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  ...

CLICK HERE.

Archive for the 'Phone Sex Rant' Category

Call now means CALL NOW, Asshole.

Saturday, November 26th, 2016

Email:

hello [sic] Miss Lawrence [sic]

are [sic] you able to Domme [sic] me on skype today (watching/giving orders)?

My Response:

Why the fuck do you think my “Call Now” button was on?

Now I am going to block you, because I don’t particularly want to dominate an idiot.

And by the way, it’s Miss St. Lawrence. Your carelessness makes you twice the idiot.

Also, your bad grammar makes you a lazy, careless, twice idiot.

Not to mention disrespectful, since I’d given you the benefit of the doubt the last time you pulled this shit and sent you 5 FREE minutes for your next attempt (today) and you squandered it by being a total dipshit.

Ms. Angela

PS. B L O C K E D

Happy Birthday, Mr. Shakespeare

Wednesday, April 23rd, 2014

… and thank you for telling it like it is:

Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back.
Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind
For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.

(KING LEAR)

shakespearebd

xo, Angela

(with a special shout-out to my beloved Avon Bard)

More at Zen Fetish:  Shakespeare:  Pussy-whipped and Cuckolded

Don’t Piss Me Off

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

Doing the Phone FemDom thing, when you screw with me, I will cut you to the bone.  I will make fun of your flaccid, useless penis, kick you in the balls, tell all your friends about your weird fetish for snot balloons, take a strap-on to your quivering ass, or maybe even coerce you into admitting your penchant for Man Sperm despite your trophy wife, two-car garage and white picket fence.

I will right-in-your-face cheat on your loser ass while you kneel helplessly at the side of the bed, The Humbler firmly in place, a constant reminder of your diminished status.  I will feed you your own load, clip you,  clamp you, tie you, beat you, denigrate you, punish you, hurt your, defile you, embarrass you …

… well, you get the picture.

But I’m not always in FemDom mode; and I certainly don’t EVER believe that creating Female Domination FANTASIES gives me or anyone else the right to be rude, catty, and/or downright stupid.  Integrity matters ALWAYS.  And some gals just don’t have it.   And so there’s this, which I wrote a while ago to a certain person who knows exactly who she is and what she did.

it sucks to be you

you’re a fucked up fraulein:
a plain-jane low-rent coward
bending over for cake crumbs
whispering and pointing and snarling
it sucks to be you

you’re a flimflam malingerer:
a hardscrabble box-of-bitch
kissing ass for nickles
sniffing and scratching and digging
it sucks to be you

you’re a wannabe who never was:
weightless and incidental
polishing apples for illegal tender
creeping and bowing and scraping
it sucks to be you

you’re a prayer-less maobite:
always outside looking in
falling all over your sorry self
crawling and grasping and whining
it sucks to be you

you’re a masticating pit bull:
ugly as sin and three times stupid
humping for your kibble and bits
snarling and chawing and slobbering
it sucks to be you

you’re an emaciated vampiress:
starving on the rancid bloat of envy
selling your abscessed flesh for scraps
mewling and whimpering and cringing
it sucks to be you

you’re a cheap trick in a shabby dress:
a bumbling beatitude of bad taste
licking boots for pennies on the dollar
fawning and kowtowing and abjuring
it sucks to be you

you’re a mercenary seductress:
salad-tossing your exiguous integrity
spreading your legs for niggardly churls
anguishing and bewailing and deprecating
it sucks to be you

you’re a counterfeit salome:
crossing your fingers behind your heart
putting out for the price of a song
sneaking and rooking and shafting
it sucks to be you

you’re the monkey on your own back:
the motherfucker of bad intention
fucking and sucking for peanuts
again and again and again
it sucks to be you

you’re a vagabond floozy:
a facsimile behind dime store lipstick
on your knees with your squalid mouth
swallowing and swallowing and swallowing
it sucks to be you

you’re a sideshow roustabout:
a blow-up doll for the midway rubes
flexing and opening at the drop of a hat
shifting and crooking and undulating
it sucks to be you

you’re a pink-collared hireling
nothing more and much more less
faking bastard orgasms on the bum
feigning and spoofing and dissembling
it sucks to be you

you’re an off-the-shelf goddess:
an unkempt tragedy of vassal-hood
giving it up for swill and slop
ravening and itching and craving
it sucks to be you

but most of all
you are what you aren’t:
and you will never be me

♥————–♥

Oh yeah, I was fuming.  And thanks to Mr. Boston for reminding me of this poem and wanting to know all the juicy behind-the-scenes gossip.   Not that he got any.  Gossip, that is.  Integrity counts, Mr. Boston!  Even if you are kneeling in front of me masturbating while I’m showing you video of your girlfriend with the CFO of your company.  *wink*

