Yael R. Dragwyla Email: Polaris93@aol.com http://polaris93.livejournal.

com/

First North American rights 54,413 words

Treasures of Hades
by Yael R. Dragwyla

Entire contents © 1993, 1998, 2010 by Yael R. Dragwyla, except for “How to Tie a Crotch-Spreader” [excised from this 2010 edition] which is © 1993 by Randy H. Crawford. Cover by Aubrey Beardsley A Salmon Book. Blackberry House Publication # 148 Blackberry House, 960 SW Jefferson Avenue, Corvallis, OR 97333 USA

Table of Contents
Page number Secret Dreams 1. The Fire-Kiss of Venus 2. The Initiation 3. Offering to Apollo The Demonstration Night-Songs: Asha’s Coming of Age 1. The Initiation: A Vision from the Thelemic Future, circa 2590-2990 2. Asha in Training: Manipulation of the Tatvic Tides – Another Glimpse into Life in the Thelemic Future 20 3. The Dance Pomegranate Seeds, Pomegranate Wine: The Marriage of Hades and Persephone God-Forms of the Great Goddesses Moonlight Sonata in Hell The Brag of the Female SubGenius The Second Brag of the Female SubGenius The Third Brag of the Female SubGenius Persephone’s Dalliance (Journeys End in Lover’s Meeting) [Material added by Yael Dragwyla © 2010] Evendark The Way to Paradise is Through Hades’ Jungles How to Tie a Crotch-Splitter, by Randy Ropetrix [Excised by request of the artist] The Ravishing of the Wizard’s Only Daughter by the High King of R’Lyeh *** Note: “The Brag of the Female SubGenius,” “The Second Brag of the Female SubGenius,” “The Third Brag of the Female SubGenius,” “Persephone’s Dalliance (Journeys End in Lover’s Meeting),” “Evendark,” and “The Way to Paradise is Through Hades’ Jungles” were not included in the first edition of this book inside back cover 54 55 78 3 5 9 10 17 21 24 32 35 40 45 50 51

Secret Dreams
By Erzulie Goldberg 1. The Fire-Kiss of Venus

I lie spread-eagled on an Empress-sized bed, my arms and legs manacled to the four posts by means of handcuffs, so that I can move no more than a very few millimeters in any direction. An enormous pillow supports my head, neck, and back, but does not extend any farther down than a point about two inches above my anus; thus my anus and sex are completely exposed, on view to anyone who wants to look. (Sometimes, instead, they manacle my hands high above my head via hooks or rings in a rafter above, so that the soles of my feet just barely touch the floor, standing flat, and my feet are manacled to rings set in the floor – they put blocks under my feet, to support my feet, for otherwise, spread that far apart as they are, and as taut as the chains securing me to that rafter over my head are, my feet wouldn’t quite reach the floor.) I am completely naked. They have completely shaven and plucked off all my body hair, and my body from the neck down is everywhere anointed with a thin film of scented oil which another woman, also nude, carefully massages into the skin over every part of my body, my sex and anus included. Now she takes out a small glass vial of oil of clove, adds Balm of Venus, prepared from a witch’s recipe, in more or less equal measure, as well as a few drops of tincture of crushed Jalapeño peppers, and vigorously shakes it all up together. Then she liberally applies the resultant mixture to my clit, vulva, labia, anus, navel, the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet, the backs of my knees, the insides of my elbows, my armpits, my nipples, massaging it all in with sadistically slow and sensual strokes of her hands, blowing on it as she does so to increase its heat. For the first few moments her massage gives me enormous pleasure – until the fiery spirit of the Jalapeño oil explodes through me in a blue-white incandescent fireball of agony. For an unknown time I scream myself hoarse, wrapped in a blistering winding-shroud of bone-searing pain that engulfs all the tenderest parts of my body. But slowly, oh, so slowly, the pain finally begins to transmute into tingling warmth which quickly becomes erotically compelling. The tingling combines with the woman’s exquisitely knowing touch to call forth from me an almost overwhelming bliss, and I begin to moan with the pleasure of it. When I have nearly reached my climax, she stops and goes across the room, where there is a low mahogany table upon which are arrayed riding-crops, a bullwhip, a cat-o’-nine-tails, a mule-whip, several long leather braids, and assorted other whips. She studies them for awhile, one fingertip in her lush mouth, another lightly fingering her vulva. Finally, making her decision, she picks up the bullwhip, which is made of stark black leather with an ebony handle, about twenty feet long from the tip of its lash to the butt of its handle. You could easily kill someone with such a whip, and it wouldn’t take much skill in its use to do so. But there is also a certain technique one can use wherein the tip of its lash is made to touch a single, carefully selected point on the body of a belovèd, with enough directed force to energize just that one point and the nerves or chi-channels directly under it, and nothing else. The lash never breaks or bruises the skin at all – and yet all of its awful force is directed into the terminus of a nerve of nerve-cluster lying just below that point on the skin, or into an acupuncture meridian terminating there. There is no wound, the flesh isn’t damaged – but a single selected nerve or nerve-cluster is made to fire this way, or raw chi energy is made to explode along a selected meridian in the body of the belovèd being caressed in this way with the Lash of Venus in precisely the patterns which he or she who wields the lash desires. In this way a holocaust of blue fire is made to arc its way directly to the brain or other parts of the body in scintillant starburst curves and loops which spell out the Twenty-Eight Thousand Names of the Gods of Erotic Love in letters of fiery light parsecs high and wide within the reeling universe of the brain and psyche of the belovèd. The lash seems almost to set off this firing of subcutaneous sensory nerves or flooding of chi meridians by some occult force of induction associated with its passage along or over the skin rather than by anything so crude as a direct physical blow to the skin as such, particularly one delivered with the full, terrible force of a bullwhip lash traveling at supersonic speeds. Used in this way, the lash can be played over the body of

the belovèd with virtuoso skill, drawing from it a symphony of blended sensations, all at their most exquisitely intense pitch, running the entire range of tactile response from hot/cold to pressure, texture sensitivity, and pain/pleasure, to the thermonuclear ecstasy/agony of maximal erotic stimulation. And as the lady wielding the whip plays the lash with all the delicate, cruel control of a true master of its use in the Arts of Venus over my convulsing body, touching now my nipples, now my throat, my earlobes, naval, lips, inner elbows, knees, clit, anus, the palms of my hands, my ankles – all the most exquisitely sensitive, responsive surfaces of my body, where the pulse of life beats most strongly, where rich clusters of sensory nerves underlie the skin and the most critical chi meridians lie. Anus, palm, lips, clit, earlobe, clit, nipple, anus, belly, throat, clit, ankle, clit, clit, nipple, clit – again and again the lash caresses me with its exquisite molten kiss, concentrating more and more on my clit, until finally it strikes only that swollen blossom of my lust, again and again and again, striking note after chiming argent note of blistering agony from it. Soon I am once more screaming in raw-throated agony – and yet those screams are also at the same time cries of urgent lust, erotic ecstasy, exaltation, and rage, albeit commingled with terror, agony, horror, and shame. The sensations build and build, causing Kundalini to rear its lovely, venomous hamadryad head, ascending up and up and up my spine from a subterranean nest in the hot heart of the Earth in a transcendent chakra I had not even known could possibly have existed in anyone, rearing up beyond and beyond and beyond my Crown Chakra to sink her fangs ravenously into the lascivious stars far above, which swoon in ecstasy at her terrible, blissful kiss. All my body has come alive, tingling with erotic fire passing from incandescent to thermonuclear as it sings its wild star-songs along my shuddering nerves. At last I begin to climax – but rather than peaking, then quickly fading away, leaving me exhausted and drained, this time it goes on and on and on, ascending, climbing into the Night of Pan like a supernova, its californium exaltation waxing and waxing in hot ecstatic radiance, forever reaching upward, upward toward Godhood – and finally it peaks in one vast, exalted eruption of pure holy white fire, my body writhing in a titanic convulsion of erotic ecstasy, my mind and soul dissolving into samadhi, leaving my spirit naked, totally caught up in the unspeakably lovely oral and manual devotions with which the woman who is my lover now worships my breasts, my belly, my sex. In this moment I know myself as God, beyond all mortality, the beginning and end of all things in an infinite, rainbowed, multi-looped Möbius Multiverse of erotic fire.

1.

The Initiation

I was 14 years old, away from home for the first time in my life, a new student at a modern-day boarding-school. Many times others told me that I was a very desirable girl, ripe with pubescent beauty, tall and slim, my ebony hair in long tresses, fair and satiny skin, a heart-shaped face with deep violet eyes, long, long midnight eyelashes, graceful curves of buttocks and legs. They said that I had an artless charm of the sort due entirely to innocence, inexperience, and a desire to please others, and warned me that it gave me an aching vulnerability, an unaware openness that added to the magnetism of my budding sexuality. But young as I was, such things were academic, at best, as far I was concerned then – until the night of my initiation. One spring evening I was taking a shower in my dorm, thinking only of a mid-term in history I had to take the next day, and a shopping trip I planned for the following weekend. The dorm was quiet – most of the other girls were over at the library studying for mid-terms, a few were out on dates or with visiting relatives, and the remainder were studying in their rooms. Idly I hummed the tune of a popular song as I soaped down my breasts and thighs. Suddenly my arms were pinioned from behind, and then quickly bound with cords. Simultaneously, cords encircled my ankles, binding them tightly together. A flannel gag was pulled tight against my mouth, and a blindfold was drawn over my eyes by my unseen assailants, whom I could hear laughing in tense feminine giggling. One slim, smooth palm briefly cupped one of my naked breasts; another tentatively touched my groin, but at a sharp order from someone it retreated. A hot flush of shame at these clandestine touches threatened to overwhelm me, so that I was nearly swooning in humiliation, making it all the easier for my captors to truss me up and render me completely helpless. Naked, still dripping wet, tightly bound and unable to see who my captors were, I was carried out of the shower-room by several pairs of hands for a long distance, through several rooms or halls. At last I was carried into one of the dorm apartments. As they carried me into the room I heard the door shut behind me. Then, still bound, gagged, and blindfolded, I was laid gently on one of the beds. Somewhere in the room a CD was playing: Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. A luxuriously thick terrycloth towel gently wiped away most of the moisture on my skin. Someone went to work on my hair, carefully toweling it dry and brushing the tangles out of it. Then someone reached under my body to cut the cords that bound my wrists together behind my back. Even as the last of the cords were cut through, before I could make a move, hands seized both my wrists and quickly pulled my arms away from my body and over my head, where well-padded manacles were slipped over my wrists, locked and tied or chained far apart to the bedposts at the head of the bed. Simultaneously someone severed the binding around my ankles, which were seized from either side and similarly secured to the posts at the other end of the bed, far apart and much higher than my head. The position in which they were now bound was almost identical to the one in which they would be held by those damned stirrups on a gynecologist’s examination table if I were submitting to a GYN exam at the doctor’s hands. All around me came the sound of silvery feminine giggling. Now a razor began to glide, feather-light, over my mons, whisking away the downy hair that grew there. The sensation was extremely pleasurable in a scary way – I could easily imagine that ultra-sharp razor’s edge cutting down into the tender skin there, performing an al fresco clitoridectomy, was terrified that at any moment that might happen, yet the touch of the razor on my skin was like the caress of a God of Love, sending tiny lightnings of pleasure through me as it cut through each hair. When most of the hair had been removed from my sex in this way, an electric shaver replaced the razor. The vibration of its passage over my labia was even more pleasurably stimulating, the pleasure having an odd character to it I’d never felt before. I was awash in a seething emotional witch’s brew compounded of shame and humiliation at my nakedness, fear and anxiety at my utter defenselessness and vulnerability – and the compelling sire-call of a brand-new, rapidly swelling pleasure at the base of my belly soon began to drown out the cacophony of all the rest of that bewildering psychic chaos. Suddenly a wasp-sting of pain shot through my labia. The shaver had been replaced now by tweezers – someone was plucking out the last remaining hairs on my sex, one by one. Unfortunately, there were still many of these on my mons, labia, and the cleft between my buttocks, the latter being as exposed now as my naked sex because, I realize, I had been laid down not on the surface of the bed itself, but rather on a very large pillow or short, foam-rubber mattress laid on top of the bed. This cushion, whatever it was, while it

