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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 'Smut by Proxy' Category

BDSM Transexual Bedtime Story

Monday, March 31st, 2008

Riding the Wave

by Porn Person

I don’t think that I give off a "BDSM Vibe" but apparently I do.

The real I think that I emit this peculiar wavelength comes from an incident at my first "real job" — one that wasn’t held down part time while attending classes, or where I had to wear a uniform. The company I worked for hired a new office manager, Marla Strom. She was an unimposing slip of a woman. She was likely in her fifties (but where I was in my twenties, I had yet to gauge what could be considered "middle aged"). She looked like she would have fit in best at one of my mother’s Book Club discussion.

There was little cause for me to interact with Marla. She spent most days on the phone in her office, managing supply vendors, repairmen, and who knows what else. Yet, occasionally Marla would play "Den Mother" to the pack of web developers. She’d make an appearance, going through the rank and file to socialize. I had engaged in a few pleasant conversations with Marla, nothing out of ordinary, until about two months after she’d been there when she was bemoaning how empty her social life had been since moving to our metropolitan area.

"I just don’t know where to find the kind of fun I’m used to," she said. I suggested that she take a gander at some of the free newspapers that were available at the record store (dating myself) in the neighborhood. This seemed to pique her interest. She asked if they had any "club listings" and I started to jaw on about the music establishments downtown. "No, not that kind of a club," she said. She left this door open wide, waiting for me to step into it. More than a statement, it was a question and she was awaiting my answer.

Oddly, I knew that I wasn’t reading too much into her question. Whatever wavelength I riding, I knew she was sharing the same ride. I don’t flaunt who or what I am, so the moment it took me to decide what to say next seemed to take an eternity. I felt like I was standing at a precipice.

I plunged over the side: "I think I know what kind of club you mean. There’s one downtown, The Grasshopper, at Debussy and Bartok. It’s only open Friday and Saturday night after eleven."

She nodded, knowingly. "And what night can I count on seeing you there?"

"I haven’t been in months but was thinking of going there this Friday, as a matter of fact." It wasn’t the most truthful answer. I had no prior plans of going there but now it seemed suddenly to be in my best interest.

"Great, hopefully I’ll see you there," she said, touching my arm as she walked past me on the way back to her office.

It didn’t take more than a second for a hot cold flush to come over me, one that made me question both my judgment and my sanity. I’d let the cat out of the bag about my proclivities and I got the image of Marla putting in a call to the Human Resources department in Washington to file a complaint about the pervert in her local office. My head was swimming with ill-fated scenarios but, still, in the back of my head I wondered if Marla were simply just a "freak" like me.

***

The rest of the week I didn’t see Marla in the office more than just catching a glimpse of her. The debate went on inside my head as to show up Friday night or not. Yet, somewhere inside, I knew that I would be doing so, no matter how many reasons I gave myself not to.

Friday found me in the smoky shadows of the Grasshopper with the thump, thump of house music matching the nervous patter in my chest. I was nursing a drink when I saw Marla across the room. She was talking to a rather striking, tall brunette. Marla was barely recognizable outside of the context of our office and in a rather revealing outfit that included a leather skirt and a blouse that revealed her brassiere from certain angles beneath translucent black material.

Before I could think to do anything, Marla noticed me and nodded. She flagged me down with a wave and I made my way through the crowd of twenty-to-sixtysomethings that comprised the Friday night crowd.

It was more than a little difficult to make conversation over the music. I caught that Marla was with her friend, Dee, and that they were glad out on a Friday night for a change. Dee wasn’t one for making much eye contact, I noticed, as I tried to listen to she and Marla. After one particularly lengthy speech, Marla leaned into my ear and asked, "You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?"

I sadly shook my head and she smiled wide. "Okay," she yelled. "Let’s get our of here." She said something to Marla who slugged down the last of her drink before adjusting her purse and nodding her ascent.

Outside in the crisp winter air Marla seemed happier than I’d ever seen her. I don’t throw this word around, but she seemed "giddy." The same couldn’t be said for Dee, who was far more reserved. After walking with the two women for a while I realized that I hadn’t a clue where we were headed. They were walking with a purpose and destination in mind and I tagged along like a puppy hoping to get a treat.

We walked for only a few blocks (though the uncertainty of the destination made it seem longer) to what looked like a warehouse. Marla produced a set of keys and unlocked the door saying, "The best thing about that club, it seems, is that it’s so close to my space."

She unlocked the door and we went inside. I still didn’t know what was in store for me, at least consciously, but I think I knew on some level that Marla’s ‘space’ was her ‘placespace’. An elevator ride later, my inkling was confirmed. Without even needing to explain, Marla and Dee ushered me into a large loft which sported a decorative theme somewhere between medieval torture chamber and college student apartment.

