How about some limericks (in lieu of green beer) to celebrate the day.  Tom Allen of The Edge of Vanilla asks:  Breathes there a man (or woman) with soul so dead that they can’t appreciate a good limerick?  So here are a few created by the very man himself, starring some people you just might know (though he’s never written one about me –  can ya believe it?):

A brash dominatrix named Jones
Would reduce all her boyfriends to moans
By her erotical knowledge
(not acquired in college)
Of painful erogenous zones.

***

A new dominatrix named Kate
Was breaking a new subby-mate;
When she asked how he fared
he said he was scared,
But her caning technique was first-rate.

***

Gillette, a hard-working hooker
Was such an enchanting good looker,
There were fights ‘mongst the fuzz
Over whose turn it was
To pinch her, and frisk her, and book her.

Now Mr. Allen is rather self-deprecating when it comes to his talent.  But I think those are pretty damn good.  I surely can’t even begin to write limericks.  Although, in my defense, I will say that the writing of limericks is pretty much a man’s game, at least most of the time.  You can read more of Tom’s kinky lil’ compositions by clicking here.

But wait!  Once upon a time in Kitten Land, I actually did have a few limericks written just for me:

Here is a limerick written
By a reader who finds himself smitten
By Angela’s prose
And the passion she shows
In the things that she writes for sex-kitten.

In person, her talk must be racy.
Her underwear, no doubt, is lacy.
But sexier still
Are the words from her quill,
 Which she publishes now, thanks to Gracie.

Some people like leather, I’ve heard.
By some, domination’s preferred.
But for me, more exciting
Is Angela’s writing:
The brain tease, the mind fuck, the word!

***

A cyber pussy so many adore
Created a site with class galore
By enlisting the greatest minds of Eros
She challenged these sensual heroes
with inkfilled sabers to extoll
and with cerebral words cajole
A readership of sextelligentsia

***

There once was the EclecticPearl…..
whose ways made his mind just swirl….

She’d whisper such smut,
t’would twitch mind and butt….

soon making his toes slowly curl!!!

Okay, so maybe my guys kinda-sorta broke the rules a little bit, but they showed up in fine spirit and with much gusto did the job.  Isn’t that just about as Irish as you can get?

Top of the Even’n to ya!

xo, Angela

Black

by The Provocateur

(U)nless one wants to live a stunningly boring life, one ought to be on good terms with one’s darker side and one’s darker energies.”

She is a dominatrix and I am standing at her iron gate, waiting for her to answer. I don’t say this out loud, but: I come to her not to be dominated by her – nor anything else outside myself.

My lips are the color of a Clockwork Orange and when she opens the door, I do not tell her that I am here to violently reconquer myself. I do not tip my hat and tell her that I am here to put myself back together again.

Couple that with my broken heart and clearly: I am not very smart at all. The evidence is in the previous weeks of my life where, the stars have reflected exactly what the days have said: I am weak. This is weak. This week. The week before.

I believed that I was giving shape to love. And I was ready for love to shape me. But I lost track of minutes and murky moments. I started to drown. And then, I did.

Ever the exhibitionist, she neatly crawls up onto her purple couch and sticks her ass in the air. We joke, saying that, clearly, this must be her first time in front of a camera.

I can feel the blood surging to my midsection. My face becomes flushed. And, unbeknownst to me, for the next couple of hours I will forget everything beyond that front door and swelling darkly inside me.

Apart from that, I am no master at all. Laziness and pride has infected me. My internal world, a detritus which has proved caustic to everything outside of me, or,

Swirling in the unbelief and ethereal uncertainty that the death of love carries under its vulture wings and I have broken myself completely down. Taken everything apart. Bolts and screws and plugs and radiators, all laid-out before me now as a ghost; me as an empty vessel. Me as something that is the sum total of all the parts and bolts and gaskets.

I am snapping away and she crawls onto the teal bed. There is a wine glass full of water on the nightstand that her cat drinks out of. In the background is the sound of the ocean swelling and receding. Industrial music in the other room.