supported by head, neck, and upper torso, stopped well short of the base of my spine, leaving my ass hanging several inches above the bed, unsupported, in thin air, naked to the view of whoever cared to look, entirely unprotected from anyone who wished to touch. One by one, whoever wielded the tweezers carefully pulled out the last remaining hairs on the delicate places of my body, even the ones between my buttocks and ringing my anus. Soon the brief, agonizing darts of pain from the plucking had me writhing, tears pouring in sheets down my face, trying unsuccessfully to scream for mercy through the thick terrycloth gag. . . . And yet, in spite of the agony it sent knifing through me sex, what I was undergoing was also strangely compelling, a complement of or supplement to the lovely sensations and feelings which the razor and shaver evoked from the same area of my body a few minutes before. Finally the last hair had been plucked. Cool, satiny fingers touched my labia, gently pulling them open. Other fingers began gently anointing the moist flesh within as well as my anus with some sort of fragrant oil. The scent of the oil had a hot, bitey tang, a blend of rose, sandalwood, clove, other lovely scents, and that hot, indefinable something that gave it that piquant edge. The reason for that tang quickly became apparent: suddenly fired seemed to erupt in my sex, bringing an agony which rapidly became incandescent. My writhing became so violent that I almost managed to break my bonds; several sets of hands forcefully pressed me down onto whatever was supporting me. But though between this and my bindings I couldn’t move at all, I still trembled and shuddered all over under the incredible, hellish agony burning there between my legs, like molten lava filling my sex and the cleft of my buttocks. My tears quickly attained flood-tide proportions. Then, feather-light, a hand brushed against one of my nipples, which instantly stiffened, tingling with pleasure. I felt something moist, fleshy, and strong brush my other nipple, and fiery bliss, as strong as the equally agony between my legs, radiated from my nipple outward into the rest of my body. Then lips clamped onto each of my nipples – teeth nibbled them – and the pleasure became weirdly intense, as I had somehow been connected to an electrical outlet at nipples, vulva, and anus. For the horror of pain between my trembling legs was now rapidly transmuting into something else entirely: an ecstatic heat evoking sensations from me a little like those which the shaver drew forth from me earlier, but millions of times more intense and urgent. I began to pant, the muscles in my legs and belly tensing painfully in response. Somewhere in the room, someone takes off the CD that had been playing and replaces it with Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. “Remove her blindfold,” someone said solemnly. At this order, someone reached behind my head, briefly struggling with the knot securing my blindfold. Then the knot came loose, and the blindfold was whisked away. Surrounding the bed upon which I was trussed up were ten girls of varying ages, the youngest around my age, the oldest perhaps 17, all of them schoolmates and dorm-mates. They were from all four of the upper classes of the school, freshman through senior. Each was, in her own way, a beautiful young woman, youthfulness adding immeasurably more to that beauty than any cosmetics or contrivances ever could. Each of them was quite naked saved for exotic jewelry, cosmetics, and in some cases sexy little shoes, scarves about the neck, or other adornments. At the foot of the bed upon which I was laid out was an eleventh girl, a junior classman who was also assistant manager of the dorm – the “actual” manager was an adult staff member who didn’t live on the grounds, so it was this girl who was responsible for the state of the dorm, and it was in her staff-room in which this all took place, the door locked for privacy – sprawled languidly in a big, overstuffed chair facing me, directing the other girls in their various attentions to me. Attached to the nipples of her luscious, rose-tipped ivory young breasts were what I would soon learn are called “nipple-teasers” deliberately made to enhance erotic sensation and stimulation in that area of the body. She also wore a sort of harness of slender, velvety rope that went around her waist and between her legs, its midnight-black color in startling contrast to her translucently fair skin and platinum-blond hair. Her eyes, two huge, blazing emeralds in whose depths floated motes of incandescent gold, insolently explore my naked, defenseless body, probing it, savoring it, plundering it as she ran one tapered, wellmanicured, long-nailed hand through her short cap of hair, which had been elegantly cut and shaped in a pixie-cut to set off her exotic beauty in a manner long hair could not have. Her ebon nail-polish and darkgray Goth lipstick enhanced the effect even more. She had her legs up and thrown over the arm-rests of the chair so that they sprawled far apart, wantonly exposing her sex. “Maureen,” she ordered, “come over here and trade places with Amy, here, before we get on with this – I want to see how well you’ve learned the proper way to stimulate a clit.”

Obediently one of the girls next to the bed, a tall, lissome redhead in the sophomore class, endowed with a luscious figure, came over to her chair, swaying provocatively on stilt heels, while a petite, lithe young Eurasian lady suddenly became visible to me as she stood up at the foot of the bed where I was bound – apparently, she had been kneeling on the floor before the chair in which the platinum-blond dorm overseer was sitting, the redhead replacing her there. The redhead dropped down out of sight, having taken Amy’s place before the chair. In the meantime, Amy came over to stand beside me, and began running her slim fingers over my body, caresses of the sort which the redhead had been giving me before. “Like this, Diana?” the redhead asked, below the line of my vision. “Yes – oooooooooooh, that’s perfect, darling!” exclaimed the girl in the chair, hissing a little in pleasure, head back, eyes closed, that luscious mouth half-open in rapture. Drawing in her breath once more with another hiss, like a startled cat, Diana arched her body and rose up slightly in her chair. Then, smiling a little, she looked down and told Maureen, kneeling on the floor before her, “Once we’ve finished initiating our new Candidate here, let’s trade places – you deserve a reward, my darling! – Oh, yeessssss, that’s right – keep tickling the end of it and the ridge the way you’re doing . . .” Wriggling in delight, Diana savored Maureen’s administrations for a long minute, during which Amy’s wonderful hands touched me now here, now there, with feathery rumors of Paradise, then told her, “Okay, hold off for now. I want you to bring me off when the rest of you initiate the new one – but wait until then, darling.” Sitting up straighter, she looked directly at me. “Well, hello, Julia – tonight, you become truly one of us!” My bewilderment must have been clear on my face; she smiled and continued: “Here are the loveliest women in Vixenton Dorm – nay, I would venture to say, in all of Willowrun School, the students and even the staff and faculty of which are all, to begin with, surely the crème de la crème of female pulchritude in all our fair nation! “And you, my dear, are fortunate enough to be numbered among l’elite de l’elite de l’elite – a small, select group of women, now making up the Magickal number 13 all told, including you and I, all of a beauty to dazzle the very Gods! And since all those who belong to the true elites deserve commensurate reward, tonight you shall indeed receive such a reward: as your Goddess-like beauty gives Paradisiacal delight to others, so, tonight, shall you be initiated into the delights reserved for the very Goddesses Themselves, by your own sisters in beauty, here –” she gestured grandly to indicate the other young woman present in the room – “upon whose efforts I sit here in judgment, making sure that they give you a welcome into our ranks worthy of your divine essence! “—And now, to proceed with the rest of this initiation: Paula, you have talented fingers – why don’t you bring her as close as possible to her first Epiphany of the Goddess, then let Sarah take over and finish it orally?” she said, turning to a blond girl with eyes the color of peacock tail-feathers, a hot blue-green like tropical oceans, as full of mystery and strange peril. Obediently the blond girl came around the bed to kneel between my legs at the end of the bed. While the others continued to play with my nipples, nibble my earlobes, stroke my breasts and belly, and otherwise stimulate me into an evermore intensely erotically charged state, Paula reached up and gently drew her cool fingertip along the cleft between my labia, keeping the same obedient silence that all the others save Diana observed, mischief and holy rapture welling up in equal measure from the volcanoes of the benthic trenches that dwelled in the depths of her eyes. For a moment she withdrew her finger, briefly inserting it between her lips to cover it with saliva, then tried again. This time, satisfied with the result, she kept her finger moving continuously over the supersensitive, moist ridges and folds of the slowly swelling bit of tissue there in expert gliding strokes, up and down, back and forth, with almost cruelly sensuous grace. Soon the delicious sensations she was drawing forth from my clitoris, which was now tautly erect, were spreading out to engulf the rest of my body in sweet, blissful fire. Continuing to stroke my clit with the finger of one hand, using the forefinger of the other she reached up and began to tease the opening to my womb. After a little while, still stroking my clit up and down with her fire-and-ice, diamonds-and-light gliding touch, she pulled her other hand down and inserted a finger into my anus, teasing it as she had my vagina. The blissful sensations built and built. I was in a state of transcendent ecstasy, aware of nothing more than the serene, cool, maddeningly lovely touches of her fingers on my clitoris and anus. From her chair, Diana, panting, commanded Maureen, “Stop – stop now, Maureen – wait. – Paula,” she added, panting hard, “you stop, also.”

Obediently Paula pulled her hands away from me. I nearly screamed with frustration – I ached for her to continue, for the delight which her wickedly sweet hands had been visiting upon me. But something new was in the offing: at Diana’s orders, Paula changed places with Sarah, a short, wiry, athletic, brown-skinned lady who came to sit quietly between my legs, awaiting Diana’s orders, which weren’t long in coming: “Okay – Maureen, start sucking the tip of my clit again – and insert your fingers between the ropes of my crotch-splitter, into my cunt, while you suck me,” Diana, panting, told the other women between little gasps for breath. “Sarah, commence giving your Candidate the Kiss of Ecstasy – and do your deliciously wicked best! Make her scream when she comes – show her, in no uncertain terms, that the Goddess is alive, that Magick is everywhere, that She lives in your mouth, your lips, your tongue, bringing salvation to Her Chosen, like Julia, our Candidate, as She has the rest of us! “—Carrie, you and Amy suck her breasts. The rest of you, continue to caress her, as before . . . Oh, oh, God – keep going, Maureen –” Diana looked down at the girl between her legs, a weird, ecstatic leer writhing across her face, the face of Medusa, holy with the erotic rapture of Athena. Behind forward, Sarah touched her rosebud lips to my labia. Slowly the tip of her tongue probed them, doing to my swelling clit what Paula had been doing to me before with her satiny fingertips. Then Sarah’s lips sucked in my clit, applying a suction delicious beyond words, drawing forth from me an otherworldly pleasure, savoring my clit as if it were some exotic fruit. Mouths touched my nipples, tonguing them, sucking at them with the same heavenly skill which Sarah was using on my clit. Hands caress me – one of the other girls began teasing my sex and anus with her fingers. Soon my body became as taut as one of Artemis’ bow-strings. The sensations built and built, carrying me to ever-greater heights of blissful excitement – At last ecstasy exploded between my legs, boiling outward from the tip of my clit and the base of my womb to every part of my body, especially my nipples, the soles of my feet, the palms of my hands, my throat, my mouth. Bucking and writhing in the full force of my first real sexual climax, I was out of my mind with bliss. I heard Diana moan, “Ohhhhhh – yesss – you beautiful bitch – you angel – SUCK it –” She screamed once, hoarsely. Then all was quiet. Someone pulled off my gag and kissed me on the mouth; the others began to rain kisses on every part of my body. I received their attentions in a state of stunned, shame-filled, exalted bliss as I heard them telling me that I might now freely partake of the orgies they held at least once a week, that soon I would be helping to initiate the next beautiful virgin, of all the delicious ways to enjoy the glories of sex and the blessings of the Goddess, a host of ever-more salacious, lascivious, lovely things that had my head swimming with hunger for it all. I was whore – I was Goddess – I had found my heart’s-home . . .

2.

Offering to Apollo

Young, vulnerable, her copper hair flowing out behind her head like a fan, she lay there naked and spread-eagled on the doctor’s examination-table. Her hands were bound by soft cloth bindings to something behind her, at the head of the table, so that they were pulled taut above her head; as a result, her luscious breasts were drawn up, coral nipples elevated. Her feet were similarly bound to the metal stirrups at the foot of the table in which they rested; her rump just met the edge of the examination table, so that her sex was shamelessly exposed. Goose-bumps freckled her flawless skin, testimony to the efficiency of the air-conditioning in the building, which brought Winter’s deathly cold into the heart of Summer. A crimson flush slowly rising from the base of her torso out of the bush of coppery hair covering her mons like the Fires of Spring erupting from the heaped logs of a Beltane fire. The doctor, a tall, beautiful woman with long, flowing, raven-black hair, a body slender and supple as a whip, ice-white skin through which the blue veins looked the way rivers flowing through a Winter landscape would appear from a high-flying plane, likewise completely nude, stood between the upraised legs of her patient, whom she slowly caressed with her death-pale hands. Gracefully the doctor leaned over and put her mouth to her patient’s sex. With exquisite skill, as she continued to caress her patient’s breasts, belly, thighs, and ass with her witch’s hands, she began to run the pale-pink tip of her tongue up and down along her patient’s vulva and clitoris, the handmaiden of Lady Death preparing her patient for a long series of Little Deaths that would soon have her floating in ecstasy through the Empyrean. In the meantime, the doctor’s nurse, a nude albino girl with butt-length snowy hair, the body of a pubescent wood-nymph, and almond eyes red as passion, kneeled between the doctor’s long legs, pleasuring her with talented hands and mouth. From time to time the nurse rose slightly on her knees, just enough to enable her to tease the pale nipples of the doctor’s lovely breasts with her clever hands. The woman on the table, heaving and moaning as the doctor continued to ravish her, invading and violating the innermost reaches of her soul with Hell-hot pleasure, had been drugged, abducted, and brought here from the streets of the city outside this clinic by the doctor’s assistants just this afternoon. The woman awoke from the drugs to find herself bound naked on this examination table, the nude doctor and nurse standing on either side of her, caressing her, kissing her body. Her throat-cracking screams went unheeded – this room was far underground, and it was a Sunday, when no one else is in the clinic, no one to hear. They told her: “We will release you unharmed. Who would believe you if you told what happened here – and how would you know where ‘here’ is? And when you find yourself back on the streets above, once more wearing your clothing, your purse by your hand, nothing missing from it – what will you think then? Will you think this all was just a dream, or the fantasy of a sick mind? “Never will you be able to forget what this felt like – the orgasms that wracked your very soul, the dark pleasures we evoked from you. You will long for it, yearn for it – pray every day that we will come for you again. And when your lovers lie with you, you will wish that they were us, find them stale and tame and dead compared to us and what we give you . . .” But could she believe that they would let her go? Or were they just playing with her mind, to add to the fun? Feeling the doctor’s wickedly knowing tongue invade her vagina, one of the doctor’s long, pale fingers teasing the rim of her anus, the young woman moaned, praying that their infernally lovely caresses would never stop, wondering if they would let her live when they were through with her . . .

