The Phone Sex Ignore Line

What’s it all about? Why do men pay by the minute — often at inflated rates — to listen to women going about the business of their daily lives?

Don’t dismiss this ?!FETISH!? out of turn.  While I admit it seems kinda-sorta weird (even to me, but you didn’t hear me say that), I also know that in the world of Erotic Phone, anything and everything is hot to someone, somewhere …  or soon will be hot, when some guy thinks it up.  And boy do youz guyz think it up.  Sometimes even a girl will have a Fetish … like the young lady who begged the boys to shove crayons — lots and lots of crayons — into her pussy (don’t ask).

But you and I both know that Female Fetishes are the exception rather than the rule.  And I certainly do not know of a woman IN THE ENTIRE WORLD who would pay $1.69 or $5.99 or $9.99 or even $39.99 just to listen in whilst someone um …

… let’s see:

• makes a cheeseburger run
• washes a load of clothes
• zones out with Angry Birds
• brushes their teeth
• reads a book
• talks to someone else on the other line
• reads email to the dulcet tunes of Kid Rock
• takes a shower
• takes a walk
• takes a nap
• takes a load off, Annie
• takes a poop? *eww*

Sounds exciting, huh?  Okay, maybe not so much.  But to each his own, so remember, boys and girls, to Raise Your Glass!

Who are we to judge?  If you’re tempted to roll your eyes or snicker, just remember beloved Kinkster… I’ve got your number.  Er, I mean you’ve got my number. Which means I know your Fetish, you Kinky ‘Lil Bugger.  In fact, in many cases I’ve introduced you to your Fetish (and you’ve been happier for it).  And if you came to me with Fetish already in Hand (and your dick in the other), I most certainly and gleefully welcomed you and your Fetish (and your dick).  So let us carry on with the matter of these Phone Fetish Ignore Lines.  Shall we?

First of all, let us get our heads around the mindset:  Female is Goddess.  Female is beautiful. Female is mysterious.

You start with this premise and you see that all of womanhood is enigmatic to the male of our species.

Some men are so frightened of the Feminine Prowess that they could never admit this, even to their secret selves.   Usually these types are blowhards, braggarts and bullies.  They dismiss women as second class citizens, hang out at titty bars, and play a lot of macho sports.  When they call Phone Sex Operators it’s to brag about how big their penises are, but we know better.  Secretly they sniff panties, but hate themselves for it.

Others are just walking through life according to a set of rules (the dreaded Living In A Box Syndrome) which keep their lives mundane and regulated.  These types usually roll atop the significant Female in their lives every other Saturday night and it’s over within all of three minutes. They rarely masturbate, because they just don’t have the imagination for it.  They rarely call Phone Sex Lines, because they wouldn’t know a hot fantasy if it hit them in the balls.  If these dudes found a pair of panties under their pillow they’d jump right out of bed to put them where they belong — the hamper — because that’s the rules!

But then there’s the group we’re specifically talking about; those who are in awe of all that is feminine.  They are mesmerized by the muliebrous Je ne sais quoi, and obsess with every little detail of who and what she is. To listen in to her going about her day, talking to her friends, getting a pedicure, shopping for heels … is heaven.  To imagine the tilt of her head as she puts on make-up, or the scent of her just-shampooed hair,  or hear the click of her heels and wonder what kind of stockings she is wearing is Heaven, is Nirvana, is Transcendental, is Supernatural.

These guys are probably a little bit addicted to the ache and obsession of not having, not knowing, not understanding, not touching.  But wanting, wanting, wanting.  Craving, craving, craving.  Adoring from a distance.  They understand their “non”-place in the woman’s life and even embrace it. This is their lot, their fate, their destiny.  They will not only worship from afar, they will pay to do it.  Because She is the Goddess.  They are grateful that She lets them at least listen, as they have no right to interfere in or interrupt the ongoing Sacrament of Her Daily Life.

And Goddess forbid that they would insult her with their basest-of-base need for sexual release, like the Man-Animals (manimals?) that they are.  If they masturbate (and many do), they do so quietly and unobtrusively, or even wait until after the call has ended.

A secondary group of these guys crave Erotic Humiliation.  These men are the type who would prefer to be called worms, scum, loser, etc. and get off on the fact that not only is this woman they are listening to ignoring them, but that she finds them repugnant and perverted.  They LIKE that she charges them.  Sometimes they even want her to raise her rates, to use and abuse their wallets with no concern for them whatsoever.  They are disgusted with their disgusting selves and feed off of her disgust with them.  The higher the rate, the colder her dismissal … the harder their dicks get.  I’m not sure when this group blows their load, but I’m certain it’s an insouciant, phlegm-y mess.  And I hope it’s on their face.

