[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsV59qnqZp0&autoplay=0 300 375] 

I have a feeling Silent Porn Star would like this, don’t you?

‘Twas Feb Fourteenth —
A day of days!
I dialed you up,
My heart ablaze.
Seeking sexual succor
With a well-turned phrase
And erotic talk,
Without clichés.
You led me into
A tangled maze
Of forbidden couplings
In perfumed chalets;
Carnal samplings
from mixed buffets;
Symphonies of lust!
Psychosexual Monets!

Our call’s now over,
I’m in a daze.
I linger limply
Upon my chaise.
My credit card’s
In a depleted phase.
But your call!
Ah! It was a polonaise!

I’ve penned these words
To give you praise.
Five-stars are silly.
You deserve bouquets!
Angela, the nymph
Of the phone-ways.
You’ve turned my loins
To mayonnaise!

(isn’t he a doll?  thanks, PQS)

….you might as well drop your panties and spread your legs. Because, sooner or later, he is going to have his way with you

Last night, after a busy day of “much ado about nothing,” I was wired-tired. You’ve been there, right? Feeling all day like your left foot was nailed to the floor as your right one kept running you around in endless circles? Yeah, one of those days. So I was really ready to call it quits. Fresh from a hot bath I was looking forward to calling it a night and had been about the business of doing just that when my muse showed up.

"Not tonight, dear," I told him. "I have a headache."

But he was having none of it. Hopping up onto my shoulder, he pulled out his teeny-tiny muse-monkey and began spanking it. Not this time, I thought to myself, determined to ignore his lewd, rhythmic keystrokes—right there, beside my ear.

"You know you want it, Angela," he whispered.

“No. No I don’t, Muse. Please go away.”

I looked longingly at the just-poured glass of merlot sitting on the kitchen counter top only a few steps away. I imagined the beautifully-bound anniversary edition of To Kill a Mockingbird awaiting me just down the hall—perched atop the pillows I’d just fluffed. I thought of the bedside lamp, its amber nimbus waiting to surround me in the sweetest of solitudes as I sank into my pillow to sip my wine and read a page or two of Harper Lee’s masterpiece before drifting off to higher ground.

“Go to your keyboard, Angela.”

Muse’s voice had taken on that sexy growl, the seductive tenor that always makes my little slut-digits quiver. I whimpered. He chuckled—that familiar sleazy snarl of a chuckle. Oh, how I hate you, you insatiable bastard. As if he could read my thoughts, Muse grunted, spit a gob of ink on his little quill and stroked faster. We both watched the jetty fluid oozing from between his pumping fingers, smearing across his knuckles.

I was getting hot—hot to trot right over to my keyboard and writhe, I mean write. The raunchy little raconteur inside me began to tremble. I wanted Muse’s hot jizz to conjugate and punctuate and catenate me. And his grizzled sneer told me Muse knew it.

“Nouns, adverbs, adjectives.”

“Muse, please stop. You know that sentence is incomplete.”

“Then fix it, Angela. You know you can’t resist.” His breath, smelling of parchment and indigo, blew across my fevered face. “Get your panties off and get your horny fingers over to that fucking computer and diddle with that fragment.”

“But…”

“I know, baby. I’ll make it good. Remember the old days? When we did it on everything? Index cards, notebooks, legal pads, steno pads and even napkins. Remember how you liked being bent over that Underwood you found at the yard sale?”

“Okay, Muse. Damn it, you’re right. Do me. Bend me like a bitch over that keyboard and make me your whore. Shove that fragment in front of my face and have your way with me. Use me like the pencil-pushing slut (virgule) strumpet (virgule) tramp (virgule) harlot that I am.”

“I knew you’d give it up,” Muse sniggered as he positioned me in front of the computer. “Now, you filthy little ink-slinging Pandora, listen to this.”

Hunched over the keyboard I opened wide as he started pumping it into me: “Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

“Give it to me, Muse. Give it to me fast and hard and dirty.”

“Grammar, punctuation, conjunctions, interjections, gerunds…”

“Oh, yes! That’s it. Do me. Pound it in to me.”