The Demonstration
By Yael Dragwyla (writing as Freya Hollander) I am on stage now, my wrists manacled together high above my head, secured by means of a tough nylon rope to an iron ring set in the ceiling overhead. My feet are manacled separately to steel rings set in the floor of the stage; I stand with my legs spread far apart, and there is so little slack in the rope securing my hands to the ring in the ceiling that if it weren’t for the shoes I wear, with their 4” spike heels, I wouldn’t be able to stand solidly. I face the audience, displayed before them this way, their rapt gazes flowing across my skin like the caress of wind on a hot summer day. In addition to my patent-leather spike-heeled shoes, all shiny black sole and stiletto heels and little more, I wear a diaphanous long-sleeved scarlet blouse with a weave so thin it is nearly transparent; a long silver chain bearing a single splendid moonstone around my neck; earrings that trail their cargo of silverset tears of volcanic glass almost to my shoulders; jet-black nipple clamps trailing long tails of midnightblack leather, with two matching labia-clamps each of whose long double tails of black leather are tied tightly around one of my thighs, so that my labia are spread wide, exposing the tender flesh which they normally conceal; and a long Aphrodite’s Rosary of real, .5-carat emeralds alternating with slender baroque chunks of rose-quarts and tiny, smooth-beveled turquoise stars of 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, and 13 points each, dangling from my anus all the way to the floor (after being thoroughly anointed with oil of clove and jasmine and pressed damiana, the other two-thirds of its length has been slowly, carefully coaxed upward into my bowels). Nothing else. The sheer blouse I wear is short-waisted, its hem riding just above my lower ribs because of the way my arms and, consequently, my shoulders, pull it upward due to the way they are bound above my head. Its tails, however, are cut lower in front than in back, and fall against my belly just above my pubis. It has no buttons, and spills open, displaying my unrestrained breasts, huge and taut, their nipples, tipped upward due to the tension on my breasts because of the way my arms are trussed, a deep maroon due to the entrapment of blood in them by the cruelly tight clamps with which they are each adorned. I’m certainly in prime condition for such a display: I’m in perfect condition, firm and slender with high, heavy, large-nippled breasts (which look even better for the way they are pulled upward by my arms, pulled up so tightly by their manacles), my belly flat and solid with muscle, my thighs and calves long and lean and perfectly turned, my skin golden-tan and smooth as satin. My unbound hair cascades down my back in a long fall of deep auburn to just level with the lower curves of my buttocks, the hot stage-lights evoking bursts of liquid fire running in glimmering trails like the tracks of Disean snails along its long, long locks. They’ve got me made up by one of the best cosmetic artists in the business for this. If I were paying for it myself, it would set me back half a year’s pay, even with my top-flight executive salary, but the group putting on this demonstration are picking up all the expenses, nothing but the best, including for their centerpiece, moi vrai. When they held the mirror up for me so I could see myself, I looked better than even Marilyn ever had, better than Hollywood’s or even history’s best – and I didn’t have to pay one thin dime for it! (And what did they use to tell me about Devil’s Bargains? . . .) The audience out there, watching me so intently, cats studying a wounded bird, consists solely of women, ranging in age from perhaps as young as 15 or 16 years of age to 45 years or more. All have at least normally attractive faces and bodies, but more: every one of them holds herself like a lioness, a tigress, a leopardess, a margay or some other great feral cat, full of vitality and power, so that she compares to ordinary women (and even, perhaps, to herself as she is most of the time) as Artemis or Kali would to one of the nice ladies in a classic Helen Hoskins cartoon or maybe the cat’s-eye-glasses-adorned, beehivehairdo’d citizenesses of a lot of Gary Larson’s more memorable productions. Occasionally, one of them slowly plays the tip of her tongue across a lip, her teeth showing in what looks like a lovely welcoming smile but isn’t. Sadly, however, most of them seem to be unaware of the terrifying coiled power contained within themselves, laired up in the deepest, darkest levels of their being. Clearly these beautiful, powerful female animals, like the feral cats which come so disturbingly to mind as I look out over the audience, have never had anything but zoos, those pitiful substitutes for Nature, however “human” and filled with lovely

distractions they might be, to call home. The reason they are here tonight is, essentially, to recover some of the wildness that is their genetic and spiritual heritage, to reclaim their own wild power and, with it, at least some of the freedom to which they are heir. None of those women out there wear any more in the way of real clothing than I do. Indeed, many of them wear far less – or simply nothing at all, except perhaps for elaborately done hair, tattoos, and cosmetics. Any clothing they wear is of the sort meant to enhance an essential and flagrant nakedness rather than to protect and conceal, by nature purely decorative, meant solely for purposes of enticement, enchantment, glamour and grammarie. Some of the most lasciviously dressed – or undressed, as the case may be – seem to be a little body-shy, yet erotically electrified by the naughtiness of being naked, or nearly so, in an auditorium packed to the rafters with beautiful, sexually exciting women all, uh, costumed the same way, with whom, in many cases, they are literally rubbing elbows, arms, and considerably more interesting portions of the female anatomy. In many cases, among those out there whose breasts aren’t covered by clothing or decoration, or whose nipples aren’t pinched tightly in nipple-clamps at least as cruelly strong and lasciviously adorned as mine, their nipples are tautly erect. A few of them surreptitiously – or not so surreptitiously – masturbate themselves or a companion, or caress the breasts or belly or thighs of a neighbor. A naked woman of about 18, a short, lithe, Hispanic-American beauty, kneels before me. Slowly, caressingly, she shaves my mons and labia with exquisite care. A feline little smile plays about her ripe moist, crimson mouth. From time to time, she manages to “accidentally” glide a caressing finger along one of my labia, my swelling clit, or the moist inner surface of my vulva as she works – then quickly “corrects” herself, apologizing to me silkily for the “slip” in a voice which, pregnant with significance, sends lovely little shivers up and down my spine, and returns to her task. As she works, hot, sultry music, snatches of melody from Karl Orff’s Carmina Burana and Carmina Cantata alternating with voluptuously compelling pieces that are all wailing brass telling of the Liebestodt of whole worlds, all accompanied by disturbingly evocative incense, makes the very air of the room vibrate with an almost unbearable high-intensity erotic charge. Finally, the young woman at my feet has done all she can with the razor, which she sets on the floor beside her. Now she picks up a pair of tweezers. With delicately sadistic care and patience, one at a time she begins plucking out the few remaining hairs on my mons and labia, as well as those in the cleft between my buttocks, especially those ringing my anus, slowly moving around me in order to get at them all. Soon the stinging darts of pain this causes me are singing along the nerves of my clit, vulva, anus, belly, and breasts, and outward from there to the palms of my hands, the soles of my feet, my throat, my tongue, setting all my body dancing with the weird thrilling of my nerves set going by the tweezers’ cruel, plucking pincers. Behind my lightweight gag I begin whimpering, then crying out, my body trying vainly to twist away from the tweezers, succeeding in moving only a few frustrating millimeters in any one direction, so tightly am I trussed up in my bonds. When my sweet young tormentor has finished depilating my sex and the region between my buttocks, nectar from my sex is beginning to ooze down the inner surfaces of my thighs – agonizing as the plucking of my body-hair just now completed may have been, there was also an unbelievably erotic edge to that agony. My nipples, even more stimulated by the Velcro lining of the clamps that so severely constrain them, are, like my clit, now fully erect, hard, exquisitely sensitive, pleading for the stroke of a knowing finger, the wet benison of an agile tongue, the savoring suction of a connoisseur’s lips . . . She lays down the tweezers, now, and picks up a small glass vial lying at her feet. When she uncaps it, the mingled warm perfumes of roses, sandalwood, clove, white ginger, citrus, aloes and wild strawberries burst into the room, a sudden Spring. Deftly she begins anointing my vulva, clit, anus, belly, breasts, the skin behind my knees, ankles, wrists – all the tender, sensitive areas of my body, where the pulse of life is strong and close to the surface – with the oil. It has a mild bite to it, not enough to start me whimpering again, but more than enough to be extremely stimulating, a stimulation which is simultaneously both painful and pleasant. A lovely warmth spreads upward from my crotch, radiates inward from my nipples and belly. Giggling softly, she puts a teasing fingertip on my swollen clit. “That’s right,” says the woman who stands off to one side, there on the stage with us. “Start workin’ her up a little, Teresa, before you go on to the next thing.” The woman watches critically, a covert grin on her lovely sienna face. She is short, shorter than I am, though a couple of inches taller than the young woman who works on me with such maddeningly sophisticated skills – maybe 5’4” or so. She has lovely, creamy light-brown skin, high, pert breasts, a flat, athletically muscular belly, and strong, slender thighs. She is dressed in rope sandals and

heavy, complex jewelry constructed of turquoise, jade, amber beads, coral, emeralds, agate, pearls, green tourmalines, and a host of other sky-blue, green, olive-colored, amber and red stones, all in settings of exquisite copper Lace, a Faery-Queen’s adornment, or perhaps something like the jewelry which the Goddess Amphitrite would wear at Her undersea courts. An enormous emerald gleams on a Long copper chain between the woman’s breasts; on her right hand she wears a great, heavy bronze ring bearing another huge emerald. Her body is completely devoid of hair, save for the short cap of red-brown curls on her hand, her eyebrows, and her heavy eyelashes; covered with a smooth coat of some richly aromatic oil, it gleams warmly under the stage-lights. She wears a subtle, smoky-red rouge on her generous, full lips. She has the classic features of high-born Haitian women – flaring nostrils on an otherwise patrician nose, heavy-lidded eyes with which she takes in the world with a smokily sensuous, sidelong gaze that misses nothing, takes in everything in one frighteningly fast camera sweep, a long-legged, slender body, grace in every movement. She continues to watch as the nude girl at my feet slowly works me up to a frenzy of erotic need, using her fingers, the delicate edges of her sharp white teeth, the bright-pink tip of her deft little feline tongue, her soft, full lips. She plays these over my vulva, clitoris, belly and nipples with virtuoso skill, drawing forth from my englamour’d body a melody evocative of the spirits of both supernal and infernal planes, a wild song of tormented bliss and exquisite, razor-edged keen yearning. Just before I can reach a climax, however, the other woman makes a short, sharp chopping gesture; the girl at my feet ceases teasing me, withdrawing her hands, propping herself up on them so that she can lean back and peer up at her handiwork, smiling mischievously as she does so. The other woman turns to the audience and tells them, “In order to draw forth the most exquisite pleasures from your own or anyone else’s body, you have to learn the uses of pain. “Bland foods don’t satisfy, do they? Well, your body quickly grows bored and satiated if you feed it nothing but pleasant caresses, bland pleasures with no tang or bite to them. The best sauce is hunger; in the same way, the most faithful servant of Eros is Pain. “– Not damage, not real injury or maiming, mind you, but rather the stinging lash that sets the nerves all singing the sweet songs of the Angels, energizing them so that they beg for touch, beg for more and more and more, build you to a frenzy, and make you explode like the atom bomb when you come! “Pain and pleasure travel over the sere nerves. The area in your brains where Eros lives is right next door to the houses of His brother Pain – and their cousin Death. If you stimulate one, soon the other becomes aroused. Too much pleasure soon palls – but add just a little pain, not to mention a certain amount of fear, appropriately administered, and it becomes heavenly, going on and on, and you never want it to end. So – “Teresa, girl, here’s the rest of it – the kiss of the Dragon. Put this on her.” She holds out her hand; I can’t see what it holds. The young woman who sits on the stage-floor before me climbs to her feet, comes over to the other woman, and takes whatever it is she is offering. The younger woman brings it with her as she returns to me, unscrewing its cap as she does so. Shaking a few drops of its contents out onto one slender, dexterous finger, she recaps the bottle and sets it on the floor. Just as she reaches up and places; on with exquisite care on my clit’s most sensitive area, I finally manage to get a good look at the bottle. it’s Tabasco Sauce. As napalm erupts along the side of my clit in a supernova of argent fire, I scream behind my gag, writhing in my bonds. Out in the audience, the surreptitious masturbation and the caresses become ever more open and enthusiastic. Some of the women gasp. One woman drops to her knees, between the widespread legs of another; bending down, she begins slowly laving the other’s vulva with her tongue, her hand dropping to her own crotch to caress her own sex as she does so. A few short moans erupt here and there from the audience. As I scream and writhe futilely in my bonds, agony thrumming along my taut nerves, incandescence flaring along my vulva and clit, my whole world made entirely of blinding Star-green pain which, seared and horror-filled, I am terrified will never end, Teresa serenely continues with her work, placing a drop here, a drop there, on a few selected sites within my vulva, on a spot on the inner wall of my vagina, on another just inside the opening to my anus, Then, sitting back, she carefully rubs the remaining drops that adhere to her fingertips off onto her slim, brown, naked thighs, making sure to get all of it off. She looks up, watching me writhe, seeing my labia swell, the tip of my clit peeking out between them, heat-red and painfully engorged. She places one tapering finger on the cleft of her own desire, carefully brushing aside the thick locks of glossy-black hair that both hide and emphasize her sex, and begins gently stroking her own clit, turned on by my writhing dance in my chains.

Finally the fire in my vulva and anus dies dawn. Slowly, it turns into a terrifying ecstasy. utterly indescribable, its very nature, like its Stellar intensity, beyond the reach of sense or understanding. Whatever was in the oil with which Teresa had anointed me has combined with the Tabasco Sauce and the chemistry of my own body to produce a rising bliss which is rapidly becoming almost psychedelic in its intensity and power. Just a moment ago, all I had wanted was an end to all sensation in those areas of my body; now I want, I need someone’s fingers, lips, tongue playing over my sex once more. “Okay, girl, get back to it again. And this time, work up her nipples, as well.” My little nemesis-in-bliss obediently takes her hand from her crotch and rises to her knees once again. Once more she begins stroking, sucking, and tonguing me; simultaneously, she also adds the further refinement of reaching up with one diabolically skillful hand to stroke the exposed tips of my engorged nipples, which now seem to be almost as supernally sensitive as my clit. Soon I am panting hoarsely, groaning with lust – and again the Haitian woman gives that damned chopping gesture, and the girl withdraws once more, her delicious teasing quickly becoming only a memory enhaloed with yearning. “Okay, girl, Now I’m going to do my thing. I want you to alternate with me, doing to her just what you’ve been doing all along – but only when I’m not giving her what I’m about to. Otherwise, you could come into a whole world of hurt! Now, get to one side of her, about two feet away” – pointing at a spot that distance or so to my right – “and wait there until I tell you otherwise.” Not waiting to see whether Teresa obeys her – the girl does – the Haitian woman goes over to a nearby table that sits there some distance back on the stage, picks something up from it, and returns, holding whatever it is she took from the table in her hand in such a way that I can’t see it. She faces the audience again and tells them, “This woman, who is now aching in her lust, is now properly prepared to receive what may be the loveliest, most precious of all the gifts of Venus, the kiss of the Rose of Fire. “I want you to understand that at first she will not be able to appreciate this gift as the heavenly thing it is. For awhile, rather than its promised ultimate ecstasy, it will bring her only unspeakable agony – agony, terror, maybe rage, all the emotions and sensations that send adrenaline surging in tidal-waves through the body. And that is when her soul will suddenly begin to open to it fully, spreading its arms wide to embrace it with passion, joy, and hot desire, moaning in the unspeakable pleasure which it sends slashing and striking through her like the great, barbed arrows of Eros with their wickedly sharp flint arrowheads tipped with the lovely venom of the Cobra of Kundalini. For it is that same vast flood of adrenaline through her body that will add the last, necessary ingredient to the witch’s-brew of sensations in which she is already and will continue to be engulfed, sending vast, thermonuclear eruptions of the Holy Black Fires of Eros shooting up from the base of her very soul at the core of the Earth itself, the very hot heat of Hades, out through her Crown Chakra and onward to the Stars in enormous, blinding surges of all-consuming ecstasy . . . Now, behold, O Children in the School of Eros-Aphrodite-Kali!” With which, in one terrifying fluid motion Like a striking viper, she turns toward me, bringing out from behind her back, where she has held it concealed from me all this time, a long, slender, viciouslooking whip. From about fifteen feet away from me, she snaps the tip of its terrible lash against the tip of my swollen clit, which protrudes from between my labia Like a crimson rosebud. “Girl – remove her gag!” she cries to Teresa, who kneels to one side of me, just as the tip of the lash, singing its terrifying song to my shrinking soul and the avidly watching audience, brushes my clit, its incandescent caress bestowing a gift of unbelievable anguish upon me, one compounded of all the sorrows and agonies of Hell itself. Obediently, Teresa leaps to her feet and pulls off my gag off in one quicksilver motion, almost before my first, ear-shattering scream erupts from a throat that seems far, far too small to contain it. By then, the lash has danced up to my breasts, giving each nipple one flickering kiss, like a playful nip from a rattlesnake, then down to my belly, to do the same. Peal after peal of wild screaming tears out of my inadequate throat, carrying my shrieking pleas for her to stop, as the lash of the whip, a wicked thing with a short stock of dull-black wood and a slender, supple black leather lash about twenty feet long, sings through the air again and again, each of its strikes carried out with deadly precision and accuracy, hitting just those points on my body that overlie rich clusters of nerve-endings or even the termini of single nerves each of which seems directly wired into the pain centers of my brain. Or sometimes it strikes the termini of certain selected chi meridians, its touch upon them setting off vast explosions of rose-fringed, white-hot agony whose shockwaves radiate out to every pat of my body. Never once does the woman draw blood from me, or even leave a bruise on my shrinking flesh. Each time the lash connects with my quailing flesh, it barely touches me at