Personally, I don’t have a specific Ignore Line.  And while I do take the occasional Ignore Call, I’m very picky about who I ignore.  Sometimes this group — particularly the secondary one — are short on manners, which drives me FUCKING BONKERS.

But you already knew that, didn’t you?

xo, Angela

… that didn’t quite make it:

A rabbi, priest, and imam were arguing about their favorite
phone sex Flirt. The only thing they could agree on was that
Angela St. Lawrence is the best Flirt around.

Not only in the naughtiest, fun sense of the word, but also in the most
uplifting and heavenly.

Thank you, Angela! You have brought
this planet one step closer to world peace!

From Mr. B who always lifts me up, even when I’m putting him down, down, down.  Apparently there were space and editing issues, but he still made a point of emailing an apology with this, his original intent.

Pay attention, because maybe then … you too can learn to be a stellar slave by observing Mr. B’s outstanding example.

🙂   🙂   🙂

xo, Angela

A particularly delicious report from a favored long-distance slave, who went out into the FemDomme Trenches for a bit of Real Time abuse:

I recently visited a particularly sadistic woman for an evening of overwhelming intensity.

She had not had an opportunity to play in some time, and it had been even longer since she had her claws in somebody that she could really let loose on. After we sat and enjoyed a drink or two, she told me to go to her play room. After stripping I would find a safe in the closet into which I was to deposit my clothes, guaranteeing that I would not run (there was no chance of it, but the psychological effect was intense). I would also find my outfit for the evening within the safe–a hood, heavy collar, ball gag, and cock and ball harness. The ring was particularly wicked as the inside was lined with spikes. It also featured a ring that looked as though a leash could be hooked onto it.

A straight-backed chair sat in the middle of the room with a note saying “wait here.” Properly attired I sat…and sat…and sat. She liked to keep me waiting but she was always worth the wait (much like the divine Miss Angela). I could hear her shoes clicking down the hallway, anxious for when they would stop at my door and I would catch a whiff if her scent, soft but arousing. When she finally came, making her way around me and touching me gently, purring her approval, I was panting with desire.

I felt her attaching something to the cock ring–a rope, I would soon find out–and pulled it up behind my neck and back down to tie it off around the same ring. She then sat on my lap, proceeding to stroke and kiss my neck and chest gently, toying with my nipples. As my moans of delight started to change to heavy breathing I felt her reach for something, pushing on my chest as she leaned back, her hand covering the rope. When she came back up I felt something hard being traced up the rope on my right. She I had no idea what it was so when she told me to take a deep breath and then let it out I was shocked–I felt a hard pressure against my chest, against the rope, and then a piercing explosion answering the mystery–surgical staples.

She knew how much I hated them, of course, and starting in with them before I’d had any real warm-up meant that they would be as painful as possible. Six down each side of the rope, each one an agony. It was all I could do to sit still, through it and I knew I would have a hard time taking anything else. She knew it as well, as she explained, and that was why she was about to shrink wrap me to the chair, pinning my arms to my sides and my back and legs to the chair. She sat back down on my lap, tore off the hood and gag, and gave me a deep kiss, pressing up against my chest as she did. The sight of her gave me strength to endure the pain–her eyes and lips exuding desire. She sat back, locked my gaze, and punched my chest, triggering a wild scream from me and a moan of delight from her. She took her time at first, with deliberate strikes to the length of the rope, enjoying the red stream beginning to coat the inside of the wrap.

She soon let herself succumb to her desire, taking full swings at my chest and arms, kneeling on my thighs for better leverage at times, perhaps, though more likely to feel my screams against her bosom. When she seemed to tire, either from the effort or boredom with this particular torment, she began to use her nails on me, gouging my neck and shoulders before digging them in around my nipples to get access to them. She raked at and pinched them, sometimes using her nails to pull them to her, playing me like a piano. She looked in my eyes and told me that she could feel my cock–she knew how much I needed this.

She then rose and moved behind me so that I couldn’t see her. I’m always a little upset when I can’t see her both because the sight of her helps me endure and because when she does so it is almost always to get some new item with which to torment me. When she came back around I was expecting a whip or a cane or a truncheon but what I saw was far, far worse. A rubber band. I have found that things that you would never think would be too painful often prove to be vicious. She wound one end around her pointer and middle fingers, placing one on each side of my left nipple and pulled back on the other end–the classic rubber band snap position. She took her time. She found exactly the tension she wanted in the rubber band, but also in my eyes. She licked her lips. She nodded her head with an evil grin. She took her time.Then she let go and my world went white.

