by Pervert Savant

Read Chapter 1

The Heart-Rending Story of an Innocent Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced to Confront Brutality and Recidivism in the Dank Cells of the Toughest Prison in Texas.

CHAPTER II: An Audience with “The Warden.”

Warden W. Lester McCobb leaned back in his chair squinting at the correspondence he held in his pudgy hands with obvious irritation. The object of his attention was another letter from Purvis McCutcheon, the Assistant Superintendent of Prisons of the State of Texas. McCobb hated McCutcheon, hated receiving correspondence from McCutcheon, and hated even more responding to correspondence from McCutcheon.

“What’s that little pissant want me to do now?” McCobb growled. “Institute macramé workshops for rapists?”

McCobb and McCutcheon had philosophical differences about the proper direction of Texas penology.

“The trouble with McCutcheon is he’s crock full of that Austin liberal reform shit,” McCobb muttered. “He’s got about as much sense as an armadillo in heat. It’s pansy-assed little shit wads like McCutcheon that are responsible for the screwed up state of the prisons in this here country!”

McCobb had his own ideas about running prisons. He came from a long line of prison wardens – four generations of them, in fact. Grainy pictures of his clone-like ancestors proudly graced the walls of McCobb’s office. Prison management was in McCobb’s blood – literally. Indeed, the initial “W” in McCobb’s first name actually stood for “Warden.” McCobb seldom told people that “Warden” was his first name. The appellation had been conferred by a doting father at birth. But to McCobb’s sensitive ear, and given his present station at West Texas Correctional, it sounded a bit redundant. At West Texas Correctional all personnel and convicts knew McCobb simply as “The Warden.” Only McCobb’s close relatives, in moments of rare intimacy, called him “Warden Warden.”

McCobb shifted uneasily in his chair, pushed his black-framed glasses back from their customary perch at the bottom of his flared nostrils, and disgustedly tossed McCutcheon’s partially read letter onto his desk. He reached into his jacket pocket, removed a previously opened package of “Mail Pouch,” and placed a three-fingered wad of the tobacco carefully into his mouth. McCobb had indulged in this noble pleasure since age 14 and a discerning viewer could read his emotional moods by the position of the plug of tobacco beneath his pinkish jowls. Today’s telltale positioning indicated that McCobb was having an unusually bad morning.

“Where the hell’s Biff?” McCloud growled. “What’s this shit about another knifing? The last goddamned thing I want to do today is send another knifing report to Austin. That’s the fourth one this month! They’re gonna have my ass.”

McCobb shifted his plug to a position reflecting greater irritation and stabbed an intercom button on his phone system. “Tansy, you tell Biff to get her ass in here right now. I go away to Waco for three days and this place turns to turds!”

A disembodied Latina voice on the other end of the intercom responded: “Sheez onna her way een right now, Warden. I tole heer you want to see heer.”

“And where’s Cherie? I heard she patched the Mexican up.”

“Sheez eena the commissary. You wan me to tell heer you wanna to see her too?”

“Damn straight I want to see her. These goddamned reports don’t get written out of thin air. I need facts! Get her in here right now.”

“Hokay, right away, Warden,” Tansy’s invisible voice responded.

McCobb adjusted his plug to a more pensive position on the right side of his mouth and began filling out the all-too familiar multi-plied yellow, green, white and pink form that was appropriately labeled “Texas State Penitentiary Standard Accident Report No. 7 (Knifings).” McCobb had successfully negotiated the “Prisoner Name” and “Date” blanks on the form and was trying to cope with the one marked “Applicable Aliases” when Biff finally made her appearance in The Warden’s office.

Silently noting the burly lesbian’s arrival, McCobb shifted his plug back to its standard “very irritated” position, grunted, and then neatly expectorated a brownish jet of tobacco juice into a brass spittoon strategically located at the side of his chair. An answering ping, emanating from the depths of the spittoon, welcomed Biff into the Warden’s presence.

“Tansy said you wanted to see me,” Biff opened nonchalantly, trying her best to ignore both the neatly aimed jet and the resounding ping.

