I think all of you would agree that cock sucking is a good thing.

It’s just that you would agree for different reasons and would imagine quite different scenarios. A healthy smattering of my readers, and even some callers, just want to have a beautiful female’s lipsticked mouth milking their dicks.

But most of the men I talk with over the kink-O-phone want to be forced to gulp down one big motherfucker of man meat. They want to be throat fucked and gagged with the sometimes white, sometimes black, but always monstrously huge cock.

Now this is not for the feint of heart, because these super cocks hardly even exist outside of fantasy. And if they do, I certainly don’t want one anywhere near me. Ouch, already! But if you’re a guy in the mood to go fag (and I say that in the nicest way) the pecker you’re gonna have for lunch is most likely going to have to be imported from The Twilight Zone.

But, hey, we Americans like imported foods. And bigger is better…and all that jazz. So I say, have at it. I can describe it for you in living color–every twist, vein and curve. I might give it a large head, so big that the pee slit is pulled slightly apart and pre-cum is bubbling out and oozing down the backside, catching here and there between the zig-zag of its throbbing veins. Or it might be uncircumcised and you’ll have to pull back on the thick foreskin to work your tongue in under the rim.

I can even make you smell it inside a pair of blue jeans, until you beg like a bitch to have at it. I can make it so big that you have to use both of your hands just to pump it. With balloon balls (assorted colors) to match.

And then there’s the payoff: A hot load of jizz for the cock sucker. How do you want it served? But wait! Before I let you get your greedy little mouth filled, I can shove your face up close and personal to see the cum actually moving around inside as those balls fill up. Let’s see if I can make you squirm and drool and pant for what’s in there. Will you bark like a dog? Beg like a wimp? Whine like a sissy?

And will I make you say things before I let you chow down? Maybe…I’m your cock socket, Mr. Man. Or… Please pump my fag hole full of cock, Sir. Perhaps I’ll make you open wide and hold the corners of your mouth open with your index fingers, saying…Pump and dump into my fag- mouth, whore-hole. Or…I’m a cock bitch, fuck my cunt mouth. Oh the possibilities!

But we do eventually get to the bonne bouche, don’t we? Will the cum be thick and stringy? Maybe it’s slightly translucent with chunky sperm clots floating here and there in all the goo. Will he pump it into your open mouth, coating your tongue and teeth and throat, while I kneel beside you making sure you take every creamy drop? Or maybe he will give you the deep throat treatment, ejaculating so fast and hard that you can’t keep up and it pours out of your nostrils.

Of course, I could always make you gargle with it while humming I Feel Pretty or Buttons and Bows. But then again, having you save some to make cum-sickles in your ice cube tray is always fun; then you have a nice late night treat stashed away.

After all, we are in The Twilight Zone, where anything and everything is possible and pricks are the size of watermelons. And all good little cock-suckers go to heaven.

I personally like callers who are honest about their secret desire to live on their knees…licking and slurping and sucking. Good for you! You want to take a quick journey to your own personal dark side (don’t be embarrassed, we all have one) before getting back to the business of your heterosexual life.

The callers who bug me are the guys who want me to say I like big cocks. Which also includes a lot of the stuff I’ve described earlier in this blog, only we pretend he doesn’t want to suck the cock himself. These guys make my skin crawl. They can’t even be honest with themselves or me about their kink. Why even make the call? Run up the credit card?

For the record, I don’t like big cocks. They hurt. And my very real personal experience has been that the guy behind the big cock usually doesn’t know what to do with it. In other words, he can’t fuck well and is a total waste of my time. The other thing is that in my very real personal experience they don’t get all the way hard. What good are they?

