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Angela St. Lawrence is the reigning queen of high-end, long distance training and Femme Domme phone sex, providing esoteric depravity for the aficionado, specializing in Erotic Fetish, Female Domination, Cock Control, Kinky Taboo and Sensual Debauchery. To make an appointment or speak with Ms. St. Lawrence  ...

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Archive for the 'fetish' Category

Heffner Does Klimt (SEXY)

Sunday, April 26th, 2009

No, not that Heffner.  We are talking about Burke Heffner, of course:  my favorite-est Pin-Up artist/photographer.  You may have read my interview?  So I do occasionally check up on Mr. Heffner to see, well, just what the heck he is currently up to.  And what do you know?  Here (in all its glory) was this incredibly sexy and evocative homage to Klimt’s unarguably most famous painting

Dare I say it?  I do believe Burke’s version is better.  I may have to inquire into just what it would take ($$$) to get this home and onto my bedroom wall.

Bravo, Dear Burke.  Bravo, Kudos and kindly kisses.

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Phone Sex Quote of the Day

Men don’t put as much stock in pictures of Phone Sex Operators as you’d think.  Because — to be honest — the more you stroke, the better she looks.  (Mr. F.)

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Phone Sex FemDom Goddess of the Day

Okay, I’m going to fess up:  I am so smitten with Goddess Lycia that I could easily step down from my very own (somewhat rickety — I will admit) pedastal to worship at hers.  She’s  that incredibly and honestly sexy.  It’s in a very  "real girl" way, and I often wonder How does she pull that off — that home-spun beauty magically entwined with an edgy and slighty dangerous mystique?  For Goddess Lycia, it’s all about Mind Control.  And you do know what they say about the brain being your largest sex organ?

You don’t?  That’s okay.  Goddess Lycia is a highly sought after HypnoDomme specializing in love and addiction, tease and denial, humiliation, feminization, and financial domination, and she will show you the way.  The only way.   

Who worships at Goddess Lycia’s altar?  In her own words:  My boys are one or more of the following: submissive, vulnerable, helpless, hopeless, weak, mindless, manipulated, brainwashed, teased, denied, hypnotized, sissified, feminized, objectified, dominated, addicted, controlled, horny, hard, in love, obsessed, losers, wimps, panty-boys, piggies, atm machines, financial slaves, chastised, demoralized, cuckolds, empty, blank, puppets, sex slaves, sex toys, footstools, ashtrays, perverts, suckers, ass-lickers, boot-lickers, toe-suckers, house-cleaners, crossdressers, forced to be bi, forced into slavery, depersonalized…Which ones are you?

As our lovely Fem Fatale says at her websitePrepare to become addicted.

xo, Angela

Beauty and the Beast

Monday, April 20th, 2009

You’re Beautiful

by Simon Armitage

You’re beautiful because you’re classically trained.
I’m ugly because I associate piano wire with strangulation.

You’re beautiful because you stop to read the cards in
newsagents’ windows about lost cats and missing dogs.
I’m ugly because of what I did to that jellyfish with a lolly
stick and a big stone.

You’re beautiful because for you, politeness is instinctive, not
a marketing campaign.
I’m ugly because desperation is impossible to hide.

Ugly like he is,
Beautiful like hers,
Beautiful like Venus,
Ugly like his,
Beautiful like she is,
Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you believe in coincidence and the
power of thought.
I’m ugly because I proved God to be a mathematical
impossibility.

You’re beautiful because you prefer home-made soup to the
packet stuff.
I’m ugly because once, at a dinner party, I defended the
aristocracy and wasn’t even drunk.

You’re beautiful because you can’t work the remote control.
I’m ugly because of satellite television and twenty-four-hour
rolling news.

Ugly like he is,
Beautiful like hers,
Beautiful like Venus,
Ugly like his,
Beautiful like she is,
Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you cry at weddings as well as
funerals.
I’m ugly because I think of children as another species from
a different world.

You’re beautiful because you look great in any colour
including red.
I’m ugly because I think shopping is strictly for the
acquisition of material goods.

You’re beautiful because when you were born, undiscovered
planets lined up to peep over the rim of your cradle and lay
gifts of gravity and light at your miniature feet.
I’m ugly for saying "love at first sight" is another form of
mistaken identity, and that the most human of all responses
is to gloat.

