angela stlawrence romanceIf she could whisper her secrets inside your heart and and your heart was strong enough to contain the echo, she would call out, “Hello … hello?  Is there anybody home?  Because I have something to say, something to tell you.”

Because you would be silent, wouldn’t you?  Perhaps there hiding in your chambers, perhaps not; but silent either way.

(Oh, and by the way, this is a fairy tale after all, so don’t later recall it as fact, nor even fancy.  Entertaining the impossible is always a dangerous pursuit, and don’t you forget it.)

She would listen intently then, because she knows your reticence, that vellum skin you wear so smartly.  And when she was finally satisfied that she had your heart all to herself she would whisper. She would whisper to your heart what she dare not say out loud:

That you are loved more deeply than you can possibly fathom. That she sees your battles and fights beside you. That she knows your strength and feeds from it like wanton, bled-out barrack. That she witnesses your joy, feels it, savors it, drinks her belly full of it and knows God. That you are her wellspring, her warranty, her covenant.  You are the man who who almost didn’t show up.

And you would hear the wonder, sweet on lips, when she whispers:  “But you did, didn’t you? You showed up just for me.”

his prick

merely a pet
nothing more, quite easily much less
a whispered white lie
between lily white sheets
stained now and then
here, there
because it’s a crying shame
that’s all there is, don’t you know?

no no no
don’t mete your pity
it’s all his fault
after all
he wouldn’t be anywhere but here

he knows the shame
he owns the blame

Bad Bradley

The car was parked far back in the lot. As they made their way, Kelly Mae could feel her stiletto sliding in the gravel and before she could catch herself — or before Bradley (if that was his real name) could catch her — her foot slid sideways, pushing down and twisting, snapping the heel.

“Well, Bradley, what are we going to do about this,” Kelly Mae asked, waving the stiletto in front of his face, the broken heel precariously bobbing back and forth.

“I’m sure you can think of something, darlin’ geerl,” Bradley grinned as he grabbed for her breast.

Kelly Mae shoved his hand away. “What in the hell do you think you are doing? You offered me a ride. A ride home only. Did I say you could touch me? Where was that fucking hand when I tripped in the gravel?”

“Aww, baby geerl, don’t be that way.”

He reached again, and that is when Kelly Mae — tipsy but certainly not stupid — made up her mind. “Well, Bradley,” Kelly Mae cooed as she once again removed his grasping paw, “I just figured out what I am going to do with this broken stiletto. Let’s get to that car so you can drive me home, where I can show you.”

Bradley, even in his drunken state, thought that sounded like one hell of an idea.

And that is how, an hour or so later, Bradley found himself bound on his back across Kelly Mae’s bed. He wasn’t concerned. In fact, he thought he’d hit the jackpot and finally got himself one of those kinky girls he saw and read about on the internet.

“What you doin’ now, hunney,” Bradley asked when Kelly Mae pulled up his left leg and tied his ankle to the bedpost.

“Just never you mind, Sugar. You’ll see in just a minute or so.”

Bradley watched in wonder and as Kelly Mae pulled up his right leg, tying that ankle to the other bedpost.

“Well, Mr. Man, seems you got yerself a big ol’ erection goin’ there,” Kelly Mae smiled has she rubbed her hand up and down his cock.

“I shure do, geerl. But how am I gonna fuck you like this?”

“Oh, Bradley, you ain’t gonna fuck me,” Kelly Mae said, reaching for the broken stiletto and showing it to him.

“I’m gonna fuck you, you son of a bitch.”

And then she was shoving the long, slim heel into Bradley’s ass.

What Sarah Said

What I remember most is the country music wheedling and yodeling out of his Bose stereo (alpha-male black, of course) as he slid his dick in and out of my snatch.

After that, how could I respect him in the morning?

So, fuck the jag, fuck the cowboy hat and tight jeans I found so appealing in my admittedly tipsy state. The night was a bust and my cowboy ended up being just another frog disguised as a prince.

