Summon the Serpent

August 18, 2017

It may well be enough just to stay on the potent parts of The Lizard (in Cornwall) in order to “Dream dreams and see visions”. But there are mantric invocations which can help. Or so say the eerie shamanic Lizard cult “The Katchinas, Keepers of The Ancient Dream”. One such powerful ‘Dragon spell’ is an invocation to the dark serpent Goddess, which the Kachinas believe to be the mistress of the hidden secrets of the Lizard. It requires a rock-pool, or rock-chalice to carry it out properly. One inside a seacave inside the earth is best of a1l. If you find one with an s mark on the rim, or overlooking the bowl, it will be especially powerful, as it is already dedicated to the Serpent Goddess. The intention is to communicate with this entity, by seeing pictures, either in the pool, or in your mind. This can supposedly be achieved by intoning aloud the following invocation. It can be repeated as often as you like, until you feel contact has been established.


Treasures that no mind can comprehend,
That no man can harm.
Dream on with tripled powers,
Shining One, your strength is in the stars. Great is the Moon Glow,
And the Moons’ Powers!

Keepers of the Ancient Dream,
Come, Dream in here with us.
If I cry, CAR-AW, CAR-AW!
Show thy self! If I cry, CAR-AW, CAR-AW!
Take it to Yourself!

From the Ancient Dreaming,
The Wise Goddess speaks!

(Here meditate for awhile)

Oh, Mother of Light and Dark.
You who know mercy.
May your moon visions be with us,
As with our ancestors of Horrendous Powers.
Take us now to the Threshold,
Of the Otherworld.
But do not leave us there!

(Again meditate)

Robin Ellis
Dream Weavers of The Lizard

Witch Burn

August 17, 2017

It feels like freedom, sitting next to a grown woman,
squeezed into a corset, blessed woman, crowned in silver and gold,
body-strong as we grapevine in a circle,
body-vulnerable in diaphanous skirts.
We gargle meditatively, our voices vibrating
across each other’s solar plexi.

This witchy thing, inspired by
Druids, ancient and unknowable,
those Roman-fodder, those barbarous,
who never wrote anything down,
who probably practiced human sacrifice,
at their altars under monoliths, but
that’s what all the websites say, in curly-que letters,
like wishing can make it true,
and spell
all at once),
and under that in fine-print,
really brought to you by: a man named Gerald Gardner,
British civil servant who thought one day in the 1950s,
to look at nature and breathe in the moon
and stare at the stars and say yes, okay, yes,
this I worship.

And so we sit pentacle-corner to pentacle-corner,
humming hymns to horned gods
that I don’t believe in,
but the night smells like basil and mint
and the gardenia blossoms
in the desert heat, delicate blooms
that shouldn’t thrive here, but do,
like me, like magic.

Kristen Figgins

I was probably about 11 or 12 when I first saw a picture of Pan, and I was mesmerized by this half goat, half man god. He came to represent all that I searched for in the magical mysteries of “the Pagan”, all that I swore ran through my blood and my pre-teen sexuality, as it led down into adolescence. Any depiction of a satyr in a museum would become an icon and a little place of pilgrimage for me.

In esoteric hearsay, stories of Pan’s invocation were accompanied with cautionary tales, supposed immorality, foolhardiness, and magicians left gibbering and naked in the morning. I wonder if that still gets trotted out nowadays? I didn’t really consider Pan in quite that light, he was my favourite after all, but there was a coldness and a darkness that could accompany the goat foot god, both a loneliness and its answer, along with experiences which might get stereotyped as “enchanting” and “ecstatic”. For one period of time in my twenties I would get hurled out of sleep, like out of deep water, in a state of terror. My sister swore, years later, that she had once awoken to hear a large animal on the landing outside our bedrooms, breathing heavily in the middle of the night. It was quite an extreme time in some ways, though very creative.

Mo (aka CredenceDawg)
Hymn to an Outsider

the edge of the dark

August 15, 2017

In Welsh mythology the otherworld is known as Annwn: the not-world, the deep. It is the beyond of adventure, the locus of alterity. Its landscapes are unstill, its deities and monsters have many faces. It is a source of beauty and terror, of awe, of Awen, the divine inspiration quested by the bards and awenyddion who crossed the edge of the dark to explore its depths.

