February 10, 2019

Some men are born sodomites, some achieve sodomy, and some have sodomy thrust upon them…

Aleister Crowley

In treating of this matter I must first premise that by paederasty I mean actual sodomy as defined by British law – immissio penis in corpus vivum.

Arse makes life golden, want of it dull yellow; The rest is only leather and prunella.

At least, the rest is but preliminaires. An acute observer of my acquaintance remarked to me recently that it was the actual mess caused by emission, and the necessity of cleaning it up, that, by allowing time for passion to cool, prevented a great deal of
copulation which would otherwise take place. There is a great gulf fixed between the ‘short time’ and the ‘all night’, and that great gulf is filled with Condy’s Fluid! This applies equally to Sodomy. If the semen is safely bestowed in mouth or anus of the beloved one, the temptation is to begin all over again; bar the trifle of fatigue, one is in the same position as at first; its loss between the legs or in the hand rouses a sentiment of disgust which is fatal to passion. Even the mouth, like the vagina, remains in a somewhat greasy condition after it has achieved the holy task, and we have no hesitation in plumping the anus as the one vase into which the
perfumed oil of manhood may be poured without exciting a reaction.

Aleister Crowley

african queen

Anna Nzinga in her time (1583 – 1663)was all powerful. Queen of Ndongo and Matamba in modern day Angola, she was a dedicated sadist who preached and practiced the delights of sapphism, and encouraged sodomy amongst her subjects – this in keeping with the early laws she enacted forbidding pregnancy and childbirth. She desired the population of her realm to remain static. In this way, she believed, peace could be maintained with the Portuguese and Dutch colonists, interlopers in her world who regularly raided for slaves.

No less a personage than the Marquis de Sade makes mention of Anna in his works; de Sade deriving his information, probably, from Jean-Louis Castilhon’s “Zingha, reine d’Angola: Histoire africane en deux partes”:

‘Singha, reine d’Angola, avait fait une loi qui établissait la vulgivaguibilité des femmes. Cette même loi leur enjoignait de se garantir de grossesse, sous peine d’être pilées dans un mortier : loi sévère, mais utile, et qui doit toujours suivre la défense des liens et la communauté, afin de mettre des bornes à une population dont la trop grande abondance pourrait devenir dangereuse.’

(Nzinga, Queen of Angola, made a law preventing the childbearing of women. The same law enjoined them to ensure they did not become pregnant, for fear of being crushed in a mortar: a severe law, but useful in maintaining the defense of the country and community, setting limits to a population whose overabundance could become dangerous.)

Early Dutch emissaries wrote that Anna Nzinga maintained a Harem of male slaves all dressed as women. These poor unfortunates would on occasion engage in gladiatorial-type combat, fighting to the death, in the hope of sharing the queen’s bed for the night. Those who survived to enjoy this sleepless night of passion with her, would, come the dawn, be dragged from her bed and burned alive for her further amusement.

They say that to secure her throne Nzinga murdered her brother and his son, and that she eat the son’s still beating heart to obtain his power.

They say, also, Nzinga liked to watch the flaying Alive of wrongdoers, and, on occasion, would use the flaying knife herself, skillfully removing strips of bloody skin from her victims most intimate parts.

Without doubt, Anna Nzinga was a bisexual monster, who, according to Eulenberg in his work Sadism and Masochism, ‘raged against men and women equally and without differentiation.’ But in a world full of male monsters, Nzinga survived, ruled her people and fought off all interlopers.

Today, of course, Anna Nzinga is a national hero in Angola. Her sexual violence is dismissed as legend or the propaganda of her many enemies. And while to a point this may be true, there can be no denying her merciless treatment of her enemies or the fact that she enriched herself through the provision of slaves to the Dutch and Portuguese. Nor can there be any denying of the draconian laws she promulgated subjecting her people to her iron will.