He did have a huge cock, though. I remember that, too.

Lot of good it did the two of us.

The Suppurative Cock

it leaks
it seeps
it drizzles
it twitches
it bewitches

it weeps
it drools
it fucking
runs off at
the mouth



it’s bona fide
man meat
all right
and don’t you dare
forget it. not for a moment.

a card-carrying
twenty-four carat
rock hard
see it’s secret handshake?

and it might be
just might be
telling you the truth
or maybe it’s
just a crybaby, after all

The Monkey Spanker

She has placed you over a kitchen stool so that your ass sticks up above it’s red vinyl seat, and then tied your wrists to your ankles with leather straps. She was neither gentle or rough, rather matter of fact about it. You are wondering whether you should tell her that you feel you might slide off the smoothness of the leather, looking up through the swatch of bangs over your eyes, when you see her taking a rolled length of leather strapping from the countertop.

She notices and smiles down at you. "Don’t worry," she says as she bends down in front of you and begins winding the thin leather around the length of your legs and arms, "you’re not going anywhere."

After she’s secured the binding at your ankles and top top of your thighs,  she cups your chin, forcing you to look into her eyes. She smiles, running her thumb across your lips. "You’re very vulnerable now, aren’t you?" It’s a rhetorical question, so you just suck in your lips, pulling them between your teeth and slowly nod. No need for words; you both know who is running this show.

Her other hand trails upward over your taut bicep, then along your shoulder blade and down the length of your back until, teetering forward on her heels, she’s clasped your left buttock. She squeezes, the thin edges of her nails digging pressing into the rounded flesh. "I want your ass." The thumb pushes into your pressed lips, breeching the seal you’d made, and into your mouth. Reflexively, you start sucking on it. This seems to please her. She tips her head, pressing her forehead to yours. "Oh, yes," she murmers, "Yes, indeed. I am going to have that ass."

Flipping the top of a container of baby oil, she continues, "What did I catch you doing without permission today, hmmm?

"I touched myself, Dear Mistress.  But I am sorry and won’t do it again.  I promise."

"Try again.  That’s not the correct answer."  She is drizzling the oil into the palm of her hand, looking at you expectantly.

"Ummm …"


"Ummm, I was masturbating?"

"You were spanking your monkey.  That’s what you were doing — spanking your monkey without permission.  So what do you think that means?"

Cradling the palmed oil, she walks back over to you.  "I’m going to enjoy this, you know," she says, and you feel her rubbing the baby oil into the cheeks of your ass.  Her touch is soft and warm, almost a tender caress.  But you know the gentleness will not last.  Again she walks away, as you watch her heels tapping the marble floor.  Suddenly she turns around; the look on her face has changed, is fierce and determined.

"What happens to bad little boys who spank their monkeys?  Tell me."

"Ummm, I’m not sure, Dear Mistress.  But I said I’d be good from now on.  Could I maybe have another chance?

"No, there are no second chances.  And you know that.  Stop your bargaining and stop playing dumb.  Now I am going to ask you once again, and if you don’t answer properly, then this will be twice as bad for you.  Now, What happens to bad little boys who spank their monkeys?"

Your cheeks clench in anticipation.  You can how smell the baby oil, its smooth, innocently sweet scent juxtaposed against what you know is about to happen.  Mistress is tapping her foot, her full mauve lips slightly apart, her emerald eyes blazing.  She is eager now.  There will be no reprieve.

"Dear Mistress," you say sheepishly, "bad little boys who spank their monkeys get their bottoms spanked; they get their bottoms spanked very hard by their Dear Mistress.

She smiles, walks towards you and raises her hand.



Strap On

Bend over and grab your ankles.

What in the fuck is that?

Don’t play dumb.  I’ve seen the bookmarks on your computer; you know exactly what this is.  Now bend over and grab your ankles.

Those bookmarks don’t mean anything.  It’s just crazy guy stuff.  Just fantasy stuff.  Not real.

