Boots, Not Shoes

November 30, 2015


The day she died, it was pouring with rain.
People were rushing to work
with newspapers over their heads.
Drains and gutters were flooding.

I wasn’t dressed when the phone-call came.
The Bakelite handle almost fell from my grasp
when my father’s quavering voice
came on the line.

“Boots not shoes!”
was all he could say for a moment.
“There’s so much mud
where she’s lying!”

Jennifer Copley

(Jennifer Copley lives in Cumbria. In 2001 she completed an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. Her poems have been widely published.)


Things needed:

• a poppet to represent the abuser
• A jar
• Enough lemon juice to fill that jar
• A needle
• A string tied to a weight (like a rock)

Take the poppet and stab it with the needle where ever you want them to hurt. If you want, stab the poppet where the abuser hurt you. Chant the following:

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A punch for a punch, a curse for your words

Then tie the weight to the poppet. Continue the chant:

You are weighed down for the sins you have committed against me. You cannot break free.

Throw the poppet into the jar of lemon juice. Finish the curse:

You drown in the consequences of what you have done. Acid seeps into your every bone and eats away at you. There is no way out, you have no escape. You are sealed to your toxic fate.

Close and seal the jar.

Source: The Witches Curse Book

creation of sexual taboos

November 30, 2015

Ecstasy ~ Maxfield Parrish

Here I would suggest that Crowley’s sexual magick is a striking illustration of what Georges Bataille calls the power of transgression, which is a central aspect of eroticism, religious ritual and mystical experience alike. Transgression, Bataille argues, is not simple hedonism or unrestrained sexual license; rather, its power lies in the dialectic or “play” (le jeu) between taboo and transgression, through which one systematically constructs and then oversteps all laws. Perhaps nowhere is this more apparent than in the case of eroticism. Not a matter of simple nudity, eroticism arises in the dialectic of veiling and revealing, clothing and striptease, between the creation of sexual taboos and the exhilarating experience of overstepping them. So too, in ecstatic mystical experience or religious rites (such as blood sacrifices, carnivals, etc.), one must first create an aura of purity and sanctity before one can defile it with violence, transgression or the overturning of law. “The prohibition is there to be violated;” rules are made to be broken, for it is the experience of over-stepping limits that brings the blissful sense of continuity and communion with the Other.

Hugh Urban
Unleashing the Beast: Aleister Crowley, Tantra and Sex Magic in Late Victorian England

the sexual orgasm

November 30, 2015


I have always been aware that human life is dream-like because most human beings exist passively. Their consciousness is little more than a reflection of their environment. In the sexual orgasm, the voltage power of their minds surges, and they become momentarily aware that they are not forty-watt bulbs, but two hundred and fifty, five hundred, a thousand…Then the voltage drops, and they sink back to forty watts without a protest. They are like empty-headed fools who cannot remember anything for more than a few seconds. Human beings are so mediocre that they can scarcely be said to possess minds in any real sense. In a flash, I understood the absurd and obvious truth: nothing is worth possessing except intensity of consciousness. This is the truth we glimpse in the orgasm.”

Colin Wilson
The God of the Labyrinth

peel away all conventions

November 29, 2015


When you remove love from sex you enter a mansion with many rooms shaded in nuance and excess, an invitation to peel away all conventions and programming. A chance to explore your hidden self. You shed something and clothe yourself in something else. Sex is the greatest of gifts. Orgasm a glimpse of perfection.”

Chloe Thurlow
Girl Trade

The Big O

November 29, 2015


The Female Orgasm. The Big O. That elusive, reclusive Loch Ness of the labia. Does it prove the existence of God, or just His twisted sense of humor?”

Kirstie Collins Brote
Beware of Love in Technicolor

First time anal sex

November 29, 2015


Sunday, girls will play…

November 29, 2015


What happened to Saturday…?

