… or else.

I dunno.  I guess the problem is that when I don’t know you and you don’t know me and it is the first time we’ve spoken … 

… well, it’s creepy.  It’s smarmy-creepy when "Hey, baby" are the first words out of your mouth.  Did you even take the time to find out my name?  Check out my Free Phone Sex Stories or this Free Phone Sex blog?  Or scan my various Phone Sex listings at NiteFlirt such as Prick Tease or Literate Smut or Macho Sissy?  I’m absolutely certain that the answer is a big, fat resounding ENNN OHH. 

Because here’s what happened (and I’m always right about these things, so don’t even attempt a protest):  You found yourself  with your dick in your hand.  Your dick wanted a P U S S Y.  Not a woman, not Angela St. Lawrence or even a girl by any other name.  You just wanted a PUSSY. 

(Which begs the question:  Would a pussy by any other name still smell as sweet?) 

Regardless, we both know that you and your selfish prick could care less if you were talking to Angela, Mindy or Theresa.  You didn’t know my name, because you didn’t care who I was as long as I possessed a vagina.  In other words, in this particular instance (’cuz certainly you don’t operate this way in your everyday life; say it isn’t so, dear man), you were actually using "baby" as a pronoun.  

And not a pronoun as in "you."  I wasn’t me to you.  I was an it.  Calling me baby was the equivalent  to calling me IT.  So guess what?

Baby = It = Pussy = No Phone Sex for You from Me

Yanno … You really should be more of a savvy shopper when it comes to calling a Phone Sex Operator, because there are many men who are so talented at changing there voices that they actually take calls — usually from the stOOpid (that would be you) boys — in their girly-girl voices and collect your cash by the minute while you jerk.  Yes, they are  low-life posers too lazy or dumb to get a real job.  But guess who their target market is?  Y. O. U.  Because they know they can get away with it.  I have to admit that there’s a sweet poetic irony in that for me. 

And yes, you pissed me off and that is why I ever-so-abruptly hung up on you.  Call me cranky, call me a bitch, call me too demanding.  I don’t care.   FYI, you’ve also been permanently blocked so I never have to hear your slimy voice again.  

So to HDB, jellyfish, Pervert Savant, Mr. Smith, et al:  Okay, so I wasn’t on my best behavior today.  Not so charming, not so sweet, not so tolerant.  But, as you fellows and most of my readers and/or callers know, I’ve recently moved.  It’s been hectic and stressful and energy-depleting.  A girl can only take so much, dontcha know? 

And, really now …  is it so wrong to expect at least a sentient being on the other end of the phone when I pick up?   Should I or any girl be subjected to the guttural demands (because with that intro, you know they were coming) of loutish clochards operating on three brain cells at best?

Tell me I am wrong, and I’ll try to do better the next time.  Honest Injun. *fingers crossed*

In the meantime …

Well, men really can be damnably dumb at times.  From my sister:

Three mischievous old Grannies were sitting on a bench outside a nursing home when an Old Grandpa walked by. Grandma One yelled out, "We bet we can tell exactly how old you are."

The old man stopped and shook his finger at the Grandmas. "What are you? Crazy? There is no way you can guess my age, you old fools."

Grandma Two answered back, "We’re not crazy and we can prove it. Just drop your pants and under shorts and we will tell you your exact age."

Embarrassed just a little, but eager to prove the old women wrong, the Old Grandpa he dropped his drawers.  Grandma Three asked him to first turn around a couple of times and to jump up and down several times.   Determined to teach the old women a lesson, the old man threw common sense to the wind and began whirling and jumping as the old women screeched and howled until tears were running down their cheeks. 

"I don’t know what you old bats are laughing at," said the Old Grandpa, stopping to catch his breath, "you still don’t know how old I am."

Then all three Grandmas all piped up and said, "You’re 87 years old."

Standing with his pants down around his ankles, the old gent asked, "How in the world did you guess?"

Slapping their knees and grinning from ear to ear, the three old ladies called out in unison…

"We were at your birthday party yesterday!"

