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As many of you know, New Years Eve is my least favorite holiday. Maybe you hate it, maybe you’re just bored with the whole thing, or maybe you like to party like it’s 1999.

Whatever!

Call drunk, call sober. Call to shoot the breeze, call to get kinky. Call just to ask questions or hang out. New callers welcome and cherished regulars already know how good it is. *bats eyelashes*

If you haven’t called before and want to know more about me, check out my FREE erotic stories at Blistered Lips and every one of my live phone lines at NiteFlirt.

xo, Angela

Yes, darlings, I do have a Holiday Wish List!

My very good boy, SlutR, delivered the goods when I told him to FESS UP, so that the girls and I could enjoy a bit of comic relief during our Monday Night Girls Only party:

This past week I was the recipient of an assignment from Your good friend Ms. Angela.  This was the assignment:

Answer this question: Why I must eat my own cum for Ms. Angela.

So why indeed?  Let me count the ways.  The first is rather basic – what Ms. Angela says, goes.  She rules the roost – she controls the cock.  But to leave it with a rationale that seems rather reductive.

If I do a more thorough bit of self-analysis, I think there’s a part of me that is grateful for the time she has spent with me getting to know me better, sharing her experiences, exploring my fantasies, and yes, penetrating my head space.  And in my kinky mind, that gratitude peaks  whenever she is feeling generous enough to permit a release.  Those moments usually arrive at the *ahem* climax following sustained periods of her expert teasing. As those precious moments arrive, my whole being (mind and body) become supercharged with emotions and sensations that wash over me.  I also become highly suggestible, and Ms. Angela, being the expert Domme and Mind-Fucker that she is, knows how to take full advantage.

One of the ways this manifests itself is the aforementioned requirement that I slurp down my own jizz.  I have a phrase for this — it’s an act of providing “kinky collateral” to her as a token of my appreciation.  I would be curious what the specific appeal to Ms. Angela has regarding this act (it may overlap with some of the material here — perhaps one of you ladies can ask her *big sheepish grin*)

I believe she is also a woman who like to probe my mind and push boundaries. In our time together she has cultivated the previously hidden slut in me, and I think that her further developing a cum fetish in me may be a part of that — another item in her tool belt, if you will.

Anyway, I have a tendency to get a bit verbose, so I’ll leave it there for now, not wanting to cut too much into the typical Monday night festivities.  Actually – that’s not entirely true – I am more than a bit greedy for whatever attention I can get from you fine ladies.

Hope all of you are well, and thanks for listening.

Sincerely, Slut R.

Just think about this:

Conversely, whenever Mary Magdalene enters the picture – which she does rarely enough, sad to say – it is fascinating how the energy changes. Atonement theology softens, and with the same breath she enters, a new warmth seems to blow. With her come the cadences of gentleness and forgiveness, the sounding of that core vibration of love.

— Cynthia Bourgeault, The Meaning of Mary Magdalene

Women are the not only the future.

Women are the past. Women are the present.

Women are salvation.

Silvered and Bronzed

Gabriele D’Annunzi

Silvered

When, half upraised, her belly to the sand,
Naked she welcomes the slow-conquering tide,
Then, in the full moon’s radiance, she appears
Like some great silver statue lying there.

A Callipygian Venus, lewdly posed –
Into the rounded surface of her sides
Two hollows sculpted, and her powerful spine
Furrowing deeply as she arches back.

The rising tide steals up and moistens her.
She starts and shudders at its icy touch,
Her loins a-tremble in their ecstasy.

The billows dash against her face, but still
She holds her chosen posture fearlessly
Till, at its height, the tide submerges her.

Bronzed

After her bath, all dripping wet, and swathed
In her dark hair, her body shivering,
She prints in the dry surface of the sand
The splendid contours of her flawless limbs.

Sometimes she graps her bosom’s living fruits
Causing their sturdy points to burgeon forth;
Sometimes she rolls about, and the coarse sand
Marks her smooth skin with curious designs.

Then, patterned thus, she offers up her all

To the moon’s kiss, on seaweed-couch outspread,

Remaining motionless with skyward breast.

And the distance on the background dark,
She looks like a great brazen statue, part –
Corroded by the sea’s acidity.