Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne.

Despite my sassy and sometimes cocky demeanor, I do have my mushy side (leave the Bitch Slave Boys to their dreams) and Robert Burn’s song actually always causes the tears to well.  Even typing them here, the music and words ran through my head, then took a detour right straight to my heart.

I’m actually going to a party this evening, which should make your jaw drop, because New Year’s Eve with all its forced frivolity is something I normally and obstinately avoid.  Don’t worry–I won’t drink and drive.  And won’t even get drunk.  Maybe a slight buzz if the mood is right, but I do mean just right.

A fair to middling year as years go.  But I blogged and you showed up.  Some of you called and we explored your fantasies, some of you wrote emails to say hello or comment privately on a particular post, some of you commented here, some of you were silent…but I felt your presence.  

We started the year out with a (much celebrated) public lynching for chrizt’s sake.  It broke my heart.  And you understood. 

I got sidetracked with way too many projects and — for a while — didn’t blog as often as I should have (no new savants in 2007!  But I promise more in 2008) and you still showed up and I love you for it.

You sent me dirty pictures and I published two that I thought were super sexy here and here.  And everybody agreed with us whole-heartedly … proving that we do, indeed, know what is fucking hot! 

Our resident Pervert Savant kept us entertained with his very original and always hilarious installments of Lingerie on the Razor-Wire, 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!

We went to a wedding.  And I must say that you looked absolutely dapper, my darling. 

I shared with you the inter-office emails my sister, Bethany, forwarded to me — including God vs. Devil and What Men Do with Post-Its.

We went parochial and liked it so much we did it again. 

We got hot and bothered, down and dirty, all fired up, queer kinky and lesbian lovely.  It was downright decadent and we didn’t even have to wash out our mouths with soap afterwards.

Humiliation was the kink du jour, so I was in turn a Righteous Bitch, a Heartless Vamp, a Cuckolding Brat.  And then I laughed my ass off while you begged for mercy.  Admit it, you loved every minute of it.

I lamented and you held my hand.  I was tacky and you pretended to not notice.  I bragged about my this and that and you were happy for me. So I bragged some more and still you were happy for me.  I fucked off and you waited patiently.  I got on my soap box and you didn’t even roll your eyes.  I pontificated and you just smiled.  I bloviated and you acted like what I said mattered. I fucked around with everybody and anybody and you forgave me. Or maybe it’s just that you like to watch?

We read poetry.  We found some cuckold poetry.  And then there was the poem that made me cry the very first time read it.  And who can forget Shakespeare’s sonnets proving he was a pussy-whipped cuckold?

I kissed you.  It was very French.  Did you like it? 

I fell in love or lust  — or something in between –  over and over again …with Bitchy Jones  …with Supervert   …with Jerotic  …with Slip of a Girl  …with Sweat Shop Sissy  …with The Provocateur.

Did I say fair to middling?  On second thought, it was a simply lovely year.

xo, Angela 

Voyeur Lilies

by The Provocateur 

If I could articulate you, if I could draw you – then I would be an artist, drawing my desire. My want. And maybe, I could even draw a picture of my need. For you.

If not you, then something close to it – like one experience. One night and one morning.

And so, picture me as the artist – trying to remember everything, absolutely everything:

The parts of you that were naked to me, I traced with my fingers. Your tattoo and its colors in the early morning light beckoned my lips. Unabashedly, I was indulgence. Unknowingly, I was obligation. Only hours old, my ache and my taste for you was already overwhelming.

When I pulled away from my kiss of your skin, the shape of my lips melted away on your warm body. With this sensation, your eyes opened. You looked at me sweetly. You looked at me as that kind of stranger that I no longer want to be, to you.

+

The night was wintry. I could see my breath in blossoms.

This was the first night I knew you.

We met over a table of candles – you and I and your girl friend…

And even when you were looking at me, I was looking at you. As a voyeur and a boy – assessing just how beautiful you are. And I did it all without giggling.

You pulled the breath from my chest…

Your eyes. Your lips.

My anticipation was my heart, beating. Making my hands tremble in little quivers. You did this: you turned me into anticipation and something holy erotic. Even as we were just ordering drinks. Laughing nervously. Learning about our backgrounds.

Your scent swarmed around our table and I was no longer drunk from the drinks.

In it all I wanted to tell you that I am just a boy that wants a girl. In all my glances toward you – this is all I wanted to say. This is all I wanted you to know.

Only later and I would discover that words were unnecessary.

All I needed was my eyes. My eyes would tell you enough.

+

When we were warm and filled with drink, you guided me to your apartment. You wanted me to photograph you and your girlfriend. Here, I was anticipation – buzzing, looking calm.