“Damn right I do, Biff,” McCobb growled. “What’s this shit about another knifing?”

“Oh that. Well, Warden, y’see, while you were away in Waco the Acevedo boys got into it. Things got a little ugly, and Chuey wound up sticking a blade in Alejandro.”

“Goddamit!” cursed McCobb. “I put those two in the same cell because I wanted to avoid crap like this. Hell, they’re brothers, ain’t they? Why’d Chuey wanta go and knife his own brother?”

“Well, they ain’t really brothers, exactly, Warden. They got the same mother but. different fathers,” Biff corrected. Biff had learned the importance of precision in her criminology class at Amarillo State Junior College. Precision was one of the qualities that made Biff an outstanding alumnus of ASJC as well as one of the more promising guards at West Texas Correctional.

McCobb tongued his plug rapidly to the other side of his mouth – a sure sign of rising anger that was not lost on the always-perceptive Biff.

“Okay, dammit, so they’re half-brothers.” McCobb growled. Same goddamned question. Why’d Chuey go and cut up his half-brother?”

“Well, I ain’t exactly sure, Warden,” replied Biff. “One of the cons that supposedly saw it tole me that Alejandro called Chuey’s mother a whore. You know Mexicans. They don’t like that. They love their mothers. I guess Chuey overreacted.”

McCobb’s jowls began quivering as the plug underneath began shifting to alternatingly starboard, and then port, positions.

“But they have the SAME mother, dumbass. Why would Alejandro call Chuey’s mother a whore if the woman he’s calling a whore is his own mother too? You expect me to put crap like that in my report to the Superintendent in Austin?”

Biff nervously fingered her badge, the pin of which, for some reason, she had accidentally and irritatingly placed directly over her left nipple. The pin’s location added to Biff’s growing sense of unease as she continued relating what she knew of the knifing to McCobb.

“Well, Warden, I’m just telling you the same thing that the con tole me. Maybe I got it wrong. Or maybe their mother really IS a whore. I don’t know. It’s possible. I don’t speak much Mexican.”

“Well, where’d Chuey get the goddamned knife?” McCobb asked, increasingly angered at Biff’s diffidence.

“It was a piece of metal, Warden. Remember when you had Chuey wax your car last week? I think he broke off a piece of your license plate. You sharpen a piece of metal like that up enough on a concrete floor and you get a pretty good prison blade.”

Biff paused in her narrative to pop a stick of Wrigley’s Spearmint (her favorite!) in her mouth. “Hell,” thought Biff, “if he can chew, so can I.”

“Anyway, Warden,” Biff continued, “that probably explains why the number ‘7’ went missing from the ass end of your car’s license plate.”

McCobb paused, placed his head in his hands for a few moments, and then lifted his eyes. Biff noted warily that those same eyes now seemed redder and buggier than they had immediately before the pause. Biff also noted that McCobb’s tobacco wad had shifted to a new “near-homicidal” position.

“Oh, fine. Just great,” McCobb yowled. “McCutcheon’s gonna have my ass for this. A Mexie stabs his own brother in a high-security cell block and he uses a piece of metal from my own car’s license plate to do it. And where am I when all this is happening? Yeah. Right. Away at some dipshit conference in Waco.”

“Well, shit happens, Warden,” said Biff, inadvertently popping her gum but trying to sound sympathetic. “I guess this means no more cons waxing your car, huh?”

McCobb rolled his eyes and moved his plug into its angriest position. “Biff, you keep your yap shut about that license plate, y’hear? I’ll figure out somethin’ to tell McCutcheon, but you better remember that I left you in charge here while I was away. If my ass gets in a sling for this, that fat ass of yours does too.”

“Er, yeah, sure thing, Warden,” Biff replied uncomfortably, once more feeling the pin-end of her badge biting into her nipple. “You know me. Mum’s the word.”

Not liking the new position of the Warden’s wad, Biff concluded it was probably time to leave his presence. As she closed the door behind her, Biff could hear McCobb cursing alone in his office, loudly and creatively.