There was no negotiating or verbal sparring. There was no polite offer of tea, coffee, or wine. Things fell into place like a puzzle piece finding its slot.

Without ceremony, Dee began liberating herself of most of her outfit. Marla started to do the same, simply stating, "Put your clothes on the shelf by the radiator" as she did.

I had been trained well enough by the women that I had served previously to know better than to affect an attitude of shock and awe. I knew my place in this kind of situation, despite never having been in one before, and did what I was told, removing every inch of clothes and, with it, any artifice of control. Naked, I knew I was not in charge of anything any longer and belonged completely to these two ladies until told otherwise.

***

It was chilly in the loft at first. I wasn’t cold for very long after the blows began to fall. I was bound to the crux decussata. Marla and Dee took turns using various implements on my flesh, starting with a flogger and moving on to a riding crop, small belt, and even a wooden spoon. They started off slow but soon were determined to see how long and hard they could beat me until I begged for mercy.

Marla’s body was incredibly tight. Her gray hair was cut short in a spiky ‘do that gave her a lot of sass. Her blue eyes shone with glee as she administered blows to my ass; I could see the look reflected in the mirrored wall before me. I prayed that neither she nor Dee would blindfold me; it was wonderful seeing them strut their stuff, working up a sweat as they beat me. Occasionally Dee would opt out of the beating and stand in front of me, my eyes level with hers. She’d reach between the crux of the St. Andrew’s Cross to find my penis, half hard between being turned on and being in pain. She’d take me to full mast with her hand, staring me down while she manipulated me expertly.

"You like that, huh slut?" she hissed, her husky voice making me harder. "Did you get hard when you saw us at the club tonight? Did you think about getting down on your hands and knees right there and kissing our feet? Did you want to put your face between Marla’s asscheeks and lick her tight hole? Tell me, slut. Tell Miss Dee everything."

And, as the lash fell across my stinging, hot bottom, I confessed my sins. I admitted to how flush with excitement I was when I saw them and to the carnal sins I committed in my mind. Her skilled hands took me up the flights of stairs of my orgasm building but stopped just before I jumped off the roof. She repeated this process several times as Marla continued to redden my flesh.

The slap of the lash was replaced by an odd buzz. I looked in the mirrored wall to see Marla with a new toy — a long white-handled tool topped with a purplish globe at the end. She applied it to my backside and I wailed out of surprise and a newfound sensation of pain as electricity seemed to rip through me.

"Shhhhh," Marla chided as she put her cool hand on my warm neck. Her touch was reassuring. I realized that this was the first time she had touched me. Her hands were soft but firm. She grasped to steady me as she applied the violet wand once again to the backs of my thighs. I tried to not wail as loudly as before, pushing air through my clenched teeth as the electricity crackled over me.

She held the wand to my thighs, my low moan turned into a sharp cry and finally I begged for mercy. She continued to shock me as she decided if she would show me any or not… Finally, she stopped the current. She began unbuckling me from the cross while Dee did the same. Weakened, they lead me to a low table in the middle of the room, laying me down on the padded surface.

Dee moved my feet up so that my knees were bent and my legs were open. I stared dumbly at the ceiling until I felt something cold and hard pushing against my anus. I looked down to see Marla holding the full bag of an enema in one hand while she inserted the nozzle with the other. I felt so vulnerable and humiliated as she opened up the flow and allowed water to enter me, flooding my bowels. I was even more embarrassed when the sensation set off my cock, making it hard enough for she and Dee to comment about.

Dee lackadaisically masturbated me as I filled with fluid. I began moaning from the pleasure of Dee’s hand mixed with the pleasure / pain / discomfort of the enema. Marla squeezed the bag to flood me with the last of the liquid.

"Hold tight," she said, while slowly pulling the nozzle free. I clenched as tight as I could, trying to hold the liquid inside of myself.

After she put the equipment down, Marla moved to the head of the table. She put her hands on my cheeks, lightly caressing me as she looked down into my eyes. She could see my panic and excitement. "You’ll feel the pressure build, almost as if the water never ceased. When it gets to be too much for you to handle, you need to ask for release. When that time comes, I may or may not allow you to use the restroom by the entrance. Do you understand?"

I nodded my head as much as I could, my voice struggling to get out of my throat. She smiled and patted my cheek before walking out of my field of vision.

Despite Dee’s hand on my cock, I felt utterly isolated, staring up at the ceiling and thinking only of the rumbling in my gut. I was torn between the pleasure of manipulation and the discomfort building inside. Finally, I had to plead for release.