The idea of learning what was under your clothes was a sensation that is like a memory of your scent: robust and voluptuous. Bigger than me.

Once back in your apartment and you made drinks and lit candles. You made me feel welcome and then you ran the bath water. Your girlfriend and I talked as you moved about the apartment, making sure that your clothes were not falling down.

As if I couldn’t be tempted with something that was forthcoming.

As if you know all too well about temptation and anticipation.

Then you stepped into the white bathroom. You left the door open. Your pants were unzipped – your belt was flailing outward. You were adorable in your shyness and bravery.

I already had my camera out and was snapping away. I knew, even then, that I wanted to memorize every little thing about you.

You were guarding yourself with playful hands as the water flowed behind you.

You said, no – wait…

And then you revealed yourself to me.

Naked and in the bathroom light you were. And the blood coursed through me at paralyzing speed, smashing my breath. Still, I kept depressing the shutter on the camera.

Here, my want was musical – like all the curves and lines on your body. The words you spoke, I will never remember. But forevermore, I will know how overwhelming my hunger is for you.

When you stepped into the tub, you dipped your head – your breasts perfect and your body naked before me. And when you resurfaced, your mascara was smeared like a peacock’s eyelash.

+

I said that I wouldn’t overstep your boundaries. Probably, I was lying.

When it was still dark my chivalry said that I would not push anything. This despite the fact that I had my finger on the shutter of erotic anticipation all night long. When it was still dark, I was laying next to you and you shot your hand into mine. You squeezed it like you meant it.

And when the sun began to rise, I was naked in your bed. I was stealing quick rifles of touch from your arm. You would not let me drive home in the cold, drunk. Forevermore, I will thank you for this

As you slept, I was again the voyeur: taking small, sleepy glances at you.

And I was marveling.

But we were not alone. And this seemed to only heighten this anticipation of all my want and nearly – need. Your girlfriend was asleep next to you when we were drifting to and from our own sleep.

I asked you what your favorite flower was and you said that it was Stargazer Lilies.

I asked you if you knew what lilies meant…

I said that lilies have meaning like everything else. I said they mean, “I dare you to love me”.

Your eyes grinned at me and made me feel as though I had said it out loud, “I dare you to…

And as I fell back to sleep I gave you a big white bouquet.

+

Standing before you, with my camera in-hand – and you, slick with water and completely exposed to me made me feel as though I was naked too.

From where I stood I felt perfect in my safety. And I think you felt it too.

When you dried yourself off, you walked into the bedroom and bent over in front of me.

Click. Your slick ass and arched back burned into my eyes.

Your girlfriend was trying-on panties and tops, barely covering her tiny body. I snapped and shot her with my rifle eye – but always I kept one eye free and waiting on you.

You laid on the bed and lathered baby oil all over your body. I saw your hand slip down and into your panties to oil your clean-shaven cunt.

Click. Click.

+

You asked me in the morning, if I wanted to go out to the couch. I obliged your request and got up from your bed, naked and swollen. Throbbing.

And your eyes were on me. On my cock.

You looked up at me, sweetly.

In your sheer top you sat next to me on the couch, a blanket wrapped around your bottom half. You pawed your toes into my thigh as we sat opposing one another. The winter day outside was gray and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.

We queried one another. We talked about the past. About broken hearts and darkened heads. Intermittently we would stop with recognition in the other’s words.

I am not so different from you. And you are relatively the same as me.

You read from a book and we looked at photographs together: You came close. You put your head into my chest and leaned back. I inhaled like a pillow that was able to hold everything you had to give.

+

As you danced and moved in your array of outfits: panties and high-heels and see-through tops:

I did not want you. I wanted the anticipation. The uncertainty.

The tease.

I want you for later. For tomorrow’s days.

And as you moved around me in eloquent pirouettes of fiery, wet sex – I snapped away. I captured your lines and your sex. Your hands and fingers curled down and under your wetness; as the pads of your fingers played with your nipples and hooked into your mouth – over your teeth and on your tongue in the exact desperate way that I wanted to lure you in…

Click. Click.

On this night and for several seconds at a time – I was invisible and only a voyeur. I was welcomed in my perversions. And while I was fully clothed – overdressed – I was also naked. Accepted.

Your entire body flirted with me.

When I left the next morning you wrapped your arms around me exactly in the way that I wrapped mine around you. For a long second, we did not let go. And you looked me intently in the eyes and, as I rounded the corner, you said, “I want to see you again, too.”

+

The next day, long after I was gone, you said that, last night, I told you that I would marry you.

I’m not certain, but your words were joking. Humorous. Giggling.

I, astonished, rifled through my memory. I recalled the idea, in my head – as perfect. But I was certain, as I said: I didn’t think I said that out loud.

