So Santa called me up a few days ago and once we got the kink (his favorites being Reindeer Games, Candy Caning and Santa Sissy Panties) out of the way, I asked him what he’d been up to.  “Ho, Ho, Ho,” he said in that booming jolly voice I know so well.

“Well Angela, I finally took your advice this year, and in between checking the Naughty ‘n Nice list, helping Mrs. Claus with the cookie baking, getting the sleigh ready, re-orienting the reindeer, and keeping up with last-minute additions to Wish Lists, I’ve been sneaking off to my den for a cup of hot chocolate and a little bit of the wanky wanky.  You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“You’re talking about doing the gingerbread jerk, right?”  I was pretty sure this is what he meant, as I’d often counseled him during our weekly calls throughout the year that during the month of December–his “crunch time”–it would serve him well to “relieve himself” as much as possible.  I mean every man–even Jolly Old St. Nick–can benefit from pumping the poinsettia when stress levels are high.

“Well, it’s something like that, only better.”

“Now, Santa,” I countered, “what could be better than making your very own batch of creamy Egg Nog?”

I could hear the soft tapping of his gloved fingers on his desk, as if he was pondering what to say next.  I could feel him weighing his words, so as to not say something that might upset or offend me.  And so I nudged a bit more.

“Now, Santa Baby,” I said in my most seductive voice, “you know you can tell me anything.   Don’t you?”

“Er, um…  Ho..ho..”

“Come on, Santa, you can tell Miss Angela.  Or am I going to have to make you get the fruitcake?”

“Holy Christmas Tree!  Not the fruitcake!  It took three elves to get that out of my bottom last year!  You’re right.  I’ve been making Egg Nog.  And I do mean a lot of Egg Nog.  Last night, I squirted so high that a big glob of it actually hit the Mistletoe the elves had hung the day before and knocked it into the fireplace.  Now let me tell you, that was a hard one to explain to Mrs. Claus.  The thing is, I’ve had some help.”

“What do you mean, you’ve had some help?”

“Well, I’ve been calling other girls.  You haven’t been around much, you know?  And I needed a break.  Everything was piling up. Rudolph’s nose wouldn’t light, Blitzen and Cupid were threatening to strike, we were looking at a shortage of iPhones (and everybody wants one), we ran out of red curling ribbon, the elves misplaced the–”

I couldn’t take it anymore.  I was fuming.  “Okay, you were having problems.  I get that.  But you cheated on me?  You cheated on your favorite phone sex operator?”   I was half-tempted to hang-up on Santa right then and there, but I couldn’t.  I had to know who these girls were.  And so I asked him point blank, “Who were they?  Who were these women who helped you do the Kris Kringle Jingle?”

“Well it all started with Secondhand Rose.  I know she’s a friend of yours and noticed that she is running a Christmas Phone Sex Special.  You know she usually charges 2.19, but for the holidays she’s lowered her rates to $1.59.  Like I said, you weren’t around, so I gave her a try.  And, Angela, she is really good at this.  Really good!  So I’ve called her probably six or seven times now.  Please don’t be mad.  She not only can do what you do, but she is very good at GFE calls, which you refuse to do with me.”

Hearing that, I wasn’t so mad anymore.  Secondhand Rose would treat my Santa Claus very well.  So if he was going to cheat, I was glad he was in her very good hands.  And he was right; he didn’t get any of that cuddly Girl Friend Experience with me.  At least Rose could satisfy that itch for him.  But I wasn’t done.  He said he’d talked to more than one girl.

“Who else.”  I said it more sternly than I meant it, more like an order.  But that was just to get him to spill his bowl-full-of-jelly guts.  And it worked.

“You know for yourself, because we’ve talked about it, that I’ve always wondered what Luscious Lyndee would be like.  She has that cute ass and innocent look.  I think it was the night the elves forgot to put the screws under the legs of the hobby horses.  It was a disaster.  I left them to repair the damage and snuck off to call Lyndee.  Woo Hoo!  You should see what she can do with holly and berries.  And she’s very good at tinsel bondage.”

Obviously, Santa had talked to Lyndee on more that one occasion.  But she’s a buddy, so, again, I wasn’t very upset.  I mean, I’d never thought to tie him up in tinsel.  Gotta give the girl credit for that.

“Anybody else?”

“Angela,” Santa said, “I admit it.  I’ve been a very bad boy.  In fact, my very own name might be on my very own Naughty ‘n Nice list by now.  I’ve talked to quite a few girls.  Why don’t I just tell you a little bit about them?’

“That’s a good idea,” I answered, no longer angry, just curious.  I was actually kinda-sorta glad Santa was finally learning to let down his white hair and have a good time.  He did have the most important and stressful job in the entire universe.  “Go for it.”

“Well, I have been calling Isabel Blyss quite a bit.  She has the sexiest voice.  And she is quite original and very worldly.   She told me I needed to expand my horizons–that being Santa Claus was no excuse for insensitivity to other cultural traditions.  Then she made me put a dreidel (a rather large dreidel, I must say) you-know-where.”

“Then there’s Mistress V.  Now she is hot!  There is something about her that just makes Santa want to drop to his knees and bark like a dog.  And it’s a good thing, too.  Because she made me do that and a whole lot more.  Did you know that there is a certain piece of sleigh tubing that can double as an enema hose?  Mistress V sure does know it.  And she’s threating to have Barney the Elf bugger me the next time I call.  And Barney might be small in stature, but that’s the only thing small about him.  If you get my drift.”

“And I just had to call–”

“Okay, Santa, that’s enough!”

“You’re not mad at me are you?”

Of course I wasn’t angry.  It’s just that I had a feeling his list of PSOs might go on for hours.  So I assured him that I wasn’t mad in the least; and that if I had to pick girls for him to call, these would have been some of my top choices.  Then I teased him, “But I always knew you had good taste, Santa Claus.  After all, you’ve been calling me for the last three years, haven’t you?”

“Ho, ho, ho!  You’re absolutely right, little girl.  So why don’t you sit on my lap and tell me what you want for Christmas while I tell you about all the rest of the girls I’ve been talking with.”

“Not tonight, Santa,” I answered, “I have a headache.  But call me soon, because I really do want to hear all about it.  And I have a new game for us to play.  It’s called the Nutcracker  Sweet.  Okay?”

“Sure thing, my sweet little Sugar Plum.”

“Oh, and listen here, you fat little bastard, you better leave me a five star review.”

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