“Factitive verbs, predicate nominatives, indefinite pronouns, past participles, appositive phrases …”

Muse had me where he wanted me. He knew the dirty truth about the both of us: That I am his whore and he is my whoremonger. It’s been that way since I first picked up a pen. And so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Until his profane solicitations became the rhythmic movement of my sticky little fingers across the keyboard and once again, as he always does, the Muse had his way with me.

***

I wrote this piece for my semi-regular column at Sex Kitten.  As I noted a while back, it stirred up some positive attention, which made this little FemDom PhoneSex Wanna Be Writer Girl mighty happy.  But I suspect some of you have had neither the opportunity nor inclination to track it down.   Personally, it’s a fav of mine and so I thought I’d put it out there today for you stragglers.  Not to mention if frees up the time I would have spent writing a blog entry today for somewhat nastier pursuits.

I hope you like it. 

xo, Angela

Kryptonite
Ron Koertge 

Lois liked to see the bullets bounce
off Superman’s chest, and of course
she was proud when he leaned into
a locomotive and saved the crippled
orphan who had fallen on the tracks. 

Yet on those long nights when he was
readjusting longitude or destroying
a meteor headed right for some nun,
Lois considered carrying just a smidgen
of kryptonite in her purse or at least
making a tincture to dab behind her ears. 

She pictured his knees giving way,
the color draining from his cheeks.
He’d lie on the couch like a guy with
the flu, too weak to paint the front
porch or take out the garbage. She
could peek down his tights or draw
on his cheek with a ball point. She
might even muss his hair and slap
him around.

“Hey, what’d I do?” he’d croak just
like a regular boyfriend. At last.

***

So, for the first time ever, I’ve reprinted a poem already featured here at Zen.  Now this is extra special dontcha know, because the act of doing so totally fucks with my artistic sensibilities and weird sense of "rightness."  To bring this to you in all one big cohesive piece, this Catholic-school-girl-gone-bad, FemDom-in-control has violated her own "blog esthetics."  I normally don’t include art or pix with my PSOetry entries and I never repeat myself.   Okay, maybe I do repeat myself, but only when what I have to say should be said again or should be heard again. 

Take this picture for example:  how could I publish this picture without including the freakin’ poem?  I mean they do go together like cotton and candy, Nick and Nora, pizza and beer, stockings and garters, Victoria and her Secret.

So don’t just be here for the pictures.  Read the poem!  (Besides, if you found your way here in the midst of a porn jones, you are surely going to starve.)

Do it because you love me, do it because your a submissive and/or a submissive sissy and you don’t dare say "no" to me, do it because you appreciate poetry, do it because you aren’t so super keen on what’s required of your "manliness," do it ‘cuz I said so.

And quit your whining about the whole damn thing, lest I send Lois Lane to kick your bitch ass.

xo, Angela

BTW:  The same Mr. J who turned me on to this poem sent me the picture.  And we all thank him.  Don’t we?

Many times I am asked by some of my very special guys to "please, oh, please" set up cam so that we can cam together.  Quite frankly, I hate cam.  So much so that one of my regular clients always starts his call by teasing me with, "Oh, Mistress, is this your cam line?"  To which we share a good laugh and then get on to the business of being dirty.  There are a variety of reasons for my "cam aversion," including family members who have high -profile jobs and count on my discretion. 

Of course it could also be that  A) I’m actually 97 years old, but blessed with a youthful voice.  B) I am severely deformed, with three ears on the left side of my head. C) I weigh 573 lbs, devouring a bucket of fried chicken during each call. D) I have only three teeth.  NOT in the front of my mouth.  E) My breasts hang so low that in the winter I use them as ear muffs.  F)  All of the above..

As I said, my reasons are varied, but let me tell you a true story about my one and only experience with cam.  And boy was it an eye-opener for me.

So when I first showed up on the web wanting to quit my day job and get back into the phone sex biz, I took a job with a small company that  — ascribing to the "more is better" business philosophy — featured both cam and phone sex girls.  Their website was rather rudimentary at best, but I was new to all this Internet stuff and hardly noticed.  Now I happen to be very much a company person when I’m working for the man; always have been.  I did what was asked of me and did it well.  I brought aboard a bunch of guys who’d been my regulars from my college days and were high-end clientele.  The minimum call I was used to was thirty minutes and the average time these people were used to seeing was ten minutes.  Not only did my callers often times talk one to four hours, they called back often.