The ways between the worlds are fraught with danger. Safe passage is only granted at a cost. Those who return from the otherworld are never the same. Thus they shroud themselves in the cowl of the edge of the dark.

Those who live on the edge see our precarious reign over the land and its myths is illusory. Tower blocks and elaborate street lamps are ephemeral as Dickens’ fairy palaces. Electric lighting is no defence against the edge of the dark, which seeps in because its memories are deeper than us, its darkness more permeating than headlights.

Lorna Smithers
The edge of the dark

15th August

So he enters her bedroom through that impossible two way mirror. She’s not there but he finds a mannequin that looks like her and dresses it in a flowing white bridal gown. He utters the words that make them husband and wife, and consummates their union on her untidy bed. Afterwards he takes her to the cemetery on the edge of the moor. It is the happiest day of his life.

‘I think of you,’ he says, ‘at midnight each and every night.’

He takes her in his arms and they begin to dance to the music playing inside his head. He is overcome with passion, and he has her there, bending her over a tombstone and thrusting into her.

She is like a woman from another time. She awakens so many different emotions in him. She has the soft smell of a child about her, and he whispers words of love into her tangled hair as he cums up her.

He loves her, every atom, every particle. Squeezing her breasts through her bridal gown and gently kissing the back of her neck. But she doesn’t respond. She lays quite silent and still over the tombstone, like a woman in some other person’s dream –

Then he wakes.


The creative artist is much better equipped to exploit the obscure sources of myth, magic and ritual surrounding us than any ‘academic’ writing down pure ‘facts’. Contact with the sacred in nature may effect a transformation in our ways of ‘seeing’. The visible and the invisible and the veil between become momentarily transparent to assist in our enlightenment. It is possible for the creative artist to live in both worlds at once. To live inside and outside of time. The trackless, sheep-wandered moorland beyond my window suggests power, joy, growth – and the possibility of transformation. Here, it is easy to believe, is Pan’s playground, his kingdom, and that he waits, a bodiless shadow, to brutally ravish some innocent female out walking his domain without due care.

One should always propitiate the Gods with an appropriate sacrifice.

Reshape his mind

August 13, 2017

get eaten out

August 13, 2017

I need someone who can keep up with my sex drive lol, someone who I can give a “Look” to, you know what I mean? And seeing my “Look” they’ll know I wanna get dicked hard or pushed onto the nearest surface and get eaten out for an hour or more.

Andrea Stevenson
Secret Desires

must be vulnerable to me

August 12, 2017

Most men are very comfortable ‘giving’ me their bodies to play with and use. And yes, I like that. I love that. But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. I want to crack open your emotions, your pride, your sense of self. I want to take that from you, too.

I will find your emotional insecurities and use them to highlight the power exchange between us, to show you that you can and – because you have to let go and fall in order to know what it’s like to feel me catch you.

And yes…You will love me for it.

Ms Kay
The Femdomdiary

I undressed him and put him on his knees.

Once in bed he was told to remove my bra and I laid down. I didn’t feel as nervous as I thought I might, so I asked him to worship my tits…. At first he attacked the nipples with feverish sucking. I smiled and made him slow down…there wasn’t any shyness as I told him what I wanted and how I liked to be kissed. I liked making him take his time around the nipples with gentle kissing and licking. I even asked him to bite them and pulled his head off when I’d had enough.

It felt good to be greedy.

After awhile I held out my hand, palm up, and he filled it with lube. I let him fuck my hand with his desperate hips as he continued his licking and sucking job. As his humping got a bit more intense he lost focus on my breasts and I guided him back with soothing words and giggles.

Eventually, I let him climb on top of me. His treat was humping my leg with my lubed hand holding his cock tight against my bare thigh. It was like we were fucking. He said his body was confused. He needed to feel my cunt. His hips worked against my body. My hips involuntarily moved up. Wanting to meet his too.

He asked defeatedly for penetration knowing the “no” was coming before the question left his mouth. I made him ask again and again. I savoured each sweet, “no.” I can’t describe having that much power escape my lips. I love owning my boundaries and knowing they’ll be utterly respected…even adored.

Eventually, frustrated, he asked if he could get back on his side again and I let him. He fucked my hand a bit more and we talked fantasies. I teased him for needing me to talk dirty. He wanted my thoughts and I kept them all to myself like a greedy little girl. My head felt empty and swimmy with power. My denial made him a little soft so I turned on my belly and let him stroke my ass. He wanted to kiss it, but instead he was told ‘Rub yourself’. I wanted him hard.

