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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  ...


Archive for February, 2006

Waste Not, Want Not.

Tuesday, February 28th, 2006

….as the Hindu proverb says.

So I’m looking over the links I’ve saved up over this past year since I bought this PC, tossing a bunch and reorganizing the lucky leftovers. Thought I’d share a few, so you know just how weird I am.

So, there you have it; we are at the end of our little “link dump” today. There are a lot more, but why be gluttonous? We have plenty of time–so stay tuned! You can thank me later.

Pervert Savant

Monday, February 27th, 2006

“Mr. M,” a cherished client, is a constant source of delight: Kinkier than hell, sharp as a tack, lovable as a teddy bear, and witty beyond words. He likes to send me emails from a variety of alter egos, which always have me in stitches when I am reading them. With his permission, I am reprinting the following email, in which his “psychiatrist” has a thing or two to say to me. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. It is a “poifect” example of of why (on most days) I love my callers!

Dear Ms. St. Lawrence:

I am writing you because my patient and our mutual acquaintance, Joseph M., was terribly traumatized by the tenor of your last E-mail message. I suspect that Mr. M. has been so affected by his years of being beaten by nuns and the resultant “Catholic Guilt” engendered in his psyche that he is now reluctant — at least on a surface level — to partake of your generous invitation to cross-dress him. Instead, he has been trying (with my help) to repress his carnal urges and obsessions through an intense course of pushups, cold showers, and meditation on wholesome thoughts.

As his psychiatrist, I have to warn you that when you repeatedly tempt Mr. M. to succumb to the lizard desires of his fevered id and urge him to let loose his pent-up passions and emotions — in short, when you goad him to “be a dirty girl for you” — well…I can only say that you are playing with fire… (“Du spielst mit Feuer” as we Freudians say). In any event, the strange, almost Kafkaesque metamorphosis that you wish to elicit from Mr. M. is a fearsome thing — something that even I, a psychiatrist of many-years experience, often shudder to hear about when Mr. M. discusses it with me in our therapeutic sessions.

As his alter-ego, “Babette,” our subject becomes a strange uninhibited trollop — one that smokes, drinks and is prone to wear items of intimate women’s apparel. Given this bizarre behavior, I think it best, at least for the time being, that we try together to keep a secure lid on this man’s otherwise unbridled libido. Let us not tempt him with further lascivious communications. Instead let us endeavor to channel his passions into less volatile and more productive pursuits — macrame, croquet, and cat-grooming being a few that come to mind.

That said, (and I’m now striving to put this to you with the delicacy the request merits) would you have any extreme compunctions about participating in some guided telephonic sex with a psychiatrist?

As you know, psychiatrists are human beings too. At my insistence, Mr. M has given me the numerical coordinates for www.literatesmut.net and, after visiting your website, I felt a stirring in my loins such as I had not experienced since my student days at Heidelberg. After that experience (which persisted for quite some time), I felt I simply had to communicate with you. You see, I too feel the “ache of desire,” the “torment of denial,” and desire to live the “bliss of obedience.”

Would you consider a short session with me wherein (while Tammy Wynette trills in the background) you walk upon my supine body with your Size 6 feet — only wearing something on them that makes them look just a tad smaller and more petite than they actually are. If so, I’d be forever in your debt.

If you are so amenable, please respond by e-mail at my Freudian website at your earliest opportunity.

The address is freakyshrink@freudian.com. I eagerly await your reply.

Very professionally yours,

Dr. Manfred Luttow-Vorbec

A Job Well Done

Sunday, February 26th, 2006

One summer, when I was a bitty girl, my brother turned sixteen and ventured into the world to get his first honest-to-goodness real job. While he was and is of above-average intellect, to the prospective employers he approached he was, of course, just another teenager looking for work.

After the first day of pavement-pounding he returned home frustrated and even a bit miffed. It seems the factory supervisors, restaurant managers, and sundry other interviewers were only offering him entry-level positions and he just knew that, despite his youth and lack of experience, he deserved at least a managerial position. How could they possibly expect this golden genius-boy to sweep floors, clear tables, or stack boxes?

This was the beginning of a two week pattern. Every day, off my brother would go, my mother’s breakfast warming his belly, to find the “perfect job.” At the end of the day he would return, ranting and raving about the low-quality jobs he was being offered. Mother wisely held her tongue.

Eventually, summer kicked into full swing and my brother wanted money for gas, dating, swimming, golfing, and a zillion other teenage activities. If he didn’t secure work quick, summer and all of its wonder would be passing him by. He humbled himself and took a job as a dishwasher at a local upscale restaurant.

Mother, in the meantime, posted a quote she’d found onto the family bulletin board, which I’ve never forgotten:

“There is no work undignified if done well.”

