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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  ...



Thursday, June 4th, 2015

She is sleeping quietly in her crib. I am propped-up in bed reading. I listen to her breathe. I check the clock. I begin to wonder how late you will be.

You are hunting tonight. We stay safe in our den, relaxing or sleeping or taking time for mundane chores. In our bed I listen to every sound until I hear the door.

The door closes and I can hear what I have longed to hear. My warrior walks the length of the wooden hall. Her heels ring out like hobnails once might have done. Louder and closer she comes.

She enters, radiant, beautiful, and commanding. Her heels come off. Her dress comes off. She scoops our daughter from her crib and carries her to bed. She feeds. Her mother has already fed.

Was her prey young or old? Did he find satisfaction or frustration? Her mood is not changed by the feelings of the prey. She lured him towards her. Maybe she smiled. Maybe she frowned. Maybe she spoke too loud. Maybe she spoke too soft. He chased, unsure, too sure, but he chased. Thinking he was hunting, he was hunted. Thinking he was making his move, he was conquered.

The baby has fed. You hand her to me and I carry her, sleeping and satisfied, to her crib. I return to your bed. You are satisfied but alert. A motion of your hand and I stop. Your breasts are bare and swollen with milk. I kneel, naked and hungry before you. Your hand is moving and so am I.

I approach. I tremble. I quake. I throb. I salivate.

You hold your right breast in your two hands.

You speak: drink from me!

I fall upon my task with ardor and greed. With my mouth, I suck. I lick. I knead. I lap. I lavish. My tongue is fast and slow, gentle and firm. I take short and long passes across your nipples. They are tender. They reward me. As your milk flows into my mouth, your hand wrap around my cock. I am in ecstasy without fulfillment. I want more and more. Tender swollen breasts and warm sweet milk on my lips compete with the firm gentle fast slow scratching soothing actions of your hand on my cock.

I am chasing and chased.

I feed upon you.

You smile, victorious, another prize taken by the huntress.


just a lil kinky story from a fanboy

Martyr for Phone Sex

Wednesday, August 24th, 2011

Oh the Slings & Arrows …… of a mother effin Bitch Boy.

If you’re the sort who appreciates a bit of alliteration, we could call this particular rant post “The Incredible Case of the Curiously Obtuse Cretin.”  If we’re talking in soundbites, then our title might well be  “When Good Phone Sex Goes Wrong.”  Either way, in the instance of  FemDom Phone Sex, if something goes wrong, the caller is by default fully & inexcusably culpable.  Even though I did know better.

I knew better than he did — I did, I did, I did — that there was absolutely no way in hell a conversation betwixt the two of us could provide the “happy ending” he was seeking — the Utopian Sexual Nirvana he was hunting down like the Holy Grail, The Lost City of Atlantis, the mother-fucking Golden Fleece, Shangri-La, The Arc of the Covenant.   He was Ponce de León, looking for the goddamn Fountain of Youth (who thought, BTW, it would cure his impotence … oh the irony).  Looking for a long, long time … call after call, girl after girl. I know this, because he told me so.  And because I happen to have Super Powers.

I tried to tell him; really, really I did. Because I did know better than he did.  My spank-dar, which is hardly ever wrong, was screeching Danger, Will Robinson, um, I mean Ms. Angela. Danger.  (I said “hardly ever” not “never ever” wrong.  There’s going to be some problems when you buy your parts from a 20th Century Fox back lot fire sale.)

And it is, after all, right there in the sidebar (Quick Start Guidelines) on page 4 of  “The Phone Sex Operator’s Official Handbook” that I am going to write by the end of the year might get around to writing someday: #17. NEVER trust the words of a man with an erect penis in his fist.   His palms are sweaty and he can’t help but be one oily son-of-a-bitch.

Unfortunately, against all my better instincts and despite the creep creep creep of my trusty smarm-o-meter, I swallowed his bullshit, smooth lies and bracing promises, finally agreeing to do a Fantasy Phone Sex call with him.  Of course it didn’t work out and Mr. Smarm has nobody to blame but himself.  I told him the truth and he insisted on telling me different.

