fever damaged

March 3, 2018

a tattoo you

The creatures riding her back were created from multi-coloured inks. Eve recognised Rheacus the centaur – who was raping a nubile Atalanta between the slight rise of shoulder blades. Below a griffin fled the skinny waistband of those semi-translucent harem pants – escaping the flaming breath of a green, jewelled dragon whose tail curved up above her latissimus dorsi. Such fine works of art – skin art – were rare. Eve had seen plenty of tats in her time, but never ones as realistic – or as animated – as these.

In the soft golden light of the night club, this young woman looked totally surreal, a walking art gallery, and sight of her made Eve feel fever damaged. Like she was seeing in a laudanum dream: a delirium of smooth gold skin and mythical monsters, curling in wild arabesques – arabesques that apparently guarded the woman’s inner, secret self.

Eve reached out for her as she passed.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ the young woman said, playfully brushing Eve’s hand away with her own. ‘You can look, but must never touch.’

‘I wanted a dance,’ Eve blurted. ‘A private dance…’

What had she done? What the hell had she asked for?

‘Really?’ Quiet amusement in night-dark eyes as they met Eve’s intense gaze. She leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘The booths are upstairs. Very discreet…You can have thirty minutes of me, or an hour if you prefer.’ She gave Eve prices.

‘An hour,’ Eve decided, and fumbled out a roll of cash; she was so distracted she had to count the amount three times to get it right.

The girl, smiling, took the worn, greasy notes.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

Peter Suster
Painted Angels

A Head

The wooden door burst open and a dark figure flew at them. The sword swung at Mike before he could turn, and it cut through the air toward his head.

Sarah screamed and froze to the spot. Everything funnelled in, like slow motion. The bearded man wearing a long black cloak turned to her. He leered, his manic eyes shining with glee. She looked at Mike and he staggered. His expression was fixed, wide-eyed. His head slowly slid from his neck and fell off onto the stone floor. It bounced, settled and he stared up at her, like a dead salmon. His jerking body crumpled beside her, blood spurting onto her legs from the gaping neck.

Catatonic, she couldn’t scream. Her legs wobbly, she turned to the stairs and clambered up. She instantly heard throaty laughter and felt sturdy hands gripping her ankles, as her bladder gave way. She was pulled back down, slowly, her chin buffeting the steps, one by one. At the bottom, he grabbed her by the hair and an excruciating pain ripped through her scalp as she was dragged past Mike’s head, those eyes still staring, helplessly…

Col Bury
The Writing on the Wall

The memory returned: she was fourteen, locked in a room with Bill Vinson, a twenty-year-old, still hanging out at high school parties. She’d told her mother that she had gone to her friend Jamie’s house and Jamie had told her parents they were going to the movies. There was liquor and Bill was cute and he was talking to her about the band Molly Hatchet and soon they were in a room, her shirt undone. Then it went bad. She was too small to fight it off. She cried and asked him to stop but her head was spinning from the booze. To make things even more horrid, when he was done, someone popped out of the closet and snapped pictures of her on the bed. She never did figure out who took the photos for the room was dark and the flash popped three times, brightening the walls for each wretched moment, Bill and the mystery guy snickering. They left her there in tears. She managed to get out and get home, her mother finding out days later when Erin confessed she was worried about pregnancy. It turned out she was lucky.

The Repairman
Jen Conley

Still, however desexualized, minimalized, and distanced, the crime is a rape, and the question is why – what, in other words, the male viewer’s stake might be in imagining himself reacting to that most quintessentially feminine of experiences. The answer lies, perhaps, in the question: it is precisely because rape is the more quintessentially feminine of experiences – the limit, care of powerlessness and degradation – that is such a powerful motivation, such a clean ticket, for revenge. I have argued that the center of gravity of these films lies more in the reaction (the revenge) than the act (the rape), but to the extent that the revenge fantasy derives its force from some degree of imaginary participation in the act itself, in the victim position, these films are predicated on cross-gender identification of the most extreme, corporeal sort.

