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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  ...

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Huntress

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

Fuck Bucks from my Cuck-Sucker

Monday, June 16th, 2014

golden cuckold

I call you on NiteFlirt and you immediately say, “I was expecting your call, Gary.  I see you tributed me 25 dollars this morning. I am assuming you lost the bet. You broke down, cut the lock off, and fucked the wife last night, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I was so horny,” I reply.

“You know what that means, Gary. Don’t you?” .

“Yes, Ma’am.  I hand over ownership of my wife’s pussy to you.”

“Not so fast,” you say and I immediately notice that your voice is firm.  It is not the bouncy, free conversation we have had in the past.

“I told you before how this was going to happen.  Get down on your knees.  Right now.  On you knees.  We have business to attend to.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Try Again.”

“Yes, Ms. Angela?”

“That’s better.  Now I want to hear you say it; repeat after me:  Dear Ms. Angela, I freely hand over ownership of my wife’s pussy to you.”

“Dear Ms. Angela, I freely hand over ownership of my wife’s pussy to you.”

“Don’t you fucking mumble like a little wimp.  Am I supposed to turn up the volume on this phone just to hear your whimpering? Now say it again. Say it like you mean it.”

“Dear Ms. Angela, I freely hand over ownership of my wife’s pussy to you.”

*Bang*

*Bang*

*Bang*

It takes me a moment to realize you are pounding your phone on your desk.  “Again, louder.  Scream it, you Little-Dick Cuck.  I want your goddam neighbors to hear it.”  And so I do what I am commanded to do.

“DEAR MS. ANGELA, I FREELY HAND OVER OWNERSHIP OF MY WIFE’S PUSSY TO YOU.”

“Mmmm.  Music to my ears.  Of course, technically-speaking, you can’t hand over ownership. You don’t own your wife’s pussy.  She does. But what you did just do was hand over YOUR CLAIM to it.  From now on I own it as far as you are concerned.  That is MY pussy!  Do you have a calendar there?”

“Yes, Ms Angela.”

“Great, Circle today’s date.  That is to remind you today was the day you lost any claim on your wife’s pussy and gave it to me.”

“Yes, Ms. Angela.,”

“You know, Gary, usually the Cuckold  hands over their claim on their wife’s pussy to the wife’s new lover.  You just handed it to a NiteFlirt FemDomme.”  I hear you laughing and I close my eyes, hanging my head in shame.

“Write this down, Cuck-Sucker.  ‘Today I handed any claim of my wife’s pussy to Ms. Angela.  From now on, I can not fuck my wife without Ms Angela’s permission.  Miss Angela owns my wife’s pussy.’  Got it?”

“Yes, Ms. Angela.”

“That is the feedback you will leave me today.  You are going to tell the whole world, or at least everyone that reads my feedback, what you just did today.  Everyone will be laughing at you, Gary, my little Cuck-Sucker. Can’t even fuck his own wife without my permission.  Who owns that pussy?”

“Ms. Angela owns my wife’s pussy,” I reply.

You laugh hysterically and go on, “Now, because I am a benevolent owner of your wife’s pussy, during the next 30 days I will allow you to fuck MY pussy once. You will pay me 25 dollars — 25 Fuck Bucks — for the privilege of fucking your own wife.  It is the going rate for the typical street whore?  You will pay the price of a street whore and turn your loving wife into my prostitute for the evening.  Now tell me again, who owns that pussy?”

Ms. Angela owns my wife’s pussy,” I answer robustly, because this time I know better.

“That’s right, Cuck-Sucker.  I own it.  You even brush up against it, you hug her and absentmindedly rub her pussy — I mean, MY pussy — it will cost you 5 bucks.  No touching MY pussy without paying me.  You are not even allowed to look at it.  If you even catch a glimpse of that wifey snatch by accident?  That’s 5 dollars.  No peeking at MY pussy, Gary.  That’s right, 5 Fuck Bucks for even a teeny-weeny peek. Now again, who owns that pussy?”

“Ms Angela owns my wife’s pussy,” I answer, again robustly.

“Now I would certainly never deny a woman sex if she wants it.  After all, I own that pussy now and I want it to be a happy pussy.   So if your wife wants sex — not you, but her, because I don’t  care what you want — you will give it to her.  Of course you will.  But guess what, Cuck-Sucker?  It will cost you 50 dollars–that’s  50 Fuck Bucks for me.  And you WILL NOT deny your wife just because you want to save a few bucks.  Do you understand? You will fuck her, but you will pay me 50 bucks.

And, of course, you will also lick it clean.   Because, Gary, you never — never, ever, ever — leave MY pussy messy.  Are we on the same page? Do you get what I’m saying?”

“Yes, Ms. Angela.”

“Now if you get horny and want to fuck MY pussy a second time this the month — or any other month, for that matter — you are perfectly free to do that.  Pretty nice of me, eh?  But there’s a catch, Gary.  Do you want to know what that catch is?  Do you?

