web hit counter

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  ...


Exclusive Erotic Quickie

Saturday, February 20th, 2010

by Jeremy Edwards

The supplementary co-ed bathroom at the far end of Janice’s dorm floor was the next best thing to a private hotel room. Phil loved slipping in there with Janice for late-night sex in the stall nearest the door–the stall that featured a bathtub instead of a toilet. They’d yet to be disturbed here.

"Mmm, your fingers feel so good," Janice said at 1 a.m. on a Thursday night, as Phil teased the slick lips of her pussy with his warm, soapy digits.

Suddenly, the bathroom door creaked open. And through the gap between the stall door’s hinges, Phil and Janice were able to see who had entered, catching a fleeting glimpse of her as she walked by: chestnut hair, a yummy midriff, and tight, round jeans.

"Oh, wow," said Phil in his lover’s ear. "It’s that hot chick from our French lit class." He and Janice had talked about her before. Janice liked hearing Phil talk about the women he found attractive.

As he spoke, they heard a stall door slam. Feet appeared in the cubicle next to them.

"Whoa–her jeans are down," Phil whispered. A moment later, as a pretty splashing noise reverberated off the tile walls, he continued: "Oh my god, she’s peeing."

"Duh, Phil," hissed Janice, her voice evidently holding back laughter.
"What did you think went on in here?"

"I know, I know . . . but, wow, without any pomp or circumstance . . ."

"You thought girls made a speech first?"

The lovely tinkling sound continued.

"It just seems too good to be true. That women come in here and they actually pull their pants down and piss, just like that. They really do it." Somehow a part of him had expected the world around him to fade to black rather than really showing him this.

"Phil, you goofball–it’s what she came in here to do."

"Oh, fuck, yeah. I know, I know," he repeated blissfully.

The peeing music finally abated, and the woman in the next stall sighed sexily. Then she giggled. "It sounds from the whispers like there are two of you in that tub," she called out. "I hope I didn’t disturb you."

"Not at all," groaned Phil, as Janice pulled firmly on his hard, hard cock.


If you’re a regular reader, you will remember my dear writer-friend Jeremy Edwards AKA Jerotic.  It’s been a while, but if you liked this charming bit of erotica … well, plug Jerotic or Jeremy Edwards into the search box and you’ll find him here and there along with THIS STORY.   Because I’ve been a fan since day one … and you should be too.  Sweetness and naughtingess and sexiness and kink and playfulness and seduction and — me oh my — how does somebody get it so right?  Every single time?

Like any self-respecting smut-provocateur Jeremy gets around, gleefully spreading the very good news that  "it’s good to be bad."  I don’t have to tell you that this is a philosophy I wholeheartedly embrace, now do I? And, apparently, so do lotsa goodly and smartly erotica writers and fans, ‘cuz their all jumping for joy wherever and whenever Jerotic shows up.  Just read what they have to say, why dontcha?

Best news of all?  Our dear and most appreciated Jerotic has published his first erotic novel, ROCK MY SOCKS OFF.  You can read more about this book and purchase it  HERE.  Go ahead, click that link; don’t be shy.

For up-to-the-minute news (announcements, links, & trivia re. All Things Jerotic), visit and bookmark From Socks To Fedora.  And stay tuned to this blog, because I intend to sweet-talk my most-cherished Jeremy out of many more hot stories for this blog.

xo, Angela

More Dirty Latin Poetry

Monday, December 21st, 2009

Catullus: Carmen 16

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,
qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,
quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.
Nam castum esse decet pium poetam
ipsum, versiculos nihil necesse est;
qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,
si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici,
et quod pruriat incitare possunt,
non dico pueris, sed his pilosis
qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos.
Vos, quod milia multa basiorum
legistis, male me marem putatis?
Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.

Which one scholar translates thusly:

I’ll fuck you up the ass, and you can blow me,
you cocksucker Aurelius and you faggot Furius,
for suggesting that my little verses
are effeminate and not pure enough.
A good poet should be virtuous,
but his verses don’t need to be.
Who cares if verses that have spice and wit
are soft and not very pure?
They can also get you going.
I’m not talking to boys here, but to two hairy men
who can’t even move their creaky old loins.
Are you two putting me down
just because you’ve read about my thousands of kisses?
Fuck you both. You can blow me.


Tis the season and all that jazz.  What could be more festive than some lyrical obscenity from a Roman poet?  After all …  those ancient Romans knew how to throw a party, didn’t they? Think Crucifixion.  Need I say more?

Details & linkage at my previous post: Dirty Latin Poetry

I can write a fairly dirty (and downright hot and sexy) poem myself.  Have you read cunt is your drug?

xo, Angela

ps. Did you notice my snowflakes? Pretty nice, huh?

Panties, Stockings, Heels

Sunday, January 20th, 2008

Erotic by Matthew Cooke

It’s all right there!  Is this just not one of the sexiest photos you’ve ever seen?  Proving once again that less is, indeed, so much more.

I found this via Lady Julia of The Entranced Realm, where she says: 

"To me, being a Domme means being able to very gently, very persuasively stroke his mind, stirring his wants and needs to such a frenzy that he is begging to give me exactly what I want and leaving him surprised to find that what I want is what he wants also."

I like the way she thinks, don’t you?

She has a nice little sampling of FREE erotic hypnosis MP3s, also.  So be sure to check her out.

xo, Angela

PS.  If anybody can find information on the photographer, please let me know.  I am seriously interested in featuring his work at Literate Smut.

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