….you might as well drop your panties and spread your legs. Because, sooner or later, he is going to have his way with you

Last night, after a busy day of “much ado about nothing,” I was wired-tired. You’ve been there, right? Feeling all day like your left foot was nailed to the floor as your right one kept running you around in endless circles? Yeah, one of those days. So I was really ready to call it quits. Fresh from a hot bath I was looking forward to calling it a night and had been about the business of doing just that when my muse showed up.

"Not tonight, dear," I told him. "I have a headache."

But he was having none of it. Hopping up onto my shoulder, he pulled out his teeny-tiny muse-monkey and began spanking it. Not this time, I thought to myself, determined to ignore his lewd, rhythmic keystrokes—right there, beside my ear.

"You know you want it, Angela," he whispered.

“No. No I don’t, Muse. Please go away.”

I looked longingly at the just-poured glass of merlot sitting on the kitchen counter top only a few steps away. I imagined the beautifully-bound anniversary edition of To Kill a Mockingbird awaiting me just down the hall—perched atop the pillows I’d just fluffed. I thought of the bedside lamp, its amber nimbus waiting to surround me in the sweetest of solitudes as I sank into my pillow to sip my wine and read a page or two of Harper Lee’s masterpiece before drifting off to higher ground.

“Go to your keyboard, Angela.”

Muse’s voice had taken on that sexy growl, the seductive tenor that always makes my little slut-digits quiver. I whimpered. He chuckled—that familiar sleazy snarl of a chuckle. Oh, how I hate you, you insatiable bastard. As if he could read my thoughts, Muse grunted, spit a gob of ink on his little quill and stroked faster. We both watched the jetty fluid oozing from between his pumping fingers, smearing across his knuckles.

I was getting hot—hot to trot right over to my keyboard and writhe, I mean write. The raunchy little raconteur inside me began to tremble. I wanted Muse’s hot jizz to conjugate and punctuate and catenate me. And his grizzled sneer told me Muse knew it.

“Nouns, adverbs, adjectives.”

“Muse, please stop. You know that sentence is incomplete.”

“Then fix it, Angela. You know you can’t resist.” His breath, smelling of parchment and indigo, blew across my fevered face. “Get your panties off and get your horny fingers over to that fucking computer and diddle with that fragment.”

“But…”

“I know, baby. I’ll make it good. Remember the old days? When we did it on everything? Index cards, notebooks, legal pads, steno pads and even napkins. Remember how you liked being bent over that Underwood you found at the yard sale?”

“Okay, Muse. Damn it, you’re right. Do me. Bend me like a bitch over that keyboard and make me your whore. Shove that fragment in front of my face and have your way with me. Use me like the pencil-pushing slut (virgule) strumpet (virgule) tramp (virgule) harlot that I am.”

“I knew you’d give it up,” Muse sniggered as he positioned me in front of the computer. “Now, you filthy little ink-slinging Pandora, listen to this.”

Hunched over the keyboard I opened wide as he started pumping it into me: “Participles, linking verbs, superlative adjectives… You want more?”

“Give it to me, Muse. Give it to me fast and hard and dirty.”

“Grammar, punctuation, conjunctions, interjections, gerunds…”

“Oh, yes! That’s it. Do me. Pound it in to me.”

“Factitive verbs, predicate nominatives, indefinite pronouns, past participles, appositive phrases …”

Muse had me where he wanted me. He knew the dirty truth about the both of us: That I am his whore and he is my whoremonger. It’s been that way since I first picked up a pen. And so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Until his profane solicitations became the rhythmic movement of my sticky little fingers across the keyboard and once again, as he always does, the Muse had his way with me.

***

I wrote this piece for my semi-regular column at Sex Kitten.  As I noted a while back, it stirred up some positive attention, which made this little FemDom PhoneSex Wanna Be Writer Girl mighty happy.  But I suspect some of you have had neither the opportunity nor inclination to track it down.   Personally, it’s a fav of mine and so I thought I’d put it out there today for you stragglers.  Not to mention if frees up the time I would have spent writing a blog entry today for somewhat nastier pursuits.

I hope you like it. 

xo, Angela

Dear Friend:  we
   Are operating at capacity
and cannot
   supply a green and grassy spot
for your tomb,
   as there is no more room. 