Is that why you’re forking out all those credit card payments for memberships?  I’m not an idiot, so don’t screw with me.  Do it!

I don’t want to.  I don’t want to do it for real.

Well, I really don’t give a shit if you want to do it for real.  Quit your lying, quit your whining and bend over and grab your goddamn, fucking ankles!

I’m getting dressed and leaving.  This is crazy.  You’re crazy.

Is that what you want?  You really want to leave?  You really are going to pass this up?

What are you doing?  Stop it?

Why?  What’s wrong with me rubbing my girl cock up against your boy cock?  Doesn’t that feel nice?  Think how good it would feel to take it up the ass.

Stop it.

You don’t want me to stop it.  Look:  your boy cock is trying to grow nice and big like my big black leather one.  I think it likes it.

It’s because your rubbing it with that stupid … that stupid thing.  It’s friction.  Of course, it’s going to react.  I am a guy, after all.  What do you expect?

I expect you to bend over and grab your ankles.  You know you want to, so just do it.

I, um, I ….

Come on, just do it.  I’ll just rub it up the crack.  Come on, bend over.

Okay, I’ll let you play this stupid game.  But don’t you dare try to put it in.

That’s good.  Now lean shoulders into the ottoman so you don’t lose your balance, and grab your ankles.  That’s it, like that.  Just like that.

What the fuck?  What are you doing?  Stop it.  What the fuck?  Damn it!  Get these off of me.  Get these off of me right now.

They’re cuffs.  I ordered them from The Stock Room when I ordered my little — well, my big — friend here.  Now stay there for me and don’t move.  I need to get something out of the drawer.

How am I supposed to go anywhere when you have my wrists cuffed to my ankles?

I guess you have a point there.  Okay, hold still for a second.

Christ!  That’s cold.  What are you doing?

It’s lube.  Unless you’ve been fucking your own ass with cucumbers and stuff, I think you’re going to need it.  So hold still.

You’re not really going to do this.  Come on.

Let me reach around here and check.  Uh, huh.  Your dick is rock hard.  So, let’s get this straight, lover boy.  You are now officially my bitch.  You’re my bitch and I am going to fuck your tight little asshole until you cream all over your belly.

Cum For Teacher

Her finger is in your ass, her mouth around your cock.  She is doing something deep inside of you that is making your cock leak and drizzle on the back of her tongue.  You hear her swallowing — wet, dirty slurps.  Opening your eyes and looking down, you see a pink-hued liquid sheen around her lips, lipstick having smeared and mingled with your cock juice.

The lewdness of what you see — this is Ms. Kavinaski, after all — causes your prick to vibrate and you’re about to pump a load into her mouth, when she senses it and quickly pulls away  — one big slimy, loud suck up the shaft and over and off the mushroom knob.  Your cocks is free, the air-conditioned air instantly cooling the hot slobber that drips down its shaft.

“Not yet.”

Your professor wiggles her finger deeper into your asshole and stares into your eyes as that finger hula hoops around and around.  You grunt, your hands pressed to the sides of the chair, knuckles white.

“How bad do you want it?”

Despite the mottled redness of embarrassment burning your skinny neck, hairless chest, and your pale face, you can’t help yourself.  Your hips move on their own, your mouth is a silent “O” opening and closing, opening and closing.  She licks her tongue around the roseate stain etching her lips, moves her finger outward to the inside edge of your puckered anus, then slowly begins moving it in and out. Deeper. Then Deeper. And Deeper still.

“I’m finger fucking your tight, little virgin ass, dear boy.  But, then again,” she grabs your still-oozing dick with her free hand and slowly pumps it, “but this is virgin, too.  Isn’t it?”