I was granted the privilege of using the loft’s restroom. I was mortified by the sounds that must have been coming out of that room but managed to get over it with the sheer relief of evacuating.

When I sheepishly returned, Marla had me get back on the table. This time she strapped me down; one across the chest, one at the waist, and one at the neck. My legs were free only momentarily before they were pushed back and Dee wrapped a strap around each ankle that were then put behind my thighs, effectively keeping my knees bent. She smiled at me after she did this, the first time I had seen her truly smile all evening.

Dee then removed her underwear, revealing a steadily hardening circumcised penis. She continued to smile at me and I jumped as I felt the cool wetness of lubrication being applied to my now-exposed opening by Marla’s sure hand.

Dee moved closer to me and ran her stiffening cock across my lips, pushing insistently against them until I opened my mouth and allowed her access the the warm wetness. I felt the smoothness of her hot flesh against my tongue as she grew inside of me. She took the back of my head in her hands and began pulling me, still restrained against the bonds, back and forth along her shaft as she effectively fucked my mouth.

Why this particular act of debauchery affected me so, I’m unsure. Being taken by Dee in this manner sent me reeling, especially to be used like this in front of Marla. I felt as if the rest of the night’s events could have been "laughed off" as an amusing bit of play but having my mouth violated like this took things to a different level…

Let’s not kid anyone, I loved the feel of Dee’s cock in my mouth, and hearing her breathe through her clenched teeth as I grew to suck her with as much vigor as my bonds allowed. Meanwhile, Marla teased and played with my asshole, opening it with her fingers until a signal passed between she and Dee at which time, Dee removed her cock from my mouth and made her way to the end of the table which was at the right height for her to enter my waiting rosebud.

As she pushed her cock towards my waiting hole, Marla climbed up onto the table and rested her pantied pudendum on my mouth and nose, allowing me to smell the heady aroma of her excitement. This helped ease the discomfort I felt as Dee entered my behind, her hands grabbing onto my legs and pulling me onto her. Around the sides of Marla’s thighs, I heard Dee grunt as she went deep inside of me sending a shudder of pain mixed with pleasure through my entire body. Someone, I’m not sure who, held on tight to my cock.

Marla pushed herself harder against my face until she reached a point where I knew my nose must have been against the clitoris under her panties. She pressed harder, then lighter, then harder again, fucking herself against my proboscis as her friend fucked my ass.

Dee began to get more intense, her thrusts harder and deeper, while Marla continued to bump her love button against my nose faster. The hand on my cock gripped tighter. I couldn’t take it anymore and, despite trying to ask permission against the gusset of Marla’s pants, I erupted. The hand on my cock squeezed and milked me through orgasm and soon my ears were filled with the muffle stutter cry of Marla as she reached her own climax on top of me. Dee followed suit just a second thereafter, her cock twitching and jerking inside of me.

The ladies slowly got off and out of me. I lay there, dazed, while Marla fetched a warm washcloth for me to clean up with. Play time over, she walked me downstairs and gave me directions back to my car. I was both turned around and boggled by the events of the previous two hours.

***

The following Monday at work, Marla didn’t say anything or act any differently towards me. We continued our pleasant working relationship from then on, but every Friday night (until the company relocated her) we would meet at Grasshopper and adjourn back to her loft for more extracurricular activity.

——————————-

As you should know by now, me and Porno Person are thick as thieves.  At least on occasion and let me tell you, what an occasion it is!  I like Porno person bunches and for a lot of reasons, one of which is that he can weave a mighty dirty story, and I like that it a person.  I like it a lot.  So sue me.  (or call me)

As I’ve noted before, I’m never sure which of his stories are "fantasy" and which are the real deal, because he is a practicing and mighty real-life-kinkster.  But I’m pretty sure this one actually happened.  So to my readers and callers who can only dream?  Eat your heart out.  *wink*

xo, Angela 

Cross Dresser on a Leash

Tuesday, March 25th, 2008

Alex – Alexia

by Richard of DownOnMyKnees

At 5′8″ and 125 lbs. he’d never be called manly. Very very pale rather blank blue eyes and a weak chin made him look like the kind of guy who’d been picked on as a kid. Which he was. Treated nastily by his father as well.

Which is probably why he needed what I was able to give him. Anyone who meets me sees someone invincibly self-assured. I sometimes tell people that I could sell my surplus self-esteem but foreign dictators. It is a bit of a front but sometimes advertising is everything. I could also give him unconditional affection and complete fidelity. While I think of monogamy as pretty silly I’ve always been so. And I could give him the experiences you, gentle reader, will get a sample of as this narrative continues.

