blistered lips

Gerry never thought of his dick as anything but average. Maybe a little small, when compared to porn, but he thought it was alright. No one had really complained, after all, not really, at least not to his face. He remembered when Sally’s smile had dropped just a bit, but he’d told himself it was because he hadn’t man-scaped well enough.

But tonight, with Grace in the other room as he looked at it, he felt ashamed, inadequate. He’d bragged to her at the club, not thinking their flirting would go anywhere. But she’d invited him home and he’d agreed, and now, getting ready, he knew he’d lied. Worse, he knew she would know he’d lied. How do you correct that, he thought? How do you explain that seven is really five. Girls say it doesn’t matter, but how could it not?

He could turn off the lights. Pretend to be shy. Make foreplay all about her — that’s what they say they want, right? Just focus on her, and pray that by the time she was ready, she wouldn’t be paying as much attention. That could work.

“Is everything OK?” Grace called from the other room. “I’m ready when you are.”

He took a deep breath, looked down again, then walked out of the bathroom into her bedroom. She wore a blue camisole, and was kneeling on the bed. He looked in her direction, and actually did say a little prayer to Ishtar. Then he caught her eyes. She motioned for him to come forward, and he did, grateful for her understanding and mercy.

Just turned into that kinda day. How was I to know?

Cocksucker is such a great word, huh?

And so many boys wanna do it. They just aren’t telling the girlfriends and wives. Take it from me. Take it from any girl who takes phone sex calls: Lots of boys want to job the knob, lick the stick, eat the meat. Not to mention swallow the load.

Today was a day of many new callers.

Some of which have already been permanently blocked because I will never judge a fantasy but refuse to tolerate assholes. And unfortunately a few slipped through the cracks. It always happens and I always deal with it accordingly: Get lost. Don’t let the dial tone bite your in the ass on you way out. Goodbye.

And then there were the five (something in the water, perhaps?) wannabe cocksuckers. Yum yum yum. So nice for them to stop by. Sparkling pure new victims for me to corrupt. Delicious to talk with and oh so dirty. Dirty little cocksuckers for Mistress Angela. At least on the phone in our world of erotic mind fucks. Where they are safe to be dirty and I am the woman to make it happen.

And I so like making it happen:

Dwayne thought he would like to be forced to suck one cock. I made him suck that one cock while forcing my fingers into his rump. He liked it. He liked it and was embarrassed that he liked it so much. Nonetheless, he did. He knows that I know that he did. I hope he blushes tomorrow every time he thinks about what he did with me/for me today.

Stephen was one of three Stephens who called me today. “Perhaps a little bit of humiliation,” he shyly asked. I tied his weenie in a pink bow and made him show it to my girlfriends and apologize for its smallness. Then he had to suck all of their boyfriends cocks. Except Madison’s boyfriend. Samuel decided he wanted to deflower the little fruit loop and fucked him. Fucked him hard. Stephen emailed me the sweetest thank you note.

Craig started out requesting a cuckolding fantasy — one of my favorites, as you should know. And he did, indeed, witness his little wifey taking her pleasure with more than a few well-hung studs. But I just couldn’t fuck the last guy. I was sore, dontcha know? So I made my little cocksucker-neonate cucky-hubby drop to his knees and suck the thick shaft I was holding in my hand while I watched up close and personal. And wouldn’t you know it? Craig got an amazing erection sucking that cock. So I made him masturbate and cum simultaneously with the guy pumping his mouth. Naughty husband! Very naughty.
Simon said (well-meant pun) he wanted total enslavement. So I took him to Femtopia, an idyllic world which exists in my mind and to which I occasionally invite the very lucky. The dominant Goddess-Women there demanded that Simon and the other man-slaves perform man-sex acts for them. Simon got quite the cum bath. And was only permitted his own orgasm when drinking man-spunk from his own rectum.

And beloved David. A regular caller with irregular fantasies and the heart of an Angel. And probably the only caller out of the five to have actually sucked a cock in his VERY REAL life. I treated him like a dawg and he loved every minute of it. And so did I.

Just another day at the office.