23rd July

Living here with so many ghosts I feel like a caretaker of the restless dead – a protector of spirits who haunt my life – so that I’ve become my own haunted house, attempting communication with partially glimpsed movements at the edge of perception, or the sound of a creaking stair, or a noise in the attic which might only be the patter of falling rain…My ghosts can be cranky on occasion: they can whisper words, the meaning of which I’m unable to determine.

It’s been a long time since anyone treated them well –


So the Saturday evening play-party. With our friends from the local munch, people possessing the emotional bandwidth to comply with our safety standards, while sharing similar aesthetic tastes to ourselves.

Like a small film club, are we, eagerly awaiting the main attraction: crisps, freshly roasted nuts and popcorn are liberally distributed to ‘the audience’ in small china bowls. Missy A has been naughty and is to be disciplined while we watch. Furniture has been moved to accommodate this tableaux.

Seeing Missy A bent over a chair with her skirt hitched up is breathtaking. Hearing a hand slap against her buttocks, is so very arousing – how could it be otherwise? Savouring the slight trembling of flesh with each fresh impact. Her yelps of discomfort –

Then E rising to join T who is tiring. E has a riding crop. She takes T’s place. Her skin-head hair cut is intimidating. She uses the crop with consummate skill –

Yelps become cries. Missy’s poor glowing bum is criss-crossed with red stripes –

Missy’s now estranged husband used to take her to play-parties in the boot of their car. Almost nude, gagged and handcuffed, even in winter, she would endure this humiliation without complaint. His treatment of her became harsher and harsher, until she finally left him eighteen months ago.

It should serve as a lesson to us all, how quickly such consensual abuse can become pure abuse –

I’m reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre and his theory of emotions as ‘magic’. Because Missy has simply exchanged one sadist for another. The new man in her life allows his fantasies free rein. She is, it seems, one of life’s natural victims –

E’s skill with that crop is superlative. Her strokes are hard enough to mark Missy’s naked bum but not to break the skin. I can’t take my eyes from Missy, her tear-filled eyes, parted lips, writhing as if in the grip of some invisible power. Sex is inherently ritualistic, a symbolic act whose meanings extend beyond itself. And there can be no doubt that Missy’s submission is sexual, that she takes pleasure from E’s practiced flogging of her backside. And every face in ‘the audience’ is slightly flushed with sexual excitement as they look on. And my own arousal is equally obvious –

Finally, aftercare. Caresses, kisses, gentle stroking. A smile on Missy’s tear-stained face. She experienced some sort of climax near the end of her ‘punishment’, and all the tension is now drained from her.

I finish my popcorn (which incidentally is homemade) as E takes Missy upstairs to the bathroom to fix her make-up.

‘I hope they don’t wake the ghosts,’ I say to no one in particular.

And no one, as expected, bothers to reply.


Hamlet experienced an encounter with a ghost and it ended in massacre. Macbeth was confronted by Banquo’s ghost during a great banquet, and lost his peace of mind forever. It’s more than likely that Shakespeare’s ghosts are simply psychological manifestations of guilt – imagined apparitions, in other words.

But what of my ghosts?

Trish, for example?

She used to love me reading out loud to her. At bedtime I always had to read to her or she couldn’t sleep. On occasion she would perform an act of fellation upon me as I read –

She once described herself to me as ‘Terribly thin’. And her body, I must admit, was like a sabre slash in silk. As flat chested as a boy, was she. ‘You’re fine,’ I’d tell her. ‘I love you as you are.’ And then laid her back and performed cunnilingus on her for almost an hour –

I read her ‘The Story of O’ and we both got turned on by it. It was Christmas Eve I remember, and Trish guided me between her buttocks. I gently sodomized her for the first time while she masturbated herself.

We talked a lot about art, writing, music and cinema. One time I told her about André Gide, his enormous influence on the young, which sprang from his teaching that one’s only duty is to oneself, that one should never be ‘encumbered’, either by material possessions, memories or other people –

‘Often the best in us springs from the worst in us.’

