Special thanks to the sexy, awesome and beautiful Mistress DJ. Worship her ON TWITTER and serve her on NiteFlirt.

So. You might be wondering why I haven’t mentioned my birthday since that hot phone sex sale I had mid-August. Some days, I’ve been wondering, myself. I’ve been multi-tasking, working the phones, partying on Monday nights, cocktail-ing with friends, Twittering, and binge-watching Game of Thrones from the very first season.  I’ve been busy.

But that’s not the only reason I haven’t brought my birthday bash up. Look at this:

How is a girl ever worthy of so much generosity? And this isn’t even everything. A second wave came in after I took this picture, which I’m not going to photograph because it’s just not easy to do. One big box is a chair, another is a lamp. I know this because I know who sent those and when they were to be delivered.

Anyway, I AM OPENING PRESENTS even as I type this. Already, there’s a few with no indication of where they came from and one that just has a first name (but I know a few with this first name). Still, I’m trying to keep track so I can personally thank everybody.

Sunday is the day I will try to show pics of the actual presents, out-of-the-box nekkid in all their glory, so to speak. I’d do it tomorrow, but my housekeeper will be here and I’m going to be monitoring and working her fingers to the bone.

You honor me, you please me, you make me so very happy.

xo, Angela

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Okay … I’m way behind on getting pics to you. It’s a don’t ask, don’t tell situation. But I will get them to you soon. Promise.

For those of you who don’t know, I have a regular Monday night party for my girlfriends. In reality, no man passes through my front door on these nights. Girls only, bitch boy! But for little exhibitionist it’s a great scenario on which to build a filthy fantasy.  Which I decided to do with R.C. a while back. I think he liked it.

I think he liked it a lot:

Good evening, Ladies. 

I have been instructed by our mutual friend, Ms. Angela, to write to all of you to introduce myself. My name is R.C. Over the past month or so, I have accepted Ms. Angela’s invitation to be her loyal pet. What exactly does that mean? (I’m glad you asked, rhetorical questioners.) In addition to engaging in some lovely vanilla conversations, I have submitted to her the control of my cock–erm, her cock, as she now likes to refer to it. How did this happen, exactly? Some kind of Don Corleone-esque “offer I couldn’t refuse”? I suppose we can in fact chalk it up to Ms. Angela’s estimable powers of persuasion. After all, in a sentiment in which I believe we may all agree: “She has the pussy, She makes the rules.”

I sure my Mistress apprised you of this, but I’ll recap anyway: a few weeks back Ms. Angela spun a fantasy about a scenario where all of you ladies were in Ms. Angela’s loft for one of your Monday night gatherings, the one major wrinkle being that I had been invited along by Ms. Angela for, in the euphemistic sense, “entertainment purposes.” The scenario did get quite steamy, not that any of us would be surprised at Ms. Angela’s legendary talent for spinning a naughty yarn.

I’m not sure how in depth Ms. Angela went in her recap on her end, but in broad strokes (and hard strokes, natch) she preyed on my prominent foot fetish to persuade me to spring into action, pampering all of your perfectly pedicured toes. She even permitted me to slide my throbbing cock in between here and there to get a bit of what I coined “foot pussy.” Because a deviant foot slut like myself could not hold out for too long with the combination of that visual floating through my imagination and a particularly wicked torrent of Ms. Angela teasing, I ended up shooting quite a load of jizz all over those wiggling toes. Ms. Angela — never one to pass up a moment to literally rub my face in it — prodded me to bend down and immediately slurp up all that sperm juice from those creamy toes. So, yes, to put it bluntly, I ate my own cum. I ate my own cum FOR REAL for Mistress Angela.

I would like to profusely thank each and every one of you for playing an indirect role in that particular scenario. Even though I believe it may be your second time hearing some of this, I hope you were amused to hear it from my perspective.

Hello Ms. Diana: I understand you were the one who requested a bit of posing last night. Hope you enjoy what you saw; I personally don’t think it will win any prizes, but I’ve also been told it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Anyway, I think I’ll let you ladies get back to the other topics that are on the agenda for tonight, as well as the Monday night programming. I appreciate your taking the time to listen, and if any interest is there and it aligns w/ Ms. Angela’s wishes, I would be happy to keep the correspondence going in the future.

R.C.

Stay tuned for Part 2, coming soon  to a Zen Fetish blog near you.

xo, Angela

Saturday & Sunday (8/19 & 8/20)

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xo, Angela

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Wickedness.

That’s a word I never get quite right…a word that describes the things I want to play with.

It’s not about the pain for me so much anymore, though that’s not to say I don’t still enjoy it.

Physical pain is…too sharp.  The thuddiest club does not penetrate the way a wicked word or gesture will.

Just now I was in the bath and started thinking about what I would do if I had to pee.  Well, I’ve been in the bath and had to pee before, and I just hold it until I have to go pee, or go right away and get back to the bath.  Tonight, though, I was thinking about being made to pee on myself in the tub like that.

Then I started thinking about you peeing on me in the tub like that.

Then I started thinking about my being tied in the tub with my hands criss-crossed across my throat to the back of my neck, my elbows tied up straight so that my head was locked straight up and down.  Through that imagining I realized I could squeeze my elbows out, which would have the dual benefits of forcing my mouth up where it could easily be opened and closed while contracting my carotid arteries, making my dizzy and more vulnerable. 

My entire body would be exposed then and I imagined being that way for an hour or so at a party while folks came in and did as they pleased, not really talking to me, other than to occasionally mock me.

I wish my will matched my wickedness, so these could be true.

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Shared with me by one of the wicked-craving boys I know. He can’t get enough. He craves bottomless,  dark debasement with no escape. Yet he moves through the world as a gentleman, a scholar, a husband, a family member, a teacher … all roles he cherishes and thrives in.

It’s the endless predicament of kinksters, isn’t it?