BTW … been super busy with this move.  Unpacking, shopping, decorating, etc.  I will be blogging and taking calls most days, now that things are starting to come together.  We’ve got some dirty stuff, some interesting news and a whole bunch of mischief waiting just around the corner.  So stick around, get comfortable, loosen your tie or drop your drawers or pop some popcorn.  Hopefully it will be a very bumpy ride.

with much affection, Angela

(photo credit: The Pirata)

The Mistress Poem

Chi Chi Valenti

What is your interest in female domination?
A leather-clad goddess whom I might worship and serve, ma’am.
Full leather is available, if certain terms are understood in advance
Yes mistress
You are not permitted to touch the mistress above the knee
Yes, mistress
The bare foot may or may not be offered
Yes mistress
The mistress does not disrobe at any time in the session
Of course, mistress
The mistress will never touch you there
Of course not, mistress
A tribute must be offered from a suitable kneeling position
Yes mistress
You will surrender all individual will from the time the session begins
Oh yes mistress
You will be branded irrevocably with her will and possibly marked for life
Yes mistress
You will spend hours and weekends desparate in Jersey shopping malls, dreaming of her graceful booted foot while you try to ignore your wife’s pastel sneakers
You honor me, mistress
You will search for her in Meat Market sex clubs, taunted by her cruel sorority sisters
Yes, mistress
You will appear early for your appointment and she will make you wait in her dressing room, listening to unspeakable cries and jealous of the slave "Can he take more than I?"
Oh, thank you mistress
You will phone her for reassurance, starved for her voice and she will be colder than January on East 23rd Street
Oh, yes, mistress
You will phone her again, desparate and broken, trembling long-distance and she won’t even take your call
Oh, yes mistress
Then you’ll phone someone else, somewhere else, and even show up but you’ll leave in ten minutes after paying for the hour cause the boots weren’t right and the room wasn’t right and her junkie perfume just wasn’t in there, not that night, anyway
Oh, yes, mistress
Then back in her good graces you’ll rob your own children to take her shopping at Joseph’s and Manic Panic
Oh yes mistress
And she’ll make you buy an expensive gift for your wife, fifty dollar Chanel soaps, three of them, as you gulp imagining presenting such extravagance to the Missus
Oh thank you, mistress
Then every time you see a Chanel ad you’ll begin to tremble again, a slave’s palsy, remembering her cruel laughter and how the sissy counter clerk seemed to be laughing with her too
Oh yes, mistress
Your mind so far gone at this point that you imagine him her houseboy and wonder if she’d like you more in drag
Do you think she would, mistress?
Your mind so far gone at this point that you fantasize cutting off your dick and having lesbian sex with her
If that is her wish, mistress
Your mind so far gone at this point that you who used to vomit at two queers holding hands are now getting buggered quite regularly
Oh yes, mistress
Your mind once so sure of priorities and deep, personal politics, now scheming only for money to see her more often
Your mind that once spoke fluent French and remembered stock prices
Your mind that breathlessly pushes the eighth floor button
Your mind that once longed to free Nelson Mandella
Now running to the slave boat, as eager for the leg-irons as for the mulatto mistress who wields them
Your mind that she has exquisitely altered
Your mind a ruined city, the streets overrun with wolves and she it’s mad emperor
Your mind that’s her chattel now
Enslaved at last, enslaved at last
Thank god almighty
Enslaved at last

_________________________________________________

A bio of Ms Valenti can be found HERE.

pssst.  secret code:  2TQJQCFB6MHR

Okay, I know for many of you, this just isn’t your particular Cup of Kink.  Then again, there are those of you who would think you’d died and gone to heaven if you found yourself alone with this leather-clad stud-bull in a room, a dungeon or even the bathroom of a low-brow bar on the wrong side of the tracks.  You’d just feel so dirty, wouldn’t you?

I found this pic over at BDM Romance where Richard, Zen’s own Submissive Savant, and  who’s kinda-sorta on the prowl, is sounding kind of frustrated.  I guess I should have warned him about Stupid Penis Sydrome.

And speaking of Richard, you really should read his Sissified Orgasm Denial Cuckolded Small Penis Humiliation Chastity meme, which includes what I do believe is a first, Autoerotic Penis Humiliation:  My penis is smaller than you’re penis!  It’s frickin’ hilarious.