Alex gave me the most cursory brush against my lips and headed straight for the bathroom. Right now his mind was focused on remaking himself. Anybody who meets him can tell he’s a “nancy boy,” “jane girl,” that is, a femme gay male. What you can’t tell on sight is that he’s a transvestite. Dressing as a woman is his supreme pleasure in life. Probably more than I am, I’m not stupid enough to ask.

I grabbed a kitchen chair and parked myself outside the bathroom where I could watch. This was ‘his’ bathroom. It was my house but we did not live together. I had a second, smaller bathroom downstairs leaving this one a place he could keep a bewildering array of makeup pencils, creams, brushes and ointments.

He was nude except for hosiery and heels that he’d stepped into as soon as he could discard his office clothes. It slowed him down but he knew how much I enjoyed watching how the heels made his ass checks move while he was working on his face.

I can’t give you an intelligible description of what he did to his face. To me it just looked like he put stuff on, then wiped it off. Drew invisibly on his face with some sort of pencil. Even though his art only baffled me it was always very sexy to watch him work.

It took him about twenty minutes. When he was done his eyes had somehow become bright, beautiful and very womanly. His chin mysteriously looked much stronger. And in my mind was becoming a girl. A girl named Alexis.

Putting on a simple short black skirt and top took moments. She did struggle briefly to get his wig on. The hair wasn’t very long and was thick, black and straight. It had cost her more than I cared to think.

Finished she turned around for my approval. I always felt a glow of pride that my pretty guy was also a handsome woman. Since we were going out I could look but not touch.

Ready to leave he slung a handbag over her shoulder. Casual is very polite description of how I dress so I’m always ready. We got in her car for the very good reason that I don’t know how to drive (a long story of no interest here). I always call her my ‘chaufferette’ when we drive anywhere.

The restaurant was middling. I don’t care much about eating out. But Alexis does and I couldn’t think of a better way to spend the time to make her happy. Besides we weren’t really here to eat.

After we were seated out waiter asked the inevitable would we like anything to drink.
I ordered a scotch and soda. Alexis said she wanted a glass of wine. This was my cue.
“You silly bitch, I told you that I wouldn’t allow you any alcohol. How dare you defy me.”
She crimsoned instantly. “I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry.” Turning to the waiter, “I’ll have a coke.”
“The bitch will have a diet coke.” She softly whimpered agreement.
The waiter who’d been focusing on an empty point in the middle of the air quickly withdrew.

Alexis’s expression was unreadable: maybe kind of drunken, or something animal. Doubtlessly really humiliated the humiliation satisfied a deep hunger.

In a way the meal was already over before we’d eaten anything. We agreed we couldn’t take this too far. Someone might try to rescue the ‘little lady.’

So we quickly ate a bit of the food and left. The waiter was rewarded with a very generous tip.

Still flush with excitement from scene in the restaurant the kiss she gave me before we got in the car assured me I’d have a hot and passionate slut when we got home.

[ ]

The next afternoon Alexis and I were each in our own chair reading.

Her hair was of a cut that looked good on men or women and she didn’t have a wig on. At my request she was wearing her PVC thigh boots, hot pants and a tank top. She looked like a new wave hooker on her day off. I’d asked her to dress that way. She thought I just wanted her looking slutty. That was true enough but I had a special surprise for her.

“Make me a pot of coffee, sweet one.” She readily obliged feeling that minor domestic tasks made her more feminine.
She brought a cup in and sat it down beside me.
I raised my head and gave her what I hoped was a poisonously cold look. “What the fuck is this?”
“C-coffee.” I’d caught her off guard. She couldn’t imagine anything could be wrong.
“You are such a stupid slut. I told you to bring me a coke.”
“But- “

“Are you arguing with me, bitch-boy?” Mixing gender in my insults is always a warning she understands. There’s the hidden threat that I can wipe off the make up and take off the women’s clothing. That I can force Alexis to be Alex.

“No, no, please don’t be mad.” Absolutely meek and by now realizing something was about to happen.

“Get down on your hands and knees in front of me. Now, bitch.” It had actually taken a lot of effort at first for me to call her nasty names but that only excited her alot. “And keep your mouth shut.”

“You know where your collar is, bring it over. In your mouth.”
The collar was near so that was quickly done. I put it on and locked it.
“I should never let you take this off. You need it to remind you of who and what you are. Climb over my lap.”
She did. She felt very good there. So frail, completely mine.
“I think you deserve about fifty licks for your impudence. What do you think you deserve?”
She had started to drift towards subspace. “Whatever my Master demands, Sir.”
“You said that too easily. I think you are getting to used to your spankings. Get off my lap, I have a special treat for you.”
“Crawl over and bring me your leash.”