So let’s start with the email I received post-call.  In fact, so post-call that it was TWO WEEKS after our Role Play Fantasy via the phone when I finally heard from Mr. Smarm.  Don’t worry; by the end this will all make sense.  Of course, I could be wrong, and I’m sure if you had the chance to ask Mr. Smarm, he’d be the first to tell you so.  But this is MY blog and we’re not asking Mr. Smarm a damn thing.

Mr. Smarm’s email to me:

Hey Angela:

Thought I’d take the time to comment on our last conversation…

Well, I would be lying if I said that I was satisfied. It seemed that I caught you at a bad time and you really weren’t focused on our session. Also, I think that you [were] somewhat intimidated by me, and I really wish that wasn’t the case. I mean, I think that you felt like you had [to] think up something “extravagant” for me, but believe me – you don’t have to.

I wouldn’t mind giving it one more try, but I would like to catch you in a more relaxed/focused mood, so you can do your best work (and I know that you have an excellent imagination).

Mr. Smarm

So I guess the question is …

…  does Mr. Smarm deserve a response?  My usual policy when dealing with numbskulls is very simple:  Don’t.

The thing is that despite the fact that two weeks had passed, despite the abrupt end to the call, despite the absence of a gentlemanly follow up email, I was actually glad to see Mr. Smarm’s (TWO WEEKS LATE) email.  Because even the day of “the call” I’d given him the benefit of the doubt, allowing that there may have some glitch that disconnected us.  After all we’d already talked forty minutes at that point.  I mean, who stays on the phone for that length of time if they aren’t having fun, right?  And the platform I utilize for my calls had been experiencing some recurring issues.  So, yes, I was glad.  Until I opened and read his email, that is.

So …

I was glad, I was sad, and then I was mad.

Conclusion?  No way in hell does this jerk deserve another moment of my once undivided attention and always valuable time.  I adhere to the Fool Me Once, Twice Doctrine.  Logical and less messy.  Therefore, I will not be sending a return email to Mr. Smarm.  Unfortunately for you, I already wrote my response.

I’m sure you won’t mind:

Dear Mr. Smarm:

I was quite delighted today to see your email in my inbox.  That is until I opened and read it.   Of course, when I read your email, I went from pleasure to hurt in a heartbeat.

 Now I am fucking pissed.

Because I poured my heart and soul into that fantasy. Once we were off and running, the world around me dissolved into that office where I — and eventually Jennifer (remember the receptionist?) — accused you, abused you and used you.

And I did one helluva job.

Yes, at first, I was nervous, even a bit reluctant. Because, whenever a phone sex caller starts the conversation with,I’ve experimented with phone sex for years and most girls just can’t get it right” … well, it just doesn’t bode well.

… at your urging, I DID RELAX and took a leap of faith that you were true blue and meant what you said.  Obviously — as we now know two weeks too late later — you aren’t and you didn’t.

Otherwise, you would have taken that leap with me and enjoyed the flight. You would have appreciated the rich details and well-drawn setting into which I grounded the fantasy (the picture window from my office; your desk right outside my door; my pencil skirt, sheer black stockings and garters juxtaposed against barely legal Jennifer’s sundress and wedge heels). You would have been savvy enough to realize that this girl on the other side of the phone was having the time of her life.   That she was firing on all pistons, creating our own special world and having a fucking blast doing it.

And, by the way, you should have answered truthfully when I took those moments during the call to pause and ask if the direction I was taking was doing it for you.  Instead you lied.  And now look where we are.

As for your statement that “I think that you felt like you had to think up something “extravagant” for me …”  Huh?  What? Do you not get what I do? Have you not read my FREE Phone Sex Preview Stories? There’s plenty of samples of my work, so that New Callers know exactly what I’m about.  Unlike you, I don’t pull any punches.