_________________________

Phone Sex Quote of the Day:

(from Mr. M. — a very special guy who while enjoying a healthy round of FemDom PhoneSex, most certainly doesn’t like Erotic Humilation and Financial Domination)

If I wanted someone to call me a loser, take all my money and treat me like shit, I would still be married. 

xo, Angela

I never know what is going to tickle your fancy.  I write.  Sometimes I show you a dirty picture or hook you up with (what I think is) interesting linkage.  I rant and rave and even tell jokes or give you the inside dope on the Phone Sex business.  I observe.  I share my love for poetry … and I’m tickled pink that you seem to like it too or at least give it a fair shake before turning up your nose.  I guess you could say that  I get around and you happily hold tightly onto my skirt tails.  And off we go!

But today it’s just you and me, baby:  us or we, he and she.  Reiterating a bit here about the Phone Sex Fantasies and FemDom Adventures I create time and again … for you, me and those other guys.  How about I answer the oft-asked question:  Why all the mystery, Angela?  No face pics or selling pussy pictures and that kind of stuff?  For two reasons.  First, because I believe you’re smart enough to know better.  And secondly, because I don’t try to to cheat you with bought content, nor pretend to be either the oh-so-parochial "Lifestyle Domme" or the "Barely Legal Princess" who happens to have the Lauren Bacall voice.  I don’t have a zillion different personae so that I can cash in on every possible slant of kink.  I am me:  a real girl living my version of the American Dream.  All you really need to know (at least to start out with)  is that I’m not a paper doll, am as normal as you are in your daily life and am experienced enough to bring a sophisticated, informed and somewhat unique (some would say quirky) slant to this Phone Sex thing. 

Besides, I think a little bit of mystery happens to be a very good thing.  Don’t you?

My job — at least the way I see it — is to bring YOUR FANTASY (not your reality … you can get plenty of that by just opening your eyes every morning) to full fruition, at least for the the little bit of time we share together.  Ya know, I don’t always star in the Phone Sex Fantasies I create.   Sometimes I have a minor role and sometimes I just watch the kink unfold and give you the blow-by-blow.  It’s really on a call-by-call basis, with our chemistry creating the game plan. 

So let me tell you about this guy who called a few days back.  It was one of those calls that creep me out so much that I just want to unplug the phone, put on my PJs and watch Turner Classic Movies all day.  So this guy starts out by asking me what I like.  NOT A GOOD FIRST QUESTION!  What I like is not relevant.  Besides, I have enough of an Internet Presence that speaks very clearly to my particular bent.   When someone asks a PSO that question, it’s like he’s forcing her into a pop quiz of sorts, only he is the only one who knows the correct answer and if you are wrong …  HONK!  You lose.  On to the next girl.

So I try to explain that I like a lot of things, but what we come up with together is what will create the real spark.  He presses, I dance and use my wiley charms in an attempt to pursuade him against this line of questioning.  He still presses.  So I tell him a bit more about my experience of working a Phone Sex job throughout my college education and explain how much exposure that gave me to a wide variety of fetishes and kinks, and that I actually do surprise even myself even now with some new or different sexual scenario that will pop up out of the blue and catch my proletariat fancy for a day or week or even a few months until it’s replaced or put on the shelf to be pulled out again at a later date.

Well this guy just won’t give up.  His next question is:  What did you do for real while you were in college?

Now I’m starting to get that creepy-crawler feeling.  Here is a guy who’ve I just met via the telephone, we’ve spoken for less than five minutes, and he wants to jerk his dick to stories about what a slut I was in college?  Fuck that!  He’s a frickin’ parasite, pure and simple.  And while those of you who’ve gotten to know me over the course of a few calls do learn a bit about my personal experiences, this weenie head — who I’m beginning to detest intensely — doesn’t get that privilege.

But I’m a trooper, so I try one last time:  Listen, Mr. X, this call is not about me, it’s about you and what you’re into.

Finally, Dumbo is frustrated enough that he says:  I think I’m going to call somebody else.

And — you betcha — I am mighty pissed:  I think that is an excellent idea.

And I slammed the phone down.  Yes, I hung up on him, which is something I rarely do.  And you know what?  It felt good.  The only thing better would have been if I could have reached through the phone and put him into The Humbler.   Hmmm … just thinking about it makes me hot.  Maybe even add a nice bit of castration to the mix … that will teach him!

But enough of that.  What I really started out wanting to say is that the fact that you keep coming around, tickles me pink.  And the very fact that you are continuing to stay tuned, call and write means I am tickling your fancy.  Just the way I am — real girl, not paper doll — you get me, appreciate me and even like me.  And that’s my blessing. 

Thanks, guys!

xo, Angela