I think she was a little worried that I was going to spank her with it. We set hand spanking as a limit. I’d sometimes threaten to use the leash as a belt. If she’d been able to think clearly she’d know that I’d never violate our contract.

“Come on, we’re going walk downstairs. You know the way, stay on your hands and knees and go ahead of me.”
Crawling down stairs looked very awkward but she made it without mishap.
“Now we’re going out the back door, stay down and crawl out.”
She looked up at me wide-eyed. Outside the house, like this, would I really make her.
“I didn’t give you permission to look at me pussy-boy. Do you want worse than you are about to get.”
Too cowed to ask or say anything she just put her head back down and crawled out the door as I held it open.

When we were out on the grass I stopped and gave her leash a gentle tug, her signal to sit up on her knees and look me in the face.

“You’ve started to forget that you are mine to do with as I want. You are my pet. To remind you I’m going to take you on a walk around the edge of the yard. We are going to walk along all four sides of the yard. If you are lucky nobody will she you. If you aren’t …” I just shrugged.

The chances were vanishingly small that either of the people living at the side or rear would come out and se anything. There were trees and bushes long two of the fences blocking off lots of view. But in the small residual chance that they might lay the thrill.

Alexis was appalled. “Please, please … ” was all she said and it was pathetic.

I was heartless. “I could just lock you up here on the back porch for the evening. You are going to do exactly what I tell you and do it now. Make me wait and I’ll make it worse.”

I pulled on the leash and she followed.
“Walk in front of me. Don’t go too fast or I’ll make you crawl this route twice.”
She went at a moderate pace and I enjoyed watching her buns move back and forth as she crawled.

It seemed to take much longer than it could’ve as we went along one fence, another, yet another and eventually were back at the back door.

I opened the door and led her inside.
I removed the leash and pulled her up. She was limp so I picked her up in my arms and carried her upstairs.

Sitting in a chair I held her in my lap. She murmured something, I hadn’t any idea what but it was probably thanks. She was still recovering from the huge mental orgasm that only a satisfied sub feels and understands.

I knew she’d be incredibly loving for the rest of the day

__________________________________________

Our beloved Submissive Savant recently featured this story at his site, BDSM Romance, which includes a sweet graphic (Men In Lace:  TV HOSTAGE — A Crossdressing Novel for Adults Only) that you simply must go see for yourself.  (I think the price on that book is $5.95?  I imagine Richard would say, "Ah Angela, those were the days," because you certainly couldn’t buy it for that price today.)

And to newbie and well-seasoned BDSMers:  Richard is THE MAN when it comes to kink.  He’s been around the block (sometimes sans leash, sometimes not) and shares generously via a variety of FREE websites.  An incomplete list: 

So I hope you enjoyed the story.  Make sure to leave a comment and let us know.  I’m a bit sidetracked with Spring Cleaning; it’s a dirty job but …  But I am around and somewhat available for calls.  Maybe I can dress you up pretty just like Alexia and leash train you? 

xo, Angela

Happy St. Paddy’s Day

Monday, March 17th, 2008

How about some limericks (in lieu of green beer) to celebrate the day.  Tom Allen of The Edge of Vanilla asks:  Breathes there a man (or woman) with soul so dead that they can’t appreciate a good limerick?  So here are a few created by the very man himself, starring some people you just might know (though he’s never written one about me —  can ya believe it?):

A brash dominatrix named Jones
Would reduce all her boyfriends to moans
By her erotical knowledge
(not acquired in college)
Of painful erogenous zones.

***

A new dominatrix named Kate
Was breaking a new subby-mate;
When she asked how he fared
he said he was scared,
But her caning technique was first-rate.

***

Gillette, a hard-working hooker
Was such an enchanting good looker,
There were fights ‘mongst the fuzz
Over whose turn it was
To pinch her, and frisk her, and book her.

Now Mr. Allen is rather self-deprecating when it comes to his talent.  But I think those are pretty damn good.  I surely can’t even begin to write limericks.  Although, in my defense, I will say that the writing of limericks is pretty much a man’s game, at least most of the time.  You can read more of Tom’s kinky lil’ compositions by clicking here.

But wait!  Once upon a time in Kitten Land, I actually did have a few limericks written just for me:

Here is a limerick written
By a reader who finds himself smitten
By Angela’s prose
And the passion she shows
In the things that she writes for sex-kitten.

