Okay, so I’m technically "not sick" any longer.  (remember?)  I was a very good girl and actually followed the doc’s recommendations, which — in all honesty — is not normally something I do well.  Follow directions, that is.  Sick of being sick, I listened well and took my meds as prescribed, drank plenty of fluids, got plenty of rest.  I’m no longer coughing incessantly or sitting over my steam inhaler or blowing through a box of tissues like there’s no tomorrow. 

So I’m back on the phones — have been since Friday afternoon — and taking calls again. 

Yes — I know and I’m so sorry — I didn’t tell you.  But I needed to take it kinda-sorta slow and see how it went.  Because this bug was one nasty mothah fuckah and wreaked absolute devastation on my vocal cords.  So while I don’t have the Lauren Bacall thing happening anymore, I now have a weird Minnie Mouse thing going on.  What I’m saying is:  Potential Phone Sex callers be forewarned — call at your own risk.  Or if you happen to have a fetish for Jessica Rabbit-esque encounters.

So it’s been a simply slam-bang lovely weekend, with a lot of my regulars showing up for dirty stuff and being their always fabulous selves.  Just as I knew they would be. With kind words during the call, after the call (via email and/or reviews) and even on a second or third call, they were considerate, supportive and just damn happy to have me back. 

From the potagers: 

• Angela,  you are the best on NiteFlirt and any where else. In fact you are the most talented and creative person I know. Your compassion for the average guy is not seen very much anymore. This girl CAN save the world.  (review)
• You are awesome … and you left 3 bucks in my account.  (follow up email)
• Ms. St. Lawrence has reclaimed her throne. Pass her the crooked tiara and royal Jimmy Choos. Then get out of the way. Because when Angela holds court, cherubs sing, armies march, planets realign, and grown men weep. Not to mention the hot and nasty sex. Hallelujah!   (review)
• A magnificent experience with a magical lady.  (review)
• I waited for you to get better; I didn’t even think of calling somebody else.  (pillow talk)
• Yet seemed it winter still, and you away." I’m so glad this lovely woman is back and up to her old … tricks.  (review)
• I do consider you a friend and you do make me happy.  Now go and take care of yourself.  (follow up email)
• As always, Angela has proven what an amazing talent she has. (review)
• You’re the only girl I talk to who charges over 2.00/minute, and — if you are available — I always call you, because you are the best.  (pillow talk)
• Even with what you call your "Minnie Mouse" voice, that was the hottest call I’ve ever had.  (follow up email)
• There are hot girls, and there are really hot women, and then, there is Angela. You’ll want her as your friend, you’ll want her as your lover, but most of all, you’ll just want her!  (review)

And there’s so much more — like those of you who called just to shoot the breeze and talk about my newest passion, politics (you know who you are — thanks so much).  And the new guys who found me (I was kinda-sorta hiding from you until "all better") and were oh-so-polite and receptive to my Minnie voice.   And the certain someone who stayed on the phone for four hours, doing most of the talking so I could "rest my voice." 

Then there was Mr. X with the super-sexy voice who called seconds after I’d turned on the kink-O-phone Friday, having talked with me for the first time ever right before I got sick and waited so patiently (not being a zen regular; not knowing why I’d abruptly disappeared) to talk again. 

And to those of you who tipped me — something I never ask for or expect:  you made my day! 

The private emails I kept getting while I was "down," meant the world to me too.  Links to interesting sites, quickie snuggles and good nights, thoughts and wishes.  A special thanks to another certain someone who helped me find specific quotes for a project in which I’ve been immersed during my downtime.

And everybody who kept showing up here, because — gawd dammit — I might have lost my voice, but I was able to blog now and again.

And of course there were the Phone Sex Fantasies I did over the weekend.  As much as I love to create the kink, sometimes I just don’t get it.  i.e. anorexia or cat-fighting.  But this weekend, the requests were, without fail, right up my alley — the stuff into which I could sink my carnivorous little teeth:  Forced Bi, Sensual Domination, Cock Control, Tease and Denial, Castration, Erotic Humiliation, BDSM.  I even got to do a Succubus Fantasy and a Transsexual Fantasy.   Although no cuckolds showed up (hey, a girl can only ask for so much), I was in FemDom Phone Sex Heaven. 