 Have you ever entertained the possibility, Sir Pants-Down-a-Lot, that the problem lies with you and not me?  After all, you’re the one who’s spent a little bit less than a lifetime looking for the perfect Phone Fuck.  It has been said of me, “The way she riffs on matters sexual and otherwise, she is my white Billie Holiday, a 21st century Anais Nin with just a touch of Machiavelli.”  I could quote caller after caller, but you can read all of my Phone Sex Reviews — at your leisure, of course, when you’re taking a break from your great and almighty Phone Sex Fantasy Crusade.

I think you’re confusing “extravagance” with “virtuosity.”

And Haven’t you still been on the prowl, trying out another and another and yet another Phone Sex Girl, still looking for your Phone Sex Fix these past two weeks?   Never mind, don’t answer that.  I already know you were.  I know it for a FACT.  Remember, I have Super Powers.

I dunno, maybe you had a PSO some years ago that rocked your world and the rest of us simply pale in comparison. Maybe we’re all inept and you’re just a customer getting poor service from every single one of us.  It must be a tough to be a Martyr for Phone Sex, traversing the minefield of Broken Wet Dreams.

The bottom line is that I have no desire to ever speak with you again. I gave you everything I had and you trashed it.  The coup de grâce is that you actually have the balls to say that you “wouldn’t mind giving it one more try.”  Are you demented or delusional?   Which is it?

Never mind, because guess what.  I would mind.  I would mind it very much.  I’d rather spend my time with the myriad men who find me creative and perfect just the way I am.


We now return to our regularly scheduled perversion.  If you’ve lost your remote, it might be between the couch cushions or just look right here.

Whew! I don’t know about you guys, but I need a drink of water after all that.  Maybe even a Xanax.

And why is that song banging around in my head?  Oh no I’ve said too much, I haven’t said enough … tra la la.   That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight.  Losing my religion … tra la la.

He Knew Me as Misty

Wednesday, October 14th, 2009

… and long time, no talk. 

At least that’s the way it was between Mr. N and myself until I got this absolutely wonderful email from him:

Dear Angela St. Lawrence:

From an old friend who remembers you as Misty.

While putting some of my stuff in order I found your web address and phone, which made me insanely happy. You have always been my all-time favorite. I haven’t chatted with you a long time. I would like to chat with you as soon as possible.  I can’t to hear your amazing sultry sexy wonderful warm smart teasing voice… And your imagination! Ahhhhh…..

Contact me please.  I’m here with credit card in hand (I won’t tell you where the other one is).  I just need to get out my bottle of Peppermint Castille soap out and you will know exactly what do do with me and it.

Of course with our first (new) call, I  will fully pay and we chat as friends. I want to hear how you are doing, life and all.  Then we will move on to the fantasy part.  Ouch! What is that? Just my dick slapping me in the face — telling me it’s going to explode just thinking about you.  I can’t help it!   A fantasy call with you is like nothing I’ve ever experienced with any other girl before or since knowing you.  I adore you and your amazing talent.

I must have done something good to somebody once to have found your card with your web site and all on it.

By the way, there used to be a picture of a lady with a strap-on in your site. That’s gone. Ahhh. Where is that picture?

OK. Enough blabbering. I pray that you are healthy and well-taken care of, that you are safe and loved, that life comes back to embrace you with goodness and joy even when things go up and down, and that you embrace it back.  Be good to yourself, eat lots of veggies, stay away from soft drinks, drink water and juice and delicious teas, and be good to yourself.  You are a delight.

Dying to talk with you,

Mr. N.

Yes, he knew me as Misty — one of my "characters" at the phone sex service I worked for when in college.  Regardless of the name — and believe you me, a phone sex operator usually goes by many — the connection was a good one.  So, a few years back — when I left the corporate world to rev up the kink-O-phone once again — I’d contacted him and we’d started up again like there hadn’t even been a lapse.  And so we continued for quite a while.

Until he suddenly disappeared.   Being a busy girl with a lot of regular clients, it took a while for me to notice.  Hey?  Wonder what’s up with Mr. N.?  He hasn’t called in quite a while now. Hmmm.  But the world kept turning and the phone kept ringing.  So, although I never ever forgot him, I had to move on.  Two years later — during which I thought about Mr. N. at least once a week, sometimes more — and there he is in my mailbox!  Woot!