***

Well it looks like Pervert Savant is cooking now, eh? Chapter 3 (the final chapter) is just around the corner so persevere, beloved Smut Mongers. It won’t be long now.

xo, Angela

by Pervert Savant

The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

Chapter 1: Twisted Sex in the Prison Infirmary

Cherie inhaled languidly on her first Virginia Slim of the day and idly contemplated the hairy figure of the bleeding con that was strapped to the prison infirmary’s examination table. The scarlet wound in the con’s abdomen did not look good to Cherie.

“We found him in Block Seven with a shiv stuck in his gizzard,” growled Biff, the statuesque female guard that had brought him in. “You better patch him up quick before he meets his maker! The Warden isn’t gonna like this.”

“Biff” wasn’t the guard’s real name, Cherie knew. Her first name was actually “Mary”. But Biff, like most of the female prison guards at West Texas Corrective Facility for Incorrigibles #8, was a bull dyke. You couldn’t be a card-carrying bull dyke at West Texas Corrective and have a first name like Mary.

Cherie took a last puff from her full-flavored Luxury Light 120 (her favorite!) and directed her attention to the con, who was struggling to put his strapped hands over his gushing wound while moaning prayers in Spanish.

“Santa Maria, Madre de Dios…”

Cherie confidently reached for a bottle of antiseptic, noting, as she did so, that her long, artificial nails could use a new coat of polish. It was so HARD keeping her nails looking the way they should and still be a prison nurse. It was one of Cherie’s biggest regrets about her occupational status at West Texas Corrective. “It’s so sad,” thought Cherie as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “At West Texas Corrective, fashion always seems to be a secondary consideration.”

“There, there sugar. You just stop that nasty moaning! We’ll have you as good as new in just a jiffy!” Cherie chirped cheerily. “Now hold still! I don’t need to break another nail!”

Biff snorted disparagingly at the groaning Hispanic, all the while admiring the lush contours of Cherie’s buttocks. These were prominently on display as Cherie bent over the leaking Mexican and expertly poured antiseptic into the crimson maw that had once been an intact stomach. “Nice ass,” mused Biff idly to herself. “I wouldn’t mind having a crack at that crack!”

Biff removed an unfiltered Camel from behind her left ear and ignited it with a nickel-plated Zippo lighter. The Zippo was a gift from one of Biff’s former lovers. The name “Biff” was prominently engraved on its side in Old English lettering.

“Yeah, Cherie’s one nice piece of fluff,” Biff mused. It’s a shame that the Warden’s got designs on her. Otherwise, I might put a move on her myself!”

The brown antiseptic that Cherie had poured into the hole in his gut seemed to enliven Alejandro. His low moans quickly turned to screams and his previous twitching increased and became markedly more spasmodic. Cherie waved a long-nailed finger under Alejandro’s nose and said, firmly, “Now you just hush up, honey! I’m working as fast as I can!”

Cherie’s confident manner, coupled with his acute loss of blood, seemed to calm Alejandro. His screams gradually receded into muffled sobs and his twitching changed to merely an occasional spasm of jerks. Cherie’s well-intentioned ministrations were obviously having their designed effect.

While Alejandro continued to writhe on the examination table, Cherie minced over to a glass-paneled cabinet. Cherie’s movements continued to intrigue Biff, who took another opportunity to ogle Cherie’s tush – the twin orbs of which, at that moment, were on prominent display beneath her flimsy cotton nurse’s uniform. Ignoring Biff, Cherie continued to rummage in the cabinet.

The guards at the prison had lately taken to selling the infirmary’s drugs to the cons for pocket money – something that made Cherie’s work occasionally difficult.

“It’s so unprofessional,” thought Cherie. “Just when you need something, you find out it’s gone.”

Cherie explored the depleted inventory that had once been the infirmary’s well-stocked medicine cabinet, pushing aside, in the process, her own ample supply of Estradiol Valerate and Progesterone. As usual, Cherie emerged from her search dismayed.