On the downer side — not too much, but worth a mention — some guy showed up to listen to my recorded fantasy, Strap On Play, for THE THIRD TIME and decided this time he would rate me, which was four out of five stars.  Which I just don’t get.  If you beat off to that audio three times, then I’m thinking you must pretty much like it.  In fact, you like it a whole bunch.   On top of that, I’d followed up his first two "listen-ins" with a personal "thank you" along with five free minutes for a live call.  What was he thinking?  I’m so glad I have the option to block.  Which means that the passive-aggressive little weenie head WILL NOT get the opportunity to listen to that audio ever again.   So there!

It’s people like him who give Humiliation Phone Sex a good name.

Oh well.

xo, Angela

Can fetishes be wicked? I certainly hope so.  Isn’t the inherent wickedness associated with a fetish what makes it feel so damn good?  The business of Phone Sex and FemDom Phone Sex and Kinky Phone Sex is more or less fetish-oriented and fetish-inspired.  So it stands to reason I would be a big believer in fetish.  I mean, after all, it’s my bread and butter.

Even so,  I would argue that there is a "good" kind of wicked and a "bad" kind of wicked when talking about fetish.  Good wicked is something I believe in, promote whole-heartedly and stand behind with a bit of professional integrity and a bunch of personal enthusiasm. It’s a time-out for good boys and girls, a time out to be dirty and nasty, as bad as you want to be … just for a little while.  I say, have at it boys and girls:  Don those plastic pants, lick those steel stilettos, insert that rectal thermometer, sniff those panties, lace up that corset, rub your face into those PVC-covered breasts, drag that stiff prick along the seams of those cuban-heeled nylons.

BUT then there is the "bad" kind of wicked, which is when a fetish becomes too important — so much so that sexual excitement is not even possible without the fetish in play. I call it getting "fetished out," and I’ve actually seen this in action on more than one occasion.

Technically — or at least in the past — fetishes have always been attached to physical objects: high heels, balloons, leather, latex, feathers, stockings, panties, cigarettes, gloves. I’ve even heard of someone having a crayon fetish.  Fairly recently, the definition of "fetish" kind of naturally expanded to include non-tangible things that turn us on (i.e. specific phraseology, pornography, certain sexual positions, particular body parts, unusual sexual acts). One could be said to have a fetish for anal fisting or erotic hypnosis or for women of Asian ethnicity (aka Yellow Fever).  

There are even fetishes for what I do:  Narratophilia and Telephonicophilia.  And while I could, in my own interest, justify these as always "good" wicked fetishes, I wouldn’t.  Because, dear readers, callers and commenters and emailers, it is a matter of — as I said earlier — getting "fetished out."  So if you call me and it is your way of being good to yourself now and again, well I think would be a "good" fetish.  Then again, if you’re calling compulsively or putting at risk things and people who matter just to call me — oh, oh!  Not good and very possibly a "bad" fetish.

(And, before I go on, just let me say here — right up front — I never met a man with a shoe fetish (hopefully, a very bad shoe fetish) I didn’t like.  And I’d even consider marrying him if he promised to love, honor, obey and buy me shoes, shoes shoes … to my heart’s content.   *wink*)

Not surprisingly (consider this blog’s title), I believe that most people (men and women)  have some kind of kink that they are either secretly harboring or exercising at will, and I think most men have some type of fetish-y thing going on.  It might be something as mild as having one’s nipples teased or a thing for long hair. It could be seeing a woman dressed in leather or latex or sexy lingerie.  Or seeing a sultry MILF smoke.  Some fetishes are admittedly a bit off the beaten path, such as a Giantess Fetish (Macrophilia) or a Balloon Fetish (aficionados are referred to as "looners.")  And then there are the really "far out" fetishes such as mysophilia (being aroused by mud and filth) or necrophilia (yup, sex with the dead).

I think it’s fair to say that these days the words "kink" and "fetish" are used pretty much interchangeably.  The good thing about this is that the stigma once associated with fetishes has somewhat lost its sting.   With the Internet kinda-sorta shoving kink into the spotlight early on (see Vanilla Mythology, wherein I quoted a college student I was tutoring: These days, if you’re not kinky, people think you’re weird), fetishes have pretty much gotten the green light.