November 29, 2015


Friday night was party night. Christmas celebrations for the non-celibate. The venue: a country house, labyrinthine in its complexity, once home to the Little Sisters of Mercy. This convent house took in fallen women back in the day, girls aged between twelve and forty years old, placed in the care of the nuns by local magistrates. Here they served two years in the convent’s steamy laundry. And learnt the benefits of hard toil in the formation of character. And gave their lady-parts a well deserved rest. In the early nineteen thirties the order, greatly diminished in size by then, finally abandoned the convent and the house became the property of the affluent Tee family.

The great hall, all vaulted ceilings, clerestory windows, with this single rose window at one end, had more than its fair share of pillars, pilasters and arched doorways – medieval in appearance: mock gothic. Long tables set for the many diners, draped in white lace clothes. Eight courses of food, commencing with canapés: pear, camembert and prosciutto wraps, king prawns with sweet chilli sauce…I had the beetroot and goat’s cheese cups, and a wonderful mushroom vol-au-vent.

Strong drink flowed. Wine by the goblet, white, red and rosé. Raucous conversation, flushed faces. Like Lordes and Ladyes of some bygone era. Caroline Tee explained in her plumy voice how she once enacted her favorite fantasy in this hall – she took the part of a nun in training, a novice in pure white habit, tied down across a make-shift alter and then systematically fucked in every orifice by five young men who “slaved” away at their task for most of the day.

‘Paid them an ABSOLUTE fortune.’

‘You are soooo shocking Caro, so dissolute…’ Regina declared. She looked twenty-one-or-two years old, but was mother to five children. It was only on closer inspection you noticed the faint lines around eyes and mouth and realised she must be mid-to-late thirties. ‘It’s hard to know if we should take you seriously or not.’

Donald Tee, Caroline’s husband, is a plump homosexual. It’s possible he fathered one of Caro’s three children…the others, necessary heirs to the Tee estate one and all, were the result of Caro’s love trysts, simple and complex. Don sat beside a pretty young man who had long flowing golden locks, his latest love interest. The boy wore a snug-fitting Dolce & Gabbana shirt and tight black slacks. Full of the Christmas spirit, the pair of them. Smiles and toasting each other in prosecco.

After the food, music. Swaying bodies. Semi-transparent blouses, clinging lycra. Laughter and kisses. More and more intoxicated. A tongue in my mouth, a fall of blonde hair. A plump woman, forty-something, wearing a long black evening dress. Her lips were dry.

Another woman in a lace and mesh teddy, her dress thrown off, abandoned, waving this massive dildo as thick as a man’s arm in the air.

My fleshy Amazonian cheered her on. Up close her huge cleavage smelled of mandarin body butter. ‘Remember the promise you made me,’ she said.

Other women shed their dresses along with their inhibitions. Corsets, lacy basques. Silk stockings. Laser lights and disco music. A nubile young thing in floral lace body stocking, her boyfriend nude, erect. Both laughing.

I’m being guided away from the hall. Up two flights of stairs. A large bedroom. Night pressing on the lattice windows. She strips off the evening dress, exposes a black lace body- shaper and matching bra.

‘Your promise,’ she repeated, pushing me back on the bed. For a minute she was all hands. My trousers were unfastened, tugged down to my knees, my shirt unbuttoned. Throwing back her head, she kneeled either side of my face. Monumental white thighs. Broad backside encased in black lace.

Her fingers conjured magic between her legs: opened the gusset of her body-shaper. Thick curling hair, fleshy lips. My Amazon dreamed of being trapped by cannibals. She began a new dance, and I was smothered in musky damp flesh.

My head started to swim. My tongue was sandstone thick, lapping deeply. We had arrived at bare essentials. Drowning in pussy juice. So much ferocity in her, this big beautiful woman. This earth mother. Who ripped at my cock each time she came so profusely in my mouth.

Later, outside, I inhaled deeply cold fresh air. It had stopped raining but was very windy. Scudding cloud backlit by the moon. I’d washed my face and mouth, and brushed my teeth back in my own room. But I could still “taste” my curvy facesitter. My cannibal loving nemeses.