all, seeming rather to glide a few bare microns shove the surface of my skin, setting off the nerves or activating the chi meridians lying on or terminating just below it by some weird form of induction rather than by anything so crude or gross as direct, physical contact with the skin per se. The whip is very well made. It could to used to flay the skin off my body, by the square millimeter or in meter-long strips, take your pick. If she chose to do so, she could easily use it to take out one of my eyes, break my fingers one by one, give me a clitoridectomy with it. In her hands, the terrible power of that lash, descending upon me at supersonic speeds, could combine with her deadly mastery of its use to destroy me, if she wanted to use it that way. The frisson which this realization adds to what I am now undergoing magnifies the power and depth of the experience by a thousandfold, a millionfold, more. What if she were to slip? I can’t help but wonder, even in the midst of the rind-shattering Agony which erupts in me with each touch of the Lash, seeing her intent concentration on her work, her face like the mask of some aristocrat of Pharaohnic Egypt. What if, seeing my pale skin and Celto-Slavic features, she decides to vent a little understandable Black rage upon my helpless self with that thing? She could visit all the horrors of the damned upon me with it, and I know it, and for a while the fear which this sends washing through me along with the excruciating torments of the lash acts as a sort of sobering influence, keeping me from slipping entirely over the edge into a mindless, writhing turmoil of pure animal reaction to the lash’s biting, burning, exquisitely tormenting kisses. Again and again it touches me – nipple, clit, anus, earlobe, lip, nipple, belly, clit, palm, inner thigh, nipple, weaving about my shuddering body an intricate, exquisite tapestry of agony, on which, in all the blinding-bright metallic candy colors of torment, the High Gods of Pain sport with the world in every terrifying way dreamed down the ages by a horror-enamoured humanity. Then she stops. “All right, girl,” she tells Teresa, who kneels on the stage a few feet away from me, “go to it.” Once more, Teresa takes her station before me, a devotee of Aphrodite worshipping Her on the altar of my body with sweet, precious offerings of her tongue, lips, hands. In spite of the supernova horror of the agonies set blazing all through me by the fearful, licking flame of its tip, once it ceases striking the pain of the lash quickly fades, to be replaced by swiftly blossoming bliss and desire. As Teresa’s fingers play delicately over my labia and her lips work at my clit with delicate, lingering caresses of its swelling tip, I begin to pant and moan, becoming aroused to a pitch so high it is, for all the pleasure I am in, nearly as agonizing as the lash. “Suck it, you bitch!” I cry in my all-consuming need, heedless of anything but the gathering storms of lust in my own body. “– Oh, Jesus . . . that’s it . . . yes, there. . . keep licking it, like that, like that . . .” The women in the audience are, without exception, utterly absorbed in the proceedings. Almost all of them are now caressing and touching themselves and/or the bodies of one or more companions in nearly radioactive heat. One young woman climbs onto a table, all the better to devour me with her glistening, Star-blue eyes, and begins stroking herself in lascivious display for me. Slowly she gyrates her slender, agile hips in lewd abandon, letting her tongue play lickerishly over her lips as she gives me a sleepy tigress smile. On the floor nearby her, two women have pulled a third to the floor and are ravishing her with fingers, lips and tongue – I’d have said “raping,” save that their “victim” is by no means trying to resist or repulse them, nor does she show any signs of fear or pain under their urgent hands and mouths. Even as they stroke, lick, finger and suck her with ever-mounting urgency, her ravishers still turn their heads and rise up from time to time to see what is being done to me. Finally, one of them changes places with the one on the floor, giving her a turn to look at what is happening on stage. Once again, the woman with the whip makes that quick cutting-off gesture to Teresa, who scrambles adroitly to one side as the lash begins singing over my body once more. This time, more of its blazing kisses seem to fall upon my nipples and clit than before, and my screams become frantic. Then she stops, and once again Teresa returns to teasing me. Then again she makes the damned cutting-off sign to Teresa, and once more releases the Furies on me from their home in the Hell of the lash. Then she stops, end again Teresa’s sweet hands and mouth teach me all the delicious torments of the Second Circle of Hades. There it is where those who worshipped the Gods of Lust too well and not wisely enough whirl forever in tropical winds above a plain filled with voluptuous delights, ministered to by flying demons of Love’s Torments with every sort of excruciating, teasing lash and barb and laving kiss and caress ever devised to stake the fires of lust to thermonuclear intensity, never letting the one burning in its

lascivious flames find release, condemning their belovèds to an eternal madness of erotic need. And thus Teresa’s Magick hands teach me Eternity. And so it goes, for quite a while, the agonizing, diabolical, poison-sweet dance of the lash over my body alternating with Teresa’s lewd delicious caresses, erotic ecstasy alternating with terrifying agony, again and again and again. The pleasure mounts higher and higher. The pain with which it alternates becomes worse and worse, the lash now concentrating almost entirely on my nipples and clit. The pain, nestled in folds of supernal bliss like the grain of sand at the heart of a pearl or cuttlefish beak in ambergris, begins to turn weird. Now, as the lash sends the exquisite, fiery anguish of its touch shrieking along my nerves and into my shuddering brain again and again, simultaneously I begin to see long streaks of indigo and orange floating across the room, to hear music wild with longing and metalically bright with insanity, to catch the scent of strange, nameless, elusive perfumes and stenches, the tastes of cinnamon, musk, roses, purple, and longing erupting along my tongue, the tingling pleasure of velvet moaning across my fingertips, the angelic sensations of silver-and-green chimes gliding across the bridge of my nose – And without warning, it happens: out of the Black Dragon of Agony comes the miracle, the transmutation of the metals of Inferno into a golden Phoenix of Enlightenment. The kisses of the lash, now falling exclusively on my clit, are transformed, in one swift evolution, from needle-point eruptions of indescribable agony, accompanied by overwhelming surges of terror and hot shame that drown all my will and control in their flooding horror to silvery bursts of pure bliss, rippling outward through the Night of the Soul in rainbow rings of rapture and spheres of light to engulf my whole body in purest ecstasy, ecstasy so great that there is no roar anywhere for anything else in all creation pure samadhi, in the riddle of which I am, completely mindless, egoless, completely present and aware, wholly open to the touch of the Lash, welcoming it, craving it, not for the pain it brings, for it no longer calls forth from me anything remotely like pain, but rather for the overwhelming, weird pleasure which its every touch calls forth from the very Tartarean roots of my soul, pleasure that connects my clit, womb, vulva anus, nipples, lips, tongue, the pairs of my hands with one another and with my Crown Chakra by means of incandescent wires of argent bliss. I am still screaming – but now my cries are of joy, wonder, delight, out of the bliss of an ongoing climax of erotic pleasure a million times more intense than any I’ve ever experienced in all my life before, a climax which, rather than rapidly peaking and fading away, leaving me drained and satiated, continues to wax and war, lovely holocaust Moon of my joy, prolonged beyond the ends of time, the bounds of space, going on for what must, in hindsight, have been just a little over an hour . . . For while my ego is gone, annihilated in the pure, holy, all-consuming peacock Fires of the Angels of Erotic Ecstasy who now possess me, my awareness, along with my True Self, riding in Kether and at the Heart of Earth, is still there, whole and complete. I am aware of everything around me, registering it eidetically, able to recall it all letter-perfect, even years later, in every gorgeous detail, in every sensory rode, all of it embedded in, woven into, inextricably commingled with the endless thermonuclear peacock’s-tail and silvery-white eruptions of ecstasy now consuming my entire being. Thus I watch, throughout that virtually endless climax, all those dozens of lovely, nubile women caught up in one vast, seething orgy, intricately intertwined with one another like a nest of rattlesnakes caught in a mating frenzy – or perhaps some weird erotic version of one of those miraculous carvings of balls within balls within balls, each of the little worlds contained within it, each unbelievably complex, intricate, concentric level of the fantastic multi-layered spherical universe it comprises carved into exquisite friezes and latticework, containing miniature animals, plants, buildings, people, scenes of every possible variety, ad infinitum, worlds without end, amen. Every sort of erotic activity in which two or more women can engage in with one another – or one woman with herself, using her own hands as well as dildos, ropes, and any- and everything else with which one can worship the Gods of Ecstasy on one’s own or anyone else’s body – goes on out there, as I say, for at least an hour, according to the clock high on the back wall of the auditorium, a clock that looks like a melted Sun, its hands that Sun’s gigantic, radiating prominences, its numerals Sunspots, radiating Time in spurting bursts of spermy rainbow fire, but still a clock, as I can somehow see clearly even through the hallucinogenic bliss of the lash – It is as if I’d dropped about 7,500 mikes of Sandoz-pure LSD: the prolonged, adrenaline-driven ecstasy is beginning to have extraordinarily psychedelic effects upon me, each craaaack! and subsequent kiss of the lash turning it up yet another notch, another, another, until I am dwelling among clouds of silver-blue bliss, among angels, among Gods, I am a God, I am a Goddess, I am the Nameless, Bornless One, Who, Itself having no sex at all, contains all the 26 million sexes of the infinite multiverse within itself, having no name, has all names, having no being, is a radiating Sun of purest bliss-filled joy –

And with a shuddering sigh, the woman who has bean making love to me from the uttermost depths of her heart with that whip for well over an hour now comes to a halt at last. Going slack, her hand drops to her side, the whip rolling from it out onto the floor, falling at her feet. Her legs quiver with exhaustion and reaction. Her chest heaves as she gasps for air. “Come over here, you sweet, lovely little bitch,” she tells Teresa, holding herself upright with a great effort, “come over here, sweet whore, and do me, now . . .” And while I hang in my chains, floating in peacock wonder, rainbow’d bliss still locked into and reverberating throughout my nervous-system over a circuit light-years long, Teresa goes over to the other woman who, collapsing slowly to the floor, pulls Teresa down to the floor with her. The two women encircle are another in undulant, slow coils of desire, Ourouboros, their tongues floating and gliding over each other’s sexes like flocks of birds skimming above lovely lakes of beauty and pleasure. Soon, they reach a shuddering, mutual climax – And I finally reach my own peak of bliss, even as they do, caught up in the same thundering Magickal astroquake as the one in whose giant’s fist they are now caught and shaken; for three women from the audience, led by the girl who’d danced for me with such enticingly lewd skill up on her table earlier this evening, have, in the meantime, climbed up onto the stage and begun to ravish me with their hands, lips, tongues, and even little erotic toys which they brought here with them this evening for just such a purpose. My song of triumph and wonder harmonizes and blends with that of Erzuli, the Goddess who has just given me the Kisses of Samadhi with her lash, writhing in umber/chestnut/copper/green/gold/amber/royalblue/rose glory on the floor with the slim, athletic young woman who had aided her in transporting me into the Heavens of the Hidden Intelligence, the bliss of Union With God, as the kisses of the Triune Goddess fall where those of the lash had before, worshipping Herself in me, the Goddess I have become, as Teresa worships Aphrodite-Eros, ALoHIM YeHoWaH TzaBAOTh, with Whom she is entwined on the floor of the stage, writing hymns to Them in the flawless script of her own body’s ecstasy . . . – END –

Night-Songs
By Ashtoreth Adler 1. The Initiation: A Vision from the Thelemic Future, circa 2590-2990