“Oh great,” Cherie groaned. “First the Demerol disappears, then the Morphine, and now even the Tylenol’s gone! Biff, did you take the last of that too?” Cherie intoned, eyeing the burly lesbian guard accusingly. “How can I be an angel of mercy when you and your friends keep taking all of my tools?”

Biff shifted her massive form uncomfortably and did her best to ignore Cherie’s question. Rather than answering, Biff opted to take another long draw on her Camel. Then, affecting an attitude of injured innocence, Biff responded, “You know I’m a degreed criminal science professional!” Biff replied. “I wouldn’t do nothin’ as unprofessional as that!” Hoping to change the subject, Biff then began humming “T for Texas,” thinking that her accuser might be distracted by the bouncy C & W tune – one of Biff’s favorites.

“Hey, you like Ernest Tubb, honey?” Biff asked. “I got all his records!”

Cherie ignored Biff’s question. She preferred Disco to the pervasive C & W that seemed to be the prison preference. Instead of pursuing the matter further with Biff, she shook out two aspirins from the green bottle and then poured some water into a paper cup. Cherie then popped both aspirins into her own mouth and chased them with water. Alejandro’s groaning had given her a splitting headache.

Her own medical problems attended to, Cherie then shook out two more tablets and refilled the cup for her patient

“Here, Alejandro. Bottoms up, honey! You just take a couple of these and I promise it won’t hurt so much. These little thingies are buffered. They shouldn’t hurt your tummy one bit. But even if they do, it serves you right! You boys in Block Seven are always playing such silly games.”

Alejandro sat up to choke down the pills, swallowed some water, and then fell back onto the table, his eyes rolling in obvious pain.

“When’s the Warden coming back from that conference in Waco?” Biff asked, trying her best to make conversation with Cherie while simultaneously changing the subject from the missing Tylenol. “I thought he was s’posed ta be back here yesterday.”

“He stayed over to do some shopping,” Cherie smiled. “They have better malls in Waco than they do here.”

Cherie spoke about the Waco malls from experience. She was intimately familiar with all of the malls in West, and most of those in East, Texas. She’d given the Warden a long shopping list and particularly hoped that he would be returning from his trip with a lilac peignoir that she had picked out for herself from her latest Victoria’s Secret catalogue. But one could never be sure about the Warden. Cherie knew that his lingerie preferences ran to bullet bras and girdles and his favorite color was fire-engine red.

While waiting for the aspirin to take effect with Alejandro, Cherie took the opportunity to refresh her pulse points with a few liberal spritzes of Opium. Opium was Cherie’s favorite fragrance. She preferred it to the smell of denatured alcohol that ordinarily permeated the infirmary. It was also the closest thing to a real opiate left in the infirmary’s depleted medicine cabinet.

Biff sniffed the odor of the Opium, grunted approvingly, and then stubbed out the remains of her Camel on the infirmary’s tile floor. Meanwhile, Cherie – now suitably refreshed — removed a fistful of gauze from a plastic jar and began stuffing antiseptic-soaked wads of it into Alejandro’s wound.

Biff watched the process admiringly. “This little cunt’s pretty good at her work, “Biff mused. “I think she likes me. The next time the Warden’s gone, I may have to have a little chat with her.”

Cherie then raised one end of the examination table, ignored Alejandro’s answering wails, and began shimmying around the table with a roll of adhesive tape. Cherie wound the tape around Alejandro’s midsection and that seemed to stop most of his bleeding.

“There, sweetie! That ought to keep you safe and sound until Dr. Lumley comes in.”

Cherie eyed her finished work proudly, choosing to ignore a small red spot — slowly becoming larger — that stubbornly seeped through the gauze. “If Doc Lumley stayed sober last night, he ought to be in here to see you in a couple of hours. So stop worrying!”

Alejandro groaned gratefully.

“Take him away, Biff. But not back to Block Seven. Move him to the side room and let him get some sleep. The Doc will be all over me if Alejandro gets knifed again before he gets a chance to look at him.”

Biff nudged the still moaning Alejandro with her nightstick. “C’mon amigo. Time ta move!”