So just how does a  good fetish become a bad fetish?   I’m glad you asked.  And in answer,  I will tell you a little story:

Once upon a time in the not so distant past I worked for a Phone Sex company. It was their company, their rules.  Therefore, I was not Angela — no real names permitted in Fantasy Land.  But, if you called asking for Tori the Shemale or Cuckolding Maria or Goddess Diana or Lucinda the Slutty Divorcee or Innocent Annie or Lactating & Pregnant Hermaphrodite Felicity  or Humiliatrix Nadine — due to cutting-edge software — the dispatcher easily discerned that Angela was your girl and hooked us right up. 

There happened to be a gentlemen, whom we shall refer to as Mister Master, who called regularly to dominate my character, Submissive Sabrina.    Mister Master was quite interesting.  He’d spent quite a few years feeding his kink for dominating women and indulging his particular fetishes.  As an adolescent boy scout learning the Butterfly Knot and the Halyard Bend he was secretly imagining himself binding and gagging beautiful girls.  As a teenager he actually got to practice some rudimentary domination tactics with a few of his dates. 

He finally settled down and got married to a  young beauty (I saw her pics) and was delighted to find that his new wife was willing to play along.  Mr. Master considered himself very lucky that he was able to satisfy his any whim and basically gorged on a daily diet of kink and fetish.

Over time, Mr. Master’s fetishes became varied and many.  Red lipstick, sexy lingerie and fuck-me-pumps were soon de rigeur for any marital coquetry.  Then Mr. Master discovered ball gags … bright red ball gags.  And, oh, he liked them a lot.  After that came dildo gags, gags that caused drooling, inflatable gags … gags!  gags!  and more gags!

Because the gags made him so hot, Mr. Master decided he wanted to "hear" the Missus gag.  And so he would "throat fuck" her.  This would sometimes make her whimper, which made him even hotter.  He wanted more.  He wanted to make her whimper and beg and cry.  So he experimented with clothespins and nipple clamps.  Then paddles and whips and canes.

Then the matter of ropes became all-important and Mr. Master began suspending the Missus from banisters, then rafters, then even trees.  And this went on and on and on. 

Until …

(things start happening rather quickly here, so pay attention)

Mr. Master got gluttonous. Oh yes he did.

He was having such a good time with the always ready, willing and able Missus, that he decided two submissive women would surely be more fun than one and easily convinced the Missus to give it a try.  And, like the infinitely resourceful junkie who can be always get his next fix, Mr. Master soon found a couple willing to "play."  And so the twosome became a foursome.  Unfortunately, the foursome didn’t last so long.  Because — much to everyone’s surprise — the Missus ran off with the the Mister from the other couple.  Ouch! 

And Mr. Master became single again.  Single and kinky — seriously kinky.  He also happened to be — due to career requirements — living in a rather isolated part of the world.  Yes, there were women to date.  There just wasn’t the large and varied "assortment" he’d experienced his first time around.  So he dated.  He dated and danced and saw movies and went for walks and held hands.  He rented DVDs,  went down to the pond to feed the ducks, took moon-lit drives under star-filled skies. 

He did all that and all the other dating things people who are dating do.

Except fuck. 

Because Mr. Master — kinda-sorta living a dominant’s dream-come-true all those years — had forgotten the basics.  He’d forgotten how to fuck.  It just didn’t do anything for him. 

And thus, Mr. Master began calling me.  Or I should say Submissive Sabrina.  And the sweet and idolizing Submissive Sabrina would give Mr. Master exactly what he needed.  I’d groan and whimper and beg for mercy. I would describe my sexy black stockings and hot pink garter belt.  I’d hit my hot water bottle and tell him I was spanking my ass just for him.  I’d pretend to tie myself up according to his exact instructions.  I’d put my fist in my mouth and talk around it, telling him how bright red the ball gag was.  I’d jingle the old dog collar I kept in the bedstand  and tell him I was cuffing my ankles for him. 