The Angela St. Lawrence Office of Smut.

Stop by anytime.

xo, Angela

A sub-fetish of Erotic Humiliation, Penis Humiliation is the hottest thing in Phone Sex these days. And while some readers might think this an odd fantasy/fetish/kink, most Phone Sex Operators are quite used to it and actually have a lot of fun with it.

Think of it as a form of VERBAL BDSM. I mean, after all, the Phone Domme can’t really use whips and chains and Ben Gay (ouch, indeed, very much). But she can use words. It is arguably more erotically powerful to dominate with real words — real bad, mean words — rather than “and now I am going to beat you.” And what matters most to a man? His dick. It may seem a trite observation, but it is nonetheless true.

I often say that our poor men — they just can’t help it. After all, it’s like God created them with the supreme disadvantage of having a gear shift sticking out right there, right there in front for the world to see … even with the cover of trousers! How can the NOT think about it all the time? And it makes them very vulnerable, doesn’t it?

So why not go for the girth? Make every word count and hit him with those words where it hurts the most? Only, in this case, with pain — there’s no gain. Little Willie leaves the encounter none the worse for the wear … but none the better. His sad puny prick is still sad and still puny.

It makes sense. Penis size is very much on the male mind (don’t ask — he won’t admit it) at least some of the time. Horns-waggling, doolally spammers bank on it. In my personal email recently:

Female Orgasms: Bigger means Better for your Woman
Your tool is so small she hardly finds it in bed?
Penetrate Deeper
Enhance your masculine tool
Fill out your erectile tissue
Enlarging your male weapon means winning a competition
From now on you will be able to satisfy each size-queen
Your male power will return like a boomerang

Now, admittedly, this Mystery Meat (pun intended) was more than likely sent from the one and only internet cafe in some backward jungle — the spammer believing the hype of myriad porn sites. But he is on to something and it must make money, because everybody finds this stuff in their in-boxes. Even me, and I have a very feminine personal email address. It’s the marketing method of Quantity over Quality … just like a Size Queen Fantasy! The irony is delicious.

Besides being a subcategory of Erotic Humiliation, Small Penis Humiliation is a major theme in Cuckolding Fantasies. Particularly when the Cuckoldress’s lovers are studly black bulls. It’s the stark differences that give these fantasies their edge: Black vs. White, Woman vs. Male, Wife vs. Husband, Large vs. Small. So, even if it’s not quite your thing, perhaps you can understand that, for others, it’s sizzling hot.

Forced Bi Fantasies will often contain at least a portion of Small Penis Humiliation, with size functioning to underline one’s role in the fantasy: large equals dominant, small equals submissive. The feeling of tractability can be deeply enhanced when the physicality of size is used as emphasis.

So Big Cock, Small Cock, Average Cock … what’s it all about, Angela?

Well, you might recall that I actually wrote an about this in an essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, for the book, Sex Kitten Presents the BDSM Issue. While I don’t discuss Small Penis Humiliation per se, I do talk about the “fantasy” of being verbally humiliated, taunted and abused by a beautiful and powerful FemDom.

As far as me, personally: Is bigger better? Do I or don’t I? Well, you’ll just have to READ ALL ABOUT IT.

xo, Angela

I have a very clear and fond memory of the circumstances surrounding my very first pair of stockings. I’d just turned fifteen and my father had given me his credit card with permission to specifically purchase a pair of pantyhose and a few other girlie things. I didn’t want pantyhose. I wanted nylons and a garter belt. And I was bound and determined to have my way.

Never underestimate a teenage girl’s ingenuity, particularly when she has her babysitting money stashed away for a rainy day…or lingerie.

When I returned from the mall, I hastily scooted past my father, who was working a crossword puzzle at the kitchen table, and up to my bedroom, before he could ask to see what was in my packages. Once I’d hidden the Victoria’s Secret swag, I returned with his credit card and a receipt which clearly listed pantyhose as one of my purchases. He was happy and I was happy.

