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

To NORA

JIM

****

Who knew that Mr. Joyce was such a randy, dirty scamp?  And why didn’t my Lit. Prof (damn Jesuit Catholic wench) assign this collection of letters (yes, I have more … stay tuned)  instead of Dubliners and A Portrait of a Young Man as Artist … both of which put me to sleep more than once.  Or instead of Ulysses, which made absolutely no sense to me or my fellow classmates no matter how many times we were told it was "great literature."  If I were feeling better, I’d do some surfing to revisit all that stuff and perhaps revise my critical opinion.  Since I’m not feeling so hot (I have a cold … boo hoo, poor me), maybe Pervert Savant or Vanilla Savant will call and give me the lowdown in the next couple of days.

You can read more about Joyce at Wikipedia and then check out the very pretty James Joyce Centre.

OMG!  He was bonking the chambermaid.  And her last name was Barnacle. Which explain why he didn’t write odes and sonnets to her.  What rhymes with "barnacle," after all?

xo, Angela

PS:  as you might have gathered — because I feel like crap and also do not want to be hacking into your ear right at the critical point *wink, wink* — no worky-worky for me.  And unless you call Isabella, The Luscious One or Abby Licks or Mistress Rayne … no phone sex for you.  If you do call any of my phone sex buddies, take it from me:  you will have an absolutely-tutely divine experience.  If you don’t make the call and need a bit of visual stimuli, then here’s a bunch of dirty pictures.

Special Thanks and 128 kisses (no more, no less) to Sweat Shop Sissy, who seems to always have my back … and certainly my deepest affection.