It only happens in The Twilight Zone, my love. Stop by anytime. I’ll be more than happy to take you there.

xo, Angela

The Hand:  Lyndee

As you should know by now, I’m not always perfect (shush–don’t tell the slaves). For example, I’m not the most tolerant person–at least in certain cases–and, ironically enough, intolerance is my major bitch. But I am good about celebrating my partners in crime, who are working it…in a good way. Luscious Lyndee happens to be one of those people. I mention her on occasion, and she stops by this blog quite often to leave a comment. I try to return the favor, only usually when I get over to her blog, she is yapping about sports, sports and more sports. Of which, despite being raised in the midst of a father, siblings, cousins uncles and even boyfriends who live for the game–any game, anywhere, anytime–I have neither comprehension nor interest. So it’s almost impossible for me to leave a comment of at least some import. Although she might be getting kinky with clown sex in the near future. You can bet I’ll have something to say then. Honk, honk. Last year, Lyndee expanded her enterprise to offer panty sluts and crossdressers a new place to hang out, The Pink Panty Cafe, which is an adorable little corner for all things sissified. Contrary to what you might thing, many PSOs have a special place in their hearts for sissy boys. I think it’s because they appeal to our maternal (or wicked stepmother) instincts. Well, now she’s gone and done it again–her dynasty grows as she presents a deliciously elegant new site, Earotica, where it looks like she will be offering some nice and some not so nice (x-rated? cross your dirty little fingers) essays and stories in her blog there. Maybe she’ll stop by and let us know. In the meantime, get over there and have yourself a peek-a-boo….and, of course, give her a call. Tell her Angela sent you and I expect a finder’s fee.

The Bush:   Burke

My beautiful and wonderful friend, Mistress V, got married! And, fellows, let me tell you, it was not your everyday, average wedding. Then again, when does Miss V do anything average? I don’t even think that word is in her vocabulary.

The minister, Slave Groom Greg and Mistress Bride V.

And don’t you just love the wedding cake?

The ceremony was simply divine. You are Cordially Invited.

***

Did you give the happy couple a nice wedding gift?

Or you can always give a cash “Goddess” tribute.

***

And to Mistress V and Slave Greg: I wish you all the best. You’re very special people and I’m sure the world has many good things in store for both of you.

xo, Angela

Casey at the Bat ~ Ernest Thayer

The Outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that –
We’d put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey’s getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
“That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one,” the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
“Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they’d a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville – mighty Casey has struck out.

***

An apropos PSOetry entry, in light of the Rockies’ World Series debacle. Miss Angela is sad, but thinks her boys are still brilliantly beautiful. And just might show up in person for next season’s home games. I’ll be the girl with the whip. (wink)

Pervert Logic: Take the PervScan Survey

Perversity is a matter of perspective. Dontcha think? The pedophile thinks he does no harm, that he loves his little girls and boys. The cross-dresser goes back and forth from petticoat elation to autophobic purging. Men who dig bestiality will ask, “How does it hurt the dog? He seems to be having a good time.” BDSM is considered by many to be the slimy enterprise of underground misfits. I could go on…but you get the idea.

Basically, it’s my kink is better than your kink.

My take on all of this? Well, darling, I’m a Spice Girl. Which means, quite honestly: A place for everything and everything in it’s place. After a few years talking dirty on the kink-O-phone and kinda-sorta specializing in FemDom/fetish, I’ve come to believe that we just can’t help or change what turns us on, and that we all have our own inner pervert.

It might be Freudian–the id, ego and super-ego stuff. Regardless, it is our responsibility to make that dirty little id behave properly, in a way that does harm to neither ourselves or others. In other words, no kink should supersede and/or replace normal sex; those we love deserve a good old-fashioned missionary fuck now and then. And so do we. And some kink should always remain in your brain. Or shared with me (wink).

So, what do you think about all of this?

Well, it seems that SuperVert is very interested in your two cents. (Unless, of course, your inner pervert likes to shoot two pennies out of his dick.) His inquiring mind wants to know. What do you think about perversity. What’s the worst? What’s not so bad? How, when, where and why?

So why don’t you stop by and anonymously take his survey?

The thing is, Mr. Vert (AKA Deviant Savant) is up to something very special, saying that he “continues to work very diligently on some large projects you should hear about soon.” Yowza! Could it be a brand new book? Or maybe a follow up book? Maybe, if we take the survey, we’ll be in the book…at least incognito?

Or maybe it’s a book all about me?

Or maybe he’s going to ask me to marry him and is having a very expensive, very huge diamond ring made for me?

Leave me to my dreams and go take that survey.

xo, Angela