And so I read ‘Isabelle’ to Trish, and we both visited le chateau de la Quartfourche with Gerard Lacase, and accompanied him on his quest for Isabelle in the grip of ‘amorous curiosity’.

Books, reading, more reading and fucking. ‘Why don’t you read me something you’ve written?’ she asked. It was a bridge too far for me. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Never that. It’s all too awful.’ But she insisted, so finally I recited some of the poems in ‘Summer Births’ from memory. And while the words spilled gently from my mouth like little lost souls, Trish fondled me erect and masturbated me –

Trish had always had a thing about India. For her it seemed a magical, mysterious, exotic place. One day she announced she was finally going to go there. She’d saved the money. She was going for six months – longer if she could!

And so she drifted from my life almost as casually as she’d drifted into it. And now she keeps company with the crowd of ghosts occupying this place; a spectre who loves to hear me read out loud late at night –

come inside you…

May 14, 2016

Malqatta (Christian Guilmin) - kiss

I want to make love to you, Rhone. I want to fill your ass with my penis and fuck you until you love it just as much as I do. I want to suck your dick and eat your balls until your cum coats my tongue and throat. I want you to do the same to me. I want to come inside you, in your mouth, in your ass, on your chest, marking you as mine in a way you can feel even when I’m not by your side. That’s what I want. It’s what I’ve wanted ever since you told me I could have a different, better life and then took the time to care and to show me how to care about myself. I want everything you can give, and I want to offer you everything that I am.

Cameron Dane

Finding Home


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


Diary 13th March

Sometimes we resemble a small pack of wolves, we’re that insatiable…
Yesterday, I was out of “salts”: hardly any sleep to speak of; prepared breakfast as usual, but couldn’t face my own…For the whole day I eat only a small bowl of cous-cous mixed with roasted veg. Drank nothing but water and one glass of apple juice. Concern from the others – Was I all right? ‘You must eat…’

Made tender love together in the evening – but, abruptly, it turned rough and selfish. We pursued and achieved climax in an orgiastic delight of thrashing flesh…
Talk of monsters…Real monsters. The rise of Adolf Hitler in Germany. Almost inevitable given the circumstances of Germany at that time. Probably one of the most hypnotic orator’s of the twentieth century. He offered boundless aims and promises, and unlike other politicians of his day, he gave social conflicts and national hopes a mystical sense of majesty and purpose.

The man did not step from a void, however: a strong belief in German racial superiority had developed during the Second Reich of Bismarck and Kaiser Wilhelm…Hitler was a logical heir to this idée fixe of the German people.

It is easy to overlook the part played by the Weimar Republic in the rise of Hitler, the terrible inflation, the tidal wave of sexual immorality…Thomas Mann’s son, Klaus described walking past a group of dominatrices in Berlin 1928:

“Some of them looked like fierce Amazons, strutting in high boots made of green, glossy leather. One of them brandished a supple cane and leered at me as I passed by. ‘Good evening, madam,’ I said. She whispered in my ear, ‘Want to be my slave? Costs only six billions and a cigarette.”

Child prostitution was commonplace in the larger cities. There were brothels specialising in the supply of girls as young as eight years old in Berlin. Mother and daughter “teams” delivered sexual services to men, as described in pornographic detail by the French journalist, Jean Galtier-Boissière. Prostitutes were everywhere on the streets. When your currency is devaluing with every passing second, when work is nowhere to be found, then a woman’s greatest asset becomes her body. Earn the cash and spend it quickly before it becomes worthless. The same applied to boys and young men, too, of course.