Carol J Clover
Men, Women and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film

nature of the beast

July 8, 2017

The desire to dominate fuels the fantasies of so many men. The motivation, generally repressed, to assume the role of a Genghis Khan or Attila the Hun and to plunder a woman’s body in the same way Attila plundered the Balkans – or to possess several, subservient morganatic wives like Genghis. To ravish at will, to rape and force, to spill their seed in every orifice of their helpless victims. This is the true nature of the beast –


Daniel Coppinger was an eighteenth-century smuggler, boys and girls. Not a very nice man. Cruel Coppinger, the locals called him, a Dane whose ship was wrecked on the north Cornish coast during a bad storm. The coast was lined with wreckers who had gone out to lure any ships in distress onto the rocks. All they got was Coppinger, which was perhaps even worse than they deserved.

A giant of a man, they saw him by lightning-flashes at the wheel of his ship, cursing his crew, until the vessel struck and sank, when he hurled himself into the sea. When he came out of the maelstrom, he snatched a cloak from an old woman, jumped up on a horse behind a young girl called Dinah Hamlyn and galloped to her home.

Coppinger made it his home as well. Farmer Hamlyn took a liking to him, and his daughter fell in love with him. They married, the farmer suddenly died, and Coppinger spent his wife’s inheritance on wild living and whores. The money gone he started a smuggling gang. His headquarters was at Steeple Brink, a precipitous cliff with a cave at its foot that could be reached by sea. He had a short way of dealing with revenue men, cutting their throats or disembowelling them before dumping them in the sea. He was a superb navigator, and one time led a revenue cutter into a death-trap channel that he knew and they did not; it struck the rocks and sank with all hands.

Cruel Coppinger terrorised the district. He was heard to boast ‘I rapes real good when I’ve a mind’; a boast he carried out with sickening frequency. He threatened to kill anyone outside his gang who used the cave or public paths leading to Steeple Brink. When the local parson demanded tithe-money, the huge Dane flayed him with a double-throng whip. He threatened the same treatment to his wife when her mother refused to tell him where she kept her money; Mrs Hamlyn gave in when she saw her Dinah tied naked to a bed-post and Coppinger with his sea-cat out. The people used to sing:

Will you hear of the cruel Coppinger?
He came from a foreign kind;
He was brought to us by salt water,
He’ll be carried away by the wind.

And so he was, on the stormiest night since his arrival. The wreckers were out as usual, and the last they saw of him, in a lightning-flash, was as they’d first seen him, holding the wheel and cursing his crew…



A woman travels by train to Heidelberg. The year is 1934 and the woman (later to be called Mrs E in the German press, although at this precise moment she is Miss E) is on her way to consult a doctor about her stomach pains. She falls into hesitant conversation with a fellow passenger, a man who claims to be a natural healer, no less, and in whom she confides the purpose of her journey. The man’s name is Franz Walter, and he tells her he can cure her illness.

‘You can…?’

Walter invites her to join him for coffee when the train pulls into the station. She is most reluctant but allows him to persuade her. On the platform he grabs hold of her hand, and Mrs E feels abruptly lost, without a will of her own.

‘Come with me,’ he tells her.

He takes her to a room in the city, places her in a trance by touching her forehead, then rapes her. She tries to push him away, but can’t move. She strains more and more but it doesn’t help. He gently strokes her face.

‘You sleep quite deeply, you can’t call out, and you can’t do anything else.’ He presses her arms behind her. ‘You can’t move anymore,’ he says. ‘When you wake up you’ll remember nothing of what has happened.’ He also tells her, her stomach pains are gone and will never return.

Then he rapes her again; finally he sodomises her, before helping her to readjust her clothing. He leads her back to the street after emptying her purse of the money she’s saved to pay for her doctor’s visit…

Walter had, during their conversation on the train, hypnotised the highly susceptible Mrs E. On their parting in Heidelberg that day, Walter, using a ‘control word’, instructs Mrs E to return to him the following week. Her ordeal is only just beginning.

Over the course of the next few years, Walter prostituted Mrs E. He gave her to other men, or to friends – often telling these friends the ‘control word’ that would leave her helpless for them. In return he earned hundreds of thousands of marks. Time and again he would meet her at either Karlsruhe, or Heidelberg railway stations, take her to rooms where he could have his way with her before the arrival of her first ‘customers’ of the day.

Walter would also, using hypnotic suggestion, give Mrs E muscle cramps and even, on one occasion, paralysed her left hand. He would only remove these terrible afflictions on receipt of sums of money from Mrs E.

