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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 September, 2006

Keep Those Cards and Letters…

Saturday, September 30th, 2006

….and emails, phone calls and (not to mention) reviews coming.

Reviews that just tickle me pink:

  • how can i put this… tell the truth so it is believable… if you saw a unicorn or a leprechaun how would you tell your friends? gentlemen, this girl is the rarest gem, the most precious find. stake your claim on her time and you will reap the rewards. she will peer into your soul, your darkest secrets will be hers, not to scold or judge, but to embrace. she will dance with your demons, sing your song as if she wrote it and have you thanking the simple twist of fate that led you to read this review. give her 15 minutes of your time, in honest, earnest, conversation and she will become your muse, your phone sex diva, your partner in fetish and fantasy.
  • Ours is not to ask why…ours is to call and unzip our fly.
  • Angela, you know that 5 stars isn’t enough to rate you! What can I say, you took me to new heights and led me around to show me forbidden delights at the end of your leash! I look forward to the next time I can bring you my leash and submit to your will! Thank you for knowing all the buttons, and how to use them.
  • Catholic School Girl turned Phone FemDom takes Jewish Boy, twists his libido into some perverse pretzel of kink and he is born again in the waters of all things unholy. Praise Jesus!
  • Tonight, I was assaulted. I mean that this woman took total control of me from the first second we connected. She has shown me new ways to please and be pleased, teaching me to push the erotic envelope. Only tonight she surpassed herself and actually tore the envelope to shreds. THE ULTIMATE MISTRESS OF KINK.
  • Smart Cookie takes Macho Man and turns him into her Little Panty Wimp. Can it get any better than this?
  • My plane landed in Fantasy Island and, much to my glee, it was not Tatoo, the growth-hormone challenged, white-tuxed cherub who greeted me, but the slinky, spike-heeled, dark haired goddess, Angela who clamped the collar on and lead the way. As she always does. With power, love and brilliant perfection. Next time I’m buying a one way ticket.
  • Cotton Candy Kink and Rollercoaster Raunch: The St. Lawrence Carnival for the Carnally-inclined is in town. Break open that piggy bank!
  • The thing about Angela is that you have a relationship with her. She takes the time and effort to know what works, what doesn’t what should and what won’t, even when you don’t. She is not for the meek or the afraid, but if you let your guard down — if you can be brave enough to really admit what you feel and what you want — she can change your life.
  • Whew! Just when I think she can’t possibly surprise me anymore, she turns around and totally blows me away. I was kinky before I called Angela for the first time. Now I’m a pathetic, drooling, cock-stupid (as she so sweetly puts it) deviant and loving every minute of it.
  • Being of the Nigerian royalty by birth, it was with some trepidation that I consulted with Ms. St. Lawrence in hopes of briefly utilizing her bank account to extract some frozen oil revenues to which I am rightly entitled from my corrupt and troubled country. To my surprise, she gave me empathy, understanding, and a shoulder to cry on. Before I knew it, a bond developed, the cultural differences between us vanished, and I found myself gladly giving her MY banking coordinates. I also got a fantasy that was so real, I could almost smell the aroma of fufu and boiled cassava leaves permeating my maid’s uniform. She’s VERY good. Call her!
  • Angela combines a face that enchants with a vocabulary that stings; beauty that you long to touch with a command that would not allow you to touch her. Cruel, cruel, beauty, beauty.
  • Roses are red, violets are blew, when Angela calls is when I start to spew, She knows me so well, she reads me like a book, there’s nowhere to hide when this Flirt sets the hook. Oh Angie, you know that I love you the best, for when I think of you, my wiener gets no rest! Thank you again, darlin’
  • Angela St. Lawrence is my Goddess, my Princess, my Mistress. my lowly life belongs to Her. In Her presence, i am nothing but a dirty grub, Her butt barnacle–and belong always on my knees, at Her feet.
  • Talk? It’s more like a telephonic transformation/erotic tsunami. Angela, you are intellectually and sensually brilliant. I remain, 5 days later, in awe.
  • Tough call, tough lady, tough treatment. It was delicious!

Another time, another place…if I’m so inclined, I’ll share a few more.