Instead, you are invited to entrust
   your dust
To our space-age morticians, who seal
   in stainless steel
(thanks to post-Newtonian science)
   our clients. 

Whereupon you
   (and all your shiny loved ones, too)
shall ascend
   via chartered rocketship, to spend
eternity
   very near where Heaven used to be.

***

Ms. Taylor’s website.

You Can Keep Good Man Down

At least sometimes.

While we will be getting to Romantic Humiliation presently, let’s start here: If you’re not familiar with Erotic Humiliation as a subdivision of Female Domination, well you just might be missing something. Remember the Golden Rule of Kink: He who fucks with glass condoms shouldn’t throw stones. (Don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it. Or even if you have.)

Before you get yourself worked into some superior kink-tizzy, let me tell you something: I did not come to Erotic Humiliation easily nor with any willingness to even learn about it. Even lil’ me has been rejected by a lover or two and I just couldn’t get my head or heart around inflicting (what I perceived as) emotional pain upon another human being. This was not domination to my then way of thinking–this was some warped version of meritless and pointless abuse; a bizarre, convoluted circumstance of reverse misogyny.

But a most interesting thing began happening with my gentlemen submissives. Their fantasies were evolving. For while they still craved and appreciated my tried and true verbal counsel to take my strap-on up their asses, worship my cunt, suck large cocks, wear my panties, submit to cuckolding, and so much more, they now wanted me to escalate the rush with name calling, sneering, spitting and even public embarrassment. They wanted to HEAR their domination and many times even yearned for others to witness it.

And guess what? Once I tried it, I was hooked. I fell in love with the entire game of it. After all I am and always have been since I was knee high to a grasshopper, first and foremost, a woman of words. So I jumped right into the filthy world of FemDom Mud Slinging, where the Goddess, interestingly enough, always stays spotless. Since then, I’ve been–with that specialized group of callers–dishing out verbal venom in spades and even clubs, hearts and diamonds.

In fact, I’ve been so enthusiastic and defensive in regard to these particular fantasies that I was tapped by Gracie Passette to write about them (Erotic Humiliation is not an Oxymoron) for Sex Kitten Presents the BDSM Issue. (Mention this article the next time we talk –Month of May, 2007 ONLY, 15 MINUTE MINIMUM– and I will send you a complimentary copy. Or just bite the bullet and buy the book already. Geeze!)

So everything was fine. I was hissing and insulting and smirking and mocking and ridiculing and dragging all their (small, always small) dicks through the mud when a new species of humiliation junkies began emerging from the primordial swill. Evolution, once again, dontcha know?

First a smattering: one here or there, then two, then three, four…Then more: Showing up on the doorstep of my virtual dungeon with their submissive tails between their legs, BUT with their hearts on their sleeves, stars in their eyes and bearing chocolates, flower bouquets, diamond rings and even wedding bands. They wanted to be loved and adored and treasured and cherished by–and many times even married to–the very same girl who was going to kick their psychological asses.

And who better for the task? Giggle.

Make no mistake about it: Erotic Humiliation and Romantic Humiliation are not one and the same. Erotic humiliation is edgier, crueler and inflicted in a cold, even haughty, manner. The Mistress or Princess or Goddess usually exhibits very little emotional connection to her victim. If she does reveal any affection, it is more along the lines of what someone would show toward a favorite pet. This occurs more often with the Princess type of Erotic Humiliation fantasies, which is perfectly understandable if you consider the obvious dynamics involved when an oft-times older man is obeisant to a young and usually immature but charmingly bratty Princess.

With Romantic Humiliation there is commonly a deep love and respect shared by the Dominant and Submissive. The wife or girlfriend values and even cherishes her loved one’s intelligence, sense of humor, devotion and other redeeming, even desired, qualities. Unfortunately, despite their emotional commitment to each other, the man just cannot deliver the goods when it comes to the sexual part of their relationship.

And being his best buddy and soul mate, this woman has no choice but to continually, yet very gently and lovingly, remind him of his inadequacy. Otherwise he might forget or pretend differently, which could cause him all sorts of problems. And, after all, honesty is the best policy–particularly between two people who love each other. Right?

Ahem.

Some examples? Sure, why not?