During the course of Walter’s criminal depredations, Mrs E, his young victim, married. Her husband became another source of wealth for Walter. Allowances made by Mr E to his wife, soon ended up in Walter’s greedy pockets.

But, as with all the best laid plans, Mr E became suspicious of his wife’s behavior. He began to make awkward inquiries. Walter, fearing discovery, instructed Mrs E to kill her husband.

He, poor man, after her sixth failed attempt on his life, decided to involve the police. They in their turn decided Mrs E must have been mad, and called on the services of a psychiatrist, Dr Ludwig Mayer, who succeeded in releasing the suppressed memories of Walter’s hypnotic sessions by re-hypnotising her. After a somewhat sensational court case, Walter received a sentence of ten years penal servitude.

Read Mrs E’s own words in Hammerschlag, Hypnotism and Crime, pp. 120-121:

‘I’m no longer the same person as before. Something different controls me. I don’t want to do something, but I do it. Or I want to do something, and yet I don’t do it…in the end I thought of nothing more than doing what Walter wanted. If I obeyed I always felt more at ease. Within me I was never free there was always something oppressing me….I can’t struggle against these pressures…the pressure vanishes when I obey the commands of the inner voice.’

Mayer wrote a post verdict book on the subject of Mrs E and the criminal uses of hypnosis. Here he described how it works:

“…a person in somnambulic hypnosis is not able to take up a critical attitude on his own behalf … subordination to the hypnotiser, and dulling of his consciousness takes place, regardless of whether he is the subject of a legitimate experiment or is being hypnotised for other purposes … Just as suggestions can be employed therapeutically … they can equally well be used for criminal purposes.”

So there we have it, boys and girls. Strange but true – although I have a strong suspicion, Mrs E’s story would NOT be accepted in a courtroom today; she, I suspect, would find herself charged with theft and attempted murder. However, an interesting if very bizarre case.

face your own wickedness…

September 17, 2016


“Back, devil! Return thee to Hell!”

The beast rolled its eyes. “I am not a devil, fool. Do you ever wonder why you seek the Devil with such vigour? I shall tell you. Because you cannot face your own wickedness. The truth is there is no Devil making you torture, rape, murder, and sodomize one another, or making you destroy the very land that feeds you. There is only you. So look at yourself, for you are the only devil in this room.”

Krampus: The Yule Lord

pig-tailed girl

May 15, 2016

Hans Bellmer - Doll’s Game 3

it’s as if
it was on every Herald front page
as if
every billboard caught the moment
of the pig-tailed girl running
from the Rangeview public toilets
baubles slapping scraped back
smudged top torn
blood on thighs and knees
screamingcrying into the park away
away from the man
emerging from the toilet
zippingrunning after bait

the cleaner saw
heard and saw
and couldn’t quite believe until he found
blood on the concrete floor
in the end cubicle
of Rangeview public toilets

five surrounding primary schools reported
no one missing
she’s gone
no follow-up article
him her darkness

12 years later
the Herald front-pages the crime scene:
a man hangs by his balls
from the chain of a Rangeview swing
a severed roll of meat
lies next to bloody HBs
a dog sniffs
then shits
on it.

Selina Tusitala Marsh


Dream, now, that which makes murderers awaken, that which makes them masturbate with ferocity. Dream worse. Beneath Lilith, your head and heart filled with wicked fetish and fixation, with fantasies like the secret desires that are harboured in ruined hearts.

Unto you, in dreams and venom, does Lilith unlock the secrets of a sadist satyr’s pleasures – shows that which you are to be. Unto you is revealed the hidden aphrodisiac of suffering, the enigma of the sacred clay, the indulgence of lust and hurt at once…

…Dream, and become other than you are. Be forever bewitched, remade, and reborn. You are bewitched indulging in rape, and worse. You are bewitched sadistic, incapable of mercy, void of empathy. You are being rewritten in Lilith’s image of predation, etched anew with acidic venom. You are becoming a passage in Lilith’s wicked epic. You are becoming learned in the secret beauty of suffering!

