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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 April, 2013

Watch the Little Bitch Break

Monday, April 29th, 2013

A particularly delicious report from a favored long-distance slave, who went out into the FemDomme Trenches for a bit of Real Time abuse:

I recently visited a particularly sadistic woman for an evening of overwhelming intensity.

She had not had an opportunity to play in some time, and it had been even longer since she had her claws in somebody that she could really let loose on. After we sat and enjoyed a drink or two, she told me to go to her play room. After stripping I would find a safe in the closet into which I was to deposit my clothes, guaranteeing that I would not run (there was no chance of it, but the psychological effect was intense). I would also find my outfit for the evening within the safe–a hood, heavy collar, ball gag, and cock and ball harness. The ring was particularly wicked as the inside was lined with spikes. It also featured a ring that looked as though a leash could be hooked onto it.

A straight-backed chair sat in the middle of the room with a note saying “wait here.” Properly attired I sat…and sat…and sat. She liked to keep me waiting but she was always worth the wait (much like the divine Miss Angela). I could hear her shoes clicking down the hallway, anxious for when they would stop at my door and I would catch a whiff if her scent, soft but arousing. When she finally came, making her way around me and touching me gently, purring her approval, I was panting with desire.

I felt her attaching something to the cock ring–a rope, I would soon find out–and pulled it up behind my neck and back down to tie it off around the same ring. She then sat on my lap, proceeding to stroke and kiss my neck and chest gently, toying with my nipples. As my moans of delight started to change to heavy breathing I felt her reach for something, pushing on my chest as she leaned back, her hand covering the rope. When she came back up I felt something hard being traced up the rope on my right. She I had no idea what it was so when she told me to take a deep breath and then let it out I was shocked–I felt a hard pressure against my chest, against the rope, and then a piercing explosion answering the mystery–surgical staples.

She knew how much I hated them, of course, and starting in with them before I’d had any real warm-up meant that they would be as painful as possible. Six down each side of the rope, each one an agony. It was all I could do to sit still, through it and I knew I would have a hard time taking anything else. She knew it as well, as she explained, and that was why she was about to shrink wrap me to the chair, pinning my arms to my sides and my back and legs to the chair. She sat back down on my lap, tore off the hood and gag, and gave me a deep kiss, pressing up against my chest as she did. The sight of her gave me strength to endure the pain–her eyes and lips exuding desire. She sat back, locked my gaze, and punched my chest, triggering a wild scream from me and a moan of delight from her. She took her time at first, with deliberate strikes to the length of the rope, enjoying the red stream beginning to coat the inside of the wrap.

She soon let herself succumb to her desire, taking full swings at my chest and arms, kneeling on my thighs for better leverage at times, perhaps, though more likely to feel my screams against her bosom. When she seemed to tire, either from the effort or boredom with this particular torment, she began to use her nails on me, gouging my neck and shoulders before digging them in around my nipples to get access to them. She raked at and pinched them, sometimes using her nails to pull them to her, playing me like a piano. She looked in my eyes and told me that she could feel my cock–she knew how much I needed this.

She then rose and moved behind me so that I couldn’t see her. I’m always a little upset when I can’t see her both because the sight of her helps me endure and because when she does so it is almost always to get some new item with which to torment me. When she came back around I was expecting a whip or a cane or a truncheon but what I saw was far, far worse. A rubber band. I have found that things that you would never think would be too painful often prove to be vicious. She wound one end around her pointer and middle fingers, placing one on each side of my left nipple and pulled back on the other end–the classic rubber band snap position. She took her time. She found exactly the tension she wanted in the rubber band, but also in my eyes. She licked her lips. She nodded her head with an evil grin. She took her time.Then she let go and my world went white.

