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Angela St. Lawrence is the reigning queen of high-end, long distance training and Femme Domme phone sex, providing esoteric depravity for the aficionado, specializing in Erotic Fetish, Female Domination, Cock Control, Kinky Taboo and Sensual Debauchery. To make an appointment or speak with Ms. St. Lawrence  ...


Web Bitch for Mistress

Saturday, March 1st, 2008


by Porno Person

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

I consider myself blessed.  Thanks, PP.

xo, Angela


Erotic Smut

Sunday, December 16th, 2007

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 

The Grrrl Can Write

Tuesday, July 11th, 2006

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.

xo, Angela