Dream the secret of blood. It is a secret that envenoms you now. Dream it. It is a song of beauty, a flowing and red erotica that is sung in the veins and heart. It is an aria upon the skin when spilt freely. It is an ode in compliment of skin, a chorus of woman, which she sings with every heartbeat. It is a secret coquetry in harmony with your sadistic arousal.

Woman is a siren singing of the flower of her heart, drawing you in, beckoning you to partake. Dream the secret of her blood. It is a river vaulted and tombed in womanhood. It is kept in her halls and chambers to nourish her garden of being. Spill and loose the river as it wishes. Hear the river’s song, its harmony erotic. Let the river deluge to greet you. Obsess to let it, this that is so crimson and feminine. Bloodlet and let it pool like vermilion gems, like rubies and a gift to yourself displayed upon her skin. Bloodlet and know that it is a spell in red of your passion and lust, an enchantment whose potency is secret even to her, an enchantment to your very virility.

This is writ upon the sacred clay in secret. It is deciphered unto you by the venom of Lilith.

It is written also in secrecy: the beauty of bruises. It is an art of erotica, and hidden but to the black eye. Man’s understanding of it is limited. You are given the black mind’s eye that you may discern it, that you may have appreciation of it in your stiff phallus, that you may feel its beauty in your erection, that you may be stirred to dark passion by it. It has potent influence over your lust. Ecstasy: this subtlety of the ruby made amethyst and kept, rather than bloodlet. Erotic: the alchemy upon the heart’s gem, the muting of the tombed river from vivid vermilion to violet and amaranth, to black and cadaveric, from glistening crimson to stark contusions of heliotrope strokes impacted over a blanched canvas.

Know that bruises are of a woman’s beauty. They are sensual emphases of her complexion, accents of her suffering and effective in sustaining your erection. They are a visual companion to your orgasm, and are always to be of your doing. Know to tattoo woman with your presence. Tattoo her with the bruises of your lust, with mural and opus inspired by the very secrets of her sacred clay. Articulate your wisdom upon her skin.

Know the allure of woman’s hurt. Her suffering adorns her beauty. She is exquisite in a black necklace of ligation, in dark jewels of choke and smother, in the gray and lilac gems of gag and strangle. Bite down on her. Let her bear the beauty from your violent mouth. Let your maw be a ghost that haunts her skin darkly. Let there be black halos from your jaws upon the fields and meadows of her.

These are as gifts, from her skin to you. She bears these adornments by your hand and mouth, for you. As woman perfumes her body to enchant, so does she bear her skin to be bejewelled by you, to enchant you…

…Dream, dreamer of Lilith. Dream, and become of Lilith. Learn of your Goddess. She has wisdom to impart. Know that earthly woman does abound with the sexuality of suffering. Her body is a temple of it, an altar to it, a sanctum of arcane mysteries. Know the rites and rituals of the shrine of womanhood. You are given its wisdom in venom. Be wise in it…

…Dream, and know the temple of woman. Its façade is laid bare before you. Know that there are secrets without and within, upon her skin and within her vestibules. Know the three sacristies of the sacred clay, the three where she takes you inside her. These are where you perform the phallic rites of rape, where you find the culmination of your ecstasy with her suffering.

Know that her mouth is narthex to apse of a phallic rite. It is a chamber of her sensual suffocations. It is the hall of choke and gag in communion with Ithyphallos.

Unlock the jaw. Enter her mouth. Perform the rite from lips to throat. Dream of this, as succubae perform it upon you. Dream at the gate of woman’s mouth, while you are smothered by the destroying delta. Dream that woman may not have breath. She may only have of Ithyphallos, choke on Ithyphallos, hurt of Ithyphallos.

Her breathless panic and hurt heighten the pleasures of her mouth. It is the hurt of woman that multiplies the ecstasy of your arousal and orgasms. Fill her throat and smother her. Asphyxiation becomes a transmuted element, an alchemy of sadism. Your pleasure is the supernova of the black sun she suffers. Feel her suffocation like a harem fellating you at once. Her agony feeds into Ithyphallos and translates into ecstasy.

Before you leave from the sacristy of her mouth, you must make a sacrifice of your seed. This is an equilibrium of ecstasy and suffering.