It was exactly as bad as I’d feared. She did both nipples several times, taking her time with each one, seeing that I was getting close to tears. She then moved down to my pubic mound, snapping to the left and right of the rope that still waited with the staples, then snapping it a couple of times, mostly for my fear reaction. She looked down and pouted, then started to rub the insides of my thighs. “We forgot all about these, didn’t we?” Snap, snap, snap it went, up and down my thighs leaving angry red welts. She stood up and looked down at me…at my thighs…in my eyes…and retrieved the gag. She strapped it in place and told me that she wanted my chest. My eyes widened in abject fear at what might come next…this made her smile that evil grin again.

I had assumed that she would use scissors or a knife to remove the wrap, but no, she used her finger nails, slashing at me long after the wrap could easily be pulled off. She sat on my lap again, toying with the staples lightly. “So there are two ways we can do this–one is mean and hard and very painful, the other one makes the first look like cotton candy. I just wanted to ask one or two little questions.” She leaned close to me, pressing her body into me as she undid the gag, and purred, “You want to make me happy, don’t you?” “Of course I do.” “You know what I want you to say then, don’t you?” I shrank, my desire and fear fighting for dominance but either way there was only one answer I could give, whispering “the harder one, please.”


“The hard one, please.”

“Sell it–I don’t think you really want it. I don’t think you really want to make me happy. Convince me!”

Her gaze was as unyielding as it was unsympathetic as it was passionate.

I crumbled. The tears that emerged would be known for the breaking of a man if it weren’t for the words that came with them, pleading for the harder one, pleading for her to channel every untapped sadistic desire she held and show me how far it can go.”

She complied. Rather than simply pulling one half off with a single tug and then digging the other half out slowly and methodically, she had me sit forward. She used the slack this formed to pull the rope over my head. She produced another rope, using some to tie a ring at the base of my balls, just beneath the spiked harness and the rest to connect with the length of rope now suspended over the staples. I waited for what would come next, not knowing at all what it could be. She heard my anxiety and squatted next to the chair. “Oh, I’m not going to do anything more to you. You see, you’re going to want to straighten up at some point. It won’t be all at once–you’re welcome to try to do that, of course, but I can’t imagine you have the courage for that. You may get to the point that you accept what will happen to you and that inspires you, but at first you’ll just come up centimeter by centimeter and eventually this line,” she tugged at it for emphasis,” will start pulling on both ends. The staples will tear into you with every breath as the spikes in your cock ring cut a line up your junk.”

She left me to make herself a cocktail to enjoy while she waited for me to break.


If I were there I would have caught his tears in a champagne flute.

And drank them.

*bats eyelashes*


FemDomme Art courtesy of FemDom Artists and the incomparable PolyFetishist, who will always have a piece of my heart.


Chastity Brings Out the Best in a Man

Monday, April 22nd, 2013

Dear Miss Angela:

This cock you now own is stiff.  These balls now under your control are full. Erections are frequent, and leaking pre-cum is plentiful.

All I can think of is your beautiful voice and your sexy ways, but …

… if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Angela, why you undid me.

I have neither words nor measure, and I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength.

I have only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging.

To say to you that I shall die is true, but for lack of cumming, by the Lord, no. Yet I would cum for you.


He quotes a bit of Shakespeare.  His manners are impeccable.  He is obedient. He is focused on ME. He performs any assigned task with nary a complaint. He is, indeed, a very good boy.

Mistress Music

Thursday, April 11th, 2013

Just a few golden notes (from emails and conversations):