When you don’t answer — instead closing your eyes and moaning — she stops pumping her fist.  “Answer me, or I’ll stop.”   Eyes still closed you begin to open your mouth.  “No.  Open your eyes and look at me.  Look at  Mrs. Kavinaski and say it.”   You open your eyes.  Looking at her you feel dirty — like a dirty, little boy.  Her slight sneer makes you even feel dirtier.  She knows what you are feeling, what she is doing to you, how out-of-control hot you are.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

It is barely a squeak; but, there, you at least said something. But she’s not satisfied.

“Don’t call me ma’am, call me teacher.  I’m your teacher.  I’m your vile, dick-jerking, ass-fingering teacher.  And you’re my slutty, nasty, dirty student.  A very horny student who needs something from me real bad.  So why don’t you try again.  If you want to me to play with this stiffy of yours, try again.”  She jerks it up and down just once, then looks at you expectantly.  You swallow, even as her finger continues to deliberately and methodically screw your asshole.

“Yes, Teacher.”

Her mouth is immediately back on your dick, her pumping finger picking up speed.  You feel your balls tightening, pulling up under your groin.  Your groans are loud, echoing in the otherwise empty classroom as your hips buck and you try to fuck her finger and mouth at the same time.  Then she removes her mouth and starts pumping your cock hard and fast.

“Now, tell me how bad you want it.”

“Please, Ms. Kavinaski.  I want it.  Play with my dick.  Jerk me off.  Finger fuck my ass. Please.  I want it bad.”  She smiles, pumps finger and fist even faster.

“Now!  Cum for teacher, you dirty, filthy boy.  Shoot that hot spunk right here on my face, while I ream out your ass with this finger.”

And you do.

You cum harder than you probably ever will again in your entire life, shooting all over Ms. Kavinaski’s auburn bangs, her neck, across her face.   You ride the knot to the end, feeling your balls jerking, your asshole spasming around her finger, watching a thick clump of your own boy-milk ooze down her forehead and cling to her thick eyelashes.   You are panting, sweating, almost crying from the intensity of it all, when she speaks again.

“What do you say?  What do you have to say now?”

This time, you know what to say.  Between rattled breaths, you answer.

“Thank you, Teacher.”


don’t tell me

don’t tell me
that i can’t fuck around
maybe i don’t care if they’re not as smart, as slick-savvy as you
so what if they don’t have your big cock
or buy me diamonds and pearls and rubies
in platinum or eighteen karat gold

don’t tell me
that i shouldn’t stay out or turn off my phone
or take candy from strangers
because you just might not be around
when i change my mind

don’t tell me
that i just don’t care, that it doesn’t mean a thing
that i’m just a fucking cunt
a bitch from hell, a vicious harpy, a narcissistic wench
well … just because
we already know that,
don’t we?

don’t tell me
that i’m your perfect girl,
or call me babe, or honey, or sweetheart
for christ’s sake, get a grip
keep your sticky fingers to yourself
take your heart off your sleeve
and stick your dick back into your pants

don’t tell me
that it’s chemistry or destiny,
we’re written in the stars
get over your romantic self
and off me, out of my face

wipe off that drool
straighten your tie
stand up like a man
and don’t tell me.

Don’t Think. Just Obey.

Why he is here, he couldn’t tell you. Even later, the memory will be fuzzy at best: a business trip, an unfamiliar town, a rented car, trouble sleeping.

The bar is nice, the music not too loud, the regulars behaving themselves. He sits nursing his scotch, listening to the three women next to him, catching occasional glimpses of their animated faces in the mirror behind well-stocked shelves. He thinks the one next to him, the brunette, has met his reflected gaze once or twice. Her shoulder has brushed his no less than three times, which isn’t a surprise, given their close proximity. The last time, she’d even turned to smile at him, which he took as a quiet “excuse me.”

He orders his second drink just as the brunette’s two friends move out to the small dance floor. Watching the way their bodies move together, seeing the way they look only at each other, he wonders if they might be lesbians. A slight smile creases his face as his mind conjures an ongoing array of possibilities.

“No, they’re not.”