It was exactly as bad as I’d feared. She did both nipples several times, taking her time with each one, seeing that I was getting close to tears. She then moved down to my pubic mound, snapping to the left and right of the rope that still waited with the staples, then snapping it a couple of times, mostly for my fear reaction. She looked down and pouted, then started to rub the insides of my thighs. “We forgot all about these, didn’t we?” Snap, snap, snap it went, up and down my thighs leaving angry red welts. She stood up and looked down at me…at my thighs…in my eyes…and retrieved the gag. She strapped it in place and told me that she wanted my chest. My eyes widened in abject fear at what might come next…this made her smile that evil grin again.

I had assumed that she would use scissors or a knife to remove the wrap, but no, she used her finger nails, slashing at me long after the wrap could easily be pulled off. She sat on my lap again, toying with the staples lightly. “So there are two ways we can do this–one is mean and hard and very painful, the other one makes the first look like cotton candy. I just wanted to ask one or two little questions.” She leaned close to me, pressing her body into me as she undid the gag, and purred, “You want to make me happy, don’t you?” “Of course I do.” “You know what I want you to say then, don’t you?” I shrank, my desire and fear fighting for dominance but either way there was only one answer I could give, whispering “the harder one, please.”

“Lounder.”

“The hard one, please.”

“Sell it–I don’t think you really want it. I don’t think you really want to make me happy. Convince me!”

Her gaze was as unyielding as it was unsympathetic as it was passionate.

I crumbled. The tears that emerged would be known for the breaking of a man if it weren’t for the words that came with them, pleading for the harder one, pleading for her to channel every untapped sadistic desire she held and show me how far it can go.”

She complied. Rather than simply pulling one half off with a single tug and then digging the other half out slowly and methodically, she had me sit forward. She used the slack this formed to pull the rope over my head. She produced another rope, using some to tie a ring at the base of my balls, just beneath the spiked harness and the rest to connect with the length of rope now suspended over the staples. I waited for what would come next, not knowing at all what it could be. She heard my anxiety and squatted next to the chair. “Oh, I’m not going to do anything more to you. You see, you’re going to want to straighten up at some point. It won’t be all at once–you’re welcome to try to do that, of course, but I can’t imagine you have the courage for that. You may get to the point that you accept what will happen to you and that inspires you, but at first you’ll just come up centimeter by centimeter and eventually this line,” she tugged at it for emphasis,” will start pulling on both ends. The staples will tear into you with every breath as the spikes in your cock ring cut a line up your junk.”

She left me to make herself a cocktail to enjoy while she waited for me to break.

_______________________

If I were there I would have caught his tears in a champagne flute.

And drank them.

*bats eyelashes*

_______________________

FemDomme Art courtesy of FemDom Artists and the incomparable PolyFetishist, who will always have a piece of my heart.

♪ ♫ ♬♪ ♫ ♬♪ ♫ ♬

Just a few golden notes (from emails and conversations):

• I’m in an impossibly dull and useless conference call–I had far more stimulation hooded, bound, and alone.  (after an “isolation” session)
• It just makes me hotter to hear you giggle when I moan in discomfort. (denial & CBT … delicious)
• The first time we spoke, it was love at first kink. (kink-a-dink-a-do, baby cakes)
• Would you really make me masturbate in front of your girlfriends? (not ten of them … but perhaps a few)
• You’re a Man Eater! (anybody have a toothpick?)
• You’re the only woman I’d kneel for. (and he does it often)
• Did you tell your girlfriends that you spoil me? Or that I am enthralled? (and he’s hasn’t cum in a month … oh my)
• I am supposed to be working, but can only think about that leather outfit. (from my leather freak, of course)
• Did I really eat my own cum for you? Disgusting! (but I bet he’ll be back for breakfast)
• I am so nervous that I can’t call. (he did and now he’s mine)
• You get wet when I wear panties for you.  Admit it.  (ahh … the eternally hopeful slut)
• You aren’t just a sexy voice and sexy mind crafting sexy words, you are truly a wonderful person. (sweet boy)
• Yes, I’ll use any pretense I can think of to reach out to you. (I own you *licking lips* yum)
• I went to sleep with you on my mind, which is pretty much where you had been all day. (soon-to-be-knighted Romantic Savant)
• I’m serious about meeting you. Name the place and time and I’ll be there (thanks, but no thanks)
• I’m still trembling three hours later. (carry on, sweet pea)
• How vile I am. (he makes my mouth water)
• Cumming in a corner with my pants around me ankles? Damn, Girl! (don’t forget the lesbian action behind you)
• That countdown was brutal. (❤❤❤)
• I was fucking my girlfriend and all I could do was think about you and the things you made me do. (mission accomplished)

… and the beat goes on.  The beat goes on.

Tra la la.

xo, Angela