I immediately emailed him back and — as they say — the rest is history.  WE ARE ON!  We picked up — for the second time — right where we left off, without skipping a beat. 

It was so much fun to catch up.  Mr. N. apologized for the disappearing act, explaining the whats, wheres and whys of it.  We commiserated about OUTSOURCING — of which we both have too much experience.  We talked about the validity of ANY fantasy and the psychological dualities and complexities of human sexuality.  He told me about his new business venture.

So then I reminded Mr. N of the two-girl call he’d done with me and another (supposedly talented) PSO when I’d been with that service where he’d first contacted me, because it is one of my funniest and fondest memories of him.  He really didn’t remember, but that speaks a lot more to my ego than his memory retention abilities. 

You see, at that point in time, way back when …

Mr. N really wanted to try two girls at once.  This was new ground for him and, obviously, an expensive endeavor.  While I usually don’t like other girls in on calls with me (it’s a mixed bag and you never know who will be up to the task or professional … I’ve actually heard the other girl typing during a call), who was I to rain on his parade?  Despite the fact that the other PSO had only been with our company for a few days, the dispatcher assured me that she was experienced, having worked a considerable length of time  for another phone sex company before signing on with us. 

So — just to be safe — I took it upon myself to talk with this girl first.  Because while Mr. N. delighted me to no end, he was a rather demanding caller.  His fantasies were complex and multi-layered, and he required a lot of verbosity from my side when we played.   So I explained all this to Mr. N’s and I’s pending phone mate, giving her a general outline of Mr. N’s likes, dislikes and hot buttons and emphasizing that it was absolutely essential that she pay close attention to the fantasy as it evolved and to then respond/interact in explicit and creative ways.

You might think that was rather bitchy of me, and perhaps this new PSO thought the same, despite the fact that I went out of my way to be positive and friendly during our entire pre- phonesex huddle.  Oh well, too bad.  Mr. N was paying double for this adventure and he deserved the best.  I owed it to him, myself and the phone sex company to do everything possible to make this thing work well.  Jezuz Chrizt!  Mr. N was paying double for what would probably be an extended call.  In other words:  BIG BUCKS!

But no worries!  This gal told me so.  No worries at all; she knew what she was doing and had this thing in the bag.  And so, it was time to do the dirty deed.

And let me tell you, my friends, it was bad.  We got the moaning, the groaning.  And then more moaning and groaning.  With unflagging expectations and hopes that this was just a case of stage fright which Ms. New PSO would soon overcome, Mr. N and I moved forward with the fantasy.  Then silence, then more moaning and groaning.  I think at one point she did say, "Does that feel good?"  How original and spontaneous! This was an interactive role-play!  Where were the visual pictures and clever words she’d promised?  More groaning.  Then some grunting and heavy breathing — well at least that was something new.  As you might imagine, I was rapidly approaching panic status.  Poor Mr. N!  What was I do to to get us out of this mess?

Suddenly, Mr. N cleared his throat.  Girls, lets stop this for a moment.

Uh oh!

Mr. N proceeded to basically tell New PSO — in his soft-spoken and genteel manner –that she absolutely sucked at this.  He told her that he wanted her to disconnect from the call so he and Misty could continue the fantasy without her.  He assured her that he was not angry, that he was confident that she’d get better at this phone sex thing IF she followed Misty’s example and learned all she could from Misty.  Because Misty was the absolute.  Misty was an artist.  Misty was perfection.  Misty would teach her how to do it right.  Misty was the alpha and omega. 

… and all that jazz. 

While I’ll be the first to admit that Mr. N is possibly a bit biased and even perhaps smitten, seeing me as he does through the erotic glaze of our unconventional and downright dirty escapades — she really wasn’t any good at this phone sex thing.   And even though Mr.N did go on-and-on-and-on about my wonder-hood-ness, he had a valid complaint and was paying for what he’d hoped would be an extraordinary experience.  He was frustrated, poor man.  Even so, he was diplomatic and encouraging with New PSO.