Lost in the fantasy of two blondes getting it on, he hasn’t noticed her moving closer, but here she is. He smiles, nods, lifts his glass and takes a drink before answering.

“So besides being beautiful, you can read minds too?”

He is surprised, caught a little off guard, when she doesn’t smile back. Instead, she sits back down on the bar stool and lights a cigarette. She stares at him, inhaling deeply. “I can read your mind,” she says through a plume of exhaled smoke. “And it’s a very messy place. Quite undisciplined, in fact.” She reaches into her Dooney & Bourke purse. “But I can fix you right up in no time, make everything all better.”

Her eyes holding his, her hand moves from her purse to place something between them on the bar. He looks down to see a leather collar, its stainless steel studs reflecting the sparkling lights hanging from the overhead above them.

He doesn’t say anything, just shapes his mouth into what he hopes passes for a wry grin, tips his glass, downing the rest of his drink.

“If you need to get drunk to get kinky, you’re not doing it right.”

This time when he looks at her she is smiling. And so he smiles back. “Who said I wanted to get kinky,” he answers, waving to the bartender, this time pointing to both their drinks. “I’m just here for a couple of drinks, a chance to unwind. That’s all, Miss.” She cocks here head, the smile having reached her twinkling eyes. Dark blue eyes, the color of cobalt, he notices.


“Pardon me?”

“What I mean is don’t call me Miss, call me Mistress. Mistress Paige.”

The bartender is serving their drinks, taking away the empty glasses. If he notices the collar, he doesn’t let on. “Don’t worry about the bartender,” she says, “he’s not in this. You and me are in this. Only you and me.” She reaches out, touching his arm, right above the bend of his elbow. She slowly squeezes, until her hand is a fist, bundling his shirt sleeve and flesh into a hard knot. “I’m going to do this to your balls,” she whispers in his ear. Then she flicks the edge of his ear with her tongue. “Mmmm … you taste good.”

He looks into the mirror again, seeing that the blondes are now back, both eyeing him in its metallic reflection. The one on the far right, the one in the cashmere sweater dress, moves her lips, mouthing, “Do it.”

Although “Mistress Paige” is turned towards him and cannot see her friends, she tells him, “Take her advice. Put the collar on. It will better than any fucking sex you’ve ever imagined in your wildest, pedestrian fantasies.”

And he doesn’t know why, but he does. He picks up the collar, turns to Mistress Paige and puts it around his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees both of the blonde’s reflected, knowing smiles and wonders if they will be a part of this. A part of what will happen next.

“No, they aren’t coming with us.”

He is starting to think that she really can reads minds, when Mistress Paige takes a leash from her purse and attaches it to the collar. He opens his mouth, maybe to protest, to tell her she is going to far. He really doesn’t even know what words want to come out of his empty, dry mouth. But she stops him with a finger across his lips, shushing him.

“Don’t think. Just obey.”


She pats him on the head, runs her fingernails down the side of his neck, then curls her fingers under the edge of the collar. He feel her knuckles against his Adam’s apple as she pulls him close. “Now your getting it,” she whispers, looking straight into his eyes. He believes she is right. His world is changing, becoming transparent and shimmering. The blondes, the bartender, even the leather bar stools and flickering bar lights are fading ghosts.

“Don’t think. Just obey,” Mistress Paige repeats herself. He knows what to say, what she expects of him. “Yes, Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now…” she relaxes her grip on the collar, “get down on you knees.” She repeats herself again, “Don’t think. Just obey.”

Don’t think. Just obey. He hears the words inside of his brain, echoing in his bones like a mantra as he lowers himself to the wooden floor. Staring straight ahead through a sea of legs he hears the noise of the bar — the jukebox, the jumbled drunken voices — as if from behind a wall of leaded glass. Don’t think. Just obey.

“Begin crawling towards the door. Do as your told. Now!”

He does what he must. He crawls.

Tagged BDSM · femdom · discipline · domination · fem fatale

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