Alejandro struggled to his feet, his knees buckling as he slid off the table. Biff grabbed the con under his armpits and steered him to a wheelchair that Cherie had thoughtfully provided. At 6’ 1” and weighing 250 pounds, maneuvering the Mexican into the wheelchair was easy work for Biff. Biff hoped that this womanly display of strength and professionalism wasn’t lost on Cherie.

“See ya later, cupcake. Maybe we can talk a little bit more sometime soon,” Biff winked. Biff then took the opportunity to pinch Cherie’s left nipple between the ends of her stubby fingers. “Ha, ha! Titty twister!” Biff chuckled, hoping Cherie would appreciate her attentions.

“You quit that, Biff. It isn’t funny!” said Cherie, wincing uncomfortably at Biff’s touch.

“Sorry, baby. Just a little joke!” said Biff, not one bit unrepentant.

“Why does everyone have to twist my left nipple?” Cherie wondered to herself. “No one ever does that to my right one.” She continued to speculate on this strange phenomenon as Biff, somewhat chastened, turned and wheeled the now comatose Alejandro from the examination room.

“I guess it’s just all in a day’s work at West Texas Correctional,” Cherie sighed to herself as she rubbed her now-swollen left nipple. Then, seeing that Biff was finally gone, Cherie removed her latex gloves, opened her compact and, eyeing its mirror, deftly began retouching her mascara.

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

By Richard,

Submissive Savant to the Stars (er, one Super Nova).

Read Part I

My First Mistress: Part II

She opened the door and put her fingers to her lips to indicate that I wasn’t to speak.

“Follow me.”

We went through mildly snazzy but pretty conventional living room to a side room that I suspected had been a breakfast room. It was completely empty.

She looked me in the eye and I felt a mild shiver pass up my spine.

“Go in the corner,” she pointed, “and get on your knees facing the corner and keep your hands at your sides.”

I complied getting very exciting wonder what she was going to do to me.

“You will stay there until told otherwise. Keep your eyes facing the corner, your arms where they are and your mouth shut. If you decide to stop before told you just leave the house and do not come back.”

I heard her leave the room.

A few minutes passed. Then several. Then I couldn’t guess how long I’d been there. Minutes started to seem awfully long. Sometimes I thought I saw the wall move. My knees were hurting and my ankles were sore.

I started to get mad. This was awfully boring. But I didn’t dare move. I’d hungered to be trained for a long time and she was the first who ever offered to do so.

I might as well have been chained there even if the chains were only in my mind and of my own making.

Finally after an eternity that I later was told was only 90 minutes she was back in the room.

“Get up and face me.” I almost fell and legs were wobbly but I was up in a flash.

Her expression was unreadable. It couldn’t decide if she looked grim, amused or maybe even mildly approving.

“Go but you may come back tomorrow at the same time.”

I left softly shutting her front door.

I’d washed her car. I’d been bored almost to tears. None of it had been even faintly erotic. I could not guess what tomorrow would bring. But looking inside myself I knew that having been forced to conform to another’s arbitrary commands had given me some satisfaction.

But I did wonder how many more tests I’d have to pass.

***

Now this is starting to get interesting, dontcha think? I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Stay tuned for Part III.

Oh. FYI: Richard has yet another up & coming website breaching the waters of WebTopia: BDSM Reference. While still in its embryonic stage, I do believe it will grow up to be quite an interesting addition to the BDSM community. And remember, folks. You heard it here first.

xo, Angela

So Richard, cherished Savant and venerated Web-Chronicler of all things submissive, shared with me a few days back that he has occasionally dabbled in the fine art of writing fantasy. He says it’s not erotica (”This isn’t erotica. I wrote it many years ago to give dominant women that I met online a picture of my perception of Femdom relationships.”), but….

I say it is. What do you guys think?

My First Mistress - Part 1

When I came to her house I was a little surprised by the size. She lived alone but it was large enough for a largish family. Big yard too. Otherwise it was a plain suburban west Durham house.

When I got to the door I tightened my stomach muscles trying to tame the partying butterflies that had moved in there. As instructed I knocked three times. About half a minute later the door opened. For a split second I thought I’d faint.