Ugly like he is,
Beautiful like hers,
Beautiful like Venus,
Ugly like his,
Beautiful like she is,
Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you’ve never seen the inside of a
car-wash.
I’m ugly because I always ask for a receipt.

You’re beautiful for sending a box of shoes to the third
world.
I’m ugly because I remember the telephone numbers of
ex-girlfriends and the year Schubert was born.

You’re beautiful because you sponsored a parrot in a zoo.
I’m ugly because when I sigh it’s like the slow collapse of a
circus tent.

Ugly like he is,
Beautiful like hers,
Beautiful like Venus,
Ugly like his,
Beautiful like she is,
Ugly like Mars.

You’re beautiful because you can point at a man in a uniform
and laugh.
I’m ugly because I was a police informer in a previous life.

You’re beautiful because you drink a litre of water and eat
three pieces of fruit a day.
I’m ugly for taking the line that a meal without meat is a
beautiful woman with one eye.

You’re beautiful because you don’t see love as a competition
and you know how to lose.
I’m ugly because I kissed the FA Cup then held it up to the
crowd.

You’re beautiful because of a single buttercup in the top
buttonhole of your cardigan.
I’m ugly because I said the World’s Strongest Woman was a
muscleman in a dress.

You’re beautiful because you couldn’t live in a lighthouse.
I’m ugly for making hand-shadows in front of the giant bulb,
so when they look up, the captains of vessels in distress see
the ears of a rabbit, or the eye of a fox, or the legs of a
galloping black horse.

Ugly like he is,
Beautiful like hers,
Beautiful like Venus,
Ugly like his,
Beautiful like she is,
Ugly like Mars.

Ugly like he is,
Beautiful like hers,
Beautiful like Venus,
Ugly like his,
Beautiful like she is,
Ugly like Mars.

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I’ve been reading a lot of interesting poetry lately, in fact on a daily basis, because it’s Poetry Month and I’m on the Knopf -Doubleday mailing list for the daily email.  I’m still trying to figure out what the antiphonal repeating chorus is about, but still … it’s a great poem.   I can almost hear the man’s (husband’s?) whine in every verse as he  describes their differences.  Or he could just be a caller describing his relationship with his Phone Sex Princess/Goddess/Mistress.  Either way, it works.  It’s that Petrarchian thing again.

Do make a point to visit the poet’s website, where there is some interesting video.   Sir Gawain and the Green Knight anyone?

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Phone Sex Goddess of the Day

The divinely dangerous Miss Lauren of Lauren Rules just might be the woman who finally breaks you.  A voluptuous blonde who excels in training, using and abusing the male animal, Mistress Lauren is a force to be reckoned with.  If you’ve been seeking a powerful and confident Mistress — and feel you haven’t yet quite met your match — then you simply must call this intoxicating and hypnotic beauty.  While you still have possession of your own balls (because She WILL soon own them) visit LAUREN RULES.  And don’t forget THE BLOG, which will absolutely make you weak in the knees.

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Phone Sex Advice of the Day

Manners count.  It’s that simple and that important.  PSOs are not any different than the women you meet in your everyday life.  You might even have a female friend that is a PSO and you don’t even know it.  Would you want her to see you acting that way?  We won’t (unless you called an idiot PSO) judge you by your kink.  But we will judge you by your politesse or lack thereof.  It’s human nature; and we are, after all human.  Just like you.  Which is exactly the point.

xo, Angela

Upskirt Kink: Peek-A-Boo

Saturday, December 6th, 2008

Why is it that sneaking a peek is hotter than having it all spread out like a Thanksgiving banquet right in front of you?  Probably because it seems naughtier:  catching a glimpse of the main dish, when you weren’t even offered a trifling, a crumb or even a half-hearted promise to lick the bowl. 

Thanks to Mr. V, a most revered  Grand Master of Upskirt Roleplay,  who reminded me of just how much fun it can be with a long, delicious cock-teasing call today.  And who also, knowing I pay absolutely no attention to Pop Gossip, clued me into to the latest celebrity Peek-A-Boo Faux Pas.   We would, as the Perez Hilton crowd surely knows, be talking about Ginger Spice (Geri Halliwell) and her er, um … incident. 

