I recently visited a particularly sadistic woman for an evening of overwhelming intensity.

She had not had an opportunity to play in some time, and it had been even longer since she had her claws in somebody that she could really let loose on. After we sat and enjoyed a drink or two, she told me to go to her play room. After stripping I would find a safe in the closet into which I was to deposit my clothes, guaranteeing that I would not run (there was no chance of it, but the psychological effect was intense). I would also find my outfit for the evening within the safe–a hood, heavy collar, ball gag, and cock and ball harness. The ring was particularly wicked as the inside was lined with spikes. It also featured a ring that looked as though a leash could be hooked onto it.

A straight-backed chair sat in the middle of the room with a note saying “wait here.” Properly attired I sat…and sat…and sat. She liked to keep me waiting but she was always worth the wait (much like the divine Miss Angela). I could hear her shoes clicking down the hallway, anxious for when they would stop at my door and I would catch a whiff if her scent, soft but arousing. When she finally came, making her way around me and touching me gently, purring her approval, I was panting with desire.

I felt her attaching something to the cock ring–a rope, I would soon find out–and pulled it up behind my neck and back down to tie it off around the same ring. She then sat on my lap, proceeding to stroke and kiss my neck and chest gently, toying with my nipples. As my moans of delight started to change to heavy breathing I felt her reach for something, pushing on my chest as she leaned back, her hand covering the rope. When she came back up I felt something hard being traced up the rope on my right. She I had no idea what it was so when she told me to take a deep breath and then let it out I was shocked–I felt a hard pressure against my chest, against the rope, and then a piercing explosion answering the mystery–surgical staples.

She knew how much I hated them, of course, and starting in with them before I’d had any real warm-up meant that they would be as painful as possible. Six down each side of the rope, each one an agony. It was all I could do to sit still, through it and I knew I would have a hard time taking anything else. She knew it as well, as she explained, and that was why she was about to shrink wrap me to the chair, pinning my arms to my sides and my back and legs to the chair. She sat back down on my lap, tore off the hood and gag, and gave me a deep kiss, pressing up against my chest as she did. The sight of her gave me strength to endure the pain–her eyes and lips exuding desire. She sat back, locked my gaze, and punched my chest, triggering a wild scream from me and a moan of delight from her. She took her time at first, with deliberate strikes to the length of the rope, enjoying the red stream beginning to coat the inside of the wrap.

She soon let herself succumb to her desire, taking full swings at my chest and arms, kneeling on my thighs for better leverage at times, perhaps, though more likely to feel my screams against her bosom. When she seemed to tire, either from the effort or boredom with this particular torment, she began to use her nails on me, gouging my neck and shoulders before digging them in around my nipples to get access to them. She raked at and pinched them, sometimes using her nails to pull them to her, playing me like a piano. She looked in my eyes and told me that she could feel my cock–she knew how much I needed this.

She then rose and moved behind me so that I couldn’t see her. I’m always a little upset when I can’t see her both because the sight of her helps me endure and because when she does so it is almost always to get some new item with which to torment me. When she came back around I was expecting a whip or a cane or a truncheon but what I saw was far, far worse. A rubber band. I have found that things that you would never think would be too painful often prove to be vicious. She wound one end around her pointer and middle fingers, placing one on each side of my left nipple and pulled back on the other end–the classic rubber band snap position. She took her time. She found exactly the tension she wanted in the rubber band, but also in my eyes. She licked her lips. She nodded her head with an evil grin. She took her time.Then she let go and my world went white.

It was exactly as bad as I’d feared. She did both nipples several times, taking her time with each one, seeing that I was getting close to tears. She then moved down to my pubic mound, snapping to the left and right of the rope that still waited with the staples, then snapping it a couple of times, mostly for my fear reaction. She looked down and pouted, then started to rub the insides of my thighs. “We forgot all about these, didn’t we?” Snap, snap, snap it went, up and down my thighs leaving angry red welts. She stood up and looked down at me…at my thighs…in my eyes…and retrieved the gag. She strapped it in place and told me that she wanted my chest. My eyes widened in abject fear at what might come next…this made her smile that evil grin again.