She was about thirteen years old, tall and slender, with long, long, copper-bright hair that hung to a point just below her buttocks and the ultra-fair skin of a true daughter of Erin, the product of a deliberate Celtic-Wallachian mating intended to produce a warrior-whore who could someday command the Armies of the Silver Star in battles on worlds spread across the Local Arm of the Home Galaxy. Her breasts were just beginning to bud, her bones and long muscles to make their final spurt of growth that would eventually leave her over six feet tall, with a long, lean, tigerishly strong body and a libido straight out of Hades. She had also recently begun to grow pubic hair; a halo of copper-colored fuzz covered her mons and labia. But Ysabella, a beautiful young Spanish-Vietnamese priestess named after the great warrior-queen who had financed Cristóbal Colón’s voyage of discovery to the Americas a millennium before, now knelt before Asha in all her glorious nakedness, carefully shaving off her new badge of puberty as, feet spread far apart, Asha stood over her, naked as the priestess was. The touch of the priestess’ fingers, light as a honeyvenom butterfly drifting across the petals of a delicate tropical flower. was delicious an Asha’s labia. The laser-sharp edge of the razor’s steel blade whispered lasciviously of ten thousand forbidden delights as it whisked over Asha’s groin and labia, effortlessly cutting through the fine hairs that grew there, its deadly edge so terrifyingly close to the hot core of pleasure concealed there between the folds of Asha’s labia, sending short, violent tendrils of dark purple Kundalini fire darting out to briefly twine their sweetly venomous heads around the base of Asha’s spine, the shaft of her clitoris, and the quivering inner surfaces of her vulva and cervix before sullenly retreating back to their heaving, crowded nest like a host of angry Salamander tadpoles. With a few final, mischievously deft touches which sent those hungry Kundalini fires shooting nearly halfway up to Asha’s throat, the priestess finished shaving the girl’s sex. As the volcanic violet and indigo prominences of the Midnight Sun of Lust slowly subsided in Asha’s slender, trembling body, someone on the couch by the wall across from her said in a smoky-soft voice like the kiss of a black-widow spider, “Now, put the labia-spreader on her, Ysabella.” With a nod and a smile, Ysabella took up a long piece of soft, scarlet rope that had been lying at Asha’s feet and began to loop it around Asha’s waist and between her legs. “While she puts that on you, Asha, let me see you stroke your nipples,” the voice ordered. Shyly Asha began to obey, half-closing her eyes and tilting back her head as she did so, feeling even more aroused by the fact of being watched in her pleasure by the others present in the room, in spite of her awareness of how exposed and vulnerable she was. Over the last several days, before bringing her here, the priestesses who had taken her from her crèche had spent long, long hours demonstrating the pleasure that she and others could give to her by the clever use of one’s fingers; a quick study, she was using that experience now to good effect. Caught up in the toils of the beginnings of puberty, at one and the same she was a painfully body-shy little girl and a fledgling woman, proud of her body and its budding beauty, slowly opening the thighs of her soul to the Gods of Pleasure and Desire, Who would slowly but surely transform her into one of the greatest HarlotWarriors of all time. The woman on the couch who commanded Ysabella was a splendid, stunningly beautiful Goddess of a woman all of about 20 years old. She, too, was naked, but she wore a heavy toque about her lovely neck composed of gold, platinum, copper, diamonds, turquoise, jade, emeralds, and other precious and semiprecious stones and metals sacred to the Gods of Erotic Pleasure and Magickal Workings. The woman radiated an enormous sexual charisma, a living erotic cyclotron whose ability to use her erotic powers in the service of Workings of nearly unbelievable scope and power as well as elegance and delicacy – stunningly successful Workings of the sort that could quite literally move whole worlds in their orbit and shift the spectra of stars by several kiloangstroms, or reach into the heart of a single atom and untwist the hidden black hole lying there to release a perfect naked singularity – was already legendary. Called Culebra de Cascobella – Cascobella for short – her full name was Kali-Parvati-bas-Ratri, which translated

into something more or less like “Kali, Destroyer, Creatrix, Child of Night.” She had several titles and functions: High Priestess, Iniatrix, Exorcist, War-Master, Director of Rituals, Chief Systems Analyst. Like all the rest of those in the room, she too was bred and trained nearly from birth to become a true master of the Great Arts and Sciences. her mother was a brilliant physicist from the Congo; her father, a mestizo from Rio de Janeiro with the dark beauty of an African Adonis, was one of the greatest eroteurs of all time, at the peak of his career commanding fees for his private and public performances and his consultancies which could have bankrupted many of Earth’s smaller nations or even minor planetary governments among the worlds of the Confederation. Her known pedigree, reaching back almost four hundred years, contained a stellar array of warriors, statesmen, and scientists of countless nations on Earth and off, and she was the apotheosis of them all, an adept of combat arts, political skill, and numerous exoteric and esoteric Arts and Sciences. Between Cascobella’s legs knelt still another nude woman, an extremely fair-skinned girl close to Asha’s age with a body as glabrous as a frog’s, who deftly tongued Cascobella’s vulva. Cascobella panted harshly from time to time, obviously enjoying her lover’s oral caresses. Her gently trembling coffeecolored fingers capped the other woman’s shapely, hairless skull, not quite touching it. She kept her enormous dark eyes open, taking in Asha’s body, its growing arousal, and the sweet tricks with which the young priestess at her feet was, with obvious relish, using to evoke the spirits of lust from it. All the while Cascobella kept her own growing arousal, the result of the skillful workings of her lover’s tongue and lips, on a tight leash. Cascobella’s tongue darted across her full lips; her dark brown nipples came stiffly erect. She gave her head a brief shake; the soft, penetrating, directionless golden light filling the room ran over her cap of tightly-curled ebon hair like a river of molten gold dashing wildly through the Mountains of the Sun, highlighting the locks of her hair with smoky, molten reds and ambers. The young woman kneeling at Asha’s feet finished adjusting the labia-spreader which she had just contrived for the girl. Its extremely narrow, velvety strands ran in four loops between Asha’s legs, two close-set, parallel strands running between her labia, the other running along their exterior surfaces on both sides, next to her thighs. The priestess used the remainder of the rope to bind Asha’s hands together behind her and then, looping it through a ring set in a low basalt pillar set into the stone floor behind Asha, secured Asha thereby to the post so that her arms extended backward and down, leaving a slack of about two feet between Asha’s bound hands and the ring at the top of that post, which was itself about two feet above the floor. Now she drew Asha’s hands tightly against her buttocks and tied them there with an extra length of rope to the strands of rope running from Asha’s waist down her back and the cleft of her buttocks, between her legs, and back up to the front of her body. As long as Asha kept her hands there, there was no discomfort from the rope passing between her legs, against her tender vulva and clitoris. If she swayed her hips gently, the rope teased her clitoris, sending slow ripples of pleasure radiating outward from it through her pelvic basin. “Are her feet secured?” Cascobella asks Ysabella, gasping with pleasure as her lover does something particularly elegant with her small, white teeth and agile, well-educated tongue. “Yes, My Lady. See – I’ve already put on her chains.” “”Oh, that’s good, Medusa – faster!” Cascobella hissed as her lover begins to trace a figure-eight again and again over Cascobella’s clitoris with her diabolically gifted tongue. Then, turning back to the woman who was so deliciously tormenting Asha, she said, “All right, Ys’ – why don’t you begin her initiation?” “I’d be delighted, My Lady,” Ysabella tells her superior, a slow, sly, hot grin in her sultry voice. She reaches up and gently runs her finger down the length of Asha’s clitoris, which is just becoming visible between the two thin strands of rope lying in parallel scarlet lines between the lips of her sex. One of the things for which Asha had been bred was an exotic mutation conferring an egregiously large clitoris on the female line of Asha’s ancestors, which had been inbred to stabilize the trait and virtually guarantee its emergence in all females of the lineage. Even Asha’s paternal ancestors conserved the genes for this through their mothers and grandmothers, who in many cases were also the ancestresses of Asha’s mother and maternal grandmother. Clearly that breeding experiment had borne good fruit in Asha, for, under Ysabella’s teasing, Asha’s erect clitoris was now protruding a good inch beyond the ropes of the labiaspreader, promising to become even larger. Cascobella, excited at the sight of Asha’s visible erection, was sure that upon reaching full maturity Asha would have an erection at least as large as an average man’s, the envy of the Great Temples all over the galaxy. Asha convulsed in sudden, fiery pleasure, her pelvis bucking like an angry mustang, as Ysabella ran one satiny fingertip along Asha’s erect Sword of Ecstasy from tip to base, knowing how to apply her

fingers just so in order to evoke maximal pleasure from Asha with every touch, every time, from the beginning to the end. “Asha,” Cascobella asked her, gasping ever harder under the talented touch of Medusa’s mouth, “how would you like to have a clit the envy of all your sisters in the Order – long enough, when erect, to fuck other women, even fuck men in the ass? Have you ever dreamed what it would be like to take a man, even a woman that way? I will never be able to know the exquisite bliss of such a thing – but you will, my darling child! – Ah, Medusa, there, there, yes . . .” All Asha could do was hiss in pleasure, for Ysabella, bending over, spreading the strands of rope apart with her nimble fingers in order to expose the tissue below, had begun to run her tongue up and down Asha’s clitoris and vulva, teasing the opening of her womb with it, her touch unspeakably deft, artful, maddening. Cascobella, seeing Asha’s frenzied shudder of mounting pleasure and arousal, gave one of her tigress smiles, terrifying, compelling. “Well, girl,” she continued, “we’ll have sessions like this – or even better, sessions so much better that you cannot now even begin to imagine the bliss they will give you , one or more times a day every day for a full year. At the end of that time, after what Ysabella and Medusa and their sisters – your sisters, now – here at the Temple will do for you during that time, you shall know . . . oh, by Kali’s deadly kisses, you shall know! “. . . You beautiful child, how would you like to participate in the Great Rites in Aphrodite-Hathoor Temple on Titan, or even in those held in Isis-Eros Temple on Outlier, Sirius System?” Asha’s eyes closed in rapture as waves of ecstasy began to rise higher and higher in her body, their foaming, silvery crests rising father and farther up her spine, as Ysabella’s hands drifted over the flesh of her belly, buttocks, and inner thighs like quested wingèd centipedes, her darting adder’s tongue drawing fire from Asha’s swelling vulva and clit, her teeth occasionally ever so gently nipping the girl’s labia like the fangs of a playful krait, the sweet, intoxicating venom of Ysabella’s ministrations singing through Asha’s veins in exquisite bursts, the Song of Eros thundering through the girl’s neuroendocrine system in waves of power which already were strong enough to set the wall-hangings and wind-chimes here in Cascobella’s apartment to swaying madly. Someday, with the aid of erotically skilled assistants like Ysabella, Asha would be able to call down fire from the stars to slay whole armies, slash continents into magma-covered ribbons with the boiling fury of her Tantrically-rifled Kundalini energies. As the titanic, supernova power of the ecstasy now cascading through Asha’s body built and built, Cascobella called to her, “Open your eyes, Asha! Behold the Phoenix!” As Asha’s eyes flew open, a burst of incense and music erupted in the room, the perfumes and song of the Transmutation by Eros of Silver into Plutonium. Just as she reached her climax, she saw before her the gigantic sigils of Liberty-Ourania, Aphrodite-Hathoor, Isis, Hera, Dionysos, Persephone, Kali, Eros, Hermes-Apollo, and the other Gods of Love and Ecstasy in a fantastic, polychrome arch on the wall behind Cascobella, above the High Priestess’ head. As Asha screamed out her ecstatic triumph like a Harpy on the wing, someone behind her quickly draped over her shoulders the great Cloak of Shaîtan’s Triumph, made of enormous, splendid peacock feathers and paisley fabric in a dazzling variety of colors, purple, sky-blue, dazzling white, solar gold, spring green, royal blue, deep scarlet . . .

2.

Asha in Training: Manipulation of the Tatvic Tides – Another Glimpse into Life in the Thelemic Future

Lying on her back, Asha looked upward at the ceiling. She was locked into a device constructed of lightweight aluminum poles and silk lashings that was more air than anything else. It held her immovably spread-eagled, with her elevated legs bent at the knees, splayed wide apart. Certainly nothing but empty air was between her ass, her sex, her belly, her breasts and anyone who cared to look at or touch them. The framework of the device ensured that she couldn’t move any part of her body more than a millimeter, save for internal contractions. Even her head was securely clamped, face up, rigidly in place, so that perforce she must look only straight up, at the bright-blue ceiling far above her. In addition, her neck passed through an opaque plasteel partition reaching from floor to ceiling and wall to wall on either side so that her head was on one side of it, her rest of her body on the other. To let her out again, a swinging door in the partition above her neck, which was hinged at the top like a cat-door, would have to be raised so that she could pull her head through. She couldn’t see anyone on the other side of the partition, and no one there could see her face – only her naked, exposed body from the neck down. Directly above her upturned on the ceiling was a white card. On the card was an inverted crimson triangle superimposed over a blue circle – Tejas of Vayu, Fire from the Air, Fire from Heaven. Someday she would be able to call down just such fire from the Starry Void by means of tightly controlled Kundalini energy called forth from the most primordial depths of her being via Tantric techniques. The exercise which she was now undergoing was to help her gain mastery of Tantra – Sex Magick – and it would be repeated again and again with only minor changes until she had no trouble at all actualizing and harnessing her volcanic potential for lust in the service of military applications of Magick. Today, some of her sisters in the Temple – who would be a mystery until after the exercise was over and she was released from the partition and the framework that held her and hid all others from her sight – would stoke the fires of lust in the already virtually thermonuclear engine of her body while she tried to concentrate all her mind and Will upon the Sigil on the ceiling and keep from becoming overwhelmed by the ever-growing sexual arousal they evoked in her. Soft, giggling girlish laughter came from the other side of the partition, from more than one young female throat – her sisters in the Temple, who were to be her mentors (and tormentors) today in control of lust in the service of Magick. A hand brushed her belly. Then a silken-soft fingertip teased her clit. A tongue caressed the nipple of her right breast; her nipple became painfully erect. Then a mouth clamped down hard on it, sucking fiercely. Teeth nipped playfully at her other nipple. A tongue played nimbly over her sex. A finger toyed with her anus, followed by someone’s tongue. Another finger played with the opening into her womb, and with her clit. In spite of herself, Asha began to hiss with pleasure, though somehow she did manage to keep her concentration firmly on damn’ ol’ Tejas of Vayu, leering down at her from its lofty perch on the ceiling. And now the wickedly sweet voice of a young woman who had already attained all the Tantric sophistication to which a sixteen-year old Thelemic priestess might legitimately aspire (and, covertly and unofficially, a great deal beyond that, thanks to her mentor and superior, a priestess of about 25, who had fallen head over heels in love with her beautiful, randy young subordinate) here at the Temple cooed out of the loudspeaker on the partition by Asha’s head: “Oh, you have such a darling little cunt, whoever-you-are – sooo tight . . .” A teasing finger probed said cunt, testing the tension. “And it tastes soooo goooood . . .” An agile tongue darted over Asha’s clit, glided up and down along its length, around its tip, nearly driving Asha mad with pleasure. A silken finger trailed the Fires of Heaven in the wake of its soft, caressing passages over Asha’s nipples. Somehow, through it all, Asha managed to continue staring open-eyed at that red-blue sumbitch, Tejas of Vayu – but don’t ask her how . . .

