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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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Anaïs knows

Wednesday, December 29th, 2021

“Intellectual, imaginative, romantic, emotional. This is what gives sex its surprising textures, its subtle transformations, its aphrodisiac elements. Sex loses all its power and magic when it becomes explicit, mechanical, overdone, when it becomes a mechanistic obsession.

It becomes a bore.

You are shrinking your world of sensations. You are withering it, starving it, draining its blood.

If you nourished your sexual life with all the excitements and adventures which love injects into sensuality, you would be the most potent human being in the world. The source of sexual power is curiosity, passion. You are watching its little flame die of asphyxiation. Sex does not thrive on monotony.

Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all of the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.”

Anaïs Nin

hope everyone is having a zen holiday

Sunday, December 26th, 2021

swoon

Tuesday, December 14th, 2021

He wrote me a poem:

❤️ 🧡 💛 💚 💙 💜

My warm heart pounding
A mistress afar
A timeless star
A story teller without peer
A soul and mind too dear
For this world too much weaned on hate
I miss this Angel as it is fate

(pretty bad…..time is short)

and the rest is rust and stardust

Wednesday, December 8th, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Man of To-morrow’s Lament

I have to wear these glasses – otherwise,
when I caress her with my super-eyes,
her lungs and liver are too plainly seen
throbbing, like deep-sea creatures, in between
dim bones. Oh, I am sick of loitering here,
a banished trunk (like my namesake in “Lear”),
but when I switch to tights, still less I prize
my splendid torso, my tremendous thighs,
the dark-blue forelock on my narrow brow,
the heavy jaw; for I shall tell you now
my fatal limitation … not the pact
between the worlds of Fantasy and Fact
which makes me shun such an attractive spot
as Berchtesgaden, say; and also not
that little business of my draft; but worse:
a tragic misadjustment and a curse.

I’m young and bursting with prodigious sap,
and I’m in love like any healthy chap –
and I must throttle my dynamic heart
for marriage would be murder on my part,
an earthquake, wrecking on the night of nights
a woman’s life, some palmtrees, all the lights,
the big hotel, a smaller one next door
and half a dozen army trucks – or more.

But even if that blast of love should spare
her fragile frame – what children would she bear?
What monstrous babe, knocking the surgeon down,
would waddle out into the awestruck town?
When two years old he’d break the strongest chairs,
fall through the floor and terrorize the stairs;
at four, he’d dive into a well; at five,
explore a roaring furnace – and survive;
at eight, he’d ruin the longest railway line
by playing trains with real ones; and at nine,
release all my old enemies from jail,
and then I’d try to break his head – and fail.

So this is why, no matter where I fly,
red-cloaked, blue-hosed, across the yellow sky,
I feel no thrill in chasing thugs and thieves –
and gloomily broad-shouldered Kent retrieves
his coat and trousers from the garbage can
and tucks away the cloak of Superman;
and when she sighs – somewhere in Central Park
where my immense bronze statue looms – “Oh, Clark …
Isn’t he wonderful!?!”, I stare ahead
and long to be a normal guy instead.

Vladimir Nabokov
June 1942

=====

It’s Nabokov, after all. So we’re talking everything from pedophilia (hence, the quote from Lolita), to the nature of true genius, to the veracity of scholarship, to just about anything you might incidentally touch upon (Google has all the gossip, see for yourself) … including, apparently, the mischances of a horny superhero.

I hope you like the poem. I think it’s a sweet reintroduction to my on again/off again PSOetry posts.

xo, Angela

PS. Of course, there was that time when Lois Lane had FemDomme fantasies about putting Clarky Boi in his place.

PPS. That sexy af Superman Doom (look! up in this blog!) is the creation of deviant artist (and I say that with all my love) Shog Amakuza.

have a boo-tiful …

Sunday, October 31st, 2021

Hallo-weenie 🎃 👻 🧡