In his memoir, “The Europeans”, Luigi Barzini affords us a view of the sleazy side of Berlin brothel-life:

“I saw pimps offering anything to anybody: little boys, little girls, robust young men, libidinous women, animals. The story went the rounds that a male goose whose neck you cut at just the right ecstatic moment would give you the most delicious frisson of all – as it allowed you to enjoy sodomy, bestiality, homosexuality, necrophilia and sadism at one stroke. Gastronomy too, as one could eat the goose afterwards…”

It was a time when six wheelbarrows full of bank notes could barely cover the cost of a loaf of bread. A single pound sterling could purchase in excess of eight billion German marks…!
Cold night, but I slept for a few hours. Outside before dawn, the air smelled fresh and cold, frost on all the cars. The lounge retained the faintest tang of the roasted vegetables I cooked last night. A truly lovely smell, that…peppers, red onion, courgette, tomatoes and olive oil, overlaid with a hint of spices, cumin etc.
If you don’t frighten people a little bit, then what’s the point…?
Sweet Cheeses! Every night he rises from his coffin-bed silently to seek the soft flesh, the warm blood he needs to keep himself alive!

Gran’s porn stash…

February 10, 2015


After my Grandfather died the family gathered (as they traditionally do at the demise of a family member) to split his goods and chattels between themselves. I remember well my father had hopes of returning home with his dad’s cherished cello.

But, alas, as is often the case in a gathering of vultures, he was to be greatly disappointed. Instead of the cello he picked up a set of golf clubs that were probably pre-1914. He also acquired a number of cardboard boxes containing odds and ends, bric-a-bat accumulated over the long years of my grandfather’s life. These boxes went straight up into the loft, and once there, they were quickly forgotten about.

I don’t recall what was the ultimate fate of those golf clubs (although I can recall J P Donleavy’s hilarious piece from “The Unexpurgated Code: A Complete Manual of Survival & Manners” entitled “Upon Being Stung on the End of your Prick by a Bee on a Golf Course”). My father had never played a round of golf in his life. But he was, if nothing else, a pretentious old sod, and was soon to be seen, clubs in bag over shoulder, wandering the links. He purchased a book: “Do-it-yourself Golf” or some such. But it was just another of his fads, like having a family, and the novelty wore off. The clubs disappeared.

With my father’s death those cruddy boxes of my grandfather’s became mine to dispose of as I wished. For years they remained in my attic (along with the bats, pidgins and whatever else rustles about up there in the unspeakable dark). Remained there, that is, until recently when I decided to have a clear out…

I of course offered a suitable libation to the Gods of household crap before venturing through the hatch into the loft space. I survived the ordeal, so the Gods must have looked kindly on me in this particularly loathsome endeavour. And, although it took most of a day, I cleared the attic of boxes.

Most were consigned to the flames of a raging bonfire. But one box attracted my attention. It was full of black-and-white photographs. Hundred of them. Suspecting some early photographic history of our clan (It is traditional in my family to kick the shit out of the goose that lays the golden egg, and I imagined here may be discovered the reason why?).

Later, at my leisure, I examined the contents of the box more closely. Here was no history of family life. Expecting the worse, I was not disappointed. Only it was much worse, perhaps, than I’d expected. Here was granddad’s porn stash!

Glancing at these sepia splinters of life captured oh, so many years ago, I couldn’t help but reflect on how transient life and its fleshy pleasures are. Words of J P Donleavy rolled through my head, as I studied the near perfect arse of some Parisian beauty, poised over a hundred years ago, to descend on an anonymous, upstanding prick:

“Blessed are they who in this sea of frailty,
climb aboard a piece of ass as it floats by.”

Ummm. And strange to relate that, despite the chasm of years separating the young women in these photos and myself, seeing them undraped, their pale bodies exposed and their legs spread to expose bushy vertical smiles, I felt stirred to a state of intense tumescence. Here were depicted blow-jobs, cunnilingus, sodomy, threesomes, foursomes…young girls passed to dapper elderly gentlemen by fierce-looking matrons for ‘deflowering’; mock (?) priests spreading the buttocks of a flaxen headed young woman recently widowed and “down on her luck”. An Arab sheik and his harem. A young boy and his first love. These girls, so beautiful in all their parts, probably dead now for two generations, still had the power to arouse lust and desire – a magical power transcending time, a form of sexual immortality, that made me feel so intensely glad that they would never really die…almost as if they were recent and intimate acquaintances of mine, who were waiting just next door for me.