So to the girls who write to me asking questions about how to succeed in the business of phone sex: Heed that quote and hold it to your heart. It has taken me far, and I am sure it can do the same for you.

Oh, and by the way, my brother now has more money than God.

Vanilla Mythology

Saturday, February 25th, 2006
Anybody who believes that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach flunked geography. ~Robert Byrne

Was it Mrs. Gump that said Vanilla is as Vanilla does?

What I am proposing with this simple little entry is that quite probably the term vanilla (when applied to sexuality) just might be on the verge of vernacular extinction. Case in point: I was recently discussing said topic with a college student I am tutoring (yes, he does flirt and yes, I do tease) when he told me that, “These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird.” I got such a kick out of that, as you might imagine. Particularly since this certainly wasn’t the case only a few years ago when I, myself, was a student!

But you have to admit, my little friend is onto something there. And it emphasizes my rather vague—but nonetheless valid—suggestion that, just perhaps, when it comes to the difference between vanilla and kink we might just be splitting hairs.

His comment got my admittedly little (but always industrious) brain to pondering upon the glorious games boys and girls have forever played. (The problem for the boys is that nobody has ever told them that the girls always win. They—aching members in hand—go directly to jail and do not pass go, while we—oblivious and sexy in our nylons and heels—are busy buying Park Place and building little red hotels.)

Another gentleman recently regaled me with stories of his search for a Mistress throughout the 1960s and early 1970s, when even finding reference to such things was next to impossible. Yet search he did, eventually exchanging long-distance missives with a number of “incognito” Pro-Dommes.

So maybe things weren’t always as vanilla as we’ve supposed? Perhaps kink is all a matter of one’s particular perspective? Could it be that the only difference between then and now is that rather than hiding or burying our sexual proclivities, we embrace them?

Wasn’t it Janis Joplin that said, “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose?”

Anyway…just some food for thought.

A Bedtime Story

Friday, February 24th, 2006

I am in the middle of creating (actually re-creating, but that is another story) a little weblog that will be a collection of erotic short fiction and poetry I’ve written and will be writing. When I (finally!) get everything in order there, you will be the first to know. I promise, honest injun! In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy a sneak peek.

Marie Knows

You know she knows.

She’s been winking at you, licking her lips, eyeing your crotch, leering wickedly. You think she can smell your guilt, smell it on you, smell it oozing from your pores. You look out the window, feigning calmness. She can’t know. This is crazy thinking. It’s impossible. You think this to yourself, yet you don’t believe it.

The door opens. Kelly is back from her break. Watching her walk to her desk in those killer heels, you see her catch Marie’s eye. Are they both smirking? Do they both know? You need to get out of this office, take a walk, get some fresh air to clear your head. With a sigh of what you hope comes across as casual indifference, you push your chair back. You clear your throat.

“I guess I’m going to go out and grab some lunch,” you say, starting to rise.

“Not so fast, buster boy.”

You feel yourself turning red even as you sit back down. Flustered, embarrassed, you hear Kelly giggle at—what? What Marie said? What they know? The way you sat down so fast, like a well-trained puppy?

“Now that we’re all three alone…”

Marie is walking toward you, arms behind her back. She’s wearing black silk stockings again. You try not to look at her legs, try to think of something clever to say, try to tell yourself that nothing is wrong.

“I have something of yours, or I should say Kelly’s.”

Kelly giggles again, that beautiful girlish music, now a torment. You can’t even look at her. Worse, behind your desk you feel yourself becoming hard. Oh God, they found them. Fuck! What do I do now? How do I get out of this? I need to get out of here.

But it’s too late. Marie has brought her arms out in front of her. You don’t want to look at her outstretched hands, what she’s showing you. You try to look past the clutch of white satiny fabric, to her face. You watch the cruel snarl of her red lips, moving as if in slow motion.

“You’re a fucking pervert, a dirty little dog, a crotch-sniffing panty thief.”

Kelly is crossing the carpet, one hand tugging at the hem of her skirt, the other dangling a key. Glimpsing a pink garter, you realize the key looks familiar. Your eyes darting back and forth, you start fumbling around your desk. Surely they are here somewhere.

“Looking for these?”

You hear the metallic clattering, even as Marie is pulling them from her ample cleavage. She smiles, leaning in close and jingling them in front of your face.

“What’s that,” Kelly says, sliding onto the corner of the desk, looking pointedly at your crotch, “a stiffy?” Her skirt is all the way up now. Seeing the pink lace of her panties, you feel your cock flex. You can’t help it. A moan escapes your constricted throat. Marie laughs as Kelly presses the key into your sweaty palm.

“Now let’s unlock that bottom drawer and see how many pairs you have in there,” Marie says.

And you know Marie knows and you know that you are fucked.