3.

The Dance

Asha was on vacation, a well-earned rest from her work at the Temple. And like so many others, she had chosen to take a Busman’s Holiday, performing for the public in a well-known local night-club located only a mile or so from the Temple that featured erotic dancing, a superlative grill, and a bar stocked with every sort of recreational drug known in the galaxy from Glenlivet, Anchor-Steam Beer, New Luckies cigarettes, and Humboldt Gold cannabis to cocaine, opiates of every description, supermeth, Aldebaranian dream-weed, and Hell’s Breath, from a world in the El Nath system. So now she was dancing in the night-club’s enormous main room for a mob of hyper-randy men and women, dancing with the delighted abandon that she could never enjoy in the Temple, dancing for the simple pleasure of drinking in the vast floods of Kundalini energy that the crowd that watched her gave off, reveling in the lust with which they watched her. She was dressed only in a crotch-spreader made of thin, fine, midnight-blue rope. The rope had been soaked in an essential Oil of Venus into which powdered High John root was dissolved. The oil, compounded of a variety of herbs and spices including clove, rose-attar, sandalwood, white ginger, aloes, damiana, orchid root, juniper oil, almond, moonwort, myrtle, mandrake, clover, and many others, carried an enormous erotic charge, speaking both pheromonally and Magickally. There was just enough of a bite to the oil to add immeasurably to the erotic tantalization of Asha’s clit, shaven labia, vulva, and anus by the teasing, four-stranded rope passing snugly between her legs. Wherever the oil had penetrated, a deep, maddeningly pleasurable itch suffused her tissues, causing heat to rise higher and higher from her basal chakra. Further, before putting on the crotch-spreader, she had covered herself from just under her chin to the soles of her feet with the oil, as well, and her oil-covered body gleamed in the glow from the baking-hot overhead spotlights, warm gold flashing along her limbs as she danced. In addition, the oil had a wonderfully compelling scent, all the perfumes of Eros blended together in a perfect symphony of aromas that would have evoked raging lust from a vat of liquid helium. So as she writhed before her audience, dressed only in the crotch-spreader and tiny, spike-heeled scarlet sandals, the sight and scent of her naked, dancing body together with the unseen but horribly potent erotic power of her aura worked to incite the crowd to ever-higher levels of what was rapidly becoming utterly overwhelming lust. By now, that mob would have collectively and repeatedly raped her, raped her to death, except for one small detail: Asha was dancing for them within a steel cage, one far too strong and too well-made for even the mob’s combined, most determined efforts at its demolition. The club was one that required that all patrons check any weapons or dangerous tools at the door before entry. Thus no one in the mob had more than his or her hands to use on the titanium-steel of the cage, and in any event, if someone had tried to force entry into it, the bouncers would have stopped him or her in short order. So the mob couldn’t get at her unless she let them do so. Higher than Asha was tall, the cage was wide enough such that even at her most frenzied, splaylegged, flat-out limbo-rock-style dancing, as long as she stayed at the center of the cage, the dicks, tongues, hands, and feet thrust at her between its bars easily missed her by at least a foot in all directions. And so she danced and writhed and postured before them while they pressed themselves against the bars of the cage, trying with all their might to touch her, taste her, fuck her, be fucked by her. Occasionally, as if by accident, she came just close enough to one of them to enable her to rub her ass, her vulva, her nipples, her hands, her tongue, or her rapidly swelling clitoris against an out-thrust tongue, hand, or cock, taking her pleasure from it, driving its owner to still higher planes of agonized, frenzied sexual need. All around the cage, the crowd moaned, panted, cried out to her. Now she started to rub her engorged clitoris, now almost five inches long, purple with the blood filling it, against one of the hands thrust at her between the bars of the cage. The hand belonged to a lovely young woman of about 20 who had stripped herself naked, trying to tempt Asha to come out to her. Asha, working herself into higher and higher levels of erotic arousal, rocked her pelvis back and forth, the woman’s elegant brown hand stroking Asha’s clit with fingers as elegantly talented as any of those of Asha’s sisters in the Temple (perhaps we should recruit her, Asha idly mused as the woman teased and teased her clit); as the lovely brown-skinned woman did so, a man standing behind her helpfully masturbated her so that she, eyes closed and lips parted prayerfully, was approaching a climax. Suddenly the cage jerked upward. It was time for Asha’s gig to end, so that the next performers could come onstage for the delectation of the mob – two men and two women, in this case, who together would be demonstrating the mechanics of

Möbius daisy-chain construction for the crowd. So the grips were pulling up Asha’s cage, with her in it, back into the rafters to clear the stage for the next act. Asha stared down at that screaming, cursing crowd below her as she was drawn up higher and higher, toward the ceiling. The club’s insurance company was going to have a fit tomorrow when its adjusters came out here to survey the results of tonight’s show: down on the floor below, a man forcibly took hold of the shoulders of the lovely naked woman who had been pleasuring Asha so well, pulling her to the floor, ramming his dick into her mouth, while a voluptuous blond woman wearing only a gold Bolero top and tiny little white sandals lay between the other woman’s legs, tonguing her, guzzling her nectar. A powerfullybuilt man took the man orally raping Asha’s erstwhile lover in the ass while another man, throwing himself on the blond, took her like a dog taking a bitch in heat. A fight started in the crowd, spread – one man was knocked to the floor, senseless, blood running down the side of his face, a woman screamed as another woman fastened teeth in her breast. At the edges of the mob, the club’s manager frantically moved back and forth, gesticulating wildly, screaming orders at everyone, who utterly ignored him. The cage came to a halt. Asha unlatched the door of the cage, which had a tricky lock that could only be opened from inside the cage itself, and stepped out onto the platform there. The platform gave onto a ramp leading to a door in the wall, at least two stories above the crowded, incense-filled floor below, filled with its burden of writhing, groaning, screaming bodies all twined together now like a vast nest of snakes in mingled violence and erotic abandon. Asha entered the door in the wall, which opened on a long hallway. Off the hallway on either side were a series of rooms or apartments, one of which had been assigned to her whenever she danced for the club. She went down the hall to her door, # 7, and entered. Going through the front rooms of her apartment to the bedroom in the back, she sprawled spread-eagled on the queen-sized bed there, utterly exhausted, without even bothering to take off the crotch-spreader or her sandals. As for satisfying the thermonuclear surges of lust raging in her now from her dance below, she had long become used to repressing her aroused lust into the Unconscious, where its banked fires would go to feed her Magickal endeavors. Besides, her clit was not yet as large as the geneticists and physicians at the Temple had predicted it could yet become – better a little sexual frustration for awhile if it would help her attain her ultimate goal of a full six inches when aroused. And she could always get rid of her frustration after her nap on the bodies of one or more townspeople – after all, they were there for the having by the strong, were they not? With her combat-arts training and mastery of all weapons, she could take her pick of the town’s beauties, male and female, as she wished, whenever and however she wished. Thinking of which, she fell backward into a deep sleep, one pregnant with boiling, incandescent dreams charged with smoking-hot erotic power . . . . She came to, to find herself, still spread-eagled, still wearing the crotch-spreader and her sandals, tightly manacled to the four corner-posts of the bed by strong metal cuffs on wrists and ankles. At the foot of the bed was a beautiful, very young woman, completely naked save for her long, long red hair. She was about 14 years old, breasts still almost nonexistent, hips slender as a boy’s, thighs and belly hard with muscle – and possessed of a tautly erect clitoris which, protruding between her wine-dark, naked labia, was a good four inches in length. Slowly the girl, grinning gleefully, climbed up onto the bed. Kneeling between Asha’s legs, she began to tongue her nipples. She tweaked Asha’s clit, which still had not detumesced, protruding a good three inches beyond the ropes of the crotch-spreader, with the infinitely clever fingers of one hand while, with a fingertip of the other, she circled first one of Asha’s nipples, then the other, in agonizingly slow caresses. So she began working over Asha’s body, from the soles of Asha’s feet to the hollow of her throat and back again, with tongue and fingers. As she did so, Asha began to pant and moan with lust. The girl’s terrifyingly tumescent clit, a rival of Asha’s own, red as a hollyhock with the blood filling it, swelled and swelled, attaining the same fantastic length that Asha’s was exhibiting: the girl began to work it against Asha’s rope-bound sex, belly, nipples, and, once again, Asha’s sex as her hands and tongue worked to drive Asha into ever-greater frenzies of lust. “You shouldn’t be doing this, little girl!” Asha panted. “Why not?” the girl said, grinning wickedly. “I want to – and I’m you.” And she continued to play Asha with virtuoso skill, the instrument from which she drew forth the achingly sweet, fiery music of Eros. Again and again the girl tried to insert one or more fingers into Asha’s vagina and anus, but the crotchspreader, its thin, black, velvet strands encasing Asha’s sex and the cleft of her ass like the protective legs of a duenna spider, foiled her every attempt to do so. Running out of patience, the girl picks up a thinbladed knife lying on Asha’s bed-stand and quickly severed the ropes of the crotch-spreader, pulling it from

Asha’s body in one quick, elegant motion. Completely naked now, save for those silly little red sandals, Asha lay completely open to the girl and anything she wanted to do to her. Now Asha realized who the girl must be: Well before Asha had been admitted to the Temple as a probationary candidate for the ranks of the priestess-Magickians, samples of tissue had been taken from her, to be preserved cryogenically in the Temple’s biomedical labs until it could be seen whether Asha would realize the promise of her genes. It was planned to make one or more clones of her if she succeeded in advancing to the rank warrior-priestess, as her parents and the Temple hoped she would. That way, if anything happened to the original Asha, there would be backup versions of herself who could be trained to take her place as quickly as possible. This girl, who was only about ten years her junior, must be one of those clones. A true copy of Asha, too. Grasping each of Asha’s nipples so hard that Asha cried out with pain, with one quick thrust of her pelvis the girl drove her still-lengthening clitoris deep into Asha’s vagina, which was already flooded with nectar. Rocking back and forth, impaling Asha on the sharp sword of her lust, the girl drove herself toward the first of a succession of climaxes like Hades whipping on the great dark horses of hell. Asha could feel the swollen tip of the girl’s clit, now longer even than Asha’s, a good six inches long, penetrating well into her womb, sliding back and forth over her cervix, and Asha rose to the first shattering mutual climax with her identical twin, both of them crying out fiercely in their heart-breaking, twinned bliss . . . .

Pomegranate Seeds, Pomegranate Wine
The maiden danced among the little flowers of the meadow, Her feet barely brushing the long, green grass. Her garment, little more than a long veil of emerald silk Tied with a sash trimmed with cerise rose-knots and sky-blue bells, Floated about her body, swirling in the morning light As she danced. Her companions, slender girls, Like her in the flush of their maidenhood, Wove, bobbing and dipping, so many trembling reeds, Across the meadow in the intricate dance, A chorus for the sweet song she raised into the morning. Hearing the song, the tinkling laughter, He brought his great, dark chariot-horses to a halt and, Alighting from his car, Waited beside the black willows Growing by a small, dark tarn There at the edge Of the mountain-meadow Where she danced with her maidens. At last, all unaware, She chanced to dance near him, Not seeing him in the dark, leafy depths Of the cave made by the willow-branches – And then it was that he reached out and caught her up In his long, strong arms. Even as she cried out for her mother, for her maidens, He carried her to his chariot, Kicking and struggling. The rearing horses Plunged forward when he cracked his night-black whip Like one of Arachne’s thin, stinging legs Over their shying heads, and pulled the car Bearing the screaming girl and her dark abductor Full-tilt down a rocky crevasse in the shaking Earth, Down to the hot heart of all the world. There, in the room behind his onyx throne, Where he was wont to sleep, dreaming his indigo dreams, He pled his suit to her. He offered her sweet pomegranates, And tempted her with pomegranate wine, Until, at last, Relenting a little from her adamant refusals, She knelt before him and bent her head To taste one of the sweet crimson seeds, Teasing the fruit’s flesh with sly flicks Of the point of her kitten-tongue To make it yield its juice Into her waiting, eager mouth. Groaning with eagerness, He watched her with amber, panther eyes, Plunged his hard brown hands into her nighted hair – But gently. So tenderly. He could not bear to bruise Her delicate loveliness –

And begged her to drink of his wine, Drink deep of pomegranate wine, Take its fiery spirit to her heart And warm, warm to him, to all he had to give. So she drank, and his cries of ecstasy Rolled like thunder beneath the world, Shaking its mafic, black foundations, Opening smoking vents to the world above. And slowly, trembling, one by one, She dropped her fragile garments Of sky-blue, emerald, and cerise Upon the basalt floor Of his black-walled, stygian chambers, And stepped back, To look upon his long, lean body As even as he did the same to her, Savoring the sight of her pale, lithe body, Which gleamed here and there in the blue witch-fires Shining from the lichened walls. He beckoned: “Come.” And he walked over to a huge, deep chair Whose cavernous depths were piled high With a wealth of skins of mink and lynx, And sat upon its wide seat, beckoning once more: “Come.” Slowly, hesitantly, One bare, slender, snowy foot Before the other, she went to him And, trembling, Let him draw her up upon his sinewy thighs. He gently pressed her back Against one of the chair’s high arms So that her long, slender legs Lay across his thighs, And gently began to stroke The midnight clouds of hair That cascaded over her trembling, milk-white shoulders With one enormous hand, And her soft belly With the other. She moaned. Slowly he let the hand caressing her belly Drop down to her thighs, and there began To tease her legs apart With slow, tantalizing care While he let his dark, shaggy head drop forward To take her nipple between his lips, His sable beard flowing over her belly, The jet-black hairs of his mustache Lightly brushing the upper curve of her tender breast, Until her nipples looked carved all of rose-quartz. She moaned as his hand began to play Lightly about the lips of her virgin vulva That had before known only The kisses and playful hands Of her maiden companions, And the rose-petal folds of her vulva Grew flushed and hot, began to moisten.