Well, that was then and this is now.  Mr. Master is now my friend and knows the real deal.  When I started my own business, I fessed up.  He took it very well.  And Mr. Master is in love with a woman … has even moved into her place.  And he has gotten to the point where he can perform intercourse with her.  But he confides that he rarely orgasms with her and still begs to do "sex" calls with me.  "You’re the best.  You always were the best," he tells me over and over.

And I wasn’t even real.

So that is what I would call a WICKED FETISH GONE BAD.  i.e. Fetished Out

Wouldn’t you?

xo, Angela

I never know what is going to tickle your fancy.  I write.  Sometimes I show you a dirty picture or hook you up with (what I think is) interesting linkage.  I rant and rave and even tell jokes or give you the inside dope on the Phone Sex business.  I observe.  I share my love for poetry … and I’m tickled pink that you seem to like it too or at least give it a fair shake before turning up your nose.  I guess you could say that  I get around and you happily hold tightly onto my skirt tails.  And off we go!

But today it’s just you and me, baby:  us or we, he and she.  Reiterating a bit here about the Phone Sex Fantasies and FemDom Adventures I create time and again … for you, me and those other guys.  How about I answer the oft-asked question:  Why all the mystery, Angela?  No face pics or selling pussy pictures and that kind of stuff?  For two reasons.  First, because I believe you’re smart enough to know better.  And secondly, because I don’t try to to cheat you with bought content, nor pretend to be either the oh-so-parochial "Lifestyle Domme" or the "Barely Legal Princess" who happens to have the Lauren Bacall voice.  I don’t have a zillion different personae so that I can cash in on every possible slant of kink.  I am me:  a real girl living my version of the American Dream.  All you really need to know (at least to start out with)  is that I’m not a paper doll, am as normal as you are in your daily life and am experienced enough to bring a sophisticated, informed and somewhat unique (some would say quirky) slant to this Phone Sex thing. 

Besides, I think a little bit of mystery happens to be a very good thing.  Don’t you?

My job — at least the way I see it — is to bring YOUR FANTASY (not your reality … you can get plenty of that by just opening your eyes every morning) to full fruition, at least for the the little bit of time we share together.  Ya know, I don’t always star in the Phone Sex Fantasies I create.   Sometimes I have a minor role and sometimes I just watch the kink unfold and give you the blow-by-blow.  It’s really on a call-by-call basis, with our chemistry creating the game plan. 

So let me tell you about this guy who called a few days back.  It was one of those calls that creep me out so much that I just want to unplug the phone, put on my PJs and watch Turner Classic Movies all day.  So this guy starts out by asking me what I like.  NOT A GOOD FIRST QUESTION!  What I like is not relevant.  Besides, I have enough of an Internet Presence that speaks very clearly to my particular bent.   When someone asks a PSO that question, it’s like he’s forcing her into a pop quiz of sorts, only he is the only one who knows the correct answer and if you are wrong …  HONK!  You lose.  On to the next girl.

So I try to explain that I like a lot of things, but what we come up with together is what will create the real spark.  He presses, I dance and use my wiley charms in an attempt to pursuade him against this line of questioning.  He still presses.  So I tell him a bit more about my experience of working a Phone Sex job throughout my college education and explain how much exposure that gave me to a wide variety of fetishes and kinks, and that I actually do surprise even myself even now with some new or different sexual scenario that will pop up out of the blue and catch my proletariat fancy for a day or week or even a few months until it’s replaced or put on the shelf to be pulled out again at a later date.

Well this guy just won’t give up.  His next question is:  What did you do for real while you were in college?

Now I’m starting to get that creepy-crawler feeling.  Here is a guy who’ve I just met via the telephone, we’ve spoken for less than five minutes, and he wants to jerk his dick to stories about what a slut I was in college?  Fuck that!  He’s a frickin’ parasite, pure and simple.  And while those of you who’ve gotten to know me over the course of a few calls do learn a bit about my personal experiences, this weenie head — who I’m beginning to detest intensely — doesn’t get that privilege.

But I’m a trooper, so I try one last time:  Listen, Mr. X, this call is not about me, it’s about you and what you’re into.

Finally, Dumbo is frustrated enough that he says:  I think I’m going to call somebody else.

And — you betcha — I am mighty pissed:  I think that is an excellent idea.