The first time I wore those stockings was for an interview for a summer job. I’d bought a new dress and my first pair of really high heels that day at the mall, too, so I was feeling pretty grown-up when I went out the front door and hurried to the bus stop, resume in hand.

Now I’d already pretty much figured out how to get and keep a boy’s attention by then. (When you’re Catholic, such talents are part of your DNA.) In fact, I thought I was pretty good at this boy-girl thing. But until that day, I had no idea that –just by slipping into a sexy pair of nylons– I could increase my sex appeal (translation: power) ten fold.

Teenagers, grandfathers, adolescents, middle-aged men–it didn’t matter–were ogling me, opening doors, smiling, melting, practically drooling. Perhaps some heavenly alignment had brought all the stocking fetishists out to play on that particular day. Or could it be that I looked so damn hot I was actually creating them in my wake? Nah! I really think each and every man has at least a little bit of a stocking fetish. Pretty legs are…well…they’re pretty!

At one point a man stopped me. “Miss,” he said, “I hope you don’t take offense, but I just want to tell you that you have beautiful gams.” Of course, being fifteen, I’d never heard the word “gams” before. And while I might have been a vixen in training, I was (and still am) a polite young lady. So I smiled brightly and said, “Thank you very much,” and continued down the street.

Later I asked an adult and found out that gams referred to legs … a word The Chairman of the Board might have used to describe Shirley MacClaine’s lanky appendages. So my own little mini lingerie fetish was born. Because if it was good enough for Shirley and the Rat Pack, it was good enough for me.

Besides, stockings are so damn sexy, aren’t they?

“I’m sending you away for a while. I don’t know what else to do.”

You’d heard Miss Margaret’s car pulling into the driveway, even as your mother started to cry. Sitting here now in the spare bedroom of her summer house, you’re waiting for Miss Margaret, wondering what she is going to do. She won’t break me, you think to yourself.

When the door finally opens, Miss Margaret is not alone. Two teenage girls, beautiful teenage girls, and some bulked-up guy–probably one of those weightlifters, you think– enter the room behind her.

“So this is the naughty boy,” the blonde says, “He doesn’t exactly look tough to me. What do you think, Barry?” She looks at the guy expectantly. He doesn’t answer her, but looks at you grinning. You don’t like that grin; there’s something menacing about it. And for the first time, you start getting a little nervous. Miss Margaret sits beside you on the bed. Miss Margaret’s voice hisses at your ear as she suddenly grabs your balls through your jeans.

“Do you know what Miss Margaret does with smart-ass college boys who don’t know how to behave?”

Before you can react, the redhead in the purple dress has pulled out a cord of rope from somewhere and you’re feeling a sharp pinch in your right shoulder muscle. You try to say something, but your words come out thick and slurred. Then everything goes dark.

***

You are swimming. No, it only feels like you are swimming, lead weight against your waking slumber, pushing you back. Forcing your eyelids against the heaviness you try to think, try to remember. Blurry shapes, movement. Something in front of your face.

“Open your mouth.”

The voice is deep, a man’s voice. Somebody is giggling. Something fleshy, bulbous is pushing against your dry lips. You want to lick them, moisten them, but don’t dare, because somewhere deep inside of you, you know what that something is.

“Rachael, why don’t you tell this young man exactly what is expected of him.”

Miss Margaret’s throaty voice. The giggling again. One, no–two girls. You remember them, the blonde and the redhead. I need to get the hell out of here, you think. You try to move, feel the tight restraints across your chest and arms, your hips, your spread legs. Something cold, cold metal between your legs. The blonde is looming above you, sneering wickedly. “You feel this,” she asks, reaching between your legs, and you feel the the smooth, cool band of metal tightening around your testicles. She smiles as you moan in pain.

“Now here’s the deal, college boy,” Rachael purrs, pushing your bangs back with her free hand, then cupping your face. The redhead is there now, reaching for your cock and beginning to stroke it as Rachael wraps her free hand around the dick bobbing against your cheek. “You are going to suck my boyfriend’s big, fat dick and you are going to swallow his load.” She moves the head of the cock, a slick bubble of precum teetering from its slit, down the bridge of your nose, across your upper lip. You try to turn your head, but her fingers tighten around your chin as she smears the precum across your tightly pressed lips.