You laughed. Probably giggled, from across the city, in an exclamation that said you were only joking. Kidding. You weren’t serious.

I closed my eyes and remembered that I did not speak these words out loud to you. Still, you heard them.

…with my hands outstretched, a bouquet of lilies are within my reach…

*******

Not very long ago, I was lucky enough to meet — via email and the telephone (no, he is not a phone sex client) — The Provocateur.  Apparently he'd been trying to reach me long before I discovered him.  I thank my lucky stars that he left a comment at my erotica blog, Blistered Lips.  Because then I got curious and tracked him down.

He tells me that I am talented.  I read his blog, with pieces such as the above, and I am humbled.  Every word he writes is slippery, wicked-wet perfection.  He's graciously permitted me the privilege of featuring his work here at Zen.  

I'm a very luck girl.  

xo, Angela 

Biff is back and you're not going to believe what she's up to now!  In what I believe is the funniest Razor-Wire installment yet, our erstwhile damsel has decided to bring in some extra cash by starting a secondary career in Phone Sex.  Ouch! 

A warm thanks to my generous and brilliant friend, Pervert Savant, who writes so deliciously well and with such humor.

Previously:   Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4 

Lingerie on the Razor Wire

by Pervert Savant

The Chilling Story of a Young Transsexual’s Search for Love Amid the Mindless Brutality, Recidivist Squalor, and Unrelentingly Tasteless Tattoos of the Most Corrupt Prison  in Texas! 

Chapter V:  Premium Phone-Sex from the Princess Mistress 

Prison Guard Mary “Biff” McGurk took a long swallow from her bottle of Tecate and glumly eyed the list of telephone numbers illuminated in a line on her computer’s messaging screen. 

Shit!” Biff muttered morosely.  “Looks like another slow night!” 

Eager to supplement her meager income as a functionary at West Texas Correctional, Biff had recently taken on a second job as a Phone Sex Worker. Her decision had been prompted by a colorful Internet ad promising easy money, the ability to work from home, and a chance to be one’s own boss.  Entranced by the prospects, Biff had signed an e-mail contract that promised an ability to start work immediately. However, despite high initial expectations, Biff’s financial returns from her new telephonic métier had, to date, proven somewhat disappointing. 

Biff’s pudgy fingers poked clumsily at her computer’s keyboard.  After a moment, a screen flashed, instantly revealing the litany of assumed names that constituted her recent phone clientele. 

BibOverallFetish called you at 6:15 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SonicLunch called you at 8:02 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

SasquatchAss called you at 9:23 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

LemueltheMoonPie called you at 9:47 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

Fartlover called you at 10:36 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:07 PM on 11/17/07 (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER)

BibOverallFetish called you at 11:10 PM (YOU HAVE BLOCKED THIS CALLER) 

Biff scrutinized her call list dismissively.  “Usual bunch of dipshits wanting refunds,” she mused knowingly while reaching for an unfiltered Camel.  “Well, fuck ‘em!  I don’t give refunds!” 

Biff took a deep drag from her cigarette and moved her cursor to her website’s “Customer Feedback” area.

  DATE        CALLER            RATING          COMMENT

Mildly irritated, Biff punched some more keys and moved to her New Caller List to see: 

PantyFemme called you at 12:07 AM on 11/19/07 (CUSTOMER WANTS A CALL-BACK!) 

“Hey!” Biff chortled.  “I got me a new one!”

Biff took another sip from her beer and flipped open the index page of her “Sweet Texas Honey New Operator’s Manual” searching eagerly for its entry for “Panty Fetishists.” 

“Sweet Texas Honey” was the name of the phone sex service Biff had recently joined.  Its website featured pictures of approximately 15 negligee-clad women, all with names like “The Duchess Lacey,” “Little Empress Puddin- Pie,” and “Queen-Bee Brittany,” each one purporting to have some sort of taboo sexual specialty. 

The site’s owner–a husky-voiced, 57-year old woman named Maisie O’Toole–had determined that her courtesans all had to be Princesses, Duchesses, or Queens–in addition to being “barely legal”, being “an experienced life-style mistress” and being possessed of “no taboos”.  These qualities were a guaranteed way – to Maisie’s way of thinking—of  attracting new callers. 

Of course, Biff had a picture posted at Sweet Texas Honey too.  And of course, it wasn’t really her own photo.  Biff’s ad featured a photograph of a svelte 19-year old brunette in a black leather corset bearing the nom-de-plume: “Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie”. The photo had cost Biff $50.00 and had been purchased from a website catering to would-be PSOs. 