Unto the second vestibule of the sacred clay of womanhood is another sacrifice of your seed to be made. This is also writ upon her skin in secret, the erotica of violent sodomy. Its cipher is washed away by the venom in your veins. Its arcanum is made clear by acidic revelation. It is of you now, as you dream it.

You are raped by succubae, kept erect by their venom, swallowed into the rectum of a darkling daughter, and dreaming the same of nameless woman. Dream of woman whom has taken your violence and sacrifice at her mouth. She has more to give and take. She has yet to be partaken of in sodomy.

Have her as such. Delve between the cleft that hides it, to the anus and rectum. Perform the rite, again where her agony will translate to your ecstasy, from the black nadir of her pain to the zenith of your unearthly pleasure and orgasm. Here, she may bleed to welcome you into her. She will fissure and haemorrhage her blood to pull you in deeper, like a tide drawing you in. Her blood will grease Ithyphallos. Her groans and whimpers will make you slaver all over her. She will moan the chorus erotic that exalts your presence inside her. She will hurt deep, and will scream a stifled scream that will be felt like a thousand tongues lathering and dithering and lavishing at Ithyphallos.

Her suffering of sodomy is exquisite when expressed in blood and half-gasped soliloquies of anguish. Devour what comes of her mouth. What come are secret words of enchantment spoken in the tongue of utmost hurt. Swallow from her mouth and be enchanted to violent orgasm inside her. This is the second sacrifice at the second vestibule. It is a gratitude for your wisdom of secrets, a gratitude unto Lilith, and expressed in violence and rape as she demands it.

Know the third vestibule of the sacred clay. It is the apex of the pyramid. It takes you to her belly, as succubus takes you to her belly now. It is the delta, the wellspring of blood like a magikal potency. You must part the thighs to find this high chamber, part the thighs and mark them with your passing. Bejewel them in amethyst and dark onyx, in obsidian and sapphire, in heliotrope and twilight. You must part the delicate labial veils. Let them, too, be bejewelled. Let them be tattered and pierced. Let them bead with droplets of nectar, like a mist of the river inside her. Then may the mount of Venus be delved into, then to the third vestibule, then to the high chamber of her suffering in marriage with your ecstasy; to her belly, and blood may flow.

Scourge the vulva and womb with Ithyphallos like a weapon of iron. Undo the keep of veins and make her spill. Her heart will drain through her womb. It will weep through her vulva to steep Ithyphallos. Her cycle may come of the violence. There may come menses and debris and the ecstasy of it. By your gift of violence, her tribulation will speak its saga in sweat, her exquisite Hell in every language of rapist erotica, like a tongue speaking upon Ithyphallos, a whisper hypnotic, a whisper of violence, and its pleasures.

Dream it in venom. Lilith does bestow upon you the wisdom of dark misdeeds and corporeal secrets. The sacred clay of womanhood has many secrets. Woman is delicate beneath your violence. She is frail and sweet of many scents. All that you do must hurt her. She holds the zenith of your pleasures in her hurt. They are thousands. Each is potent. Each hurt guards a pleasure. You must draw her hurt into being, into expression, before you can attain the pleasure it guards.

Your every touch must excruciate; every caress, bruise or pierce. You will feel her hurt like a black tongue over your phallus. The garden of her mouth, the sighed songs of suffering, these will be as if her mouth fawned and slavered over your phallus, as if every anguished whimper were laid down at your scrotum in harem appeasement, like a hundred women sucking down on your erection, like whores and harlots in love with Ithyphallos.

Havoc upon the sacred clay, and she will spill her secrets upon you. Her blood will pour over Ithyphallos like kisses. It will be the nectar that glides you into her vestibules. It is the river that guides you into her delta, the water of her body that gives you passage in sodomy. Her heart gives it to let you in. From the seat of her passions bleeds forth your every dark passion; from her belly, your lust for her suffering; from her bosom, the wind that enchants and erects you.

This is the wisdom of Lilith’s venom, such as she gives it to you. Her venom is becoming as your blood. This is your becoming, in dreams of it, and in deeds to come of it. You are discipled of it, made a vessel of it, made as a phallic counterpart to darkling daughters. As succubae work you, you are become Ithyphallos, a cairn wrought by the destroying delta, to be unto woman as they are unto man.

N. Onym
The Harlot Goddess