A sure sign that a caller proclaiming to be “submissive” is really just a wannabe is when he tries to “top from the bottom.” If you’re not familiar with this phrase, Wikipedia says:

Topping from the bottom is a BDSM term, meaning a person who wants to be dominated but simultaneously direct the top to do it according to their wishes.

This happens a lot. Particularly with Long Distance Domination. Of which I happen to do quite a bit. I like it. In fact, I like it a lot. At least most of the time. But there are those times when I just want to strangle the caller because he is really just a wannabe.

The wannabes haven’t had any, or at least very little real life experience. Which means that they’ve most likely spent years dreaming up the ideal scenario. Richard in commenting on a Sex Kitten discussion calls this the “Fantasy Ferris Wheel.” An apt term; I think I’ll keep it. Because look what else Wikipedia has to say:

Topping from the bottom is usually considered poor practice [emphasis mine] amongst lifestyle BDSM devotees, although fairly common amongst the “BDSM curious” or newcomers who have had submissive sexual fantasies for some time but lacked real experience of a sexual dominant.

On certain days –and this was one of them– I do believe that I have had it up to my pretty brown eyes with wannabes. Because when a guy calls with all these preconceived ideas of what is the “perfect D/s and/or BDSM experience, he is usually going to try my patience. Because his “tunnel vision” is firmly in place and is strung so tight around his balls that there’s no communication. He is a wannabe-sub-robot.

Now, as an Erotic Conversationalist, I am a good listener. I know this, because my callers keep calling back. I think it’s safe to assume that this translates into “Angela gives good phone.” I really want the guy on the other end of the phone to have a superior experience. And not just him, but me too. Because I like what I do–when I am permitted the opportunity to do it well.

But if my caller is set on wannabe-sub-robot autopilot (monotone: Mistress must make me say that I am her kinky-boy ass kisser every other sentence. Mistress must wear red stilletos. Mistress must smoke marlboro lights. Mistress must stick her right heel –not her left one– up my ass.), I am just not going to get anywhere with him. This is the Distance Domination form of topping from the bottom.

And he is going to be disappointed. And you know what? I’m glad the little jerky-boy is. It’s what he deserves for waisting both his and my time. Both of us have better things to do.

Otherwise, things are fine. How about you?

xo, Angela

I kinda-sorta market myself as a Fetish Goddess/Fem Domme Fatale or something of the sort. Yet — as you would see if you could read my email and/or listen in on some of my calls — some find me and my “thing” rather confusing. (What exactly is this “literate smut” thing all about? What do you mean by “erotic torture?” Just what do you consider sexual misadventure?)

But my vision, from this side of the telphone –who I am, what I do, how I do it– seems quite clear, even decidely translucent. It is the divine craft of creation which underlies each and every fantasy I weave. A supervisor once explained to the company for which we both worked that, “When Angela does a call, by the time she is done the caller is going to know what the carpet smells like.”

Which is indeed what I am always striving for. I mean, why even make the effort otherwise? To my way of thinking, anything else would be the equivalent of clock-watching in an everyday nine-to-five job. See what I mean? I just don’t do mediocre. I don’t want it from the people I spend my money with, so why would I try to pass it off on my callers?

Thus it follows (and I’ve been told–many, many times) that my fantasies (of total sublimation, tease and denial, sissification, naughty secretary, cold-hearted governess, forced cock-sucking, cuckolding, etc.) are as close to “the real deal” as it gets.

And, in fact, I do periodically run across the caller who cannot separate the fantasy from the reality, the story teller from business woman/girl next door. It can be as hard on me as it is on them.

Because — while they are hopelessly yearning in their real-time/everyday lives to be banished forever to a cage of my making or lick my ass in the middle of Times Square or lose their masculinity to the sure and evil slice of my antique scimitar — I do sincerely care about the people I do business with. I want them to have fun, be taken on the roller coaster ride of their lives. I want them live out their dirtiest, filthiest fantasies to the nth degree.