Despite her ersatz picture, Biff had chosen her business name herself – a small accommodation that Maisie permitted her girls, so long as the selected name fell within the broad parameters of Maisie’s tested keys to telephonic success. Under her elected sobriquet Biff had opted to insert her designated area of expertise — “Whiplash Cash Vixen and No-Limits Life-Style Mistress!” 

As an added come-on, Biff’s site featured–like those of the other geishas who toiled for Maisie –a brief statement detailing her personal likes and dislikes.  Biff had painstakingly written her statement after carefully reviewing those posted on the web pages of her erstwhile rivals.  After giving the matter some thought, Biff had penned the following come-on to her hoped-for future customers: 

GOT A FAVORITE FANTASY YA’D LIKE TO PLAY OUT?  WELL, HOW’D YOU LIKE SUM FIRE ANTS UP YER BUTT, DOGBOY?  HA! HA! OR HOW’S ABOUT ME JUST LAFFIN AT THAT FUNNY LITTLE BITTY PECKER YA GOT THERE?  HA! HA! WELL, I CAN BE SENSUAL TOO — LIKE I WAS YER SPECIAL GIRL FRIEND OR SOMETHING.  HEY! HOW ABOUT I DRESS YOU UP LIKE YOU WAS LITTLE BO-PEEP AND THEN I DO YA WITH AN OLD CORNCOB?  HA! HA! PRETTY FUNNY!!  I DON’T CARE. THAT’S OK WITH ME TOO. OR HOW BOUT I HOGTIE YOUR ASS AND TREAT YOU LIKE YOU WAS A HEIFER?  MOOOO!  MOOO!  I GOT MY BRANDIN’ IRON ALL REDDY HA! HA!  PRETTY FUNNY, HUH? SO CALL ME UP AND HAVE YOUR TOYS AND GERBILS AND OTHER STUFF ALL REDDY CUZ I LIKE ALL THAT TOO!  NO TABOOS!  I’M A LIFE-STYLE MISTRESS! BARELY LEGAL! YOU’D BE SMART TO CALL ME UP RIGHT NOW, PISSANT!  DON’T KEEP HER EXALTED HIGHNESS PRINCESS MISTRESS BIFFIE WAITING!!!!! AND REMEMBER!  NO REFUNDS!!!!  AND NO WEBCAMS EITHER !! AND I DON’T SELL PANTIES SO DON’T EVEN ASK!!! CALL ME NOW, WORM!!!  AND BEFORE YOU CALL, READ THE RULES!!! 

Thus prepared, Biff then began her work as an odalisque for “Sweet Texas Honey.”  After a spate of initial interest, her calls, inexplicably, had begun tailing off.  Thus, the fact that a “New Caller” was now awaiting her long-delayed call-back served to rekindle some of Biff’s original enthusiasm. 

After cursorily perusing the Manual’s recommendations for the treatment of panty fetishists, Biff opened a bag of barbecued Fritos and a fresh bottle of Tecate and steeled herself for the upcoming task.  Pensively concentrating on Maisie’s suggestions, Biff dialed the number and, after a moment’s pause, was connected to her caller: 

“Hello?” the unknown caller drawled. 

Is this Panty Ass? Er…wait a minute…I mean, Panty Femme?” Biff intoned sweetly. 

“Er…Yeah.  It’s me.  Is this Sweet Texas Honey?” 

“It shore as hell is!”  Biff responded, trying to establish the quick rapport that Maisie had stressed was so important with new callers. 

“Well, howdy-do there, cupcake!  My real name’s, well, it’s Lester.” 

“Well this here’s Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Y’all lookin’ fer some fun, huh?”  Biff took a swig from her new Tecate and rummaged in her bag for a Frito. 

"You betcha, sweetcheeks!” the caller responded.  “I got me this little thing fer panties.  Do you specialize in panty-type calls?” 

“Shit yes I do,” Biff lied, languidly chewing her Frito.  “I’ll bet yew’d like to know what kinda panties I’m wearing right now, wouldn’t ya?  Well, sir I’ll tell ya.  They’re these brand new cotton ones I got in my favorite color – lime green.  I also got me a pair with all these leopardy dots on ‘em that I like too.  ‘Course they’re in the wash right now.  I usually wear them panties for my special occasions.  Most of the time though I wear Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer shorts.  Pretty sexy, those Fruit-of-the-Looms—all loose like.  I like ‘em cuz they sorta let the air in and keep everything all cool.  I like the name too. Fruit-of-the-Loom.  Fruit-of-the-Loom’s got a real nice ring to it.  Kinda wholesome.  Y’know, I’m a life-style mistress and I have my stable of subbies hand wash my Fruit-of-the-Looms.  Pretty sexy, huh?" 

“Well, that’s nice.  But what I was thinkin’ about was a pair of them sexy little thongs.  You know, the sorta satiny kind and in a real hot color…you know…like Fire-Engine Red.” 