  • I’m in an impossibly dull and useless conference call–I had far more stimulation hooded, bound, and alone.  (after an “isolation” session)
  • It just makes me hotter to hear you giggle when I moan in discomfort. (denial & CBT … delicious)
  • The first time we spoke, it was love at first kink. (kink-a-dink-a-do, baby cakes)
  • Would you really make me masturbate in front of your girlfriends? (not ten of them … but perhaps a few)
  • You’re a Man Eater! (anybody have a toothpick?)
  • You’re the only woman I’d kneel for. (and he does it often)
  • Did you tell your girlfriends that you spoil me? Or that I am enthralled? (and he’s hasn’t cum in a month … oh my)
  • I am supposed to be working, but can only think about that leather outfit. (from my leather freak, of course)
  • Did I really eat my own cum for you? Disgusting! (but I bet he’ll be back for breakfast)
  • I am so nervous that I can’t call. (he did and now he’s mine)
  • You get wet when I wear panties for you.  Admit it.  (ahh … the eternally hopeful slut)
  • You aren’t just a sexy voice and sexy mind crafting sexy words, you are truly a wonderful person. (sweet boy)
  • Yes, I’ll use any pretense I can think of to reach out to you. (I own you *licking lips* yum)
  • I went to sleep with you on my mind, which is pretty much where you had been all day. (soon-to-be-knighted Romantic Savant)
  • I’m serious about meeting you. Name the place and time and I’ll be there (thanks, but no thanks)
  • I’m still trembling three hours later. (carry on, sweet pea)
  • How vile I am. (he makes my mouth water)
  • Cumming in a corner with my pants around me ankles? Damn, Girl! (don’t forget the lesbian action behind you)
  • That countdown was brutal. (❤❤❤)
  • I was fucking my girlfriend and all I could do was think about you and the things you made me do. (mission accomplished)

… and the beat goes on.  The beat goes on.

Tra la la.

xo, Angela

A Poem via Romantic Savant

Tuesday, April 2nd, 2013


Tom C. Hunley

You’re not sure whether or not to divorce your spouse,
so you go for a walk to think-think-think, because
you’re a thinker. A pair of bluebirds fly in unison, sing
in unison. They shoot straight up in unison and then,
as if in a wordless, songless agreement to disagree, one
arcs sharp right, the other veers left at a mirror angle,
and because you’re a Romanticist at heart, you decide
you have to break your marriage in half.
But you’re part Postmodernist, too, so you think
maybe the birds are being ironic, and you think
staying and leaving are really just two ways
of doing the same thing. And since you’re also
part Modernist, you pray, a throwback to your latent
Victorianism. You ask God what you should do, and
before He has a chance not to answer, you tell Him
you don’t believe in Him anymore, though at moments
like this, you wish to God you still did.

Tom C. Hunley


Three things.

First, I absolutely love this poem. It arrived in my email seconds ago and — already! — here I am posting it for you.  It is, after all, poetry month.

If you are someone who just doesn’t quite get the poetry thing, maybe this will help you wrap your pretty little head around it.  I mean, married or not married or previously married or not previously married … well it doesn’t really matter, does it now?

And is it really *just* a commentary on marriage?

You still get it, don’t you? You get it, you GROK! I know you do!  Because this says everything about the human adventure: our redundant foibles, our silly sweetness, our ironic dichotomies. And I would argue that this lovely poem also speaks to the markings of what I call “God’s Fingerprints” on even the most intellectual and scientific of us, whether we know it or not.  And yes … I do see these Fingerprints often.  And on whom you’d  least expect, or, in some cases, suspect. 🙂

Secondly: Yes! I’m adding Romantic Savant (who turned me on to Mr. Hunley and his beautiful poetry) to my Phone Sex Savant collection. It’s been a very long time since Zen Fetish has had a new Savant,  and to make room for him I needed to get into that damn display case to dust off and rearrange my tried and true most loyal Savants.  I’ve been a neglectful collector.  The dust was so thick in that display case, all of my Savants got a blow job and they didn’t even know it.

And he will be knighted sometime soon, when you will learn more about him. I expect the rest of you Phone Sex Savants to move over, make room and play nice.

And last but certainly not-in-the-least least … more about Mr. Hunley. His books are available here, and I’m particularly desiring this one. Who’s going to buy it for me (paperback, please)?

He is the Director of Steel Toe Books and also teaches poetry classes (*swoon*) at Western Kentucky University.

Life is good. So deliciously and delightfully good good good. And I am a happy happy happy girl.

xo, Angela