“Either you open up and take it like a good boy, or I’ll tighten this so quick you just might lose these balls.”

She gives the metal device a quick turn. “I’m not kidding.”

Your mouth opens in a groan as Rachael slides the head of Barry’s cock onto your tongue.

“Does our college boy dick-eater have a stiffie, Marla?”

As Rachael forces the prick into the back of your mouth, you hear the blonde and Miss Margaret laughing.

“He’s as hard as a fucking rock.”

And you know she’s right, because despite the shame, despite everything, you are hotter than you’ve ever been.

“That’s a good boy,” you hear Miss Margaret say as you start sucking the dick in earnest.” Now swallow that big load. And when you do, Marla will let you cum. Won’t you dear?”

And you do.

That’s gross. Do you talk to a lot of perverts?

You do what? How about a date?

Oh my God! Does your family know what you do?

I have the perfect fantasy for you: Lactation!

Do you get a lot of fetish calls? You know, I have this thing for feet.

More or less, these are some of the predictable reactions I get when revealing my avocation to the unordained. While some (including myself) might argue that phone sex has gone at least somewhat mainstream in recent years, it is still not a topic you want to be bringing up at cocktail parties. From the sincerely curious to the smugly judgmental to the stupidly horny, assumptions are going to be made. Not that I can complain too loudly. I’ve surely been boorish, myself, a time or two (okay, maybe three or four) to make unfounded assumptions. Yet, having experienced these ignorance-based reactions first hand, I cannot help but cringe when pushed into a corner by the overly-meddlesome.

When I abandoned my dream of graduate school (just temporarily, momma, I promise) and left behind my burgeoning corporate career to do phone sex (say it isn’t so, you wretched, wanton girl), my sister, bless her beautiful heart and bourgeois tendencies, bought me a mug, which on the outside wryly asks the question, “I went to school for years to learn to do THIS?” And, beloved sister of mine, I do cherish that mug. Notwithstanding my office supply fetish, it proudly sits–next to my Rolodex–the container-of-choice for my ink pens, letter opener, markers, nail files, orange sticks and sundry miscellanea. I cherish it because it reflects the reverent humor, easy flexibility, mutual validation, and even quirky spirituality that is so integral to whom I am and what I do both personally and professionally.

With the advent of the Internet and attendant proliferation of independent PSOs (phone sex operators), the definition of good Phone Sex has become increasingly subjective. Simultaneously, as our world hyper-rapidly expanded, erotica and pornography flourished, and the division between fantasy and reality blurred. Both a blessing and a curse, it can be quite exhilarating, yet, confusing and even a cause for dissent amongst its practitioners. Some like it hot, some like it cold. It’s that kind of thing.

(On a side note, I would think that–if nothing else–the very nature of this non-monogamous and inexhaustible Internet would be self-instructive: There REALLY is room for everybody. We have more than enough do-gooder types [You know the profile: The hypocrite who swears he is pure as the driven snow; yet, he only cums when fucking his wife by imagining her being raped by a double-shlonged reindeer.] doing their best to legislate, control, constrain, and restrict this last vestige of true freedom of expression. Just remember this: When we protect and champion each other, we protect and champion ourselves.)

Now, where were we? Oh, yes! So you’re in the mood for some wicked merrymaking. You’ve checked out the bathroom wall at the corner gas station, and though you could swear it used to be right there above the condom dispenser, there is no graffiti, “For a good time call Cocksucker Cathy.” With that avenue close, you decide to take the leap and call a Phone Sex Operator!

You want Phone Sex and you want it NOW! You want it? We got it! Hot phone sex, fantasy phone sex, domination phone sex, kinky phone sex, dirty phone sex, role-play phone sex, nasty phone sex, erotic phone sex, humiliation phone sex, tease & denial phone sex.

Phone Sex! Phone Sex! Phone Sex! … and even more Phone Sex!