It didn’t matter though.  She was offended or pissed or whatever — because she abruptly hung up the phone.  Very loudly hung up the phone.  And that was the very last of New PSO.  Literally.  She was gone, vamoosed, poof, disappeared.  Bye, bye bye.  Later, after Mr. N and I had said our goodbyes, I called the service and gave them the scoop.  When they rang her up, they got her voice mail.  She was officially missing in action and nobody ever heard hide nor hair from her again.

Oh well … 

Maybe she’s married with five children now.  She could be a model, a nanny, a doctor, an Olympic competitor, a beauty consultant.  Who knows?  Or perhaps she’s the CEO of one of the successful Phone Sex Companies with whom I compete for business.  Where ever she is and what ever she’s doing, I wish her well.

Because Mr. N and I — for the second time — found each other again.  And all is right with the world.  Now I gotta get going and find that strap-on picture for Mr. N.  I promised!

xo, Angela

An iPhone, an iHop and a Very Bad Boy

Saturday, May 9th, 2009

Dinner and a Show

by PornoPerson

If I had my druthers, I’d be eating somewhere other than iHop. Its vicinity to the hotel makes it the ideal place to nosh.

I wave down the waitress and get a warm up on my coffee. I’m on my third cup and have time for a fourth before I need to be getting back.

I refresh my iPhone to see what’s going on in my hotel room. The girl is still on the bed. She’s pulled her knees up towards her chin as much as she can. I can see that her breathing is labored. I sip my coffee and watch as she undergoes another orgasm, her body shuddering, her legs stretching back out, her mouth open in a soundless scream.

I silently count to ten, ticking off three lesser tremors… these aftershocks are smaller orgasms that continue to rock her. She’d been at four before as I’d finished up my meal. Once she gets down to two I’ll head back to the hotel to release her.

Forty minutes ago I left her alone in my hotel room. A half hour prior to that I was letting her in the door. During the interim I placed her collar around her neck. She stripped down and I bound her with a combination of plastic wrap and duct tape. Once secured, I introduced her to a rather nasty-looking knife. Ten inches long with a serrated blade. It looked like it could gut a bear, much less a petite twenty-seven year old brunette wrapped up like a sausage on a hotel room bed.

Behind her gag she began to plead, her eyes (not yet blindfolded) wide. I put the knife against her thigh, letting the cold steel warm against her before moving it directly between her legs. She screamed, muffled but still louder than I’d have liked.

With the flick of my wrist, the knife sliced, opening a slit in the plastic wrap just above her pussy. The cool air hit her hot skin, making her think that I had cut her. She narrowed her eyes as I brought up the blade, showing her the lack of blood.

I sheathed the blade and placed it back in my bag, coming back with a five inch long white tube. I slid this into her. It went in easily as she was already slick with excitement. Before it disappeared completely, I gave it a twist at the base, causing it to vibrate. The noise of it was soon muffled as I pushed it deep into her. Her eyes rolled to white.

With one final strip of duct tape, I sealed the vibrator inside of her, taping up the slit between her legs.

I placed a blindfold over her eyes. It had two flaps that covered her ears as well. Though not as effective as the leather hood I often used upon her, it did a terrific job of blocking out all light and sound, encasing her in a dark silence.

The first few times we played together I would stay in the room while she was like this. I’d watch her go through the flood of orgasms that wracked her little body. I had to build a level of trust with her that she wasn’t going to injure herself by accident (or on purpose) while cocooned and cumming.

Eventually, I opened and closed the hotel door. Thinking I was gone, her orgasms came harder and faster until she felt my presence in the room.

The first time I set up a webcam and watched her from the lobby of the hotel, I almost thought that she was having some kind of an attack. Her body jumped as if had undergone electroshock therapy. She was a fish on a hook.

Sitting in the lobby for an hour got to be a chore. I ventured out to this iHop only a few weeks ago and it does the job, though I wish there was a book store or coffee shop nearby.

