"Ultimately, the purpose of a flogging is to inflict pleasure."

Mitch Kessler

Now isn’t that Flogger just downright BDSM Phone Sex-y?  I do believe I’ve developed a Flogger Fetish. Come talk with me about it … you deliciously kinky boy.  You might want to load up on Tylenol and Neosporin before you make that call.  Because, I promise you, it is going to get rough.

You can purchase this and other incredibly beautiful floggers at Leather Beaten.  That is, of course, if you only want the best for your slave.

xo, Angela

… or else.

I dunno.  I guess the problem is that when I don’t know you and you don’t know me and it is the first time we’ve spoken … 

… well, it’s creepy.  It’s smarmy-creepy when "Hey, baby" are the first words out of your mouth.  Did you even take the time to find out my name?  Check out my Free Phone Sex Stories or this Free Phone Sex blog?  Or scan my various Phone Sex listings at NiteFlirt such as Prick Tease or Literate Smut or Macho Sissy?  I’m absolutely certain that the answer is a big, fat resounding ENNN OHH. 

Because here’s what happened (and I’m always right about these things, so don’t even attempt a protest):  You found yourself  with your dick in your hand.  Your dick wanted a P U S S Y.  Not a woman, not Angela St. Lawrence or even a girl by any other name.  You just wanted a PUSSY. 

(Which begs the question:  Would a pussy by any other name still smell as sweet?) 

Regardless, we both know that you and your selfish prick could care less if you were talking to Angela, Mindy or Theresa.  You didn’t know my name, because you didn’t care who I was as long as I possessed a vagina.  In other words, in this particular instance (‘cuz certainly you don’t operate this way in your everyday life; say it isn’t so, dear man), you were actually using "baby" as a pronoun.  

And not a pronoun as in "you."  I wasn’t me to you.  I was an it.  Calling me baby was the equivalent  to calling me IT.  So guess what?

Baby = It = Pussy = No Phone Sex for You from Me

Yanno … You really should be more of a savvy shopper when it comes to calling a Phone Sex Operator, because there are many men who are so talented at changing there voices that they actually take calls — usually from the stOOpid (that would be you) boys — in their girly-girl voices and collect your cash by the minute while you jerk.  Yes, they are  low-life posers too lazy or dumb to get a real job.  But guess who their target market is?  Y. O. U.  Because they know they can get away with it.  I have to admit that there’s a sweet poetic irony in that for me. 

And yes, you pissed me off and that is why I ever-so-abruptly hung up on you.  Call me cranky, call me a bitch, call me too demanding.  I don’t care.   FYI, you’ve also been permanently blocked so I never have to hear your slimy voice again.  

So to HDB, jellyfish, Pervert Savant, Mr. Smith, et al:  Okay, so I wasn’t on my best behavior today.  Not so charming, not so sweet, not so tolerant.  But, as you fellows and most of my readers and/or callers know, I’ve recently moved.  It’s been hectic and stressful and energy-depleting.  A girl can only take so much, dontcha know? 

And, really now …  is it so wrong to expect at least a sentient being on the other end of the phone when I pick up?   Should I or any girl be subjected to the guttural demands (because with that intro, you know they were coming) of loutish clochards operating on three brain cells at best?

Tell me I am wrong, and I’ll try to do better the next time.  Honest Injun. *fingers crossed*

In the meantime …

Well, men really can be damnably dumb at times.  From my sister:

Three mischievous old Grannies were sitting on a bench outside a nursing home when an Old Grandpa walked by. Grandma One yelled out, "We bet we can tell exactly how old you are."

The old man stopped and shook his finger at the Grandmas. "What are you? Crazy? There is no way you can guess my age, you old fools."

Grandma Two answered back, "We’re not crazy and we can prove it. Just drop your pants and under shorts and we will tell you your exact age."

Embarrassed just a little, but eager to prove the old women wrong, the Old Grandpa he dropped his drawers.  Grandma Three asked him to first turn around a couple of times and to jump up and down several times.   Determined to teach the old women a lesson, the old man threw common sense to the wind and began whirling and jumping as the old women screeched and howled until tears were running down their cheeks. 