I Was Told

Thursday, September 28th, 2006

That this was me:

William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

And this Catholic School Girl Gone Bad turned FemDom PhoneSex Goddess…whispers a prayer, a thank you. Someone knows and that is enough. That is everything.

But earlier I was up to much mischief. A Savant from my collection (and who shall remain nameless tonight because I just think it’s best) stopped by to check out the action and noted: It…is..well, it’s like intruding upon a bevy of Artemis’ wood nymphs cavorting.
And in between all the myrth and merriment, I chatted with the wondrous Lyndee, kinda-sorta went to the gym, was sent to the principal’s office and even talked dirty now and then.


Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

Panties for Anderson

Wednesday, September 27th, 2006

“From now on,” she is saying, “you will wear panties.  No arguing.  No protesting.   I’ve disposed of your boxers; every last pair. Come, Andy, let me show you.”

She’s always called you Anderson before. Your given name. The one you prefer.

But this is the beginning you’ve known was coming for a while now. Since the night she came home and caught you.

She’d been so quiet and demure when you’d married. When you look back, you think those qualities were what drew you to her. That somewhere deep inside you knew; that you knew even then that your fetishes and desires needed some kind of cap. That her softness, her goodness would keep you safe from your own demons.

But she’d caught you. One of those rare occasions you’d indulged your desires. Alone, your beloved out for the night. That’s what she’d told you. No reason to expect her until late. And you couldn’t resist. Found the pink lace thong you’d bought her for Valentine’s Day, slipped it up over your thighs, your stiff prick.

You were so devastated when she’d walked in finding you masturbating into the crotch of those panties, a pair of her soiled ones across your face. Now she knew. Knew your naughty, dirty secret. But the shock, the revulsion was quickly replaced with a smile. She giggled; told you how ridiculous you looked. And there was a look in her eye that you didn’t understand. Though, now you do.

Because she took over from that point on. Making you wear panties sometimes when you fucked her. Then making you lick her cunt while wearing panties and humping the mattress. Sometimes right before you were going out with the guys she would insist you wear panties. She even bought you a few pair of your own, very feminine, satin and lace. You were at her mercy because the panties felt so good and dirty at the same time.

And you couldn’t say no. There was a power exchange the night she caught you. You realize it now. And, as you follow her to the bedroom, you realize that things are never going to be the same, never go back to the way they were. Maybe you like this. Maybe you’re glad to finally be the panty slut you’ve always secretly wanted to be.

The top dresser drawer is open. You see satin, nylon, ribbons, bows. It’s not a man’s drawer anymore. You look at her.

“What about when I go to the gym?”

She ignores your question, reaching for a pair of the panties–white with little pink and yellow hearts. She holds them up in front of you.

“Put these on, Panty Andy. Be the little Panty Slut you know you want to be for me.”

She’s never called you anything like that before. You blush. But you also feel your prick responding to the calm authority of her words, the intuitive power in her demeanor. You slowly begin removing your jeans. Her words have hypnotized you. You only need to do what your Goddess Wife says. That is all that matters.

When the jeans are lying next to you on the floor, she hands you the panties, then reaches for a tube of lipstick. “What’s that for, honey,” you say as you pull the panties up over your pelvis, feeling the rush of pleasure as your prick drags along the soft fabric.

She looks at the panty tent your erection has caused and snickers. Again, she ignores your question. “Here, stand in front of the mirror.” You move to her side as she takes the lid off of the lipstick tube. “Close your eyes, Panty Slut.” Because it is all you can do, you close your eyes. You feel the lipstick, guided by her firm hand, moving across your torso. All the while she is laughing. You get the weird sensation that you are hearing her in stereo, but chalk it up to the surreal-ness of what is happening.

Finally: “Okay, open your eyes.”

You slowly open your eyes to see your chest, your ribs, your belly smeared with pink lipstick, spelling out the truth. Even backwards you can read it, because you’ve always known it. And you see Jessica standing at the bedroom door. Jessica, your wife’s best friend. Jessica’s lips are twisted into a lewd grin. She is shaking her head, like she is disgusted with you, perhaps even finds you pitiful. She mouths the words, “You are so fucked.”