BUT, I want them to walk away from the call feeling good about themselves. How I try to explain it clients is this way: You should feel dirty when you are doing a phonesex call. That is the point of it. But, if you walk away from that call still feeling dirty, then something is wrong. This is not healthy phone sex. Not healthy fantasy. Another way I try to get this is across is (at least most of the time): DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME.

So fantasy and reality, with all the grey areas in-between and around all the prickly edges, are always finely delineated matters. And I am always squinting my eyes, looking for that ever-illusive and always-changing doodle that keeps the boundaries clear.

Because it’s my job to do that. Particularly when the caller can’t.

***

And…

• Look what I’ve been up to. (This is just a hub site to which I can redirect the email from my other sites.)
• I have an ad at Fleshbot this week (10/18 thru 10/24), thanks to a very special person (soon to be added to my Savant Collection).
• I’ve become a semi-official editor at Tit-Elation.
• I’ve been promoted to moderator at Sex Kitten.

“From now on,” she is saying, “you will wear panties.  No arguing.  No protesting.   I’ve disposed of your boxers; every last pair. Come, Andy, let me show you.”

She’s always called you Anderson before. Your given name. The one you prefer.

But this is the beginning you’ve known was coming for a while now. Since the night she came home and caught you.

She’d been so quiet and demure when you’d married. When you look back, you think those qualities were what drew you to her. That somewhere deep inside you knew; that you knew even then that your fetishes and desires needed some kind of cap. That her softness, her goodness would keep you safe from your own demons.

But she’d caught you. One of those rare occasions you’d indulged your desires. Alone, your beloved out for the night. That’s what she’d told you. No reason to expect her until late. And you couldn’t resist. Found the pink lace thong you’d bought her for Valentine’s Day, slipped it up over your thighs, your stiff prick.

You were so devastated when she’d walked in finding you masturbating into the crotch of those panties, a pair of her soiled ones across your face. Now she knew. Knew your naughty, dirty secret. But the shock, the revulsion was quickly replaced with a smile. She giggled; told you how ridiculous you looked. And there was a look in her eye that you didn’t understand. Though, now you do.

Because she took over from that point on. Making you wear panties sometimes when you fucked her. Then making you lick her cunt while wearing panties and humping the mattress. Sometimes right before you were going out with the guys she would insist you wear panties. She even bought you a few pair of your own, very feminine, satin and lace. You were at her mercy because the panties felt so good and dirty at the same time.

And you couldn’t say no. There was a power exchange the night she caught you. You realize it now. And, as you follow her to the bedroom, you realize that things are never going to be the same, never go back to the way they were. Maybe you like this. Maybe you’re glad to finally be the panty slut you’ve always secretly wanted to be.

The top dresser drawer is open. You see satin, nylon, ribbons, bows. It’s not a man’s drawer anymore. You look at her.

“What about when I go to the gym?”

She ignores your question, reaching for a pair of the panties–white with little pink and yellow hearts. She holds them up in front of you.

“Put these on, Panty Andy. Be the little Panty Slut you know you want to be for me.”

She’s never called you anything like that before. You blush. But you also feel your prick responding to the calm authority of her words, the intuitive power in her demeanor. You slowly begin removing your jeans. Her words have hypnotized you. You only need to do what your Goddess Wife says. That is all that matters.

When the jeans are lying next to you on the floor, she hands you the panties, then reaches for a tube of lipstick. “What’s that for, honey,” you say as you pull the panties up over your pelvis, feeling the rush of pleasure as your prick drags along the soft fabric.

She looks at the panty tent your erection has caused and snickers. Again, she ignores your question. “Here, stand in front of the mirror.” You move to her side as she takes the lid off of the lipstick tube. “Close your eyes, Panty Slut.” Because it is all you can do, you close your eyes. You feel the lipstick, guided by her firm hand, moving across your torso. All the while she is laughing. You get the weird sensation that you are hearing her in stereo, but chalk it up to the surreal-ness of what is happening.