I had assumed that she would use scissors or a knife to remove the wrap, but no, she used her finger nails, slashing at me long after the wrap could easily be pulled off. She sat on my lap again, toying with the staples lightly. “So there are two ways we can do this–one is mean and hard and very painful, the other one makes the first look like cotton candy. I just wanted to ask one or two little questions.” She leaned close to me, pressing her body into me as she undid the gag, and purred, “You want to make me happy, don’t you?” “Of course I do.” “You know what I want you to say then, don’t you?” I shrank, my desire and fear fighting for dominance but either way there was only one answer I could give, whispering “the harder one, please.”

“Lounder.”

“The hard one, please.”

“Sell it–I don’t think you really want it. I don’t think you really want to make me happy. Convince me!”

Her gaze was as unyielding as it was unsympathetic as it was passionate.

I crumbled. The tears that emerged would be known for the breaking of a man if it weren’t for the words that came with them, pleading for the harder one, pleading for her to channel every untapped sadistic desire she held and show me how far it can go.”

She complied. Rather than simply pulling one half off with a single tug and then digging the other half out slowly and methodically, she had me sit forward. She used the slack this formed to pull the rope over my head. She produced another rope, using some to tie a ring at the base of my balls, just beneath the spiked harness and the rest to connect with the length of rope now suspended over the staples. I waited for what would come next, not knowing at all what it could be. She heard my anxiety and squatted next to the chair. “Oh, I’m not going to do anything more to you. You see, you’re going to want to straighten up at some point. It won’t be all at once–you’re welcome to try to do that, of course, but I can’t imagine you have the courage for that. You may get to the point that you accept what will happen to you and that inspires you, but at first you’ll just come up centimeter by centimeter and eventually this line,” she tugged at it for emphasis,” will start pulling on both ends. The staples will tear into you with every breath as the spikes in your cock ring cut a line up your junk.”

She left me to make herself a cocktail to enjoy while she waited for me to break.

_______________________

If I were there I would have caught his tears in a champagne flute.

And drank them.

*bats eyelashes*

_______________________

FemDomme Art courtesy of FemDom Artists and the incomparable PolyFetishist, who will always have a piece of my heart.

Dear Miss Angela:

This cock you now own is stiff.  These balls now under your control are full. Erections are frequent, and leaking pre-cum is plentiful.

All I can think of is your beautiful voice and your sexy ways, but …

… if you would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Angela, why you undid me.

I have neither words nor measure, and I have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength.

I have only downright oaths, which I never use till urged, nor never break for urging.

To say to you that I shall die is true, but for lack of cumming, by the Lord, no. Yet I would cum for you.

_____________________

He quotes a bit of Shakespeare.  His manners are impeccable.  He is obedient. He is focused on ME. He performs any assigned task with nary a complaint. He is, indeed, a very good boy.

♪ ♫ ♬♪ ♫ ♬♪ ♫ ♬

Just a few golden notes (from emails and conversations):

• I’m in an impossibly dull and useless conference call–I had far more stimulation hooded, bound, and alone.  (after an “isolation” session)
• It just makes me hotter to hear you giggle when I moan in discomfort. (denial & CBT … delicious)
• The first time we spoke, it was love at first kink. (kink-a-dink-a-do, baby cakes)
• Would you really make me masturbate in front of your girlfriends? (not ten of them … but perhaps a few)
• You’re a Man Eater! (anybody have a toothpick?)
• You’re the only woman I’d kneel for. (and he does it often)
• Did you tell your girlfriends that you spoil me? Or that I am enthralled? (and he’s hasn’t cum in a month … oh my)
• I am supposed to be working, but can only think about that leather outfit. (from my leather freak, of course)
• Did I really eat my own cum for you? Disgusting! (but I bet he’ll be back for breakfast)
• I am so nervous that I can’t call. (he did and now he’s mine)
• You get wet when I wear panties for you.  Admit it.  (ahh … the eternally hopeful slut)
• You aren’t just a sexy voice and sexy mind crafting sexy words, you are truly a wonderful person. (sweet boy)
• Yes, I’ll use any pretense I can think of to reach out to you. (I own you *licking lips* yum)
• I went to sleep with you on my mind, which is pretty much where you had been all day. (soon-to-be-knighted Romantic Savant)
• I’m serious about meeting you. Name the place and time and I’ll be there (thanks, but no thanks)
• I’m still trembling three hours later. (carry on, sweet pea)
• How vile I am. (he makes my mouth water)
• Cumming in a corner with my pants around me ankles? Damn, Girl! (don’t forget the lesbian action behind you)
• That countdown was brutal. (❤❤❤)
• I was fucking my girlfriend and all I could do was think about you and the things you made me do. (mission accomplished)

… and the beat goes on.  The beat goes on.