In person, her talk must be racy.
Her underwear, no doubt, is lacy.
But sexier still
Are the words from her quill,
 Which she publishes now, thanks to Gracie.

Some people like leather, I’ve heard.
By some, domination’s preferred.
But for me, more exciting
Is Angela’s writing:
The brain tease, the mind fuck, the word!

***

A cyber pussy so many adore
Created a site with class galore
By enlisting the greatest minds of Eros
She challenged these sensual heroes
with inkfilled sabers to extoll
and with cerebral words cajole
A readership of sextelligentsia

***

There once was the EclecticPearl…..
whose ways made his mind just swirl….

She’d whisper such smut,
t’would twitch mind and butt….

soon making his toes slowly curl!!!

Okay, so maybe my guys kinda-sorta broke the rules a little bit, but they showed up in fine spirit and with much gusto did the job.  Isn’t that just about as Irish as you can get?

Top of the Even’n to ya!

xo, Angela

Oh the Wicked Words He Prays

Wednesday, March 12th, 2008

Black

by The Provocateur

(U)nless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.”

– Kay Redfield Jamison

She is a dominatrix and I am standing at her iron gate, waiting for her to answer. I don’t say this out loud, but: I come to her not to be dominated by her – nor anything else outside myself.

I am here to reanimate myself. I am here to dominate myself.

My lips are the color of a Clockwork Orange and when she opens the door, I do not tell her that I am here to violently reconquer myself. I do not tip my hat and tell her that I am here to put myself back together again.

+

I have found myself in a place of misfortune. There are claims being levied on me: That I am intelligent. Maybe brilliant.

Couple that with my broken heart and clearly: I am not very smart at all. The evidence is in the previous weeks of my life where, the stars have reflected exactly what the days have said: I am weak. This is weak. This week. The week before.

Euphemistically: I could not keep the girl. I lost the girl.
Realistically: I have felt like I am dying. And she feels nowhere near that, nor me, nor any of the ideas I have about love or life.

I believed that I was giving shape to love. And I was ready for love to shape me. But I lost track of minutes and murky moments. I started to drown. And then, I did.

+

The dominatrix is wearing black. A corset and dress and knee-high boots. She is sexy and beach bum tan. Blonde hair. Wild eyes.
Alas, I have arrived at her high-end loft to photograph her.
She asks me if her panties will suffice. She pulls up her dress revealing black lace and the perfect cut on her ass.
I nod and grin.

Ever the exhibitionist, she neatly crawls up onto her purple couch and sticks her ass in the air. We joke, saying that, clearly, this must be her first time in front of a camera.

I pull it out and begin snapping away.

I can feel the blood surging to my midsection. My face becomes flushed. And, unbeknownst to me, for the next couple of hours I will forget everything beyond that front door and swelling darkly inside me.

+

I am a master of moments in so much as I am present in them.

Apart from that, I am no master at all. Laziness and pride has infected me. My internal world, a detritus which has proved caustic to everything outside of me, or,

If not that then, everything that I wanted.
Once you have love, you need nothing more. But when you do not have love, little else matters.
Beyond moments.

Swirling in the unbelief and ethereal uncertainty that the death of love carries under its vulture wings and I have broken myself completely down. Taken everything apart. Bolts and screws and plugs and radiators, all laid-out before me now as a ghost; me as an empty vessel. Me as something that is the sum total of all the parts and bolts and gaskets.

All the heaters, and hoses and filters are: Moments. Experience.
In the end, all we remain to be is the sum total of all of our moments.

+

Safe behind the camera, she is safe in front.
She is watching herself in the wall mirror at the fore of her bed. She is touching her skin and engorging elements of mine.

I am snapping away and she crawls onto the teal bed. There is a wine glass full of water on the nightstand that her cat drinks out of. In the background is the sound of the ocean swelling and receding. Industrial music in the other room.

She tells me that she is wild, but it is unnecessary. I know this already. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t return like I have. Whichever way, without words, you can see it in her eyes. In her tattoos. In the way that she begins to run her fingers up and down her clothed cunt as she splays her legs open before me.

+

I like the dark figures. The shadows that others either gawk at, or never see. I like, and more that than, need the Steppenwolfs of this world; the ones that the rest of the world does not understand, or simply won’t.

On the other hand, I fear the simpletons. I revile the medians in the middle of my road. I am not impressed by you, but always astounded and intrigued by what you do.

I do not want you: I do not want simple. I do not want unsophisticated.

I do not want network television and sit-coms and remedial tasks, boring college degrees and shopping in malls, for leisure. I do not care about your pedestrian celebrities, or the fact that they fill that dying place in you, one of many, where you are hollow and infantile.