And I slammed the phone down.  Yes, I hung up on him, which is something I rarely do.  And you know what?  It felt good.  The only thing better would have been if I could have reached through the phone and put him into The Humbler.   Hmmm … just thinking about it makes me hot.  Maybe even add a nice bit of castration to the mix … that will teach him!

But enough of that.  What I really started out wanting to say is that the fact that you keep coming around, tickles me pink.  And the very fact that you are continuing to stay tuned, call and write means I am tickling your fancy.  Just the way I am — real girl, not paper doll — you get me, appreciate me and even like me.  And that’s my blessing. 

Thanks, guys!

xo, Angela

Are you in the need for some FemDom Intervention?  I think it's a pretty safe bet that a hearty portion of my readers are thinking, you bet my sweet ass I am.  The rest of you are thinking, well, it sounds kind of hard core.  But it is tantalizing.  I just don't want to have to call you mistress or goddess.  I don't want you to make fun of my penis, or call me names like dickwad or fucktard or loser.  And please don't hurt me or castrate me or pee on me.

To the tantalized but nervous:  Come on in, the water is fine.  And I do mean good old plain H2O.  FemDom phone sex is not always about pain or humiliation or degradation (although these are certainly facets which turn on a certain cherished and kinky cartel of mine).  FemDom phone sex can actually be, in the hands of a creative and intuitive woman, your every dream of uninhibited sexual interaction realized in spades.  And this is especially true for the meek or mild-mannered shy types.  

How can I say this and what do I mean, exactly?  After all, I do advertise the FemDom angle as  one of my specialties.  And there are obviously as many definitions for as there seekers and providers.  I guess all I can really tell you is what I do from my end of the playing field.

First and foremost, the underlying methodology to all that I do via the kink-O-phone is that we begin in the realm of fantasy.  Think of it as a "suspension of disbelief" for the period of the call.  I am quite frank about the fact that I am not walking around in leather everyday.  Nor am I consistently dressing up boys in pink panties, attaching weights to balls, castrating the inadequate, manipulating the weak-willed, forcing straight men to go queer, giving fem-dom hand-jobs to the lonely-hearted, strap-on training casual dates, or anything else a wicked little libido can conjure.

When I am on the phone, it is not about me and my everyday life.  It is not about you and your everyday life.  It is playtime, baby:  a salacious vacation or corrupt interruption or lascivious intermission.  After which, once your kink-bone has been twittered, you can get back to the business of living your hopefully happy and functional life.

I kinda-sorta ride the fence with this "woman in control" stuff.  Since we're in fantasy land, how much do I tell a caller about me?  Where do I draw the line? 

Because I do rather like being being behind the wheel in boy-girl games in my real life.  It's just in real life the game is one of sublime subtlety rather than the grab-you-by-the-balls immediacy so necessary to fantasy phone.  Talk is cheap and it seems to me that a true Goddess wouldn't need to brag about her prowess; she already knows it and smart men (the only men worth seducing) will know it too.  Which means that I don't advertise my life, I advertise my talents.  TWO ENTIRELY DIFFERENT THINGS.  But, if you get to know me well enough, you just might get to hear some inside dope.   

The other thing is that I happen to be quite good at fantasy.  I LIKE intricate role plays in which I am given a free hand so that I can work my magic, developing a story line around a caller's particular kink.  For example, I am very good at creating shemale fantasies.  (I could actually create an entirely new persona as a TS, so that I would more frequently get those types of calls.  And, honestly, I've thought about it–although I haven't done so yet.)

I also love age-play fantasies:  Either an older woman teaching a teenager to do foul, filthy acts for my enjoyment or a young fem fatal causing an older man to cross boundaries he should not cross.

Objectification fantasies are very difficult for most women (at least that is what I hear from my callers), and I happen to excel at them. Both mentally and creatively, they stimulate me.  In fact, this coming year I will be launching a new website, Household Utensils, which will cater to this fetish.  Hope to see you there.  *wink*

The point being made here is that I don't want to be boxed into one specific category.  I do things my way, not according to a silly virtual rule book, which some callers and PSOs seem to think is gospel.  Regardless of a caller's fantasy, I am running the show.  In some ways, I am the show.  While I won't hesitate to belittle and torture you, if that is where you want to go, I certainly don't approach every call from that standpoint.  