"I don’t know what you old bats are laughing at," said the Old Grandpa, stopping to catch his breath, "you still don’t know how old I am."

Then all three Grandmas all piped up and said, "You’re 87 years old."

Standing with his pants down around his ankles, the old gent asked, "How in the world did you guess?"

Slapping their knees and grinning from ear to ear, the three old ladies called out in unison…

"We were at your birthday party yesterday!"

BTW … been super busy with this move.  Unpacking, shopping, decorating, etc.  I will be blogging and taking calls most days, now that things are starting to come together.  We’ve got some dirty stuff, some interesting news and a whole bunch of mischief waiting just around the corner.  So stick around, get comfortable, loosen your tie or drop your drawers or pop some popcorn.  Hopefully it will be a very bumpy ride.

with much affection, Angela

(photo credit: The Pirata)

The Mistress Poem

Chi Chi Valenti

What is your interest in female domination?
A leather-clad goddess whom I might worship and serve, ma’am.
Full leather is available, if certain terms are understood in advance
Yes mistress
You are not permitted to touch the mistress above the knee
Yes, mistress
The bare foot may or may not be offered
Yes mistress
The mistress does not disrobe at any time in the session
Of course, mistress
The mistress will never touch you there
Of course not, mistress
A tribute must be offered from a suitable kneeling position
Yes mistress
You will surrender all individual will from the time the session begins
Oh yes mistress
You will be branded irrevocably with her will and possibly marked for life
Yes mistress
You will spend hours and weekends desparate in Jersey shopping malls, dreaming of her graceful booted foot while you try to ignore your wife’s pastel sneakers
You honor me, mistress
You will search for her in Meat Market sex clubs, taunted by her cruel sorority sisters
Yes, mistress
You will appear early for your appointment and she will make you wait in her dressing room, listening to unspeakable cries and jealous of the slave "Can he take more than I?"
Oh, thank you mistress
You will phone her for reassurance, starved for her voice and she will be colder than January on East 23rd Street
Oh, yes, mistress
You will phone her again, desparate and broken, trembling long-distance and she won’t even take your call
Oh, yes mistress
Then you’ll phone someone else, somewhere else, and even show up but you’ll leave in ten minutes after paying for the hour cause the boots weren’t right and the room wasn’t right and her junkie perfume just wasn’t in there, not that night, anyway
Oh, yes, mistress
Then back in her good graces you’ll rob your own children to take her shopping at Joseph’s and Manic Panic
Oh yes mistress
And she’ll make you buy an expensive gift for your wife, fifty dollar Chanel soaps, three of them, as you gulp imagining presenting such extravagance to the Missus
Oh thank you, mistress
Then every time you see a Chanel ad you’ll begin to tremble again, a slave’s palsy, remembering her cruel laughter and how the sissy counter clerk seemed to be laughing with her too
Oh yes, mistress
Your mind so far gone at this point that you imagine him her houseboy and wonder if she’d like you more in drag
Do you think she would, mistress?
Your mind so far gone at this point that you fantasize cutting off your dick and having lesbian sex with her
If that is her wish, mistress
Your mind so far gone at this point that you who used to vomit at two queers holding hands are now getting buggered quite regularly
Oh yes, mistress
Your mind once so sure of priorities and deep, personal politics, now scheming only for money to see her more often
Your mind that once spoke fluent French and remembered stock prices
Your mind that breathlessly pushes the eighth floor button
Your mind that once longed to free Nelson Mandella
Now running to the slave boat, as eager for the leg-irons as for the mulatto mistress who wields them
Your mind that she has exquisitely altered
Your mind a ruined city, the streets overrun with wolves and she it’s mad emperor
Your mind that’s her chattel now
Enslaved at last, enslaved at last
Thank god almighty
Enslaved at last

_________________________________________________

A bio of Ms Valenti can be found HERE.

pssst.  secret code:  2TQJQCFB6MHR