web hit counter

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 the 'Erotic Humiliation' Category

insect penis

Sunday, March 13th, 2016

Just look at it rutting around, the dirty little thing.

Apparently I’m a Supreme Princess

Sunday, February 7th, 2016

While I’ll never understand why a guy playing with his pecker whilst talking with me gets to then leave a review of my er, um, talent, he does.  Yes, you heard it, ladies and gents, an actual Phone Sex Review.  But then there are those times I’m just pleased as can be:

brat princess crown

“All hail to Miss Angela, the supreme Princess of NiteFlirt and superior Goddess to all men. We worship at her feet and bow to her every whim, for we are mere men. Miss Angela wields her power with grace, sophistication, sensuality and a knowing wit. We are her toys — to be controlled and used. We exist for Miss Angela’s entertainment. Aren’t we lucky?” ~Peter Roget

And all I can say to Mr. Roget is:  Kiss my ass, you filthy guttersnipe.

(because he likes it just that way)

xo, Angela

limp prick

Friday, December 11th, 2015


“The ultimate sexist put-down: the prick which lies down on the job. The ultimate weapon in the war between the sexes: the limp prick. The banner of the enemy’s encampment: the prick at half-mast. The symbol of the apocalypse: the atomic warhead prick which self-destructs. That was the basic inequity which could never be righted: not that the male had a wonderful added attraction called a penis, but that the female had a wonderful all-weather cunt. Neither storm nor sleet nor dark of night could faze it. It was always there, always ready. Quite terrifying, when you think about it. No wonder men hated women. No wonder they invented the myth of female inadequacy.”

Erica Jong
Fear of Flying

Do as you’re told, aberrant Romeo

Sunday, August 9th, 2015

In some respects I suspect you’ve got a respectable side.
When pushed and pulled and pressured, you seldom run and hide,
But it’s for someone else’s benefit, not for what you wanna do
Until I realize that you’ve realized I’m gonna say these words to you.

Yeah, you don’t know what love is,
You do as you’re told.
Just as a child of ten might act,
But you’re far too old.
You’re not hopeless, or helpless,
And I hate to sound cold,
But you don’t know what love is,
You just do as you’re told.

I can see your man can’t help but win any problems that may arise,
But in his mind, there can be no sin if you never criticize.
You just keep on, repeating all those empty “I love you”s.
Until you see you deserve better, I’m gonna lay right into you.

Yeah, you don’t know what love is,
You just do as you’re told.
Just as a child of ten might act,
But you’re far too old.
You’re not hopeless, or helpless,
And I hate to sound cold,
But you don’t know what love is,
No you don’t know what love is,
No you don’t know what love is,
You just do as you’re told.
Yeah, do as you’re told


Special thanks to Mr. S. who sent this to me. (After all, Mr. S., it is *our* story, isn’t it?)

The Cage

Thursday, July 24th, 2014

So Scunt ( AKA Debased Scunt, AKA Gentleman Slut) whom I kinda-sorta own, but not so much, since he’s quite the slut and pretty much any old Mistress will do when he’s itchy for some good old-fashioned persecution and mayhem, recently moved to a new place.

Recently single, Scunt found his version of the perfect bachelor pad:  close to work, lots of amenities, uber modern, a skylight. I’m certain he was thinking he could play on the vanilla side of life for a change, wowing the pretty girls with his slick new pad.

Nope.  Not a chance. Because a week after moving in, management installed storage bins in the basement.

And that changed everything.

Because those storage bins look — at least from Scunt’s perspective — very much like The Cage in which he longs to be held captive.

He begins obsessing, sending me multiple emails about The Cage, describing his twisted, craven fantasies. Oh he is in big-time heat.  The storage bins are taunting him, calling him. He walks past them every day; thoughts of the torture, the agony, the isolation, the craven abuse and neglect he would suffer if he were captured and held in the The Cage.

Then I open an email from Scunt with one sentence:

I decided to imagine that you had ordered me to get the hell over myself and into the cage where I belong.

And an attachment …

caged slave


Be still my ‘lil Femme Domme heart!

That Scunt simply could no longer resist the belligerent mocking of the dastardly Storage Bins just about knocked me into Domme Space.   So with Scunt’s permission and a little bit of creative editing to keep him safe, here you have it: the reality of what Scunt is and what Scunt will always be.

So, mon sale petit cochon dégénéré, it seems the fancy place with the pretty windows and hardwood floors isn’t going to change a thing.  After all is said and done, you just can’t run from The Cage.  You can’t deny your pusillanimous heart’s traitorous desires.

Bachelorhood for you does NOT come with redemption.  You can move to heaven’s highest cloud and salvation will still elude you.

You are not The Continental.  The shampanya will not be flowing.  The party is over.

So get on your knees, kiss my ass, and crawl back into The Cage.

xo, Angela