She tells me that she is wild, but it is unnecessary. I know this already. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t return like I have. Whichever way, without words, you can see it in her eyes. In her tattoos. In the way that she begins to run her fingers up and down her clothed cunt as she splays her legs open before me.

On the other hand, I fear the simpletons. I revile the medians in the middle of my road. I am not impressed by you, but always astounded and intrigued by what you do.

I do not want network television and sit-coms and remedial tasks, boring college degrees and shopping in malls, for leisure. I do not care about your pedestrian celebrities, or the fact that they fill that dying place in you, one of many, where you are hollow and infantile.

I want something developed. If it is light, then shine on me. Burn me. If it is dark, let me crawl into it. And let it crawl into me.

However, I feel it: I am beginning to resurface – from the nearly irreversible sadness that I believe I will carry with me for the rest of my days. Yes, it is this serious: When you gamble with your heart, you gamble with the whole fabric of your entire being.

Only days later and: I am older now. Now I am changed. Now I do not think about her as much. Now I do not wonder where or what or how she is doing. This despite the fact that I would still kiss her cheek softly, or race to rescue…

The dominatrix is completely naked and writhing on her bed. She is contorting into every conceivable position. She opens her legs and shows me all of her wet sex. She teases me the way she teases the camera.

I conceptualize the word “naked” and as I am unbuttoning my shirt I think about how I didn’t even remember putting on the fabric that I came with. I have felt so bare for so long. As I peel my shirt off, the dominatrix snaps away and I feel that my skin is charred. Sore. Burned.

My cock is being pulled from my pants. I am only a half-participant in the reveal. She is peeling me out and away from myself. Her cold hands and manicured fingers make my head light.

She snaps away on the camera and then cups my cock in her hand as she shoots with her one free hand. I can see the vibrant lust in her eyes, licking and clicking away.

If you cannot burn on your own, then please recede from me in peace like the dream that you were. For I want not your counsel, nor your arms…

She is between my legs, helping me give birth. In this regeneration, my cock is alternately in her hand and in her mouth. Sometimes, when she clamps down on me with all of her wicked sensualism, she uses both hands and her entire, wet mouth.

She gives me the camera and turns the light toward us. The light is hot and bulbous as the sun and drowns-out the world beyond her between my splayed legs and my cock sliding in and out of her wet mouth.

Now clothed again, for some etiquette’s sake, she begins to pull off her clothes. I hear her reach under the nightstand and when she comes back out, she wraps my cock in a sheeth and says, now I’m going to fuck you.

When I flip her over, I violently pin her legs up in the air. With all the rage of everything torn and reversed inside of me, I fuck the dominatrix. She is not fucking me.

I am forceful. I am not weak. I am pounding everything I have deep inside of her, and beyond. This is my fuck you, I do not need you, I do not belong here.

As I feel parts of me melting away, dripping from my body, I can feel the condensation of my matter, as though I am in a centrifuge. I can feel the ugly particles, the ugly, black thoughts separating. I can feel something even stronger reanimating my white particles – the particles that I will need two hours from now when I am hunched over my knees and sobbing in the deathly silence of everything behind me.

Where I once had a heart, I am now left with ignorance and sadness. And where a girl once stood before me as a representative of all the love I have to give and receive, I now only see a shadowy figure, blackened and coal.

“I have often longed for peace and tranquility — looked into the lives of others and envied a kind of calmness — and yet I don’t know if this tranquility is what I truly would have wished for myself.”- Kay Redfield Jamison

*****

The Provocateur  — this writer of words that elevate erotica into the realm of  literature — speaks to my heart, my very soul, every single time I find my way to his blog.  Here is where — in the hungry blush of sexual expression, exploration and need — sex is therapy is stigmata is truth is poetry is transformation is introspection is celebration is promenade is psalms is nexus is oxygen is the very marrow of our human-ness. 

Oh, dear reader, please do give yourself the pleasure, the gift, of reading his blog.

xo, Angela

Showtime

by Porno Person

"Five minutes!" came the warning over the loudspeaker.