“Read it out loud for me and Jessica.”

And you do.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a panty slut. I am not a real man. I am panty slut Andy.”

As humiliating, as embarrassing as your dilemma is, you are more turned on than you’ve ever been in your life. Your prick is leaking into the panties, a gray bloom spreading across and down the front of them.

“Now, Andy Panties, show Jessica how hot you are. Rub the front of those wet panties. Yes, you’ve leaked all over them, haven’t you? Now rub them and read your little mantra again and again until you cum in those panties in front of us.”

You know you should stop this. But you can’t, because you want this, you need this. And so you begin rubbing.

“I am Andy Panties. I am a….”

But it’s too late. Because you are coming so hard that your knees are buckling, your asshole and balls are twitching.

“I told you that would happen,”  Jessica tells your wife.

“Now you’ve got him by the balls.   Forever.”

He’s an Ass-Man. Who Knew?

Tuesday, September 26th, 2006

Pervert Savant and I exchanged a few emails earlier this evening. Always a pleasure, as he is just so adorably entertaining and quick-witted. Next thing I know he emails:

I have this notary’s seal stamp and a little stamp pad filled with black ink. I think it might be fun to spread you face down, over a nice walnut desk. You’d be nude, butt up, of course, with your silky hair splayed over your shoulders and your long legs hanging over the desk. In this position, I’d notarize your ass.

I’d do it properly. I would follow all of the formalities. I might even breathe on the ink-end of the stamp before I’d notarize you. To warm it. To get it ready for the imprinting. Then I’d do it. The notarization would read as follows:

State of Colorado )

) SS:

County of Arapahoe )

Before me, a Notary Public, in and for this County and State came Pervert Q. Savant, who being duly sworn, acknowledged the aforesaid this ___ day of September, 2006.

My County of Residence Is: ___________

My Commission Expires: _____________


Notary Public


Printed Name of Notary

Then I would carefully affix my inky Notary’s Seal to your round, mound-y little ass. I’d do it relishing the slopes and contours of the upper part of your butt, watching them emerge from the small of your back.

And I’d attest to everything! Right there, in nice squid black ink. I would attest that I like you, and your ass, and your crazy imagination. Then I would formalize it.

And there’d be my name. Right there. On your pale white concave ass. For as long as the ink lasted.

And I’d use indelible ink.


Then, a bit later:

I’ve decided your ass is “convex” rather than “concave”.

Scientific rigor is important in these things.

Otherwise, I would notarize you in the same manner as before.

P. Q. Savant

Cute little bugger, isn’t he?

Lingerie & Lust with Slip of a Girl

Monday, September 25th, 2006

Slip of a Girl had me back for the interview I’d mentioned in an earlier entry–girl talk, don’t you know? And it was a heck of a lot of fun. As I’d also noted previously, I like her blog a lot. And I don’t lie. You know that. Bookmark her site…she has this obsession with vintage lingerie and posts often. So it is always with great pleasure and delight that I bop on over to her blog to check out what currently has her swooning.

So, about this interview:

I know I mentioned that I was precocious as a little girl. And I recall something about my personal lingerie choices. There was some talk of cross-dressers and lingerie fetishes. I am thinking maybe she put something in my drink. Because I sure was talkative and quite revealing, considering my usual approach to all of this.

I know I said something about “grown up parts.” Not sure what that was all about. She was very curious about my own personal lingerie opinions and choices, so we dished about that for a while. Don’t you worry, Pervert Savant, I played my cards very close to my vest. Just like you suggested. I mean I can’t give away all my/your/our secrets, now, can I? Isn’t that what you said?

She even wanted to know about my brand of Phone Sex and my Erotic Writing, and was, indeed, very interested. It made me wonder if she wasn’t masturbating on the other side of my flat screen. (Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?)

She’d first found me via my story She Never Knew over at Blistered Lips, and as it involves panties and a bit of tawdry femdom sex play, she was keenly curious about the fetish of cross-dressing (the Angela St. Lawrence version). Like I said: I was friendly, even affable, but played it sexy and mysterious. I think she liked me a lot.

And I just know she wants me.