And while even Fox News found it noteworthy, I have a feeling Bill O’Reilly might have something to do with that. I mean we all do remember his Phone Sex Scandal (which, in both my personal and professional judgment, he absolutely sucked at).

Everything started out just hunkey dorey, with  Ms. Halliwell playing it spicey-but-nicey in a chiffon-like red dress when she recently attended the BAFTA British Academy Children’s Awards.  At least at first. 

Could have been the wind, the allignment of stars, even a not-so-talented seamstress.  Or maybe she was missing her Spice Girls days and just was looking for just one more  Zig-A-Zig Ha

Regardless, she did that model-like turn there on the red carpet and … RING A DING DING!

Well, I can tell you that  Mr. V (and I suspect more than a few photographers) is very, very happy.  Before he’d even called me, he’d downloaded the pics and added them to his ever-expanding collection. 

So Ginger/ Geri ….tell us what you wanted, what you really really wanted … when you showed us your sexy little ass? 

On second thought, just never you mind.  Because it really is none of our damned business.  And you are stunning, with or without the upskirt shot.  But that won’t stop the Upskirt Kinksters from hoping and wishing. 

I mean a dirty boy has got to do what a dirty boy has got to do!

xo, Angela

Wicked Fetish

Thursday, October 30th, 2008

Can fetishes be wicked? I certainly hope so.  Isn’t the inherent wickedness associated with a fetish what makes it feel so damn good?  The business of Phone Sex and FemDom Phone Sex and Kinky Phone Sex is more or less fetish-oriented and fetish-inspired.  So it stands to reason I would be a big believer in fetish.  I mean, after all, it’s my bread and butter.

Even so,  I would argue that there is a "good" kind of wicked and a "bad" kind of wicked when talking about fetish.  Good wicked is something I believe in, promote whole-heartedly and stand behind with a bit of professional integrity and a bunch of personal enthusiasm. It’s a time-out for good boys and girls, a time out to be dirty and nasty, as bad as you want to be … just for a little while.  I say, have at it boys and girls:  Don those plastic pants, lick those steel stilettos, insert that rectal thermometer, sniff those panties, lace up that corset, rub your face into those PVC-covered breasts, drag that stiff prick along the seams of those cuban-heeled nylons.

BUT then there is the "bad" kind of wicked, which is when a fetish becomes too important — so much so that sexual excitement is not even possible without the fetish in play. I call it getting "fetished out," and I’ve actually seen this in action on more than one occasion.

Technically — or at least in the past — fetishes have always been attached to physical objects: high heels, balloons, leather, latex, feathers, stockings, panties, cigarettes, gloves. I’ve even heard of someone having a crayon fetish.  Fairly recently, the definition of "fetish" kind of naturally expanded to include non-tangible things that turn us on (i.e. specific phraseology, pornography, certain sexual positions, particular body parts, unusual sexual acts). One could be said to have a fetish for anal fisting or erotic hypnosis or for women of Asian ethnicity (aka Yellow Fever).  

There are even fetishes for what I do:  Narratophilia and Telephonicophilia.  And while I could, in my own interest, justify these as always "good" wicked fetishes, I wouldn’t.  Because, dear readers, callers and commenters and emailers, it is a matter of — as I said earlier — getting "fetished out."  So if you call me and it is your way of being good to yourself now and again, well I think would be a "good" fetish.  Then again, if you’re calling compulsively or putting at risk things and people who matter just to call me — oh, oh!  Not good and very possibly a "bad" fetish.

(And, before I go on, just let me say here — right up front — I never met a man with a shoe fetish (hopefully, a very bad shoe fetish) I didn’t like.  And I’d even consider marrying him if he promised to love, honor, obey and buy me shoes, shoes shoes … to my heart’s content.   *wink*)

Not surprisingly (consider this blog’s title), I believe that most people (men and women)  have some kind of kink that they are either secretly harboring or exercising at will, and I think most men have some type of fetish-y thing going on.  It might be something as mild as having one’s nipples teased or a thing for long hair. It could be seeing a woman dressed in leather or latex or sexy lingerie.  Or seeing a sultry MILF smoke.  Some fetishes are admittedly a bit off the beaten path, such as a Giantess Fetish (Macrophilia) or a Balloon Fetish (aficionados are referred to as "looners.")  And then there are the really "far out" fetishes such as mysophilia (being aroused by mud and filth) or necrophilia (yup, sex with the dead).