Finally: “Okay, open your eyes.”

You slowly open your eyes to see your chest, your ribs, your belly smeared with pink lipstick, spelling out the truth. Even backwards you can read it, because you’ve always known it. And you see Jessica standing at the bedroom door. Jessica, your wife’s best friend. Jessica’s lips are twisted into a lewd grin. She is shaking her head, like she is disgusted with you, perhaps even finds you pitiful. She mouths the words, “You are so fucked.”

“Read it out loud for me and Jessica.”

And you do.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a panty slut. I am not a real man. I am panty slut Andy.”

As humiliating, as embarrassing as your dilemma is, you are more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. Your prick is leaking into the panties, a gray bloom spreading across and down the front of them.

“Now, Andy Panties, show Jessica how hot you are. Rub the front of those wet panties. Yes, you’ve leaked all over them, haven’t you? Now rub them and read your little mantra again and again until you cum in those panties in front of us.”

You know you should stop this. But you can’t, because you want this, you need this. And so you begin rubbing.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a….”

But it’s too late. Because you are coming so hard that your knees are buckling, your asshole and balls are twitching.

“I told you that would happen,”  Jessica tells your wife.

“Now you’ve got him by the balls.   Forever.”

…those bad, bad, bad little boys!

I added this quote to Zen Quotes, because I love it:

Be nice to a man and he’s as good as gone. Cater to him, run after him, spill a few tears over him at the breakfast table, call him “Dearie” and you’ll have him falling into the arms of the first vamp who throws him a red rose and a cruel word now and then, when she thinks of it. –Nita Naldi

You can read more about this fem fatale here. Simply fascinating stuff.

and…..

• Did you know I have a Yahoo 360 Page? Give me a holler.
• I am really liking this Slip of a Girl more and more. If you like lingerie you really should be reading her blog daily. She’s deleriously industrious–posting two, three, even four times a day. Lotsa fun! In fact, I’m adding her to my links.
• Which, by the way, is where I found The History of Stockings.
• Been slacking on the calls, but everyday BS (as it has a tendency to do) and a female-thing (now abating) kinda-sorta took me a bit off track. Plus someone hurt my feelings..the dirty rat bastid! Where’s a slave when you need your wounds licked? Look for me tonight….I will try to be there. And I did say try.
• I read the most beautiful poem last week.
• From the “I Should Have Been Born Blonde” true tales of Angela St. Lawrence: I recently bet a caller $5.00 in regards to something or other. Well, I won. So I tell him, You are gonna pay up, too: I will make you call me @ one cent/minute and talk for fifty minutes. I couldn’t understand why he was laughing so hard. Hmmmm….
• I am crowning a new “savant” today: Supervert as “Deviant Savant;” so now I have two. You will find them under Zen-semble by the end of the day.
• Make that three savants. I just collected another one. Because I’ve just crowned Richard, to be know as “Submissive Savant.” Hey, do you even know how to spell the word concatenation…let alone use it in a sentence? I sure don’t.
• Three pieces of mine have been published at Tit-Elation, which I happen to think is tits and champagne when it comes to written erotica. So I’m a happy girl.
• And I was told by someone very special that I should let you know right up front: Women are naturally superior to men. So there.

Angelaphabet 2.0  ~  Kink-o-rama

Absolute Woman
Baroness Latex
Christian Kink
Deviant Savant
Egomania Personified
Fuckalicious – to say the least
Glory Be to Goddess
Hypnotic Addiction
Indulgence: Sinful Nuns Deliver Us from Evil
Just $1.99: Kink-O-Phone for the Masses
Kindred Spirit
Lego Porn
Misunderstood Artist
Notes on BDSM
Over Light
Purple Pros-e-try
Quixotic Troubadour
Righteous Writers
Spy on Them
Thus spake Jane
Utterly Ridiculous
Very Fine Porn-Art-Graphy
What would you do for a KIT KAT bar?
Xmas Porn
You are healed!
Zero Phone (you know who you are)