• Darling Frank. Please Honey. Don’t try to rub that flaccid thing on me. You know you can’t sustain an erection for any length of time and you’ll just end up frustrated. And I hate seeing you like that.. Why don’t you put it away for now?
• Now what are you doing? Looking at pornography again? Baby, what do you plan on doing with that little hard-on? There is no possible way you can satisfy me or any woman with your little wee wee. We’ve discussed it time an again, Aaron. Why look at those huge cocks servicing all those beautiful girls? It will just upset you. Now come over to the chair and I’ll let you rub it on my foot for a little bit. That will make you feel better.
• Carl, darling. Come sit by me; I have something to talk to you about. This isn’t going to be easy, Angel, and I want you to know that I say it because I love you with all of my heart. Remember when the pool boy was here the other day? And he had on those tight spandex shorts? You were watching him through the window and all of a sudden you got an erection. And I have to say, my love, that it was stiffer than any erection you’ve ever had when you were fucking me. You do know that, don’t you? You wanted to suck his cock, didn’t you?
• Oh, Joseph, do you need to ejaculate again? How can those little peanuts of yours fill up so fast? I guess because they’re so tiny. When I think about Tyson and how full and hard those big black balls get right before he pumps his load into me… Well, there simply is no comparison. Go get your cum cup and I’ll jerk you off into it. Okay? Would you like that, sweetie? Then we can go out to dinner and a movie.
• Honey, you can hump me through my panties, but hurry up. You know that Sarah and I are going shopping for shoes. It’s so cute when you squirt your little goo goo on them. While you are doing that, I am going to call Sarah. You just go right ahead. Hello, Sarah? Of course you can come over now. Robert was just, well, you know! I’ll hurry him up. It never takes him long anyway. Just a little squirt and he’s done.

So, do you kinda-sorta get the picture?

If you’re an intrigued female just dying to give this a whirl, I would advise that you don’t try this at home, unless your lover/husband/boyfriend has been forewarned–because while it can be extremely hot, all parties need to know the game rules. And guess what? I do believe there is a very real chance that said loved one might actually surprise you with his enthusiasm.

And if you’re a guy reading this who’s suddenly found the room sweltering and you had to loosen your collar? Silly Wabbit, what are you waiting for? Give me a call, why dontcha?

xo, Angela

Although today’s entry does not refer to kinky, weird sex–it sure looks that way, doesn’t it? So a few words before I move onto what this is really about:

Whether or not it’s your particular cup of T (as in Taboo), some men (perhaps women–they’re not my client demographic so I wouldn’t know), incorporate a surprising variety of animals into their sexual fantasies. It’s not about the beast, mind you. It’s about the dirtiness of it all.

So that in fantasy…they can push themselves beyond the edge of filthiness and straight into deviant perversion, having an exquisitely intense orgasm. In real life…the same idea is usually beyond repugnant to them. Thank goodness. More often than not, they will be the first to report an instance of animal neglect, cruelty or abuse.

While some fantasies may be outside of my comfort zone, I do respect and support a person’s right to fantasize about any thing they damn well please. If they are smart enough to keep fantasy separate from reality–and most are–then, by all means, have at it.

So now you know. Probably more than you wanted to know. Let’s move on.

***

What I really wanted to bring up: Planet Earth (And, yes, that is a link so be sure to click it.) If you haven’t caught up with this series yet, you really are missing out. Personally speaking, I am seriously hooked. Airing on The Discovery Channel and narrated by Sigourney Weaver, this eleven part, environmentally reverent documentary is living up to the preliminary buzz, proving to really be as mesmerizing as it is educational.

Due to advancements in technology (including satellite photography and high definition production) and the producers’ commitment to quality (”more than five years in the making”) viewers are privy to natural wonders rarely or never before seen. Have you ever seen a snow leopard stalking his prey through the dangerous crags and steep slopes of the Himalayas? Did you know that a cross between a donkey and a zebra is correctly referred to as either a zonkey or a zebrass?

There is so much to see and learn from watching this series that I cannot possibly do it justice within the scope of this blog. From an underwater glimpse of swimming elephants to a peek at male birds of paradise strutting their stuff to attract a female (some things never change, eh?), everything is vividly spectacular, beautiful and overwhelming.

If you can’t catch the series or even if you can–new episodes air Sunday nights with repeats during the week–you can order the DVD set which includes a bonus installment, The Future.