“Well goddamit, you little dipshit…why didn’t you say so….Hey, now that I’m lookin’ at ‘em, why that’s exactly what I got on now.  Fire-Engine Red thongs.  I usually wear Fire Engine Red thongs under my regular clothes when I’m working on my job.  They’re real slick. Ya sit down wearing those things and ya feel like yer gonna slide right off a chair.  One thing about them though, you gotta be careful with ‘em after you take a shit.  Skid marks.  It’s tough to get skid marks offa satin. But yeah, that’s what I got on now.  Pretty too. Wish you could see ‘em on me.  But you can’t, I guess.  Cuz yore there and I’m here."

Biff paused to take another swallow of beer, listening for “feedback” from the caller.  “Feedback” was important.  Maisie had mentioned that in the Manual. 

“Well, look cupcake.  I was kinda wonderin’ how’d it be if I put on a pair of them thongs with you there…you know…sorta guidin’ me…tellin’ me how hot it makes you and all…y’know?” 

Biff burped and reached for another Frito. 

‘Oh, yeah, that’d make me hot all right – real hot.  Catchin’ you wearing my thong thingies.  Why, if I caught you in ‘em, I’d prolly get my whip and beat yore stupid ass real good.  Shit.  You’d look like such a dumb ass wearin’ my thongs.

What are you anyway?   Some kinda pervert?  Jeez-o-pete, I’d probly have you arrested and haul yore ass down to the police station.  What’s yore name again?  Lester?  Well, Lester, you strike me as one sick perp. I’d haul yore ass down to the station and turn ya over to the proper law enforcement authorities.  That’s my reaction.  I’d be hot all right. I’d press charges!  That answer yore question? 

“No wait.  See, sugar, you don’t understand…What I meant was, you just get me in them panties and…” 

“Hey, Lester…Listen here. Somethin’ tells me we ain’t getting’ off on the right foot.  Look, I know what you like.  I’m an experienced life-style mistress, ain’t I?  Just like my ad says.  And I orter know what’s best fer you, shouldn’t I?  I mean, who’s the goddam expert here? So you just hush-up a minute and let me describe myself ta ya.  See, I’m barely legal.  Eighteen is the legal age and I’m nineteen.  My measurements are 38-24-36.  That get you all hot?  And don’t call me ‘sugar’!  Call me by my name – Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Do I make myself clear?

“Er, yes Her Exalted Highness Princess Mistress Biffie.  Um…but what I was trying to say was that I….” 

“Look, toad-brain.  One thing you should keep in mind is that the Princess Mistress doesn’t like to be interrupted.  You been interrruptin’ me right and left.  Do you know who it is yore talkin’ to? 

“Well, I was just tryin’ to say…” 

“I don’t give two shits about what you were tryin’ ta say, you little turdlet.  I know what you like.  You oughta be arrested for it too….Wait a minute.  I’ll deal with you in a minute.  Right now I gotta go take a leak…And you better be here when I come back.” 

“But, Princess Mistress Biffie!  This call is costing me $14.95 a minute!  Couldn’t you just tell me how pretty I’d look in that red thong…you know…and sorta touch ‘em after I got into ‘em and all? Real quick like. And then…” 

“Look, bozo, who’s the Princess Mistress here?  You or me? 

“Well, you are, of course, Princess Mistress, but…" 

“That’s right.  How’d you like it if I put a little horney toad in them panties down there with your little Fredrick?  Them toads got spines.  That could cause you problems…” 

“No…I wouldn’t want that…But I was thinkin’ of somethin’ more….well…My fantasy’s more sensual.” 

“Ha!  You want me ta rub yore dick through yore panties and tell ya yer all pretty, heh?” 

“Well, yes…I mean…something like that…” 

“Fat chance of that happening, dog-boy.  But I will do a fantasy session where I turn you into my little girl.  How’s that sound?  And I’m gonna name you Trollop.  I kinda like that name.  But first I have ta hypnotize you. 

Relax….Relax…Listen to my voice.  Start counting backwards backwards.  Slowly from 500.  Come on now:  499, 498….  You’re getting sleepy.  Did I tell you that I’m also a trained hypnotherapist?   Well I am! 497…count!  I can’t hear you counting.  Are you counting?  I can’t do no fantasy without cooperation!  Get to it!  I can’t hear you! 

“496…..” 

“That’s better.  Now, when you get down ta zero you will be fast asleep and in my power…Keep counting!” 

“495…Er…but Princess Mistress… that’s going to cost me a fortune!” 

“Keep counting!  You are growing more and more feminine as you count.  495…  More and more in Her Exalted Princess Mistress’ power.  Now keep counting, and when I come back here I want to hear you still counting…slowly…backward.  Count!” 