“Yes, Ms. Angela.”

“Well,  ‘lil Cuck-Sucker the catch is that it will cost you $100.  Yep! $100 Fuck Bucks.  And why do you think that is? Come on, you’re smart enough.  You should be figuring it out by now. Tell me. Come on.”

“Ms. Angela owns my wife’s pussy.”

“Mmm.  Music to my ears.  Now don’t get too worried, Gary.  If I am ever getting strapped for cash, I might run a sale. You know … a blue light special.  For example, a 12 hour special something like:  I am selling your wife’s pussy for $59.95. Come and get it.”  You break out laughing.

“I might run special sales throughout the month.  Then again, there will be days when I absolutely, I forbid you to fuck MY pussy. Why? Just because I fucking can. That’s why. Now sing to me, Gary, sing to me my favorite song.”

“Ms Angela owns my wife’s pussy,” I iterate, feeling less and less like the man my wife believes me to be, and more and more like your besmirched little choir boy.  I’m even still on my knees, as you’d ordered me at the beginning of this call.

“Maybe I’ll even run little mini-specials now and again.  Maybe 10 strokes for 20 bucks.  Now, you have to admit that’s pretty damn generous of me. You would be allowed to slide your little dick in and out 10 times.  That is all. You cum within 10 strokes, you win.  You don’t cum, too bad and you pull out.  10 strokes is all you paid me for, 10 strokes is all you get.

But here’s the fun part.  If it just feels so damn good that you want to keep it in for 11 or 12 strokes and let that little guy squirt?  Cum in MY pussy?  Well then, you just did your second fucking for the month, didn’t you?  And you know what that means, don’t you?  More Fuck Bucks for me.  $100 more Fuck Bucks to be exact.

Devious of me, but so delicious, don’t you think?”

I start to answer you with your assigned mantra, because I know who is in charge here.  I know I’m whipped.  But as soon as “yes” is out of my mouth you tell me to shut up.  You continue talking.  I can hear the eagerness, the glee in your voice.

“Oh yeah, I expect to make a quite a few extra bucks selling that wifey pussy back to you.  She’ll be a great little money maker for me. Keep an eye out for my email specials.  I’ll send them every so often.

“Now are you locked up, Cuck-Sucker? Hmmm?

‘No, Ms Angela,” I answer.

“Lock that fucking little dick up.  For Chrizts sake, I have a pussy to protect now.  I don’t want your little dick running free anywhere near MY pussy.  Basically, Gary, you don’t get to fuck anymore, unless you’re paying me for the privilege. gary without me. Send me proof that your little dick is locked up.

Now one more time, who owns that pussy?”

“Ms Angela owns my wife’s pussy.”

You laugh,  or perhaps it’s a snicker.

“And don’t you ever forget it.”

*click*

….

You are gone. I get up from my knees and go to my computer.  I watch my fingers shake as I type.

Today I handed any claim of my wife’s pussy to Ms Angela.  From now on, I cannot fuck my wife without Ms Angela’s permission.  Miss Angela now owns my wife’s pussy.

I hit the enter button.

——————————————-

This was a true collaboration between me and a special caller.  He wrote it up with his horny little fingers,  and I shined it up a bit.  We hope you like it.

——————————————-

Photo Credit:  The Lingham Phallic Penis Amulet for Money & Love which is found here.  Who’s going to buy me one?  ‘Cuz isn’t it the cutest thing ever?

xo, Angela

Mistress Music

Thursday, April 11th, 2013

Just a few golden notes (from emails and conversations):

  • I’m in an impossibly dull and useless conference call–I had far more stimulation hooded, bound, and alone.  (after an “isolation” session)
  • It just makes me hotter to hear you giggle when I moan in discomfort. (denial & CBT … delicious)
  • The first time we spoke, it was love at first kink. (kink-a-dink-a-do, baby cakes)
  • Would you really make me masturbate in front of your girlfriends? (not ten of them … but perhaps a few)
  • You’re a Man Eater! (anybody have a toothpick?)
  • You’re the only woman I’d kneel for. (and he does it often)
  • Did you tell your girlfriends that you spoil me? Or that I am enthralled? (and he’s hasn’t cum in a month … oh my)
  • I am supposed to be working, but can only think about that leather outfit. (from my leather freak, of course)
  • Did I really eat my own cum for you? Disgusting! (but I bet he’ll be back for breakfast)
  • I am so nervous that I can’t call. (he did and now he’s mine)
  • You get wet when I wear panties for you.  Admit it.  (ahh … the eternally hopeful slut)
  • You aren’t just a sexy voice and sexy mind crafting sexy words, you are truly a wonderful person. (sweet boy)
  • Yes, I’ll use any pretense I can think of to reach out to you. (I own you *licking lips* yum)
  • I went to sleep with you on my mind, which is pretty much where you had been all day. (soon-to-be-knighted Romantic Savant)
  • I’m serious about meeting you. Name the place and time and I’ll be there (thanks, but no thanks)
  • I’m still trembling three hours later. (carry on, sweet pea)
  • How vile I am. (he makes my mouth water)
  • Cumming in a corner with my pants around me ankles? Damn, Girl! (don’t forget the lesbian action behind you)
  • That countdown was brutal. (❤❤❤)
  • I was fucking my girlfriend and all I could do was think about you and the things you made me do. (mission accomplished)

… and the beat goes on.  The beat goes on.