Prepare to be amazed. And moved to save our beloved and threatened planet…before it is too late.

xo, Angela

….is what we are doing today.

***

What I’ve been thinking in the aftermath of the Election Day Massacre, the booting of Rummy and Haggard’s outing is that, although I’ve been thinking bunches, so has everybody else and they’ve been blogging like crazy about it. So I will refrain from opining here about all of that.

Except to say the sleaziness of it all is quite disgusting (what Molly Ivans calls “a race to the bottom“), and it’s about time both parties got over themselves to –instead of having to win at all costs– meet somewhere in the middle. Middle is good, don’t ya know? I kinda-sorta think it is what the original plan was, don’t you?

***

“Meeting in the Middle” is something I’ve been thinking about a lot recently in regards to Adult bloggers, webmasters and webmistresses, a group which would include myself. In case you don’t know what’s going on, what started out as a sincere attempt to protect children who might be victims of sexual exploitation/abuse has been twisted into an all out “War on Pornography.” And it’s not pretty.

But the basic premise, that children need protection, is a good thing. I am just wishing that the Anti-Porno Warriors and Adult Providers would each stop trying to win and would rather sit down and negotiate some sort of middle ground. That’s all. Is it asking too much?

***

Coming soon: Vanilla Savant will be joining my Savant collection.

***

Have you been keeping up with Mistress V? Besides being gorgeous, dominant and sexy, Mistress V is right-on, take-no-prisoners smart. Reading her blog is always an adventure. As when recently she so astutely commented on a certain not-so-angelical Evangelist. And then there is her “sweevilicious” take on Carmamel Apple Wraps. No wonder she has so many daily readers. Simply superior in every way.

***

I got to discussing Christopher Walken with a caller and he agreed with me that Mr. Walken is frickin’ awesome (and he is: don’t argue with me/us). Mentioned was the New York Times article (which neither of us can find now) noting that even though most of Walken’s films are less than stellar, he is beloved by most of the movie-going public.

And, of course, there is Mr. Walken’s turn as video star for Fat Boy Slim’s Weapon of Choice, which won six MTV Awards and “best video of all time.” And who can not love the his ongoing SNL stint as The Continental?

Anyway, said caller has changed his NF member name to The Continental, which just tickles me to no end.

Champagn-ia, anyone?

xo, Angela

Today we finish up Richard’s piece which he’s so generously shared with Zen Fetish.

If you haven’t done so already, be sure to read Part I and Part II before continuing. It’s been interesting reading commentary/reaction to the first two parts, which seems to reflect a bit of confusion regarding Richard’s purpose in writing this bit of “specualtive D/s Fiction.”

But it really isn’t that complicated. As Richard explains (click link to read more): “I wrote it many years ago to give dominant women that I met online a picture of my perception of Femdom relationships.” Anyway, let’s see how this “Imaginary Femdom Encounter” turns out:

Fantasy Mistress: Part III

As I went up the walkway I wondered how she’d test me today. And what the tests proved. And when they’d end. We actually exchanged a fair amount of email before she’d agreed to see me. We shared complimentary appetites: she like to do to men what I wanted done to me (or at least I thought: since I’d never done any of it I didn’t really know).

The door opened for the third time.

“Go to the back yard and wait for me.”

As I did so I wondered if she was going to have me mow or lawn. The fear of something like that dampened my enthusiasm but I couldn’t bring myself to stop now.

She walked out. Dressed in a pullover top, cut-off jeans, and cheap rubber sandals, “flip flops” my mother used to call them. She’d always been dressed casually before but I’d been too hyped up to really notice the actual clothes.

She went over to a pick-nick table made of greenish wood.

“Sit here. Put your right hand’s palm down on the table.”

As I complied I noticed a wooden ruler in her hand.

“You are to keep your hand flat. I’m going to give you ten strokes. If that is too much for you leave and don’t come back.”

I barely had time to steel myself before the first slap hit. But it wasn’t that bad. At first. By the fifth stroke it really stung. My fingers felt like I might not be doing much with them tomorrow but it was almost over. I thought. An eleventh stroke hit me. A twelfth. With the thirteenth she turned the ruler so the edge cut into my fingers.

I yanked my hand away.

When I realized what I’d done I wanted to cry. I’d failed and would have to leave. But when I looked at her she looked pretty pleased.