How do you possibly weed through it all? How do you find the perfect first connection in all of that clutter? Well, brother, quite frankly, you don’t. You just say eeny meeny miney moe and take that leap of faith. After all, brother, how hard art thou? I’m a firm believer in going by the seat of your pants (or crotch of your pants) when things just need to get done (or you need to get done).

Basically, you are entering a marketplace as a consumer. Just like you might, time and again, visit the grocery store until you find the perfect cookie, you may have to shop for a while before you find, HER, the Phone Sex Chick that blows your mind and load like no other can. While that can be a royal pain in the butt, I guarantee that — until you find her –you will have lots of dirty fun along the way. It’s sort of like dating. It will cost you the price of a few burgers and shakes, but who’s counting dollars & dimes when you’re stealing some kisses and even copping a few feels along the way? And the pay off is that sooner or later you’re gonna get lucky!

Ho, ho, ho … oh so fucking lucky.

Take my word on it.

xo, Angela

PS. Just so you know, I could have listed this particular piece UNDER EVERY SINGLE CATEGORY, because I’ve certainly talked about all of this stuff with certain boys of certain proclivities.

PPS. Just so you also know: I know, you know, we know who you are. 🤩😍😘

let it kill you
she said
let it drag you down
to rend wide your catholic breast
chew up your heart
then force feed it back to you

let it drown you
she said
let it pluck out your eyes
so you can cry their unstopped tears
like the crosspatch cunt you are
while the brooding sewer collects its bounty

let it maim you
she said
let it mangle your pious limbs
like yesterday’s good news
like tomorrow’s false prophets
til the only thing left is alphabet soup

listen hard, listen close
she said:

throw it up
bleed it out
spit it over the rainbow
piss it under the rug
whistle it while you work
howl it to the moon and back
scream, bitch, scream

i’ve always known best
she said:

so suck it up, soldier girl
then lay it down like napalm perfume
and don’t you dare ignore it
and don’t you dare disguise it
and don’t you dare embellish it
with your rococo gilt and glitter lipsticks
scream, bitch, scream

you should know by now
to never haggle with yourself

when she turns to you
her circumspect attention
blessed be you

when she opens you up
her clever bemusement
blessed be you

blessed be you
unhinged and broke open
blessed be you
asymmetric and fervent

blessed be you
that your merits are counted
blessed be you
because your edges are rounded

when she gives to you
her urgent crooked love
blessed be you

when she drains from you
like a dark-eyed gypsy
blessed be you

blessed be you
uncreased and pressed flat
blessed be you
teetering and undone

blessed be you
wrung out and boiled down
blessed be you
buoyant and effervesced

blessed be you
sweet boy
for her blessings
these blessings that are yours to count

“Taste it,” she tells you. “It’s sweet; you’ll like it. It’s from the orchard we walked through last night.”

And so you take the apple from her fingers. You wonder at how it can be so shiny, so smooth and deeply crimson. It is the most perfect apple you’ve ever seen. You want to taste it. You want to taste its lush and sugary juices across your tongue. You want to swallow and feel its cool moistness coat your suddenly parched throat.

“Yes, darling, I know you want to,” she whispers at your ear, “I know you need to. You need to bite it. You’re so hungry, and I’m going to feed you. You need to sink your teeth into it. You need to puncture the peel with your teeth. You have to. You have to do it now.”

And so you do. You eagerly open your mouth and even as your teeth pierce its flesh, you smell the aroma of her cunt. She has coated the apple with her malicious juices and you are damned. She is dark, she is evil, she is the greedy, wicked, demanding Femme-Phantasm haunting every Grimm’s Fairy tale. She wants to possess you, debase you, drive your very soul into the dirt, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

You have to swallow her poison. Her poison that will finally conquer you, debilitate you, enslave you.

As you begin rabidly gnawing at the apple, you feel your balls — icy and hot at the same time — seize up. Your cock is PDQ hard: rock hard, petrified rock hard, boner than bone hard, steel rod hard. Your ass sphincter is rapidly opening and closing, and you can’t make it stop. She’s in control — not you. Not you, not ever again you. Never ever again.