“Please, Princess Mistress…can’t we start at 50?  Princess?  Are you still there?  I can’t hear you.  OK…OK…494…493…getting sleepy…492…” 

“That guy’s voice sure sounds familiar,” Biff mused as she idly washed her hands after relieving herself.  “I could swear I’ve heard it before.  Fuck, I been talkin’ to so many of these perverts lately I can hardly wipe my ass right anymore.” 

Returning to the phone, Biff heard the caller continuing his countdown to erotic nirvana. 

“367…366…365…er….27…26…25…” 

“Goddamit!  Yore cheatin’ you little asswipe,” Biff resumed, immediately taking charge.  Maisie’s Manual stressed the importance of taking charge of submissives. 

“Er no…look…I can’t be countin’ that long.  My credit card’s gonna be maxed out!” 

“Okay…okay!  Look, while I was away I got me this strap-on.  You know what that’s for, right?  Bend over you little sissy.  OK, now hold still ‘cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Wait a minute…I mean…can’t you be a little more sensual?” 

“You want sensual?  Hmm.  OK, take yer fingers and start a-pinchin’ yer titties!  Ain’t that sweet?  Ya got ‘em all hard fer me?  OK, now hold still cause I’m a-comin’ right in there!” 

“Look, sweetie, this ain’t workin’ for me; I’m sorry.  Ain’t all yer fault, I guess.  OK, I gotta hang up.  This goddam call’s gonna cost me a fortune.” 

“All right then, hang up.  But remember ta leave me 5 stars, OK?  And a tribute.  Mistress Biffie loves tributes!  Hell, maybe next time I’ll give ya a free minute.  OK?” 

***CLICK*** 

“WE HOPED YOU ENJOYED YOUR CALL WITH SWEET TEXAS HONEY.  TELL A FRIEND ABOUT US.  YOU CAN GET $50.00 OFF YOUR NEXT CALL!”

The Intern

The knock interrupted Angela’s reading, and she looked up from the file folder. Jeannie stood in the doorway.  I’ve put him in number two.  Amanda is making the final preparations. 

Angela rolled her eyes.  "Amanda–again?" 

Jeannie laughed.  Give her some time, Ms. St. Lawrence. It takes some time." 

"It didn’t take you much time, Jeannie," Angela smiled, “and knock off that Ms. St. Lawrence crap."

“Yes ma’am,"  Jeannie teased. 

Angela closed the file, and moved it to the corner of her desk.  "But you’re good at whatever you do,  Jeannie.  It didn’t take you any time to become the best AA in this building either. But I miss you in the chamber." 

“Thank you, Angie," Jeannie smiled, accepting the compliment. Her promotion to Angela’s administrative assistant had brought more money, but it was also a job that she enjoyed very much.  Now she assisted with the details of so many different aspects of correction and punishment of so many prisoners, and it was something she felt she had a great aptitude for. 

“Amanda’s just a kid. She has potential. And she wants this job." 

“What she wants is inconsequential, Jeannie," Angela scowled.  “Tell her to be ready for me in ten minutes." 

Jeannie closed the door and crossed the hallway to her office. One thing that was for sure–what mattered in this department was what Angela St. Lawrence wanted. That’s what made her so good at her job. Something the unfortunate gentleman she had just escorted to holding cell two was about to find out. 

She picked up the phone and dialed Amanda’s extension. 

****

Ten minutes. A good thing she had noticed that a new prisoner had arrived, and had already stoked the fires. Now all she needed to do was get the prisoner in place. 

Amanda walked to the forge that was built into the chamber’s far wall. A brick shelf extended from this wall at a height of about 36 inches.  The center of the shelf formed a basin, in which a mound of coals glowed brightly. She had added a fresh layer of charcoal, and had pumped the bellows of the forge until these new coals were now almost a homogeneous scarlet with the rest. 

There were three small tools that Ms. St. Lawrence seemed to favor, so she made sure that these were embedded in the coals. Next, she turned to inspect the brazier. The forge was at the foot of the large wooden table that occupied the center of the room. Instead of a perfect rectangle, a large V notch had been cut out of one end. This was the end where prisoners’ legs were spread, allowing the Facilitator easy access to the genitalia. 

Just to the right of the head of the table was a large brazier. To this, Amanda had added several pieces of split-oak firewood. Removing a poker from the flames, she pushed at these burning pieces, breaking them up and forcing them deeper into the existing embers. The poker was then jammed back into the fire, next to other handles of other tools, the business ends buried deep in their fiery container. 