“Don’t worry, you weren’t supposed to be able to take the last one. Once you got past the first ten you’d passed the test. The others were to teach you that no matter what I say I’m going to do I can still do whatever I want.”

“You have one last test. Come with me.” Shortly we were back in the room whose corner I’d knelt in. This time there was a big wicker plantation style chain in the center. She sat in it.

“Come here, may kneel in front of me. Remember you still aren’t to speak.”

So excited I was trembling I did.

“You have no idea how many men want to be where you are now. But they don’t really want it badly enough. They don’t really want to serve.

“The first day you proved you were willing to work for you place in my service. Yesterday you showed enough determination to withstand boredom which was a much harder test. Today you had your first taste of pain. I like hurting men. If you hadn’t been able to take it you wouldn’t be suitable for me. This is your last test.

“You won’t think it hard when I tell you but it will take all of your willingness work work and to keep on even if you get bored or tired.

“I am very, very slow to orgasm. Your last test is to satisfy me with your tongue. You probably think this is a big treat.” She was right about that.

“But it will take longer than you think. If you manage it we’ll do all the things we wrote to each other about. Otherwise, you won’t have made the grade.”

Standing up she pulled off her top and dropped her shorts. She sat back down. Gesturing at her cunt she said “Get to work, slave.”

She was right. It was long. It was wonderful at first. Then it took all my determination to keep going. At the end it was wonderful again. And then I was hers.

***

What this story says to me more than anything is that Richard is most definitely not a wannabe sub. He is the REAL DEAL. And it also tells me that he is truly deserving of the title, Submissive Savant.

In the very near future I will be featuring another “fantasy” penned by Richard. A bit different than this one. Quite intriguing and of interest to more than a few of my callers and readers.

xo, Angela

A sure sign that a caller proclaiming to be “submissive” is really just a wannabe is when he tries to “top from the bottom.” If you’re not familiar with this phrase, Wikipedia says:

Topping from the bottom is a BDSM term, meaning a person who wants to be dominated but simultaneously direct the top to do it according to their wishes.

This happens a lot. Particularly with Long Distance Domination. Of which I happen to do quite a bit. I like it. In fact, I like it a lot. At least most of the time. But there are those times when I just want to strangle the caller because he is really just a wannabe.

The wannabes haven’t had any, or at least very little real life experience. Which means that they’ve most likely spent years dreaming up the ideal scenario. Richard in commenting on a Sex Kitten discussion calls this the “Fantasy Ferris Wheel.” An apt term; I think I’ll keep it. Because look what else Wikipedia has to say:

Topping from the bottom is usually considered poor practice [emphasis mine] amongst lifestyle BDSM devotees, although fairly common amongst the “BDSM curious” or newcomers who have had submissive sexual fantasies for some time but lacked real experience of a sexual dominant.

On certain days –and this was one of them– I do believe that I have had it up to my pretty brown eyes with wannabes. Because when a guy calls with all these preconceived ideas of what is the “perfect D/s and/or BDSM experience, he is usually going to try my patience. Because his “tunnel vision” is firmly in place and is strung so tight around his balls that there’s no communication. He is a wannabe-sub-robot.

Now, as an Erotic Conversationalist, I am a good listener. I know this, because my callers keep calling back. I think it’s safe to assume that this translates into “Angela gives good phone.” I really want the guy on the other end of the phone to have a superior experience. And not just him, but me too. Because I like what I do–when I am permitted the opportunity to do it well.

But if my caller is set on wannabe-sub-robot autopilot (monotone: Mistress must make me say that I am her kinky-boy ass kisser every other sentence. Mistress must wear red stilletos. Mistress must smoke marlboro lights. Mistress must stick her right heel –not her left one– up my ass.), I am just not going to get anywhere with him. This is the Distance Domination form of topping from the bottom.

And he is going to be disappointed. And you know what? I’m glad the little jerky-boy is. It’s what he deserves for waisting both his and my time. Both of us have better things to do.

Otherwise, things are fine. How about you?

xo, Angela

I kinda-sorta market myself as a Fetish Goddess/Fem Domme Fatale or something of the sort. Yet — as you would see if you could read my email and/or listen in on some of my calls — some find me and my “thing” rather confusing. (What exactly is this “literate smut” thing all about? What do you mean by “erotic torture?” Just what do you consider sexual misadventure?)