With that revelation I remembered something we had discussed earlier in the week. I got up and put him on his back. That week while I was doing my hair and texting him I had teased him that the hair clips would make excellent torture devices. He replied with how much he’d like to experience that, so while I had him waiting and stroking himself, I pulled the bowl from my vanity and placed it on his thighs.

“Remember these?” I giggled before placing clothespins on his nipples and hair clips on his cock and balls. He continued to rub where he could. He was getting harder and harder. His cock was swollen and thick.

That’s when I pulled out a particularly nasty clip. One that looks like little plastic jaws. I asked if he thought he could take it. He said he’d like to try so it went on the head of his cock (his suggestion, of course).

He kept rubbing. I smiled and watched him flinch as I flicked and pinched randomly.

Eventually he asked for the nasty clip to be removed so I bent over, my mouth hovering over him, and placed my lips on it. He moaned in what sounded like half fear. I giggled and bit the clip off (safely so it didn’t pull or clamp back down on him, but enough to torture the fuck out of him).

That’s when he was told his cock would never be inside me. That I didn’t need it. That I’d never need it…

I love his sad, wimpy whines.

To drive my point home, I held out my tongue close to his cock as he rubbed and told him that under no circumstances was my tongue ever to touch his dick. I asked if he remembered one of our first conversations when he had asked if I’d ever had my throat fucked. That was when our roles had yet to be so concretely defined.

I got closer with my tongue causing him to squirm and move it away from my face as he rubbed.

“It’s never touching my tongue.“

More whines.

I continued toying with him in that way. With my mouth hovering over him. I made him watch. I made him keep his eyes open and watch my face achingly close to his hard dick.

He asked to cum and I told him he could cum if he barked for me again. Like a puppy. My puppy. I made him practice. I wanted it to be a loud bark. We worked on it until it was satisfactory, and I started the countdown for his release.

Kitty Casey

29th July

It’s a time to pause and think. No one is coming to rescue you from this –

You think this is as bad as it can get?

You’re wrong, trust me. The pain has become you, hasn’t it? Anymore and you’ll break in pieces? Yet this is only the beginning –

Yeah, wade through that red sea of pain, feel yourself fuelled by it – feel your head enter a different place, that place of foggy mornings and stillness which touches your soul. Yes, you may burn – burn out. But you know you’ll come back, you always do, reborn out of the flames –

Breath in –

Breath out –

Effortless…well, just a little ragged, perhaps. But that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Take pleasure in it. And when she tightens the clamp and the metal teeth bite deeper, smile. Eat the freaking pain whole, master it, and ask for more –

You are like a tree standing against gale-force winds: you might bend but you will not break. You can smell the earth after a fall of rain, and the musty scent of old books which you love. You think of long conversations that go on through the night, and afternoons spent listening to music, or the sound of owls hunting in the darkness when you’re alone. You think too of the word: the ‘SAFE WORD’ that can end this torment –

But you know you will never use it –

You are drifting away from reality. Your body is a piano on which is played this music of pain, but you have slipped away. There, yet not there. Real, yet unreal. A tiny splinter of living agony, only partly aware…


I dreamed I was in the old house. All the mirrors had been covered with white sheeting. Nothing could be reflected. I could not see myself –

People used to do that when someone died, didn’t they? Close the drapes and cover the mirrors. Very fitting. Most apt.

I was in the old house but my dogs were not. My beautiful shaggy dogs had finally abandoned me to my fate.

I felt very sad.


Morning. Sky the colour of a three day old bruise. Body all aches and pains, the penalty of too much consensual abuse –

H C asking about my work last night. ‘It’s general themes are about our isolation in a hostile world,’ says I, in my most poncey voice. ‘We all of us exist in a capricious, deceptive, threatening world – a world full of corruption. I, as a writer, manipulate coincidence and show how close to the edge we all really are. Our commonplace fears are as nothing compared to the arbitrary and incomprehensible menace usually surrounding us -’

‘Oh, really?’

It’s pointless saying anything else. The concepts are beyond H C’s comprehension and semi-detached, rural life. Instead I recite:

The storm came across the coast
To the rolling moor
And the rain tasted of so much