While I’ll never understand why a guy playing with his pecker whilst talking with me gets to then leave a review of my er, um, talent, he does.  Yes, you heard it, ladies and gents, an actual Phone Sex Review.  But then there are those times I’m just pleased as can be:

“All hail to Miss Angela, the supreme Princess of NiteFlirt and superior Goddess to all men. We worship at her feet and bow to her every whim, for we are mere men. Miss Angela wields her power with grace, sophistication, sensuality and a knowing wit. We are her toys — to be controlled and used. We exist for Miss Angela’s entertainment. Aren’t we lucky?” ~Peter Roget

And all I can say to Mr. Roget is:  Kiss my ass, you filthy guttersnipe.

(because he likes it just that way)

xo, Angela

an email exchange

Dearest Scunt:

Watched torture porn (teeth were pulled, barbed wire was shoved up an ass … ya know, business as usual) over the weekend and thought about you.

xoxoxo,

Ms. Angela

My Goddess:

I am so hungry for you right now that I can taste my suffering.

Groveling and cringing,

Scunt

Dear Mistress Angela,

Thank you for our call tonight.

I can’t explain my feelings around you. I do trust you more than anyone I have ever known. I trust you to want the best for me, to protect me, and yet… I fear. I fear where you can take me, I fear how depraved and dirty you make me feel, I fear how excited this makes me.

And yet I want it all. I want you to control me, my everything. I want to suffer for you and I want to rejoice for you. I want to be afraid. I want to know the fear. I want to put myself to your absolute control, and mercy. I want to know the joy that only you can open for me.

I want to lick my tears from your feet.
Tears of pain and fear.
Tears of joy and wonder.
Tears that I wept on you, for you.
I want to taste your flesh seasoned with my salt.

Please Goddess, I want to orgasm. I want to come with your voice in my ears and your name on my lips. I want beyond all words, beyond all grammar. I want so that all I know is want. I want so desperately that it is not the orgasm I desire, but the communion with you that allows it.

Love,

Your Boy

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Mmmm. Emails like this.

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language.

And next year’s words await another voice.

T.S. Eliot

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Calls $1.00 off per minute this evening.

xo, Angela