But my vision, from this side of the telphone –who I am, what I do, how I do it– seems quite clear, even decidely translucent. It is the divine craft of creation which underlies each and every fantasy I weave. A supervisor once explained to the company for which we both worked that, “When Angela does a call, by the time she is done the caller is going to know what the carpet smells like.”

Which is indeed what I am always striving for. I mean, why even make the effort otherwise? To my way of thinking, anything else would be the equivalent of clock-watching in an everyday nine-to-five job. See what I mean? I just don’t do mediocre. I don’t want it from the people I spend my money with, so why would I try to pass it off on my callers?

Thus it follows (and I’ve been told–many, many times) that my fantasies (of total sublimation, tease and denial, sissification, naughty secretary, cold-hearted governess, forced cock-sucking, cuckolding, etc.) are as close to “the real deal” as it gets.

And, in fact, I do periodically run across the caller who cannot separate the fantasy from the reality, the story teller from business woman/girl next door. It can be as hard on me as it is on them.

Because — while they are hopelessly yearning in their real-time/everyday lives to be banished forever to a cage of my making or lick my ass in the middle of Times Square or lose their masculinity to the sure and evil slice of my antique scimitar — I do sincerely care about the people I do business with. I want them to have fun, be taken on the roller coaster ride of their lives. I want them live out their dirtiest, filthiest fantasies to the nth degree.

BUT, I want them to walk away from the call feeling good about themselves. How I try to explain it clients is this way: You should feel dirty when you are doing a phonesex call. That is the point of it. But, if you walk away from that call still feeling dirty, then something is wrong. This is not healthy phone sex. Not healthy fantasy. Another way I try to get this is across is (at least most of the time): DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME.

So fantasy and reality, with all the grey areas in-between and around all the prickly edges, are always finely delineated matters. And I am always squinting my eyes, looking for that ever-illusive and always-changing doodle that keeps the boundaries clear.

Because it’s my job to do that. Particularly when the caller can’t.

***

And…

• Look what I’ve been up to. (This is just a hub site to which I can redirect the email from my other sites.)
• I have an ad at Fleshbot this week (10/18 thru 10/24), thanks to a very special person (soon to be added to my Savant Collection).
• I’ve become a semi-official editor at Tit-Elation.
• I’ve been promoted to moderator at Sex Kitten.

“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.”

…those bad, bad, bad little boys!

I added this quote to Zen Quotes, because I love it:

Be nice to a man and he’s as good as gone. Cater to him, run after him, spill a few tears over him at the breakfast table, call him “Dearie” and you’ll have him falling into the arms of the first vamp who throws him a red rose and a cruel word now and then, when she thinks of it. –Nita Naldi

You can read more about this fem fatale here. Simply fascinating stuff.

and…..

• Did you know I have a Yahoo 360 Page? Give me a holler.
• I am really liking this Slip of a Girl more and more. If you like lingerie you really should be reading her blog daily. She’s deleriously industrious–posting two, three, even four times a day. Lotsa fun! In fact, I’m adding her to my links.
• Which, by the way, is where I found The History of Stockings.
• Been slacking on the calls, but everyday BS (as it has a tendency to do) and a female-thing (now abating) kinda-sorta took me a bit off track. Plus someone hurt my feelings..the dirty rat bastid! Where’s a slave when you need your wounds licked? Look for me tonight….I will try to be there. And I did say try.
• I read the most beautiful poem last week.
• From the “I Should Have Been Born Blonde” true tales of Angela St. Lawrence: I recently bet a caller $5.00 in regards to something or other. Well, I won. So I tell him, You are gonna pay up, too: I will make you call me @ one cent/minute and talk for fifty minutes. I couldn’t understand why he was laughing so hard. Hmmmm….
• I am crowning a new “savant” today: Supervert as “Deviant Savant;” so now I have two. You will find them under Zen-semble by the end of the day.
• Make that three savants. I just collected another one. Because I’ve just crowned Richard, to be know as “Submissive Savant.” Hey, do you even know how to spell the word concatenation…let alone use it in a sentence? I sure don’t.
• Three pieces of mine have been published at Tit-Elation, which I happen to think is tits and champagne when it comes to written erotica. So I’m a happy girl.
• And I was told by someone very special that I should let you know right up front: Women are naturally superior to men. So there.