I think it’s fair to say that these days the words "kink" and "fetish" are used pretty much interchangeably.  The good thing about this is that the stigma once associated with fetishes has somewhat lost its sting.   With the Internet kinda-sorta shoving kink into the spotlight early on (see Vanilla Mythology, wherein I quoted a college student I was tutoring: These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird), fetishes have pretty much gotten the green light.

So just how does a  good fetish become a bad fetish?   I’m glad you asked.  And in answer,  I will tell you a little story:

Once upon a time in the not so distant past I worked for a Phone Sex company. It was their company, their rules.  Therefore, I was not Angela — no real names permitted in Fantasy Land.  But, if you called asking for Tori the Shemale or Cuckolding Maria or Goddess Diana or Lucinda the Slutty Divorcee or Innocent Annie or Lactating & Pregnant Hermaphrodite Felicity  or Humiliatrix Nadine — due to cutting-edge software — the dispatcher easily discerned that Angela was your girl and hooked us right up. 

There happened to be a gentlemen, whom we shall refer to as Mister Master, who called regularly to dominate my character, Submissive Sabrina.    Mister Master was quite interesting.  He’d spent quite a few years feeding his kink for dominating women and indulging his particular fetishes.  As an adolescent boy scout learning the Butterfly Knot and the Halyard Bend he was secretly imagining himself binding and gagging beautiful girls.  As a teenager he actually got to practice some rudimentary domination tactics with a few of his dates. 

He finally settled down and got married to a  young beauty (I saw her pics) and was delighted to find that his new wife was willing to play along.  Mr. Master considered himself very lucky that he was able to satisfy his any whim and basically gorged on a daily diet of kink and fetish.

Over time, Mr. Master’s fetishes became varied and many.  Red lipstick, sexy lingerie and fuck-me-pumps were soon de rigeur for any marital coquetry.  Then Mr. Master discovered ball gags … bright red ball gags.  And, oh, he liked them a lot.  After that came dildo gags, gags that caused drooling, inflatable gags … gags!  gags!  and more gags!

Because the gags made him so hot, Mr. Master decided he wanted to "hear" the Missus gag.  And so he would "throat fuck" her.  This would sometimes make her whimper, which made him even hotter.  He wanted more.  He wanted to make her whimper and beg and cry.  So he experimented with clothespins and nipple clamps.  Then paddles and whips and canes.

Then the matter of ropes became all-important and Mr. Master began suspending the Missus from banisters, then rafters, then even trees.  And this went on and on and on. 

Until …

(things start happening rather quickly here, so pay attention)

Mr. Master got gluttonous. Oh yes he did.

He was having such a good time with the always ready, willing and able Missus, that he decided two submissive women would surely be more fun than one and easily convinced the Missus to give it a try.  And, like the infinitely resourceful junkie who can be always get his next fix, Mr. Master soon found a couple willing to "play."  And so the twosome became a foursome.  Unfortunately, the foursome didn’t last so long.  Because — much to everyone’s surprise — the Missus ran off with the the Mister from the other couple.  Ouch! 

And Mr. Master became single again.  Single and kinky — seriously kinky.  He also happened to be — due to career requirements — living in a rather isolated part of the world.  Yes, there were women to date.  There just wasn’t the large and varied "assortment" he’d experienced his first time around.  So he dated.  He dated and danced and saw movies and went for walks and held hands.  He rented DVDs,  went down to the pond to feed the ducks, took moon-lit drives under star-filled skies. 

He did all that and all the other dating things people who are dating do.

Except fuck. 

Because Mr. Master — kinda-sorta living a dominant’s dream-come-true all those years — had forgotten the basics.  He’d forgotten how to fuck.  It just didn’t do anything for him. 