Another dumpy woman pulled me to her. She tossed aside her cigarette. Kissed my mouth and neck. One large tit pushed up from of the cup of her bra, hung pendulously out of her red dress. Big dark nipple fed to me roughly. In the corridor upstairs, half-undressed, I kissed breasts, belly and buttocks. She had crushed glass eyes. Big and white and lascivious. Somewhere in her centre she spontaneously combusted.

In the hall, more wine. Bodies together in spotless geometries of passion. Caroline Tee smiling in my face. Broad front teeth made her look a little horsey. ‘I’ve had nine cocks up me so far,’ she said. Dishes on the tables overflowing with condoms. The dance floor was sticky underfoot – spilled drink and spunk puddled on the boards. White hands unzipping my fly. A woman old enough to be my granny, but attractive nevertheless, led me by the cock back to her lair. I glanced over my shoulder at Caro, nude and naughty.

Kissing ribs, a nipple. A depilated cunt. When she came I thought she was having somekind of fit. I told myself repeatedly the dizziness would fade. In the hall Caro called me to her. I had no clothes, they were strewn around the house. Caro was astride a male (who?) riding his cock. ‘Put yours up my bum,’ she hissed. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Not ready yet.’ I had just emptied myself in dear granny Weatherall’s greedy cunt.

She scowled at me. ‘Lick it out then. Do something. I’m almost there.’

Lowering my face, I watched her skinny arse chasing his balls. I pushed forward, breaking off to ask, ‘Okay?’

‘For Godsake, LICK it!’

Night inevitably became day. Sleepless, I found myself surrounded by cardboard ghosts. Ghost hands touching my cock, my balls. Lips brushed mine. A slender finger went into me, lubricating.

Fragmented memories survive: The terrifying softness of curvy bodies. Imprint of too tight underwear on pale naked flesh. Huge eyes. A tongue in my ear. A woman squatting above my face in the shower. The smell of her hair as I came up her.

‘Lay back,’ she said. ‘I need to pee again – ’

And then her quick shallow breathing as I licked her out afterwards…

Late Saturday afternoon my cab arrived. Clothing earlier recovered, I made my fond farewells to our hosts. My body felt bruised and battered. My shrunken cock was burning like a piece of raw fish that had been liberally dipped in thick piri-piri. I had slept not one wink.

Caro kissed me gently on the lips. I gazed from her thin neck to her warm blue eyes. ‘We’re thinking of doing it again for New Year’s Eve,’ she said.


‘You up for it?’

‘I s’pose,’ I said. ‘I should have recovered by then…’

The Lovers

November 27, 2015

The Lovers Konstantin Andreevic Somov

She is about to come. This time,
they are sitting up, joined below the belly,
feet cupped like sleek hands praying
at the base of each other’s spines.
And when something lifts within her
toward a light she’s sure, once again,
she can’t bear, she opens her eyes
and sees his face is turned away,
one arm behind him, hand splayed
palm down on the mattress, to brace himself
so he can lever his hips, touch
with the bright tip the innermost spot.
And she finds she can’t bear it —
not his beautiful neck, stretched and corded,
not his hair fallen to one side like beach grass,
not the curved wing of his ear, washed thin
with daylight, deep pink of the inner body —
What she can’t bear is that she can’t see his face,
not that she thinks this exactly — she is rocking
and breathing — it’s more her body’s thought,
opening, as it is, into its own sheer truth.
So that when her hand lifts of its own volition
and slaps him, twice on the chest,
on that pad of muscled flesh just above the nipple,
slaps him twice, fast, like a nursing child
trying to get a mother’s attention,
she’s startled by the sound,
though when he turns his face to hers —
which is what her body wants, his eyes
pulled open, as if she had bitten —
she does reach out and bite him, on the shoulder,
not hard, but with the power infants have
over those who have borne them, tied as they are
to the body, and so, tied to the pleasure,
the exquisite pain of this world.
And when she lifts her face he sees
where she’s gone, knows she can’t speak,
is traveling toward something essential,
toward the core of her need, so he simply
watches, steadily, with an animal calm
as she arches and screams, watches the face that,
if she could see it, she would never let him see.

Dorianne Laux