Your orgasm rises up like a fist pummeling through your body and you are cumming, preternaturally spewing. It weeps from your eyes, gushes from your nose.  It leaks from your ass. You can smell it, your own spunk oozing from your pores, rising up in the back of your throat.

You fall to your knees and you know it is done: She has fucked you.

Tomorrow you will eat her apple. And every day after that.

What matters, what I’m trying to tell you, what I’ve been trying to tell you all night, is that you’re busted.  We can’t go back now.  There is no turning back.  I liked watching you much more than I like fucking you.  Can’t you understand that?  Don’t you get it?

But I thought you liked sex with me.

I do, or I should say that I did.  It’s been changing for a while now.  What, probably for a year?  Yes, at least a year.  It hasn’t been the same and you know it.  I know that you know it.  I mean look what you’ve been doing behind my back.

I … I …

Sush!

But …

I said to shush and I mean it.  There’s no sense in being embarrassed and I really don’t have the patience for any of your silly posing.

No fucking?

No fucking.  Besides the fact that you really have never been that good at it, and besides the fact that I’ve been rather bored with your “breast-grab, spread my legs and mount me” tactics, well, like I said, I’ve rather enjoyed watching you this past month.

You’ve been watching for an entire month?  What the fuck?

Hmph.  Like you have any room to judge me!  Let’s just remember who’s been sitting on a rickety stool in the back of the basement with his pants down around his knees any chance he gets.  Lets not forget who does it in the shower, on the toilet or even off the back deck, when he thinks he can get away with it.

You saw me on the deck?  Jesus!

I sure did.  In fact, tomorrow you are going to go down below the deck and clean off that bird feeder.  Absolutely disgusting.  And if you do something like that again, I’ll make you clean it off with your tongue.  Do you hear me?

Yeah.

Don’t you dare roll your eyes.  Come here; I want to show you something.  I said come here.  Come here right now!

Jesus!  Okay, what?

See this website?

Yeah, what about it.

I built it.  Don’t look so surprised.  I’m not as technically challenged as you think.

Oh fuck!  No, no no.  What the fuck?  What are those?  Oh, honey, you didn’t.

Oh yes I did!  Once I figured out how much you were “going at it,” I started taking pictures.  So let’s see.  Each page holds twelve pictures and so far I’ve got almost six pages.

Honey, baby.  This isn’t right.  What if somebody sees them for Christ’s sake?  You’ve got to get these down.  You’ve got to take this website down.

No.  Look closely.  See how I’ve blurred your face?  Nobody’s going to recognize you.  And, take it from me, even if you’ve cheated on me with hundreds of women?  Your dick just isn’t that memorable.

You bitch!

You have no idea.  Now get your pants down and start jerking that dick of yours.  This time you’re going to do it right in front of me.  No sneaking off like a dirty pervert.  Come on, get them down.

This is crazy.  You’ve gone off the deep end.

Here, let me show you something else.  With a click … here, here and then there.  Do you see that?  That picture is NOT blurred.  And I can do that to every last one of them.  And then, my love?  I can just pop a link into an email and send it out to all your business associates, your friends, even your family.  Like you just said — I’m a bitch.  But guess what?  You’re MY bitch.   Your my masturbating bitch boy from now on.  Whenever, wherever, however —  I tell you to drop your drawers and start pumping, you will do just that.  Do you understand?  Do you get it now?

I, but …

Let’s see, where is that email address to your secretary.  Or, better yet, your sister-in-law.  There they are.  I think I’ll just send it to both of them.

No. Please.

Then get busy.  Get busy now.  That’s a good boy.  Drop them lower.  Drop them down around your knees, you dirty little masturbator.  That’s right.  Now get jerking.  Wrap your grubby paw around that thick, useless cock and start stroking.  Look.  Look how hard your prick is.  You know what you are.  Stroke it.  Stroke it and repeat after me:  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch.  Go ahead.  Stroke it.  Say it.  Stroke it.  Say it.  Go ahead.

I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a dirty, masturbating bitch boy.  I’m a —

Don’t stop.  I’m just getting the camera.  Got to have fresh content for the website, after all.