I want something developed. If it is light, then shine on me. Burn me. If it is dark, let me crawl into it. And let it crawl into me.

+

The dominatrix is dark as a din and I like spending time with her because she makes me feel lighter. As though I have a home.
She is looking at me like she wants to eat me. Little does she know how desperately I want to be eaten – by anyone. By someone.
And now, not by that one. The last one. Not my one.
Because there never was one.

Like everywhere in cosmos: There are many.

+

I am resurfacing.
From the milky void of hate – for all that we have become: Mental midgets and terribly boring.
And,
I-am-a-part-of-this-disintegration.

However, I feel it: I am beginning to resurface – from the nearly irreversible sadness that I believe I will carry with me for the rest of my days. Yes, it is this serious: When you gamble with your heart, you gamble with the whole fabric of your entire being.

Only days later and: I am older now. Now I am changed. Now I do not think about her as much. Now I do not wonder where or what or how she is doing. This despite the fact that I would still kiss her cheek softly, or race to rescue…

With my knuckled fists in front of my face and,

I am fighting to stay right here. Right now.

+

The dominatrix is completely naked and writhing on her bed. She is contorting into every conceivable position. She opens her legs and shows me all of her wet sex. She teases me the way she teases the camera.

She says: We need to get you naked.
I say yes. We do.
I lay the camera down and she picks it up.

I conceptualize the word “naked” and as I am unbuttoning my shirt I think about how I didn’t even remember putting on the fabric that I came with. I have felt so bare for so long. As I peel my shirt off, the dominatrix snaps away and I feel that my skin is charred. Sore. Burned.

She reaches out and grabs my belt and jerks me toward her. She says, get this off…
Then, I fall back into now.

Yesterday is gone. An empty promise.

+

My cock is being pulled from my pants. I am only a half-participant in the reveal. She is peeling me out and away from myself. Her cold hands and manicured fingers make my head light.

She says that she likes what she sees.
I can see her intermittently looking at the camera and then just watching her hand on my hard, throbbing cock.

She snaps away on the camera and then cups my cock in her hand as she shoots with her one free hand. I can see the vibrant lust in her eyes, licking and clicking away.

I am overwhelmed with fierce sensations.
I am flying.
I am present.

I am intoxicated.

+

Intense experience and intense emotion are the only things that I truly value. I only want intoxication and unreality.
If you only want part of me, have none of me at all.
If I do not make you burn, then leave me in embers. I will only try and build a fire for so long.

If you cannot burn on your own, then please recede from me in peace like the dream that you were. For I want not your counsel, nor your arms…

+

She is between my legs, helping me give birth. In this regeneration, my cock is alternately in her hand and in her mouth. Sometimes, when she clamps down on me with all of her wicked sensualism, she uses both hands and her entire, wet mouth.

She gives me the camera and turns the light toward us. The light is hot and bulbous as the sun and drowns-out the world beyond her between my splayed legs and my cock sliding in and out of her wet mouth.

She is always hungry and I know this, but she devours me as though desperation has set-in and every meal has passed her by.

Now clothed again, for some etiquette’s sake, she begins to pull off her clothes. I hear her reach under the nightstand and when she comes back out, she wraps my cock in a sheeth and says, now I’m going to fuck you.

I say, yes please.

And finally, again: I can barely breathe because I am burning. Seething. Fiery.

+

When I flip her over, I violently pin her legs up in the air. With all the rage of everything torn and reversed inside of me, I fuck the dominatrix. She is not fucking me.

I am in brutal in my control.

I am forceful. I am not weak. I am pounding everything I have deep inside of her, and beyond. This is my fuck you, I do not need you, I do not belong here.

Sweat is beading on my skin and falling from me.

As I feel parts of me melting away, dripping from my body, I can feel the condensation of my matter, as though I am in a centrifuge. I can feel the ugly particles, the ugly, black thoughts separating. I can feel something even stronger reanimating my white particles – the particles that I will need two hours from now when I am hunched over my knees and sobbing in the deathly silence of everything behind me.

Where I once had a heart, I am now left with ignorance and sadness. And where a girl once stood before me as a representative of all the love I have to give and receive, I now only see a shadowy figure, blackened and coal.

+

“I have often longed for peace and tranquility — looked into the lives of others and envied a kind of calmness — and yet I don’t know if this tranquility is what I truly would have wished for myself.”– Kay Redfield Jamison



*****

The Provocateur  — this writer of words that elevate erotica into the realm of  literature — speaks to my heart, my very soul, every single time I find my way to his blog.  Here is where — in the hungry blush of sexual expression, exploration and need — sex is therapy is stigmata is truth is poetry is transformation is introspection is celebration is promenade is psalms is nexus is oxygen is the very marrow of our human-ness. 