I was the company’s fair haired child, no doubt about it.  BUT!  I only did phone, which frustrated the owners, when they knew they could skim more if I did cam.  Why?  Because the calls were 2.50 a minute, while cam was 3.99 a minute.  With dollar signs in their eyes, they began wooing me.  They knew what I looked like from the driver’s license I’d submitted with my resume and kept telling me how rich I would become if I would set up a cam line at their site.   Quite honestly, the prospect of making more money did have me thinking.  I should have known better, because I’d already become disenchanted with the types of callers their "pussy, pussy and more pussy" type of marketing attracted.  But I was new to all of this and still earning my wings, so to speak.  

One the girls featured on the Phone Sex division of the site found herself in a jam, and I was called in to pinch hit.  Literally.   Apparently Tiffany was actually two people for our callers.  She was the "content" girl I knew her as — a fiery, small-framed redhead — and she was also the voluptuous, curvy, BBW cam blonde, Maggie Mae.  That’s how smart I was at the time:  I hadn’t a clue! 

It happened that Tiffany had a regular caller, Anthony, who — as men are apt to do more often than not — slutted around with other girls from the site.  Well, he happened upon Maggy Mae and was absolutely smitten.  He kept insisting he wanted to cam with her, and she kept putting him off.  Apparently, the phone conversations between Anthony and her content persona occurred often enough that she was terrified he’d recognize her voice.  But he continued to insist; and because he spent a whole lot of money with the company, the owners decided they had to fulfill his wish.

Which is where I came into the picture.  The owners proposed that we set up a three way call — Maggy Mae, me and Anthony — with Anthony, of course,  totally unaware of what were doing.  Maggie Mae would mute at her end and I would become her voice, watching her cam show so that I could talk realistically about what was occurring.   We would both be able to hear Anthony, while he watched her and heard me.  This would work just fine, they explained, because Yahoo cam is a few seconds behind what is actually happening, and it would be easy for Maggie Mae to move her mouth to match what I was saying.

While I was more than reluctant to participate, both Maggie Mae and the owners, appreciating my hesitancy, assured me that Anthony never lasted more than fifteen minutes, anyway.  So why not?  Why not sin once for the Gipper? Like I said, I’m a company kind of girl and all.   Plus, by "camming by proxy" I figured I’d get an inside look at how this cam thing worked.  Just in case I decided to take the plunge.  And so it began.

Unfortunately, Anthony was "in a mood" or extra horny or something, because the call actually ended up lasting well over an hour.  He also happened to like a lot of grunting and groaning and screaming.  That hour plus was probably the most tedious time I’ve ever spent with a client.  As I moaned and groaned and yelled and faked orgasm after orgasm, and Maggie Mae energetically lip-synced along, dear little Anthony enthusiastically gave direction:  "Fuck yourself with that dildo."  and "Spread your legs so I can see your pussy." and "Shove that red dildo up your ass." 

By the time the call finally ended, my throat was hoarse and I’d developed a migraine, Maggie Mae’s ass and pussy were stretched and extremely sore (she didn’t do cam again until the following week), and on top of it all, Maggie Mae was angry with me and even a little jealous that her boy had lasted so long with me on the phone.  Which was just silliness, because Anthony hadn’t a clue as to how he’d been bamboozled.  He signed off with stars in his eyes and a smile on his face.

The experience solidified for me all that I personally don’t like about cam and why I’d be absolutely terrible at it.  I like fantasy.  I like kinky, perverse mind fucks.  I want to create scenarios that — at least most of the time — should never, ever see the light of reality.  And I like the romantic mystery and intrigue created by two voices touching each other intimately with just our whispered, secret desires.  So I made the decision to stay away from cam and stick to what I knew best.

Not long after that, I decided to take things in my own hands and left that company to start my own business.  Goodbye to Anthony and ten-minute-wankers forever.  At least for the most part. 

And I lived happily ever after.

xo, Angela

PS.  If you’re the kinda guy who digs cam girls, stay tuned for a blog entry soon, in which I will introduce you to some very hot cam girls.  If I can’t scratch that itch for you, might as well find you somebody who can!