Tonight was the first night I told her about the webcam that I had been using. I showed it to her just before I slipped the blindfold on. I wasn’t sure if this would enhance her experience or damper it. Though she’s something of an exhibitionist, the feelings she experiences while bound have been far more intense once I abandoned her.

Looking at my monitor, I was pretty sure she enjoyed putting on a show for me. The next time I would tell her that I shared the URL for the webcam with a few friends. Either I really will or I won’t, but she’ll never know just how many eyes are on her as she orgasms for an hour.

Another cup of coffee and she’s down to two petite morts. I leave the money for the check and tip, giving extra for how attentive the waitress has been. I fantasize about she would say or do if I showed her the girl on my iPhone and told her that I’m going back to room 214 at the Sheraton next door. Would she like to join me?

I push this out of my thoughts as I push open the door and begin the short walk back to the hotel.

Entering the room I catch the last few whimpers of her last orgasm. She hasn’t heard me come in but she knows I’m there.

As I get closer to her I can start to hear the faint hum of the vibrator inside her. Its pitched lower, the batteries running down. I stand and admire her; her proud breasts pressed flat like strawberry-adorned pancakes under plastic, her hair soaked with sweat, her nostrils flaring as she tries to catch her breath.

I unsnap the strap that holds the gag in her mouth. I remove it, strings of saliva trailing behind it. She takes great gulps of the cool air.

Reaching between her legs, I remove the duct tape, thankful for her bare pussy. The tape barely holds, its sticking power diminished by her wetness. I stick two fingers in her and they slide in easily. She’s sopping. She shudders when I remove the spent vibrator. Is she grateful or sad that it’s gone?

I slide her body easily to the edge of the bed, her head lies off the edge slightly. She opens wide, knowing what’s coming.

I drop my pants and use her mouth, fucking her face. She gags repeatedly and I ignore it, my fingers sunk into the plastic over her breasts for purchase as I pull her fast against me, the breath from her nose hot against my balls.  She slurps and sucks as I slam deep into her mouth.

I see her fingers spread out under the plastic wrap. She’s so constricted that she can’t even make a fist. With her blindfold still in place–tears streaming out from under it–my cock is the only outside stimulus she has. My scent fills her nostrils, my meat her mouth and mind. There is only me and nothing else for her right now. She struggles to please me.

And she does.

The first few drops of cum hit her throat and she spasms again, screaming around my cock as she orgasms without even being touched. I fill her with my spunk, shooting it into her gullet. I feel her muscles milking me of every drop.

She won’t stop sucking me until I finally slide my cock out of her mouth. Thick ropes of saliva and spunk trail from her mouth to my cock. As a final bit of humiliation, I clean my softening sex off on her hair.

She coughs and swallows hard a few time, trying to readjust herself to emptiness. After I re-dress I retrieve my knife and slide the blade along her side. Her body is so hot, encased in the plastic, the she shudders at the icy blade. I remove her blindfold to allow her to see the knife before I sink it into the space between her breasts.

The plastic tears, opening up where ever I dragged the blade. She glistens with perspiration, her flesh renewed and exposed.

I cut away her cocoon quickly. The cool air hits her and she begins to shiver. I’ve got towels at the ready to wipe her dry and wrap her in something more forgiving.

There are no words. I lie with her on the bed, giving her water to replenish her spent body to sooth her sore throat.

We’ll stay this way for a while. It may be minutes, it may be hours. It lasts until she hoarsely asks permission to get up. When she does, I’ll allow it, take off her collar and let her clean herself up. She’ll shower, dress, and say her goodbyes. And, like me, she’ll count the minutes until we see each other again.


See what happens with all this new technology?  All hell breaks loose!

Okay, you know and I know that this particular "situation" is just not my cup of tea.  But there are girls and guys (ie. Pinkie and Blackie) who would absolutely — with no reservations and a whole lot of enthusiasm — jump right into this scene if they had half a chance.  And you certainly know by now that I am a great respector and defender of all things kink.  While I might not personally get all hot and bothered over a certain bit of naughtiness, I can readily understand and appreciate why someone else does.