Tra la la.

xo, Angela

Tom C. Hunley

You’re not sure whether or not to divorce your spouse,
so you go for a walk to think-think-think, because
you’re a thinker. A pair of bluebirds fly in unison, sing
in unison. They shoot straight up in unison and then,
as if in a wordless, songless agreement to disagree, one
arcs sharp right, the other veers left at a mirror angle,
and because you’re a Romanticist at heart, you decide
you have to break your marriage in half.
But you’re part Postmodernist, too, so you think
maybe the birds are being ironic, and you think
staying and leaving are really just two ways
of doing the same thing. And since you’re also
part Modernist, you pray, a throwback to your latent
Victorianism. You ask God what you should do, and
before He has a chance not to answer, you tell Him
you don’t believe in Him anymore, though at moments
like this, you wish to God you still did.

Tom C. Hunley

___________________

Three things.

First, I absolutely love this poem. It arrived in my email seconds ago and — already! — here I am posting it for you.  It is, after all, poetry month.

If you are someone who just doesn’t quite get the poetry thing, maybe this will help you wrap your pretty little head around it.  I mean, married or not married or previously married or not previously married … well it doesn’t really matter, does it now?

And is it really *just* a commentary on marriage?

You still get it, don’t you? You get it, you GROK! I know you do!  Because this says everything about the human adventure: our redundant foibles, our silly sweetness, our ironic dichotomies. And I would argue that this lovely poem also speaks to the markings of what I call “God’s Fingerprints” on even the most intellectual and scientific of us, whether we know it or not.  And yes … I do see these Fingerprints often.  And on whom you’d  least expect, or, in some cases, suspect.

Secondly: Yes! I’m adding Romantic Savant (who turned me on to Mr. Hunley and his beautiful poetry) to my Phone Sex Savant collection. It’s been a very long time since Zen Fetish has had a new Savant,  and to make room for him I needed to get into that damn display case to dust off and rearrange my tried and true most loyal Savants.  I’ve been a neglectful collector.  The dust was so thick in that display case, all of my Savants got a blow job and they didn’t even know it.

And he will be knighted sometime soon, when you will learn more about him. I expect the rest of you Phone Sex Savants to move over, make room and play nice.

And last but certainly not-in-the-least least … more about Mr. Hunley. His books are available here, and I’m particularly desiring this one. Who’s going to buy it for me (paperback, please)?

He is the Director of Steel Toe Books and also teaches poetry classes (*swoon*) at Western Kentucky University.

Life is good. So deliciously and delightfully good good good. And I am a happy happy happy girl.

xo, Angela

Thanks to

Addicting Info and Director Jerome Davis

I sit with this email account and your twitter feed open, slavishly hoping to see a (1) pop up next to either of them. The email is the crueler of the two, alerting me with petty things that I could care less about. Every time it comes up, I rush to see if it is you and my heart aches when it is not.

It’s as if I’m searching in the dark, hoping for a ray of light…a taste of your attention. When I get it, I exult. When denied the void engulfs me.

Yours, Scunt

Today ONLY. I mean it this time!

You bring the green beer and green panties.

I’ll bring  my green strap-on.

Irish boys get a kiss.  Just one though.

Long distance domination is an art form.  When we are talking to you via the phone, we cannot read your face or take note of your body language.  And if you’re the silent type? Well, the girl who nails you is — in my book — immediately elevated from FemDomme Goddess to High Priestess of Kink.

You, my cherished and beloved callers, deserve the best.  Whether you crave financial destruction,  seek total transformation by an intellectually and spiritually superior woman, want to gets your balls kicked and your cock tortured, need a beautiful female to introduce you to the nuanced life of cuckolding or even desire she of the feminine persuasion to convince you that “sucking cock” is the one and true way for you …

… you’ve come to the right place.

Because I am the best.

I *am* the High Priestess of Kink, Goddess of Perversion, Mistress of  Cock-Pets.  And I absolutely delight in taking you down, down, down the rabbit hole.