Tra la la.

xo, Angela

… and then he said

Wednesday, September 26th, 2012

So I was twatting* around at Twitter, when someone re-tweeted something by someone else, which I found amusing.  Quite witty, in fact.   So I clicked on this fellow’s name to check him out.  Oh and he was fabulous.  Simply, divinely fabulous.  So I started following him.  Which is how Twitter etiquette kinda-sorta works.

Low and behold, he quickly followed me back which pleased me ever so much-ly.  There in the midst of all those twatters* just twatting* away we exchanged sundry pleasantries.  Which, again, is how Twitter etiquette kinda-sorta works.  It was nice.  It was good.

I was living in a Twittering world.  And I am a Twittering girl.  (Think Madonna. You’ll get it.)

Now I was being a good girl, because on Twitter I feel a girl should mind her Ps and Qs … being as authentically well-rounded as she can, while discreetly** and prudently (but only occasionally) giving a peek up her skirt.

Then I get this private DM (direct message) from my new friend:

You are such a great writer! I really admire your work.

Of course I answered him, because I am always the epitome of polite behavior (don’t you know?):

Thank you.  That is very kind of you.

Of course I was dying to know … who? what? when? where? why?  What had this sweet gentleman read that caused him to reach out to me?  But a girl can’t seem to eager now, can she?  So I thought we were done.  Then he DMs me again:

If it’s okay to ask, how did you decide to follow me? I’ve known your writing for a while now and was struck seeing your name in my feed.

Well, I’m a polite girl by nature and would have replied no matter what he’d said.  BUT “I’ve known your writing for a while” really really really caught my self  interest. You bet it did.  Any writer likes to know they are noticed in any which way.  So I answered:

Someone re-tweeted you, I checked you out.  And I like your style.  It’s that simple.  But I’m hardly the superstar you make me out to be.

Of course, dear reader, I was absolutely glowing.  Writers eat this stuff up!  But you *do* see how insouciant my response was.  Don’t you?  He had to be impressed with my ultra cool, devil-my-care, nonchalant geniality.  Don’t you think so? Then he writes …

Well, as a man married to a blindingly hot cuckoldress (with all the fascinations that implies), you do have a certain celebrity status.

Mother Fucker!

(Oops.  My halo just slipped and there went my Gracious-Goddess patina right out the window.)

But I can’t help it.  Not only did this guy (who is very cute, by the way) trust me with his naughtiest secret of secrets …

… apparently amongst men who are “married to … blindingly hot cuckoldress[es]” I “have a certain celebrity status.”

What a sweetie.

There was more conversation which isn’t of interest here, so we will leave that between me and him.   I’m smitten, I’m forever his friend and he is just a darling, darling (very smart) man.

And I’m not saying he’s smart because he kinda-sorta adores me (as a writer–don’t forget, he has a hot cuckoldress to worship full time).  I’m saying he’s smart, because that’s why I followed him in the first place.  His tweets are savvy, well-constructed and edgy in just the right way.

BUT THERE’S MORE!

Mr. Anonymous Cuckolded Tweeter, with the permission of his cherished and beloved inamorata, has agreed to be interviewed by me.  I’m hoping to get together with him sometime next week.  And I know you guys.  Inquiring minds want to know:  How does that cuckolding thing actually work in real life?

Don’t you?  Come on, don’t be shy.  You can tell Ms. Angela.

xo

_______________________________________

*twat & twatter & twatting I lifted from Kathy Griffin.  She’s very funny.  And she’s on Twitter too.  And she doesn’t follow anybody!  I love that #sexybitch.

**Special thanks to Pervert Savant for teaching me to check my spelling for the correct usage of discrete/discreet.  I can’t and won’t tell you if he’s on Twitter, because it’s none of your business.  But he is here on my blog.

>>Special thanks to In Bed with Dr Sue for letting me steal #sexybitch from her.  Guess what?  She’s on Twitter too.

>>Special thanks to Twitter for hashtags (like the # seen in #sexybitch) which are just so much fun to use.

Kinky Shakespeare

Saturday, January 27th, 2007

Cuckolded: Sonnet 57

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

Pussy Whipped: Sonnet 58

That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison’d absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

=====

Ah … the romance of Shakespearean sonnets.

(and what’s up with that earring?)

Love, Angela