I "intervene" in such a way that I learn what is needed, and then take it from there.  I lead you along your own personal path of sexual nirvana.  Which, by the way, usually involves taking you just a smidgen beyond where you thought you might want to go.  To put it another way, as we are talking I am mapping out your buttons, finding every last one.  Then I tickle and caress those buttons, seducing you to shrug off that suit jacket, loosen that tie, unbutton that shirt.

Before you know it, you find yourself naked and vulnerable.  But also safe.  And that is when the real intervention begins.  Because once I have your buttons under my control, I have you under my control.   Which means you are screwed.  But in a very good way.

Third person stories and fantasies are a wonderful way to take control in a very quiet way.  I'm just the storyteller, after all.  It's not me, but the women in my stories, who cause you to do things that will later make you blush to think of them.  Welcome to Never Never Land.  You didn't think you could or should.  But I always knew different.  I knew that you could and should.  .

And in Never Never Land, with this FemDom Goddess, you did. 

xo, Angela

toys for tots

Somewhere, somehow, someway and a few years ago, a caller/client described me as "The Original Catholic School Girl Gone Bad."  I thought it was apt enough and liked it so much that I've used his exact phrasing here and there when promoting myself. 

It fits me and is more or less the truth about me when you get right down to it.  I even have a recorded fantasy titled as such, which is a re-enactment of a somewhat true-life adventure of mine in which, while in Jesuit college, I had a brief affair with my college professor.  I say "somewhat true-life adventure" because the fantasy is much sexier than what really transpired. 

Although many might find the fact that he did get his very first blow job ever from me kinda-sorta sexy.  And the novelty of a pair of young lips around his cock combined with his lackluster (and blow job-less) marriage probably goes a long way in explaining why he went a bit off the deep end and everything went seriously wacky.  The ending to that particular liaison was extremely unpleasant and rather scandalous-messy.  I don't recommend it. 

The thing is that I adore men and always have.  And I've always been able to wrap them around my finger.  This isn't necessarily a comment on my sexual prowess; it's more about insecurity and being the daughter of an absentee, alcoholic father.  I spent three of my four years of college in therapy addressing these issues, and I still am working on them.

But I did say that I'm working on the issues.  I'm far from cured.  It's a slippery slope with one step forward and two steps back.  And a girl has got to have some fun after all.  I mean it is called dysFUNctional, after all.  So why not?  And I am in the business of FemDom phone sex.  

There is something about a Catholic school girl that just drives guys crazy.  Is it the pleated, plaid skirt?  Perhaps the cute knee socks?  Or maybe, right at the beginning, something in our baptismal waters acts like fairy dust to change us into stupendous cock teases?  Probably, when you get right down to it, all Catholic school girls are destined to go bad, sooner or later.  At least a little bit.

Of course, the phrase "going bad" is very subjective.  I take it to mean going bad in a very good way.  I like being bad in a good way and I like being good at being bad.  Maybe we "enlightened" all-grown-up catholic girls should be known as porn-again catholic girls.  We got our training and knowledge regarding the male animal while growing up amidst the rituals, sacraments and orthodoxy of our faith; but as young ladies figuring out the very real advantage women have over men (we have it, you want it) we come fully into bloom in a very feminine way.  Our religious training is part of who we are.  Only now we use it to our advantage.

Which means applying the same methods of indoctrination with which we grew up, in perhaps a gentler way, so that our male conquests become our sexual captives.  We more or less create our own little mini-religion in which, for all intents and purposes, we are little Catholic Goddesses pulling heart strings and cock leashes with equal glee.  You see, we already know that religion can be a powerful thing.  Just ask St. Dominic Loricatus. 

Kneeling?  We wrote the book on it.  Confessing your sins?  We understand the need.  Renewal through sacrifice?  We've got you covered and will show how to do it just right.  Acts of contrition?  You can bet there will be a lot of those.  Holy Communion?  With us?  Hmmm … I do think at least a stretch of chastity might be required for that.  Maybe even a bit of sweetly persuasive CBT.  

Say it with me:  In the name of the cotton panties, saddle shoes and plaid skirts, God bless little Catholic School girls all grown up. 

Now don't you feel better?

xo, Angela