Martyr for Phone Sex

Wednesday, August 24th, 2011

Oh the Slings & Arrows …… of a mother effin Bitch Boy.

If you’re the sort who appreciates a bit of alliteration, we could call this particular rant post “The Incredible Case of the Curiously Obtuse Cretin.”  If we’re talking in soundbites, then our title might well be  “When Good Phone Sex Goes Wrong.”  Either way, in the instance of  FemDom Phone Sex, if something goes wrong, the caller is by default fully & inexcusably culpable.  Even though I did know better.

I knew better than he did — I did, I did, I did — that there was absolutely no way in hell a conversation betwixt the two of us could provide the “happy ending” he was seeking — the Utopian Sexual Nirvana he was hunting down like the Holy Grail, The Lost City of Atlantis, the mother-fucking Golden Fleece, Shangri-La, The Arc of the Covenant.   He was Ponce de León, looking for the goddamn Fountain of Youth (who thought, BTW, it would cure his impotence … oh the irony).  Looking for a long, long time … call after call, girl after girl. I know this, because he told me so.  And because I happen to have Super Powers.

I tried to tell him; really, really I did. Because I did know better than he did.  My spank-dar, which is hardly ever wrong, was screeching Danger, Will Robinson, um, I mean Ms. Angela. Danger.  (I said “hardly ever” not “never ever” wrong.  There’s going to be some problems when you buy your parts from a 20th Century Fox back lot fire sale.)

And it is, after all, right there in the sidebar (Quick Start Guidelines) on page 4 of  “The Phone Sex Operator’s Official Handbook” that I am going to write by the end of the year might get around to writing someday: #17. NEVER trust the words of a man with an erect penis in his fist.   His palms are sweaty and he can’t help but be one oily son-of-a-bitch.

Unfortunately, against all my better instincts and despite the creep creep creep of my trusty smarm-o-meter, I swallowed his bullshit, smooth lies and bracing promises, finally agreeing to do a Fantasy Phone Sex call with him.  Of course it didn’t work out and Mr. Smarm has nobody to blame but himself.  I told him the truth and he insisted on telling me different.

So let’s start with the email I received post-call.  In fact, so post-call that it was TWO WEEKS after our Role Play Fantasy via the phone when I finally heard from Mr. Smarm.  Don’t worry; by the end this will all make sense.  Of course, I could be wrong, and I’m sure if you had the chance to ask Mr. Smarm, he’d be the first to tell you so.  But this is MY blog and we’re not asking Mr. Smarm a damn thing.

Mr. Smarm’s email to me:

Hey Angela:

Thought I’d take the time to comment on our last conversation…

Well, I would be lying if I said that I was satisfied. It seemed that I caught you at a bad time and you really weren’t focused on our session. Also, I think that you [were] somewhat intimidated by me, and I really wish that wasn’t the case. I mean, I think that you felt like you had [to] think up something “extravagant” for me, but believe me – you don’t have to.

I wouldn’t mind giving it one more try, but I would like to catch you in a more relaxed/focused mood, so you can do your best work (and I know that you have an excellent imagination).

Mr. Smarm

So I guess the question is …

…  does Mr. Smarm deserve a response?  My usual policy when dealing with numbskulls is very simple:  Don’t.

The thing is that despite the fact that two weeks had passed, despite the abrupt end to the call, despite the absence of a gentlemanly follow up email, I was actually glad to see Mr. Smarm’s (TWO WEEKS LATE) email.  Because even the day of “the call” I’d given him the benefit of the doubt, allowing that there may have some glitch that disconnected us.  After all we’d already talked forty minutes at that point.  I mean, who stays on the phone for that length of time if they aren’t having fun, right?  And the platform I utilize for my calls had been experiencing some recurring issues.  So, yes, I was glad.  Until I opened and read his email, that is.