But don’t take my word for it.  Five star reviews from your brothers in crime:

My cock weeps from her control.  (from a treasured chastity pet, who rarely gets relief)

She was always my favorite. Not only did she remember me, she also remembered everything we used to talk about. In detail. Truly amazing! (I am)

Beyond superb! Pushes envelope of what’s possible over the phone.  Transports one to the scene of your choosing, with her special embellishments. Leaves you happy, spent, content, yearning for another.  (very kinky guy who always challenges me)

Her sheer audacity amazes me. I am in awe of Angela.  (a king on his knees. yummy)

She’s the Mistress of Kink.  She’s a Dominatrix of Desire.  She’s Kinkella De Ville (and you’ll be her pet). But she’ll always be Mistress Kink-a-licious to me! (oh the dark places I’ve forced him to go)

She really is the best on NiteFlirt.  She took my fantasy and ran with it. She knows what she is doing and she will have you bursting! (blessed be the believer)

OMFG. If I had any doubts about whether I’d call or not before there’s no way I could resist now. We’ve never even had a session and I feel wrapped around her finger already. Her voice is as sultry as her mind is dark. (*batting eyelashes*)

She’s much smarter than you.  (he knows and you will too)

You are so very special, Mistress Angela. Talking to you always is very special — and I didn’t think it would even go deeper. Thank you. (a very good boy)

Blessed perversion with a twist. If that menu item appeals, then there is no other choice but Angela. (that’s right, darling one)

I came, she saw, she conquered. Just not necessarily in that order. If you talked with her, you know exactly what I mean. (delicious)

She has an incredible imagination and uses it to weave sexy and kinky fantasies. She leaves me thinking of her for days and in a daze. (so well-behaved)

And now she owns every inch of me. And I’m smiling.  (MIA. deeply missed)

A dance in the darkness never felt as smooth as her mind reaching out to mine. Each step and swirl revealed new movements and new stages upon which to turn. (he has no idea how dark it is going to get)

Sexy, kinky, devious, beautiful, talented, superior, smoldering hot, legs that go on forever, wicked. The lady knows her stuff. And she knows men. (yes I am and I do)

And then there are the emails:

You are an impressive young woman. I’ve never understood what was missing in my calls to Mistresses until I talked with you.  You have an uncanny ability to deeply delve into and connect with the submissive mind. I am yours forever.  (yes, you are)

You are amazing.  Not sort of amazing, but really amazing in the way you put things together.  The writer in me sees real, honest and sincere talent.  What you do with it is up to you, and I’m glad to be the beneficiary of it, but you ought to know it’s there.  Whether you mean to or think you’re just playing, you’re doing a number on my head to the point I’ve been tempted to call the whole thing off more than once.  I wanted you to know the level of effective skill you have at creating a scene and a mood. Just so you know. (more to come, dumb-bunny)

You know me in such a way that all my pretenses and defenses and offenses fall away. I am free and I have the world. And what I can give I wish to give to you, and what I have is me, so I give myself completely and utterly to you.  I want my heart to be filled with you.  I want to be your footstool, your headrest, the wall you lean on, the cup of water you drink from.  You are the only Mistress I want to serve. (a favored slave)

And the Poetry:

My Divine Mistress,
To be your slave is to be.
To be your slave is complete joy.
You make me tremble when you accept my words of love, when you make it public to others.
I give you myself completely. Completely.
You have my mind, my heart, my desires, my lust, all in your hand.
I adore and worship you. I rest my cheeks on your feet.
To be your slave is to be.
I am your abiding servant.

*****

Whatever you do to me
Whatever you say to me
Whatever.
I will love you whatever, for ever.

*****

My Mistress.
I bow to you.
You know me.
You know my heart.
You know my desires.
As you have accepted me, I accept you.
I give myself to you completely.
I am yours.

I will kneel when you tell me, stand when you tell me.
I will sit at your feet.
I will do your nails.
I will comb your hair.
I will cook your food.
I will bring your books to you, open them in the page you bookmarked, and hand them to you.
I will fold your socks.
I will iron your shirts, your jeans, your towels, your napkins.

I will drop all my boundaries.
I will honor you, respect you, and give you nothing but honesty.
I will make my servitude your shield.

I will give you dominion over my body, for you to do with it as you choose.
I will be obedient to you and care for you in every way you wish.

I will trust you because you are my Mistress.