“She has to be happy with that," Amanda thought, watching the newly stirred embers flame excitedly. This was only the third time that Amanda had assisted Ms. St. Lawrence. The last two times hadn’t gone well. In fact–the first time–Ms. St. Lawrence had sent her out of the chamber. 

***

She had been through one year of Pyro-Correctional vocational study at the community college; and now almost six months of internship here, but this was the next level, and she was perhaps not as prepared as she could have been for what happened in these particular chambers. 

But she knew that she could adjust, she could learn. She wanted to, so much. There was something that she could not really describe that had always appealed to her about working here.  And she had been an A student in her classroom training. 

In the first three months of her internship she had been assigned to the Misdemeanor department, observing and assisting with light to moderate tortures. The last two months had been spent in Interrogations, but prisoners’ rights limited the seriousness of the torture that could be administered. Supposedly. She learned that there were ways around this. In institutions like this there always were. But in many of those cases she was asked to leave the room or sent on some trumped-up errand, while the interrogators did their work behind closed doors. 

Now, she was in the Corrections department. Where there was no reason for secrecy. These prisoners had been duly tried, found guilty, and sentenced. This was where those sentences were carried out. And the Facilitators–women like Ms. St. Lawrence–carried them out in ways to which Amanda had never been exposed. 

The first time she assisted, the time that Ms. St. Lawrence dismissed her, involved a prisoner that had been convicted of attempted rape. Ms. St. Lawrence had explained to her that according to the transcript, the rape had not been successful, but that men disposed to this behavior were likely to attempt it again. It could not be tolerated. She had asked Amanda to go to the forge and pump the bellows to make sure that the implement she intended for the prisoner was heated intensely. 

So Amanda did as she was told, even though she could not see anything but the coals themselves, and pumped as she watched Ms. St. Lawrence pull the prisoner’s pants down to his ankle shackles. She smiled as he explained his innocence.  "I know, you’re all innocent. Ms. St. Lawrence had answered, sounding she sounded sympathetic.  She’d then turned and opened a drawer in a small cabinet, and removed a ball gag.  "But I certainly don’t need to hear about it, now do I?"  After gagging the prisoner, Ms. St. Lawrence stood between his legs, and began to massage his penis. 

Amanda was not surprised. She knew that an erection was usually a prerequisite to torture. “You like young women, do you?” she asked rhetorically—since he could not respond. “Then you’ll like Amanda.”

 

“Why don’t you play with his cock,” Ms. St. Lawrence had a calm determination in her voice, as she motioned for Amanda to join her at the table. “I understand that your victim was just about Amanda’s age,” the prisoner shook his head violently in protest as Amanda approached. “So enjoy!”

 

Ms. St. Lawrence had moved out of the way, and Amanda, knowing from her training exactly what to do, began to caress his penis.

 

Raised a good Catholic, Amanda, now 19, had managed to remain a virgin. But she was an expert in hand jobs—and blow jobs. In high school and college she had actually intimidated a few boyfriends—because she had so aggressively made them orgasm. It was like their cock’s, and their semen, were hers to control. And when they came, it wasn’t them giving it. She was taking it.

 

So manipulating him, like so many others, was easy. And Ms. St. Lawrence actually seemed to be impressed, as Amanda quickly made him rock hard. By this time, Ms. St. Lawrence had moved to the forge and had begun stroking the handle of the bellows.

 

“Men’s dicks get them into a lot of trouble—just like you’re in right now,” Ms. St. Lawrence explained, oblivious to his protest and panic. “Look at you. Wanting to stick that thing where it doesn’t belong.”

 

“Even though you’ve been sentenced for trying to do the same thing to another victim,” she picked up a pair of tongs and started to dig into the blazing coals. “You just haven’t learned.”

 

She found what she had been searching for in the bed of coals and removed a gleaming red cylinder, clenched between the tongs.

 

“If you want to put that thing into some place it doesn’t belong, Mr. Harris,” she smiled, “why don’t we put it in here?”

 

That’s when Amanda made her mistake. “Oh my GOD!” She almost thought it had come from someone else. But she had said it.

 

She stopped stroking his cock. She was mesmerized by the red-hot iron sleeve that Ms. St. Lawrence brought towards her—towards the cock in her hands.

 

“Oh, Jesus.” Had that come from her again?

 

“If this is too much for you Amanda you can leave now,” Ms. St. Lawrence said, matter-of-factly. The glowing cylinder of iron was just above his erect penis. Amanda could feel his pulse in his cock, hear the protests despite the gag, actually smell the heat of the burning iron. She didn’t know if she was excited, or nauseated, or both.

 

“Leave the room, Amanda. I don’t think you’re ready for this,” Ms. St. Lawrence commanded, "Leave now!”