And thus, Mr. Master began calling me.  Or I should say Submissive Sabrina.  And the sweet and idolizing Submissive Sabrina would give Mr. Master exactly what he needed.  I’d groan and whimper and beg for mercy. I would describe my sexy black stockings and hot pink garter belt.  I’d hit my hot water bottle and tell him I was spanking my ass just for him.  I’d pretend to tie myself up according to his exact instructions.  I’d put my fist in my mouth and talk around it, telling him how bright red the ball gag was.  I’d jingle the old dog collar I kept in the bedstand  and tell him I was cuffing my ankles for him. 

Well, that was then and this is now.  Mr. Master is now my friend and knows the real deal.  When I started my own business, I fessed up.  He took it very well.  And Mr. Master is in love with a woman … has even moved into her place.  And he has gotten to the point where he can perform intercourse with her.  But he confides that he rarely orgasms with her and still begs to do "sex" calls with me.  "You’re the best.  You always were the best," he tells me over and over.

And I wasn’t even real.

So that is what I would call a WICKED FETISH GONE BAD.  i.e. Fetished Out

Wouldn’t you?

xo, Angela

Mira Stern

Monday, March 6th, 2006

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Although I have the bad habit of mispelling (Myra instead of Mira), Domina Stern’s first name, I am a big fan of hers. She is a wicked-smart Fetish Dominatrix, specializing in addressing the deviant desires of that specialized category of slaves, the sub-cognoscenti. She is articulate, rough & tough and takes way too much pleasure in destroying the male psyche. You have to admire that in a girl.

As I am in the process of a fairly big update at Literate Smut, I approached Domina Stern regarding featuring her on one of the pages. Much to my surprise and delight, she graciously has agreed. And now I am just so darn excited, I think I’m gonna pee myself. Well, maybe not that out of control, but pretty close. Can you blame me? From Domina Stern’s sexy lips & delicious brain:

What She Wants

I don’t want a bad boy to treat me wrong and assert his individuality all over my carpet. I want a tractable, studious wimp. I want a shiny 250 pound robot and I want the remote. I want my own personal Jesus to nail up over my bed. I want a disciple to wash my feet. I want an unearthly girly man to be my lesbian twin. I want a sugar-daddy to wipe my feet on, snuggle up to and manipulate like ABC gum. I want a supplicant. I want a guard dog. I want a pale and wan intellectual, begging me to make him do research and write paeans to my beauty. I want to launch 10,000 ships…with my mind. I want to break 10,000 men…with my voice.

I want a corporation. I want a golden parachute. I want guilty, furtive, condemned and conflicted men of influence to come to me, whip carried in mouth.

I don’t want Marlon Brando in his heyday. I don’t want Clark Gable. I want an army. I want 65 clones of Vin Diesel down on bended knee in the hot sands of the thunder-fucking dome all pointed in the same direction, all waiting for my command, all readied at my behest.

I want a six foot teddy bear with a massive erection, that I can just climb on and suck my thumb. I want to bury my face in his soft pink fur, and never ever worry a bit.

I want a real man who isn’t afraid to cry. I want a hopelessly horny, emasculated little pissant who isn’t afraid to beg. I want a man afraid of his masculinity. I want a man bound to his masculinity. I want a man who reviles his masculinity. I want a man who doesn’t know which of the three he is.

I want to hurt, humble, amuse myself, take no prisoners, leave no survivors, and I want it now. I want to want. I want to give myself a framed license that states “This document entitles Mira Stern to practice whatever the hell she pleases.”

I want to fuck you. No, I said that I wanted to fuck you. Get humble and get passive, bitch.

And what, what entitles me to such wonders? Why would I, just lil me, dare to dream and dare to demand? No credentials. No special reason. A decision to deserve. Starting now. A conscious choice, to reapply my lipstick, quit sobbing in my beer and be a grownup. Why most women never reach this conclusion is beyond my comprehension. Why most women never decide to deserve is the thing I will never understand.

Keep your bad boy, till he becomes an asshole and you have to kick him out.

Cry, buy beer, and repeat.

I’ll keep the good ones, the ones who bore you.

I will never get bored while having my way.

I don’t know about you, but I think this particular essay has to be some of the best FemDom writing I’ve seen.

Want more? Can’t get enuff? Still looking? Are you still here?

xo, Angela