Then, scooping her up entire In his two great hands, He lifted her up until his face was at the level of her belly, And slowly began to search out with his tongue The same sweet seeds, the hot wine She had taken from him before, Until she clamped her slender legs tight to his head And screamed in pleasure. And now he let her down again, So that once more she lay Across his thighs, Resting against the chair’s plump arm. Reaching out, he caught One minute, incandescent drop of clinging fire From Phlegethon’s blazing flow, No bigger than a quark, And placed it precisely at the tip Of the small incarnadine bud nestling in the arch Made by the swelling petals of her vulva. Even as the agony of that fiery touch Arched her body, pulses of burning anguish Maddening her with their lewd scourge, The April sweetness concealed in its searing heart Devoured her will, Filling all her soul With ecstatic bursts of lascivious torment, As if some Yuggothian, lecherous wasp Had stung her there with venomous, sweet evil. Her pelvis thrust forward To offer the swelling cerise cone Of her growing lust to him, The more easily to be reached By his stroking, tormenting fingers, As her slender ivory thighs opened, Her sex wantonly naked to his searching hands, Her body clenched in spasms of agonized delight, Nectar slowly beading on her vulva’s wine-red lips, Her nipples, hard as adamant, Filled with burning, exquisite pain Of need for his tongue, Vibrating like the wings Of a death’s-head moth over their engorged tips. His knowing fingers wrote unspeakable poems of lust In a fiery, ecstatic calligraphy Around the orbit of her fragrant, honeyed vulva And all up and down the length of her spasming sex, Now teasing at the ebon locks that framed the tender lips Of her quivering sex, Now delicately playing with the mouth Of her rippling womb. As she arched forward, maddened with her need, He caught her up again and, Turning her to face him, Lifted her up until her ripe buttocks were poised At the tip of his straining phallos. Panting, as he held her there,

She wrapped her long legs about his ribs And kissed him with fierce, hard, hot kisses, Her lust swelling to unbearable, universe-spanning need, Matching his own wild hunger. Finally, When she began to beg him to end it, End her maidenhood, which had suddenly become An agonizing stricture On her boiling, tumescent psyche, He drew her down, slowly, teasingly, Upon his burning hardness, So that the incandescent, ripping murder Of her maidenhood Was but one of an infinite, cresting wave Upon her storm-wracked lust And the unminding ecstasy That now dissolved her Down to her very core. Groaning, slowly he moved In and out of her, Ignoring her frantic, panting pleas to him To move faster, stronger, harder – And, finally, like a bucking mare, Demented with her need, She raised and lowered herself upon him frenziedly, Again and again, rearing back to cry out her triumph, Her nipples thrust forward Like ruby spear-heads, Her little white hands flailing the air Like struggling birds. She screamed, Her banshee cry marrying his thunderous groans, Breeding sweet, ecstatic nightmares And honeyed dreams To fill the sleep of the world With lewd, tumescent, pregnant promise. She finally fell forward upon his breast, Exhausted, satiate, And his head lolled back against the cushions As he nearly fainted from release. . . . When a little later, They came back to themselves, He whispered to her, And she smiled, And he rose, holding her in his arms, And carried her to the great bed With its sheets of ebon spider-silk And bat’s-wool blankets. There, all through the Fimbulwinter’s Cold and darkness, They slept and tumbled, Tumbled and slept, Content in each other’s arms. Come the day, Upon awakening, He found himself too stiff to move; The minx who’d worn him out grinned at him And whispered lewd provocations in his ear While he groaned in mock-pain belied

By his shameless cock, which even now Was stirring once again, yearning toward her. Sighing, before she could take advantage Of his nascent lust, He said, extending a hand to her, “Come, my dear, We’d better let your mother know Before we go any farther.” Laughing sourly, she agreed, and, Sighing in return, Let him pull her to her feet, Help her bathe, and dress her. She watched as he pulled on his black iron armor And greaves of steel, His bloody cloak and his soot-black boots. Then, smiling, Her offered her his arm And led her to his car. Slowly they drove back up to the daylight, Taking time on the way For long, lingering kisses And playful teasing, Reluctant to let off. Finally they emerged To find her distraught mother weeping there By the black willows And the little pool From whence he’d first taken her away. All the land was bare, All its rivers and oceans frozen, The world lifeless, Eerie in its cratered silence; All her relatives were gathered Around her grieving mother, Consternation and despair Wrapping them like briary shrouds. Then her mother saw her – “Koré!” cried her mother. “You’ve come back to me –” But her mother’s sudden, radiant smile Turned to frozen, brine-rimed fear As her daughter’s dark lover told her, “No, my mother, I would not contradict thee for all the world – But I’m afraid my woman, thy daughter, Will stay with me.” Before Demeter could say anything, Her daughter spoke up also: “Mother, call me ‘Koré’ no longer – ‘Persephone’ am I, New born with him,” she told her mother gently. Demeter screamed. “Oh, my poor darling baby, He’s turned your mind! Oh, Zeus, do something – Make your foul, filthy brother give my baby back to me!” Hades looked at Persephone, then both looked at Zeus, In whose widening eyes the light of understanding Had just begun to dawn.

“Uh, Demeter, my very dear . . .” Began Zeus; but Demeter only continued screeching, “Make him give my baby back to me, That evil brute raped by precious darling!” Zeus looked sidelong at Persephone Who, shaking her head, silently pleaded No. Zeus, trying hard not to grin, turned back to Demeter, Saying, “Well, I guess I can’t –” “If she stays with him,” screamed Demeter, “I’ll never bring the land Back to life again!” Her face was like a Harpy’s, Her hands turned to talons, her eyes to pools of black blood In her wrath. It was Hermes Who then suddenly spoke up. “Ah . . . Zeus, my father . . . Doth not the ancient law Rule that none can retain a guest Who hath neither eaten nor drunk within his walls – Or send away one who has done so?” Hades bared his teeth, hissing like an angry dragon, But Persephone, seeing the wicked gleam In Hermes’ oh-so-innocent eyes, Grinned and said, “Surely, mother, that is only fair. Must we not keep to our most ancient customs? If all abide by this, Will you not let life Return to poor, wretched Gaia – Who, I see, you have gravely wounded in your grief – And let come what may? What say you?” – The butter hard as rock in her kitten-mouth, Making a hidden warning gesture to Hades, Who was ready to explode. Catching the gesture, A look from her, and the wicked light In Hermes’ pale gray eyes, Hades paused, waiting, a slow smile Beginning to play about the corners of his mouth “Why . . . yes, of course!” sighed eager Demeter. “Of course – why, my daughter would never honor the table Of so grim and coarse a beast as he,” she said, Dawn beginning to break Across her glacial visage. Green grasses suddenly put forth their blades From the dark, barren land; a floweret bloomed Between two pieces of green-black ice. Demeter’s smile grew like a sun. “Oh, yes – surely, I will give my word That he may have her – only if she has partaken Of whatever carrion or bloody cup He may have offered her! I know my baby, she would never Have done such a thing! Darling, oh, come home with Mommy, now, Let us go home –” she cried, Extending an eager hand to her daughter. And froze. “Uh . . . mother . . .

I have something to tell you,” said Persephone. “I have eaten Of pomegranate seeds, I have drunk Of pomegranate wine, While I was with him, In his chambers . . .” she said, Winking surreptitiously At Hermes and her suddenly understanding, Mirthful lover. Demeter’s screams rent the air And threatened to split the world. She would have blasted the life Right out of the world forever, then; But, reminding her of her promise, Zeus gently drew her away As life, green and golden, Swaying and leaping, Began to emerge under the warm caresses Of a new Spring sun. Persephone, whose love for her mother Had never died, called out as Demeter was led away: “And this I vow, my mother: Beginning with the next New Moon, As long as the world turns, Day unto night, night unto day, For half of each year I will return to you, Spring and Summer, world without end. A daughter’s love doesn’t end when a wife’s begins, Nor a wife’s, when a daughter claims her ancient right.” Demeter, stumbling away, Sobbing and protesting “Rapist! Rapist!”, Paused then, tears coursing down her cheeks, Seeking out Koré’s innocent love In Persephone’s glowing eyes. “Truly?” pleaded Demeter, Still sniffling back her tears. “Truly, mother. As Zeus, here, and Hermes and Athena Are my witnesses, I will return to thee Every year, from seedtime to harvest, So long as life shall live.” Demeter, still weeping, but comforted, Nodded her head and, wordless, Allowed Zeus to escort her away. Turning back to her dark Lord, Persephone said, “Darling, “What say we go back To thy palace? I think I’d like to . . . er, be raped some more. It was so nice!” she told him, giggling. Laughing, he picked her up and kissed her Before the cheering Gods and Goddesses remaining there, In the brilliant light of the new-born Sun, And carried Persephone off To his night-dark chariot. Standing together within it, holding hands,

They sped back to the realms of Death and Hell and Dreadful Night And all the dark, sweet ecstasies Of innocence ended well, with skill and tenderness, And the beginning of fulfilled maturity.

God-Forms of the Great Goddesses
By Yael R. Dragwyla, Polaris Paraphrased from my unpublished text on modern esoteric science, New Magicks for a New Age, Volume II, The Magickal Sky, Book II, The Planets, Part 12: “Hera: A Hypothetical Trans-Plutonian Planet” For use in Magickal ritual of all kinds, there exist Magickal correspondences between the entity to be invoked. These include such things as colors, foods, regions of the Earth, Qaballistic and Tarot correspondences, and numerous others for each Planet, Sign, Constellation, Star, and every other aspect and Person of the Starry Heavens. They are used in Magickal invocations of the Gods associated with them. For invocations of the Great Goddesses, of Whom Hera is exemplary, it might be useful to go into this in some detail. It must be remembered, of course, that the “lesser” Goddesses of the Greek Pantheon – Artemis, Aphrodite, Persephone, etc. – were actually the Great Goddesses of other cultures that had been conquered and assimilated by the ancient Greeks by the time pre-Christian Greek religion reached its final form. So in the following discussion, note that the Goddesses mentioned here in addition to Hera are all themselves Great Goddesses, as well. The following is taken from an actual waking-dream I had one morning. It gives God-Forms – Magickally imagined visions of the Gods we invoke, with Whom we identify by means of ritual – of the Great Goddesses, which can be sued to very good effect in invocations. This is not an exhaustive analysis: it could apply as well to all female Divinities, assuming that in every case the correspondences which are Qaballistically appropriate to the Divinity in question are used as an aid to imagining the God-form appropriate to that Being. Now, any manifestation of a divine being is always in accord with that being’s function in the universe. The Gods are the living Intelligences that infuse the great universal processes, phenomena, and aspects of the living universe. E.g., Aphrodite is the Intelligence or Archangel of fertility, beauty, erotic love, and all the other processes and principles accorded to Her from ancient times; Hermes is the Intelligence of the winds, particular of the West Wind, banking, theft, psychoanalysis, and the other functions associated with His aegis; etc. Thus, for example, Aphrodite might have amber-and-olive skintones, green hair, cerise lips, sky-blue eyes, etc., since those colors correspond to some of the most important things in or aspects of Her domain, such as olive trees, new Spring growth, rain-washed Spring skies, etc.; while Hermes might wear an indigo cape, His “nemyss as the night-sky blue,” have skin tinted a blazing cadmium orange, and be robed in purple, yellow, gray, indigo rayed with violet, red-russet, and yellowish-brown, flecked white. In my waking vision, recorded in my journals, Hera, Queen of the Olympian Gods and a Goddess of the Sky in Her own right, appeared in a God-form corresponding to Her divine nature. Her hair was the color of blue-limned, snowy-white cumulus clouds of Spring and Summer; the white-edged-with-fire-andmagma hues of Sunset clouds; the eerie, luminescent, underwater, dirty golden-green of the sky that presages the birth of tornadoes; the white-edged-with-slate of rain-bearing clouds; the charcoalgray/purple/lavender/violet/indigo of storm-clouds; the snow-and-silver-on-midnight-black of moonlit clouds; and the weirdly beautiful noctilucent clouds seen in regions close to the Earth’s poles just after Sunset and before dawn. Hera’s skin was the color of the sky itself, sky-blue shaded and highlighted with mauve, violet, numerous delicate variations of gray, and subtle greens. Her eyes were now the violet of clear skies, now the gray of impending storm. And Hera’s divine clitoris, when erect, reaches far above Her navel like the blade of a sky-blue sword, as proportionately slender as that of a rapier. When, during sex, She climaxes, the lightnings of ecstasy wreathed its whole length and burst from its tip in a fountaining halo of blue-white supernova fire. Just as males use their penises, She uses Her clitoris for intercourse with both other Goddesses and, occasionally, some of the Gods. Her nymphs, when seized with Aphrodite’s divine fires of erotic hunger, love to drink