 

Amanda let go of his cock, and walked towards the door. She didn’t look back. She knew what would be next. Ms. St. Lawrence had made that perfectly clear. She was frightened, humiliated, and embarrassed.

 

So she went into the closest ladies room, locked the stall, and masturbated. **** NOTE: This story (STARRING ME!) was written for me (0nly for me, he said. Hmph!) by a client. Having your penis burned is a rare fetish, so I though you might like a voyeur’s peek. Of course, the client shall remain anonymous. FYI: NO PENISES WERE HARMED DURING THE CREATION OF THIS FETISH FANTASY.

When I read his blog, Prurient Interests, I never know what is real and what is fantasy. If you knew him like I know him, you would understand. Because Porno Person is a good friend and a caller. I know for a fact that he practices kink at least on a semi-regular basis; I’ve seen the pictures! And, no, I will not show them to you. That he trusts me is something I would never dishonor.

Porno Person also happens to be a talented writer, editor and publisher. This I also know first hand, and, again, I will not kiss and tell. Anyway, he’s kinda-sorta given me carte blanche to use his blog entries if I am so inclined. And today I am. So with out further ado, I present the following. Fact or Fiction? You decide. Or maybe Porno Person will stop by and tell us.

Her Little Friend

I was all set to meet my friend Grace for an afternoon romp when I got an unexpected call from her.

“I have something I need to ask you,” she said solemnly. “I have a friend over and I’m wondering if it’s okay if she stays. I’d like her to be there when we play.”

I had been expecting a cancellation or worse. The addition of another woman for our rendezvous didn’t sound too bad at all.

When I arrived, I was introduced to April; a diminutive lass with a voluptuous figure. She seemed slightly shy and very cute. She stayed close to Grace, almost as if she were afraid of me.

Grace always appreciated my tongue. An avowed bi-sexual, Grace swore that I could preform cunnilingus better than any lesbian she knew. She couldn’t wait much more than a few minutes to shuck her clothes and get up onto her knees on the bed. “Come lick me, darling,” she purred, her shaved pussy beckoning to me.

I got an idea and told April, “If you really want to make Grace happy, do what I do…” I got down on my knees at the edge of the bed and she followed my lead. I took Grace’s tender left foot into my hand and she took the right one. I put my mouth over her big toe and began to suckle at it. Grace began moaning and this quickly turned into a squeal of pleasure as April began sucking on the big toe of Grace’s right foot.

We both knelt there, licking and massaging Grace’s feet. Grace quickly slid a finger down the slit of her pussy and began masturbating as April and I worshiped her tender toes. I watched as April’s tongue slithered along Grace’s arch and heard Grace moan, “It’s taking everything I have to not cum right now…”

I knew how much Grace loved having her feet worshiped and could tell that April was enjoying hearing Grace moan and groan as much as I did. Holding her hand flat over her pussy, Grace was pushing herself against her palm when she said, “I can’t take it anymore. Mike, I need your tongue in my ass.”

Grace was one of the only people that ever requested that I rim her. Since then, I was always sure to provide this to her. It was a special bond between us, I felt. She got up onto her knees, turning over and offering her tanned bottom to me. I got up on the bet behind her, kneeling on all fours, and slid my tongue up and down the crack. April still kneeled by the side of the bed, watching us.

As I pushed my tongue into the tight rosebud of Grace’s ass, I felt a wonderful sensation. April had crawled up onto the bed with us and gotten underneath me to take my cock in her mouth. As I pushed my tongue in and out of Grace’s tight ass, April was sliding her mouth up and down on my cock. Her hunger for cock was voracious. I had never felt someone so enthusiastic about fellatio before. It felt like her tongue was another hand, grabbing and stroking me as she slurped noisily between my legs. I felt light headed as I continued tongue fucking Grace’s ass.

It was as if April’s vacuum mouth was sucking the cum right out of me. I moaned into Grace’s ass and began orgasming as April gulped down my cum.

Not wanting to leave anyone out, Grace turned over onto her back and told April, “Bring that sweet pussy over here.” April put her legs around Grace’s head as she began licking April with gusto. I watched this for a few minutes before I sank back between Grace’s legs and began licking her pussy. I could hear her moans muffled under April and this seemed to telegraph up through and out of April who joined in the chorus of pleasure. It was like I was licking both Grace and April at the same time as the intensity of my tongue on Grace’s clit seemed to mirror that which she applied to April’s. Soon they were both writhing and moaning as they orgasmed in tandem, something that I’ll never forget.

We collapsed in a heap of bodies, April to Grace’s right and me to her left as we both lay in her arms and slowly ran our hands over Grace’s glistening body. We chatted a while until April and I looked at each other and then both took Grace’s nipple’s into our mouths, starting the whole thing all over again…