She was wearing sunglasses. I couldn’t see her eyes and my feelings of intimidation took another jump. Not wanting to look like a gawking fool (probably already too late) I started to introduce yourself.

“I -.”

“I know who you are.” She sounded impatient but out of habit than actually annoyed. “Don’t speak, just nod. You saw my car as you came in.” It was under a carport. I nodded. “Go wash it. If you aren’t going to do a good job you might as well leave now. When you’re done come back and knock at the door.” She shut the door.

She’d told me I’d have to pass a few tests. I’d been expecting something more exciting. It was probably proof of my desperate need that without hesitating I went over to the car.

There was a hose, clothes car wash and wax. I don’t own a car so I was a little lost at first. But my father used to make me wash his car when I was a teen. I hated doing that with a passion. I could almost believe that, Joan - that was her name, had read my memories when she picked this chore.

I scrubbed the car twice, including the hubcaps and tag areas. It was hot and it was tiring. But waxing was even worse. I was so afraid it wouldn’t look right I kept buffing and buffing until my arms ached. Finally it was as good as I could do and I hoped good enough.

Back at the door I waited a couple of minutes until she answered my knock. She wasn’t wearing the shades so I could see her very intelligent intense looking dark eyes. She had a few worry lines etched into her forehead but they only added to her look of smart competence. She was tall probably about five inches less than my 6′3″. She was skinny, almost boney but I don’t know that her body could’ve matter I was so sucked in by her eyes.

But she was only there for a moment. “Come back tomorrow at the same time.” The door shut.

I felt like I should be disappointed but I wasn’t. But I sure hoped tomorrows test would be less strenuous.

***

Stay tuned for Part II.

xo, Angela

Pervert Savant sends the following email.

Subject: Pulp Fiction for the Jaded

Dearest Angela:

I’ve been thinking.

My contribution to “Pulp Porn” would be an elaboration on a new idea that has been percolating in my fevered brain. “Phone Sex Pimp Daddy” — a bare-knuckled tell-all expose about a middle-aged white office worker who, one day, decides to become a PPP (”Phone Sex Pimp).

Follow him as he gathers his stable of phone sex whores — preying on innocent intellectual women, corrupting them, buying their bifocals, encouraging them to read books, forcing them to speak in grammatical sentences and then, when they have nothing left, requiring them to slave away at phone banks in dingy offices, dingier apartments, and still dingier trailer parks, plying their trade until they’re used up and hoarse — enslaved and willing to give all their hard earned profits to their pimp, (a man who is known on the avenue as “NiteFlirt”).

He’s their “Phone Sex Daddy!” You can do the screenplay. I’d want a percentage of the take from the movie, of course.

Sincerely,

Pervert Q. Savant

What do you think? Should I go for it? Write that screenplay and share the wealth with this rascal of a guy? I think he has the talent. Certainly the gumption. Or maybe I should write the book and the screenplay. Reap the bounty myself?

Or maybe I’ll just ignore this silliness and buy a membership to Tit-Elation.

Which reminds me: One of my stories, Tying up Amy was featured via Tit-Elation at Samarel Erotic Art.

And for those who emailed and/or commented on yesterday’s entry, I am fine. I really am. Just rolling with the punches. Thanks so much.

xo, Angela

Poolside

by Jeremy Edwards

The hotel’s elegant indoor pool area–deserted at this hour–was the perfect venue for the tryst we both craved. As we enjoyed the cool jazz that wafted in, we kissed, fondled, and undressed at leisure.

The last garment had hit the tiles. Gabrielle’s nipples and my penis were at maximum tension, and her pussy kissed my fingers with sweet juice. I began to lead her to a lounge chair, so that we could properly mingle.

“I have to pee first,” she said. I prepared to bide my time, thinking she would throw something on, excuse herself, and find a restroom. But she had other ideas. She glanced quickly around the pool lounge and spotted a file of fluffy towels. She grabbed a medium-size towel and, standing gloriously naked before me, she shoved it, still folded, into her crotch, where she held it tight with one hand and both thighs.