So …

I was glad, I was sad, and then I was mad.

Conclusion?  No way in hell does this jerk deserve another moment of my once undivided attention and always valuable time.  I adhere to the Fool Me Once, Twice Doctrine.  Logical and less messy.  Therefore, I will not be sending a return email to Mr. Smarm.  Unfortunately for you, I already wrote my response.

I’m sure you won’t mind:

Dear Mr. Smarm:

I was quite delighted today to see your email in my inbox.  That is until I opened and read it.   Of course, when I read your email, I went from pleasure to hurt in a heartbeat.

 Now I am fucking pissed.

Because I poured my heart and soul into that fantasy. Once we were off and running, the world around me dissolved into that office where I — and eventually Jennifer (remember the receptionist?) — accused you, abused you and used you.

And I did one helluva job.

Yes, at first, I was nervous, even a bit reluctant. Because, whenever a phone sex caller starts the conversation with,I’ve experimented with phone sex for years and most girls just can’t get it right” … well, it just doesn’t bode well.

… at your urging, I DID RELAX and took a leap of faith that you were true blue and meant what you said.  Obviously — as we now know two weeks too late later — you aren’t and you didn’t.

Otherwise, you would have taken that leap with me and enjoyed the flight. You would have appreciated the rich details and well-drawn setting into which I grounded the fantasy (the picture window from my office; your desk right outside my door; my pencil skirt, sheer black stockings and garters juxtaposed against barely legal Jennifer’s sundress and wedge heels). You would have been savvy enough to realize that this girl on the other side of the phone was having the time of her life.   That she was firing on all pistons, creating our own special world and having a fucking blast doing it.

And, by the way, you should have answered truthfully when I took those moments during the call to pause and ask if the direction I was taking was doing it for you.  Instead you lied.  And now look where we are.

As for your statement that “I think that you felt like you had to think up something “extravagant” for me …”  Huh?  What? Do you not get what I do? Have you not read my FREE Phone Sex Preview Stories? There’s plenty of samples of my work, so that New Callers know exactly what I’m about.  Unlike you, I don’t pull any punches.

 Have you ever entertained the possibility, Sir Pants-Down-a-Lot, that the problem lies with you and not me?  After all, you’re the one who’s spent a little bit less than a lifetime looking for the perfect Phone Fuck.  It has been said of me, “The way she riffs on matters sexual and otherwise, she is my white Billie Holiday, a 21st century Anais Nin with just a touch of Machiavelli.”  I could quote caller after caller, but you can read all of my Phone Sex Reviews — at your leisure, of course, when you’re taking a break from your great and almighty Phone Sex Fantasy Crusade.

I think you’re confusing “extravagance” with “virtuosity.”

And Haven’t you still been on the prowl, trying out another and another and yet another Phone Sex Girl, still looking for your Phone Sex Fix these past two weeks?   Never mind, don’t answer that.  I already know you were.  I know it for a FACT.  Remember, I have Super Powers.

I dunno, maybe you had a PSO some years ago that rocked your world and the rest of us simply pale in comparison. Maybe we’re all inept and you’re just a customer getting poor service from every single one of us.  It must be a tough to be a Martyr for Phone Sex, traversing the minefield of Broken Wet Dreams.

The bottom line is that I have no desire to ever speak with you again. I gave you everything I had and you trashed it.  The coup de grâce is that you actually have the balls to say that you “wouldn’t mind giving it one more try.”  Are you demented or delusional?   Which is it?

Never mind, because guess what.  I would mind.  I would mind it very much.  I’d rather spend my time with the myriad men who find me creative and perfect just the way I am.

Angela

We now return to our regularly scheduled perversion.  If you’ve lost your remote, it might be between the couch cushions or just look right here.

Whew! I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink of water after all that.  Maybe even a Xanax.

And why is that song banging around in my head?  Oh no I’ve said too much, I haven’t said enough … tra la la.   That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight.  Losing my religion … tra la la.