Oh, dear reader, please do give yourself the pleasure, the gift, of reading his blog.

xo, Angela

Web Bitch for Mistress

Saturday, March 1st, 2008

Showtime

by Porno Person

"Five minutes!" came the warning over the loudspeaker.

"Showtime," I muttered under my breath as I checked myself once more in the mirror. Decked out, head to toe, I was in a second skin of latex. It covered every inch save for my mouth, eyes, and behind. The latex gleamed in the light of the dressing room. I adjusted everything just so and looked myself in the eyes, wondering how the person who looked back at me had gotten into such a strange position.

"Places!" came the voice again. No time for introspection. Time for action. Time to be a "star."

I followed the labyrinthine hallway into today’s set. It was dressed like a prison cell. Inside just a bunk, a sink, and an incongruous padded sawhorse.

There were no lines to memorize. Hell, there wasn’t usually dialogue other than what was improvised. Without having to be told, I bent over the sawhorse, my ass in the air and my mouth held open by the O-Ring atached to the latex headpiece.

It didn’t take long before I was joined by two of my co-stars. They were well-built, their bodies gleamed having been rubbed down with oil. Their faces were covered. I always wondered if I passed any of these anonymous men by on the street, not knowing that they were the ones paid to use me on camera for Her amusement and profit.

She had conceived of this "service" a few months prior. Humiliatingly enough, I was to carry through Her plan — setting up the space, the servers, the secure site — all for her to enjoy seeing me being fucked nightly by a variety of different men while subscribers all over the globe could log on and do the same for $9.95 a month.

She would email in her requests for different scenarios / outfits. Men would apply via the website and, if they were approved and could make it to our studio, would have the pleasure of partaking in whatever fantasy She wanted fulfilled. I never met the men — they were taken care of by our production assistants. I only heard their voices, smelled their sweat, and felt their hands over me and cocks in me.

There was no foreplay, making the website one of the highest rated online. The sex acts started almost immediately.

I felt the hands of one of the men and he ran it over the latex outfit. My ears muffled the sound of his comments but whatever he said was met with agreement by the other man. My peripheral vision blocked, the appearance of one of the men directly in front of me shouldn’t have been a surprise but it still seemed to be. I gasped a bit and he seemed to take this as a compliment about the size of his engorged cock. He stroked it for me, getting it even harder and larger before sliding it into the O-Ring that kept my mouth available.

I tasted the salty sourness of his cock as it pushed across my tongue, all the way to the back of my mouth. I gagged at first and he backed off slightly. He felt my tongue caressing the underside of his cock and fell into an easy rhythm of fucking my face. Meanwhile I felt his friend push the head of his cock against my asshole. Never sure if these men would bother to use the lube provided, I had prelubed my ass with a one-time use of KY Jelly. I was glad I did.

He was rougher than the man fucking my mouth, pushing his cock deep inside, withdrawing, and plunging in again, not allowing me to adjust to his girth at all before he was plowing into me. I cried out, my scream muffled by the cock in my mouth. Tears streamed out over the latex mask and I heard one of them laugh.

Rather than slowing down, they both seemed turned on by my tears. It didn’t take long before the man in my mouth was shooting his spunk down my throat. He pulled out and gave one final squirt onto my latex-clad face. His friend finished a few moments later, pulling out and shooting his load onto my back.

I knew that this would never do. She would be disappointed at how fast these two men had orgasmed. I soon found that I had nothing to worry about as two more men soon joined the fray. They soon took the place of the men who had just finished.

And so it went. These four men were joined later by two others before they rotated and I was being fucked by the man I had sucked off while the one who had fucked me put his cock in my mouth. They all took their turns and, all the while, I knew that She was watching at home.

I wondered if she was watching it on her computer, if she had put it on her television, or if she just left me in the background. Was she watching alone or did she have people over to enjoy the show? I only hoped that there would be an email waiting for me at the end of the night with a favorable review of my performance.

***

I feature the work of Porno Person when I can because, well, he’s just so damned kinky and happens to be a very good writer.  His blog, Prurient Interests, is a veritable smorgasbord of sexual fetish and deviant kink.  PP happens to like me a lot, which kind of amazes me when I look at the women who turn him on (he posts lots of sexy pictures), since I am pretty much just a poor little orphan girl — very white, very middle America, very low key and subtle (except when spinning a dirty yarn.  but that doesn’t really count).

I consider myself blessed.  Thanks, PP.

xo, Angela