As I watched in amazement and delight, she kept her outer muscles tight and relaxed her inner ones. Within moments, she was pumping a powerful river of pee into the towel, humping it rhythmically all the while. Though she pissed a long time–an expression of sexual bliss creeping onto her face as she did so–the towel absorbed most of her flood. Only a few small, titillating trickles headed down her pulsating legs or dripped languidly to the floor beneath her damp, hot pussy.

Short and sweet and deliciously naughty. Dontcha think? You might recall that Jerotic visited Zen Fetish once before and I told you more about him the very next day. I mean, after all, inquiring minds wanted to know.

Something else about Jerotic? He’s a very sweet guy. I count him as a friend. And I count myself very lucky.

What’s a mind like Jerotic’s up to on a daily basis? Find out here. Tell him Angela sent you. He might just offer you some milk and cookies. Watch out for the lemonade, though.

Sabrina in Stockings.

Do you know her? Have you talked with her? If not…why not?

She writes (oh, man, does she write):

Smells Like Vanilla

I want.

I’m pressing down against my office chair right now and bouncing up and down a little, just rocking back on my hips and thighs. It feels like all I am is warm, wet, and hungry and all of that is just melting out of my body through my throbbing pink cunt. Another hour like this and I’ll be in that state where I’m ready to bend over my desk, spread my legs apart, thrust my ass out like a bitch in heat and grind my aching clit against the edge of the desktop. I’ll growl, I’ll whimper, I’ll beg to get fucked.

I have class in two hours. I have to go sit in a room filled with people, potential warm slippery bodies against mine, all night long. The work is boring and repetitive - exactly the kind of stuff that makes my mind wander to more interesting topics, like which of the objects in the room would be best to impale that pretty little blonde with…

I can’t think when I’m like this.

I wonder if any of them read this. I wonder if the guys and girls behind me will be able to smell how wet my panties are.

They probably will.

The thought humiliates me and makes me wetter at the same time.

I’m tugging the crotch of my satin thong up between the lips of my pussy. It slides easily and I just know the slippery evidence will be visible on the black satin hours later.

I have an old pair of pantyhose. Black. Matte, sheer-to-waist and ripe for ripping. I can’t decide if I want to put them on, feel how smooth the nylon is against my legs, run my short nails over the seam (pressing it right against my clit) and then rip out the crotch and fingerfuck myself through the hole, or if I want to wad up one of the legs and force it inch by inch balled up into my pussy. It would be lumpy, unless I twisted it just right. It would push out my walls at angles I couldn’t predict until the nylon was there, compressing just enough not to hurt me but rough-edged enough to feel very interesting indeed.

Right now I’m not just wet but slick. The nylon wouldn’t absorb so much as get coated in my juices. Gods, I want to come. I’m riding the edge of my panties that got pushed up against the inner lips of my pussy, just enough to tease me but not give me enough of what I need to send me over. I lean back… the silky smooth satin shifts back and forth across my ass, right there, and it’s driving me crazy. I need more… Two fingers go to my lips, then three, and it’s your cock muffling my moans, my lips wrapped tight around my knuckles… tight around the base of your cock. My tongue flicks out to tease the head of your cock, running around the ridge, teasing that sensitive spot right and the underside, and I suck right there. My panties are starting to leak. I’m shaking, but not enough… not yet.

My cunt actually hurts, I need to come so badly. I need to make this hard and fast. Hands off the keyboard now - I need something more inside me than just the edge of my panties. Two fingers go to my lips, circling, before pushing in and kicking back and forth, teasing right at the back… harder, then nothing, then more, more, more.

I don’t think I screamed but I damn well made noise.

It’s a blur, my panties are askew, my hair is mussed and I’m realizing I actually do need a job where it’s okay to go lie down for a minute and have five mini-orgasms one after the other until I can stop feeling like a hole that needs to be fucked and start feeling like a person again. I’m wondering if there’s someone out there this is enough for, instead of too much. I’m wondering why the hell my fingers always smell and taste like vanilla musk, afterward. I mean really… vanilla?

You can read the original story here.

Then call her.