Besides, if all else fails, I can always reverse in my mind the genders of the protagonist and antagonist.  Mmmm … Now I’m really seeing dirty visions.  I need to buy an iPhone.  And find a hotel close to an iHop. 

Be sure to visit PornoPerson’s very hot blog, where he  — more often than not — is the submissive one in his filthily erotic and wildly imaginative fantasias.  Oh, and buy his GUARANTEED VERY DIRTY BOOK, too.  I wrote the Forward, dontcha know?

xo, Angela

R U a Little Weenie Boy?

Tuesday, May 5th, 2009

A sub-fetish of Erotic Humiliation, Penis Humiliation is the hottest thing in Phone Sex these days.  And while some readers might think this an odd fantasy/fetish/kink, most Phone Sex Operators are quite used to it and actually have a lot of fun with it. 

Think of it as a form of VERBAL BDSM.  I mean, after all, the Phone Domme can’t really use whips and chains and Ben Gay (ouch, indeed, very much).  But she can use words.  It is arguably more erotically powerful to dominate with real words — real bad, mean words — rather than "and now I am going to beat you."  And what matters most to a man?  His dick.  It may seem a trite observation, but it is nonetheless true. 

I often say that our poor men — they just can’t help it.  After all, it’s like God created them with the supreme disadvantage of having a gear shift sticking out right there, right there in front for the world to see … even with the cover of trousers!   How can the NOT think about it all the time?  And it makes them very vulnerable, doesn’t it?

So why not go for the girth?  Make every word count and hit him with those words where it hurts the most?  Only, in this case, with pain — there’s no gain.  Little Willie leaves the encounter none the worse for the wear … but none the better.  His sad puny prick is still sad and still puny.

It makes sense.  Penis size is very much on the male mind (don’t ask — he won’t admit it) at least some of the time. Hornswaggling, doolally spammers bank on it.  In my personal email recently:

  • Female Orgasms:  Bigger means Better for your Woman
  • Your tool is so small she hardly finds it in bed?
  • Penetrate Deeper
  • Enhance your masculine tool
  • Fill out your erectile tissue
  • Enlarging your male weapon means winning a competition
  • From now on you will be able to satisfy each size-queen
  • Your male power will return like a boomerang

Now, admittedly, this Mystery Meat (pun intended) was more than likely sent from the one and only internet cafe in some backward jungle — the spammer believing the hype of myriad porn sites.  But he is on to something and it must make money, because everybody finds this stuff in their in-boxes.    Even me, and I have a very feminine personal email address.  It’s the marketing method of Quantity over Quality … just like a Size Queen Fantasy!  The irony is delicious.

Besides being a subcategory of Erotic Humiliation, Small Penis Humiliation is a major theme in Cuckolding Fantasies.  Particularly when the Cuckoldress’s lovers are studly black bulls.  It’s the stark differences that give these fantasies their edge:  Black vs. White, Woman vs. Male, Wife vs. Husband, Large vs. Small.  So, even if it’s not quite your thing, perhaps you can understand that, for others, it’s sizzling hot.

Forced Bi Fantasies will often contain at least a portion of Small Penis Humiliation, with size functioning to underline one’s role in the fantasy:  large equals dominant, small equals submissive.  The feeling of tractability can be deeply enhanced when the physicality of size is used as emphasis.

So Big Cock, Small Cock, Average Cock … what’s it all about, Angela?

Well, you might recall that I actually wrote an about this in an essay, Erotic Humiliation is Not an Oxymoron, for the book, Sex Kitten Presents the BDSM Issue.  While I don’t discuss Small Penis Humiliation per se, I do talk about the "fantasy" of being verbally humiliated, taunted and abused by a beautiful and poweful FemDom. 

As far as me, personally:  Is bigger better?  Do I or don’t I?  Well, you’ll just have to READ ALL ABOUT IT.

xo, Angela