"Showtime," I muttered under my breath as I checked myself once more in the mirror. Decked out, head to toe, I was in a second skin of latex. It covered every inch save for my mouth, eyes, and behind. The latex gleamed in the light of the dressing room. I adjusted everything just so and looked myself in the eyes, wondering how the person who looked back at me had gotten into such a strange position.

"Places!" came the voice again. No time for introspection. Time for action. Time to be a "star."

I followed the labyrinthine hallway into today’s set. It was dressed like a prison cell. Inside just a bunk, a sink, and an incongruous padded sawhorse.

There were no lines to memorize. Hell, there wasn’t usually dialogue other than what was improvised. Without having to be told, I bent over the sawhorse, my ass in the air and my mouth held open by the O-Ring atached to the latex headpiece.

It didn’t take long before I was joined by two of my co-stars. They were well-built, their bodies gleamed having been rubbed down with oil. Their faces were covered. I always wondered if I passed any of these anonymous men by on the street, not knowing that they were the ones paid to use me on camera for Her amusement and profit.

She had conceived of this "service" a few months prior. Humiliatingly enough, I was to carry through Her plan — setting up the space, the servers, the secure site — all for her to enjoy seeing me being fucked nightly by a variety of different men while subscribers all over the globe could log on and do the same for $9.95 a month.

She would email in her requests for different scenarios / outfits. Men would apply via the website and, if they were approved and could make it to our studio, would have the pleasure of partaking in whatever fantasy She wanted fulfilled. I never met the men — they were taken care of by our production assistants. I only heard their voices, smelled their sweat, and felt their hands over me and cocks in me.

There was no foreplay, making the website one of the highest rated online. The sex acts started almost immediately.

I felt the hands of one of the men and he ran it over the latex outfit. My ears muffled the sound of his comments but whatever he said was met with agreement by the other man. My peripheral vision blocked, the appearance of one of the men directly in front of me shouldn’t have been a surprise but it still seemed to be. I gasped a bit and he seemed to take this as a compliment about the size of his engorged cock. He stroked it for me, getting it even harder and larger before sliding it into the O-Ring that kept my mouth available.

I tasted the salty sourness of his cock as it pushed across my tongue, all the way to the back of my mouth. I gagged at first and he backed off slightly. He felt my tongue caressing the underside of his cock and fell into an easy rhythm of fucking my face. Meanwhile I felt his friend push the head of his cock against my asshole. Never sure if these men would bother to use the lube provided, I had prelubed my ass with a one-time use of KY Jelly. I was glad I did.

He was rougher than the man fucking my mouth, pushing his cock deep inside, withdrawing, and plunging in again, not allowing me to adjust to his girth at all before he was plowing into me. I cried out, my scream muffled by the cock in my mouth. Tears streamed out over the latex mask and I heard one of them laugh.

Rather than slowing down, they both seemed turned on by my tears. It didn’t take long before the man in my mouth was shooting his spunk down my throat. He pulled out and gave one final squirt onto my latex-clad face. His friend finished a few moments later, pulling out and shooting his load onto my back.

I knew that this would never do. She would be disappointed at how fast these two men had orgasmed. I soon found that I had nothing to worry about as two more men soon joined the fray. They soon took the place of the men who had just finished.

And so it went. These four men were joined later by two others before they rotated and I was being fucked by the man I had sucked off while the one who had fucked me put his cock in my mouth. They all took their turns and, all the while, I knew that She was watching at home.

I wondered if she was watching it on her computer, if she had put it on her television, or if she just left me in the background. Was she watching alone or did she have people over to enjoy the show? I only hoped that there would be an email waiting for me at the end of the night with a favorable review of my performance.

***

I feature the work of Porno Person when I can because, well, he’s just so damned kinky and happens to be a very good writer.  His blog, Prurient Interests, is a veritable smorgasbord of sexual fetish and deviant kink.  PP happens to like me a lot, which kind of amazes me when I look at the women who turn him on (he posts lots of sexy pictures), since I am pretty much just a poor little orphan girl — very white, very middle America, very low key and subtle (except when spinning a dirty yarn.  but that doesn’t really count).

I consider myself blessed.  Thanks, PP.

xo, Angela