I could go on and on and on. Because I’m serious about this and do save each and every email, poem, every missive, every comment.  I guess one might say I’m archiving you devotion.  Shouldn’t somebody?

And while I don’t really brag so much, because it’s just way too overdone and stupid guys fall for it and I don’t like stupid guys (they’re so one-note and quite boring), I *am* bragging today.  I know what I am doing, and I do it well.  Even when dominating a submissive, I still value and appreciate their contribution to what is, quite seriously, a symbiotic relationship.  I expect excellence, because I provide excellence.

I’m not a copycat, I don’t jump on trends, and I don’t have a zillion fake personae.

When in session with a slave boy, I pay attention, listen closely.  Do we one hundred percent always connect?  Of course not.  Quite frankly, more often than not, the blame for that disconnect falls on him.  I can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, despite my talent.

But when we connect?

Self Actualization.  Maslow knows.

Remember this, my loves:

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.

Henry David Thoreau

]]> http://www.zenfetish.com/2013/03/07/thank-you-very-much/feed/ 7 http://www.zenfetish.com/2013/02/26/a-very-mean-letter-to-a-cuckold/ http://www.zenfetish.com/2013/02/26/a-very-mean-letter-to-a-cuckold/#comments Tue, 26 Feb 2013 22:42:33 +0000 Angela http://www.zenfetish.com/?p=2557 You want it all, don’t you?

Well FUCK YOU, pig boy. You don’t get it all.

If anybody gets it all, it’s the wife. Hopefully she’ll figure you out someday and she won’t leave.  She won’t leave …  but will stay and use your cock-stupid behavior to her advantage.

She will cuckold your ass like there’s no tomorrow.   She will rub her behavior and her well-fucked cunt into your face.

She will remind you that you weren’t man enough to be a good spouse when you had everything and anything a man could dream of.  The perfect trophy wife:  beautiful, blonde, smart, successful.  She will remind you of all the men who hit on her, yet she remained faithful.  She will remind you that you married up … and should have been kissing her ass and kowtowing to her right from the beginning.  She’ll remind you how she trusted you and believed you were a good man.

Reminders.  At least at first.

Then, later, once she’s gotten you used to regularly sitting on the sofa or sleeping in the guest room while she’s getting it on with her latest lover, once she has you trained as a low-rent cuck-a-hubby and begins really enjoying it and …

… once you realize you are so FUCKED. That your fantasies have come true and your wife is the ultimate wicked princess and loving every minute of it.

Then she will tell you.

She will tell you that she knew all along … about your twisted antics at NiteFlirt, your filthy thoughts, your dangerous and sick games.  About Angela St. Lawrence.

She will tell you that long before she finally “pretended” to catch you and turn the tables and make you her subby cucky …  she was already craving huge cocks and had been sampling more than a few here and there.

She will tell you that she fucked one of your supervisors when you were on a business trip.

She will boast about doing two of your best friends in your marital bed, the night you passed out drunk after the Super Bowl party you’d hosted.

She will smirk and tell you that your other friends watched and beat off.

She will laugh, explaining that often when she told you she was too tired or had a headache, she knew she was getting a big dick the next day and didn’t want to spoil that fun with a piddling, unsatisfying encounter with you.

She will tell you that even when she fucked you she was thinking about other men … how big they were, how they knew so much more about how to please a woman than you ever could or will.

BUT …

She will say to you …

What are you going to do about it? What in the hell do you think you can do about it, you gutless worm?

Be grateful you still have me, because you and I both know I’ve had better and can get better any fucking time I want. Be grateful that I don’t have my latest squeeze move in with us and make you serve both of us.

Because, you piece-of-shit snake of a husband, you and I both know that I can.  We both know that you could never ever get someone as hot as me again and you are fucking lucky I am till here.

The bottom line, my funny little faggy valentine?

While you were busy doing your convoluted version of phone sex with Angela? I was getting the real deal. I was getting banged by super studs with monster cocks.

And you were too stupid and too fucked up to know.

So go call Angela and wank on that worthless pin dick of yours.

Because from now on: that’s your poor pathetic sex life.

__________________

I wrote this as a Pay-To-View for a very fun and kinky guy.  Hope you like it.  You can even masturbate to it.

Um.  You do know I’m a nice girl, right?

Unless, of course, you’re a testosterone-challenged wanna-be man.

*wink*