of the nectars of ecstasy which pour forth from it in such floods of abundance, even more than they do from the phalloi of the Gods. Now, Hera doesn’t physically impregnate those of Her lovers whom She services with Her divine Sword of Ecstasy; that, She leaves to the Gods, such as Her divine husband, Zeus. Rather, She impregnates Her lovers with fertile Magick, with poetry and dream, with the ideas that change the course of history and the visions that change the universe itself, and with love of and joy in life. Her flowers are roses – roses the white of enormous Summer cumulus clouds, edged with sky-blue; sky-blue roses, edged with the green of the underwater light that heralds great storms and the terrifying tornadoes that are Her wrath made manifest, as the lightning is that of Her husband, Zeus; storm-green roses, edged with sky-blue or cumulus-white; black-edged roses glowing with the weird, eerie beauty of noctilucent clouds. Her gem is the great six-rayed blue star sapphire. Her animals are the she-bear, the tigress, and the lioness. All Her sisters, nieces, and daughters have the same fantastic, penetrant organ, and Their skin and hair reflects Their realms and Their attributes. For example, Persephone, daughter of Ceres, Queen of the Underworld, has skin the color of fertile soil and fiery desert; midnight hair like a spray of black ice; and deep brown eyes, the color of the living Earth, in which swim fiery flecks straight from the Earth’s incandescent core. Her gem is the black star sapphire; Her flowers are roses, roses of nightmare white edged with the black of space and the red of life, roses of stygian black edged with claret and white-hot steel, blood-red roses edged with jet and ice. Her animals are the dragon, the bat, the basilisk, the cockatrice, the snake, and the toad. Her food, like Her logo, is of course the pomegranate. Aphrodite is as described above. Her animals are the dove and the leopardess; Her flower is the red rose; Her tree is the sandalwood; Her stone is the emerald. Her food is the quince – an apple-like fruit from a tree bred originally in Persia from the rose-tree, as are so many others of the world’s prized fruittrees. Amphitrite, Queen of the Ocean Sea, wife of Poseidon, is all the colors of the Sea, its moods, and the life it cradles, all the fantastic hues of green, blue, lavender, lilac, and purple of the ever-changing surface and the benthic abysses of Ocean, from the blinding argent reflections of the Sun on the Sea during a clear day to the optical midnight black and brilliant infra-red of the Mindanao trench. Her gardens include the swarming phytoplankton that are the primordial embodiment of the vast fertility of the sea, and the source of the oxygen that makes life as we know it possible; the endless hanging gardens of blue-green algae which, with leaves that grow up to a meter in length per day, are the sustenance for most of the animal life in the ocean. Her animals include the gallant porpoise, the brilliant orca, the great carnivorous sharks, the sky octopus and aggressive squid, corals, nautiluses, echinoderms, the vast swarms of krill that provide food for so many of Her creatures, toxic tube-worms and the other strange beings that inhabit the neighborhood of the underwater sea-vents along the long, winding, underwater volcanic ranges of Ocean. Her stones include coral, pearls, moonstones, and the lovely shells, mantles, and pens created for their homes by the mollusks and cephalapoda that dwell within her. Artemis has silver flesh and star-spangled, silver-streaked, space-black hair. Her eyes are moonstones set in silver disks; Her animal is the great hunting hound; Her gems, moonstone and pearl; Her metal, silver; Her chemical Element, selenium; Her plants, aloes. And there is Urania/Liberty. Now, She is the daughter of Hera, Queen of Heaven, by Hermes, Lord of the free West Wind, Whose higher octave is His own daughter, Liberty Herself. The whole world knows what Her God-form is, for its image sits on a white pedestal in the shape of an 11-pointed Star in New York City harbor, on Liberty Isle: it has a skin of green, a seven-rayed crown, and eyes of calm, serene green fire, and lifts the Light of Learning high above its head in its right hand. And beneath Her chaste robe there is the same Sword of Ecstasy which all Her sisters, cousins, aunts, and mother have. Her metals are bronze and uranium; Her plants and animals are the strange beings that dwell where nuclear bombs have been tested and nuclear plants have long been in operation; Her gems are turquoise and opal; Her minerals are uraninite, the actinides, the rare earths. A newcomer among the Greek Goddesses is Kali, come among them late, in the time of Alexander the Golden King. Kali has an interesting history. She sprang to life, full-grown, from the forehead of the great Mother-Goddess of the Hindus, Durga, just as Hesiod tells us Pallas Athena was born from the brow of Jove. When the Hindu Gods were sore beset in the wars between the Gods and the Demons, at the last moment, when it seemed to the Gods that all was lost, Durga the Magickian put forth one of Her divine ova not from Her womb, but rather from Her fantastic, formidable brain, impregnating it with all Her vast military and Magickal knowledge. And thus was born Kali, known also as Parvati, Chandi, and, among the Jews, Mikhail, Defender of the Throne of God.

So quick and skilled in all forms of combat arts is Kali that in battle She seems to have many more than two arms as She spins, weaves, treads and claws like the great white tiger of the steppes, wielding sword, ghurka-knife, dagger, machete, pistol, automatic rifle, mortar, howitzer, and even nuclear bombs against the terrible things that crowd against the walls that have been erected around the living world on the Inner Planes to keep us all safe from just such monsters from the Sitra Achra, the Infinite Other. Her obsidian skin gleams like black water under the great full Moon, and Her yellow eyes gleam like those of panthers. From Her crotch there springs erect Her own Divine Sword, so long that it comes up between Her breasts nearly to the hollow of Her throat. To those whom She takes with it, it feels like a white-hot sword within them, so that the edges of the unspeakable ecstasy it gives are as hot and sharp as incandescent razors, cutting agony and ecstasy together into the soul. Or it is a cobra, twisting and writhing deep within their bowels and wombs, sinking its venom-dripping fangs into the core of the soul, giving life and death, joy and despair, burning agony and ineffable bliss all at once. Her great breasts are two black Moons, and their nipples drip nectar that is tat once poisonous and sweet as the blood of demons. Her womb is filled with molten lava; her yoni drips Elixir Vitae mixed with deadly venom, and its grip upon a man’s lingam is like that of the talons of Garuda – talons whose ripping stab brings unspeakable pleasure, endless orgasms to their victims. Her hair, falling wildly about Her, clear to Her slim, heavily muscled buttocks, writhes like a myriad Stygian kraits, deadly in their swaying, hypnotic, seductive charm. Her favorites of all the Greek Gods are Hades and Apollo, both so like Her beloved Shiva, and Hermes, Who reminds Her of Hanuman, Her constant companion, advisor, guide, teacher, and lover in India. She has pleasured all the Greek Goddesses, but her favorites among Them are Persephone and Pallas Athena. For Persephone-Koré is a younger mirror of Herself, full of mischief and fun and energy, and is as aroused by the idea of fucking Herself as Kali is when They revel in each other. Often, Kali and Persephone are watched by all the other Goddess and many of the Gods are the divine orgies, when these two gorgeous Death-Goddesses perform sexual acrobatics for the pleasure and awe of the other divinities, or Sex-Magick during the Great Festivals of the Gods. As for Athena, She, especially in Her battle-aspect, Medusa, could almost be a twin of Durga-Kali. She has the courage, the will, and the battle-skills of Kali and the wisdom of Durga. When the monster Typhon threatened all of Olympus and even Zeus fled from his fiery breath and terrible claws, only Athena took up arms against Typhon, going out to meet him Herself, defeating him in battle before he could destroy the home of the Gods. Her constant companion is Hermes, the Greek avatar of Hanuman. And only She is a match for Kali in contests of Tantric sex and battles of Magickal love, and in the successful manipulation of Kundalini energies for Magickal purposes. But unlike Kali, She does not like to reveal Her primordial glory even to other Gods and Goddesses, save those she takes as Tantric partners; so She conducts Her Magickal trysts within the Temple of Ratri, Hindu Goddess of Night, sister to Kali, located far from Olympus under the night-shrouded lands of Hind, where only She and Her partners and Ratri (Who will not tell) and the God Who is Beyond All the Gods will know what They are doing. And all of these Great Goddesses revel in the ecstasy of divine sexuality, penetrating and being penetrated with whatever lovers They Will, mortal and divine, conceiving within Themselves and Their lovers the great Magickal Currents that make and unmake and mutate whole worlds, whole universes, as well as the small, exquisite eddies that answer the prayers of mortals. Their climaxes shake the universe from edge to edge; Their ripples of pleasure constitute the small decisions and changes of heart and whims of fortune that make our lives what they are. Thus do the Great Goddesses take part in creation and partake of ecstasy, as They Will, however and whenever and with whomever They Will. And thus are Their God-forms – and Hesiod be damned.

Moonlight Sonata in Hell

She sat by her spinning-wheel, gazing into space And sighing wistfully, her bare thighs flexing slowly, The soft, ivory skin of their inner surfaces Growing warm, a pale pink blush like a herald of dawn Suffusing them, the fingers of one hand straying down to stroke them As, with the other, she grasped the python nestled trustingly About the snowy, slender column of her neck. She drew a long, slow deep sigh, and carefully uncoiled the python, Coaxing it to dart its arrowed head down into her breast, Then along her belly’s gentle, sleek curve, And on toward the ice-white fur Covering her belly’s slowly warming base. She opened those white, white thighs; the lithe animal, Now curious, darted a questing tongue At the little bud-rose now forming there Between the moistening lips of her vulva, And she gave a soft cry, shivering a little As ecstatic promise burst across the bud And slowly rippled outward, over all her arching body. Beginning to pant, opening her legs still wider, She let the python slide its honeyed length Along her opening vulva as it thrust forward Onto one alabaster leg And began to twine about it. She raised a hand To caress a hardening nipple, and ran the other Over her quivering belly – “Oh!” She looked up at the cry from her door To see another standing there who said, “Oh, I am so very sorry, I will go now, if you –” “No, my dear one, please come in,” she said, smiling slowly, Stroking her nakedness luxuriously as the python, Its curiosity now taking a new tack, reversed its climb And made once again for the sheltered haven of her throat, The canopied clouds of ice-white hair falling over her shoulders Like a mantle of fresh, deep winter snow. “Come in, Persephone, Come in and bide a while. I’m glad you came,” She said, smiling lazily, flexing her thighs to let the python Glide back up the same satin road down which it had first come. Timidly the other stepped into the room. “I didn’t –” “Yes, you did, my dear – and why are you still dressed In all those dreadful, confining clothes? Why don’t you make yourself Comfortable here, before my fire, and bide a while?” For an incandescent moment Persephone stared at her hostess, Who lay sprawled, all blue-white fire and ivory loveliness, On her fog-gray couch, the python slowly gliding Like loops of solid honey across her rose-tipped ice-white beauty. Licking her lips, Persephone shrugged and smiled a little And slowly entered the room, dropping first her cloak, Then her peplos, then her sash, Then her chiton upon the marble floor

And the rug of white-tiger fur But keeping her jewelry on. Now she swayed across the floor Toward the other woman, the pearls of her necklace Flashing in their silver nets like grunion beneath the Moon, The coral in her bracelets red as blood In the soft, argent light from the room’s sole lamp, Which sent lunar radiance gleaming Over her hostess’s belly, arms, thighs In indolent rivers of cold Moon-fire, Ending in a lake of burning silver Nestled at her belly’s base. “Hekate, are you sure you want me here?” “Oh, yes, my dear – tonight’s a night for Magick, And there’s no one better to make it with than thou, My delightful darling. Come rest beside me, here . . .” Hekate patted the soft, charcoal swells of midnight Covering her couch in endless deep, soft layers of nightmare, And the satiny coverlets of indigo and purple tossed carelessly across it, And once more flexed her thighs to show the rosy secrets there Now uncovered by her python, who, bored, Had decided to nestle down once more at her throat, Draped across her lovely shoulders. Hesitantly, kicking off the sandals from her snowy feet, Persephone came to the couch and sat down beside Hekate, Who slowly pressed her back against the ebon cushions. Once more teasing her python loose from her shoulders, Hekate guided its narrow head to Persephone’s breast, And it glided down upon Persephone’s gleaming body, Its emerald length looping across one high, exquisite breast so that It could flick its tiny scarlet tongue like elfin, lascivious lightning Across one swelling nipple, curious to learn its nature. As Hekate sat up, lazily smiling down upon Persephone, Who stared up at her hostess from beneath trembling, night-dark lashes, The python slowly glided under Persephone’s slender arm, Up around her throat from beneath her shoulder, Across her throat, then under her other arm, Coiling back around to stare at her With unblinking feline eyes – And suddenly tightened, its tail pinioning one of her arms, Its head and neck the other, holding her prisoner As Hekate, laughing lewdly, told her, “Ah, my darling, Now I have you!” And as Persephone moaned, Hekate reached down Between Persephone’s nacreous thighs, The moonstones on her agile, skull-white fingers gleaming In the silvery fire from her lamp As, like spider’s-legs, they lightly trod the ebony locks That tumbled across Persephone’s swelling mound And the wine-red lips of her sex. Honeyed venom pearled upon Hekate’s fog-gray tongue, And, leaning over to put her head Between Persephone’s straining thighs, She flocked it out to tease the tip Of the pale rosebud of lust Swelling between those tumescent lips That spoke so eloquently of Persephone’s growing heat

With beading drops of sweet nectar, Letting one bright, tiny, cat’s-eyed jewel of burning ecstasy Fall upon its crown. Persephone screamed, Her body bucking and arching on the couch; She clamped her thighs tight about Hekate’s head, Holding it close against her straining pelvis. But Hekate broke loose from Persephone’s thighs, Rose up, so that her Moon-pale body shone like sea-foam under the Moon In the dim, frosty light of the one lamp That kept at bay the crepuscular gloom of her apartments; One full breast, its large, russet nipple Like a cold, red diamond Shone in that light, Limned in wintry highlights. Hekate’s ironic mouth, Full lips like ripe strawberries, Quirked in a knowing grin, And her albino eyes Danced lightly across Persephone’s trembling body, Gauging her temper. Reaching out to the table Beside her night-wrapped couch With its coverlets of twilight silks, Hekate caught up a long, ivory wand lying there, Wrapped reverently in deep violet scorpion-silk, Cradled in a box upholstered in viper-skin; Tenderly unwrapping it, Hekate took the wand, Which flexed like a sapling in her testing hands, And slid it into her own eager sex, Then leaned forward once again And thrust the other end Into the tight, hot throne Of Persephone’s fear and lust. Slowly they rode each other to climax As the python, wanting a better view of things, Slid away from Persephone, Back onto Hekate’s shoulders. Suddenly, groaning, Persephone grasped the dildo In one long, white hand, Holding it within herself As she pulled it out of Hekate, Who screamed like a mad eagle In her frustration. Before Hekate could do much more than scream, however, Persephone, sitting up in one great thrust Like a cobra readying itself to strike, Grasped the other woman’s heaving shoulders, Rolled Hekate over on her belly and, Still gripping the dildo between her own burning thighs, Began exploring Hekate’s vulva with cruelly delicious, Delicately brutal touches Of her long, carmine-clawed fingers. Slowly she teased apart the lips of Hekate’s sex, Dipped into the honeyed treasures flowing there, And played a sweetly evil, delectably tormenting Melody of lust

Upon the instrument of Hekate’s wild sorceries. Finally, after waiting one delicious moment more, Drawing the sweet torment out, Persephone thrust her slim dancer’s hips forward, Impaling the other woman Upon the long, long dildo Arching upward from her swiveling pelvis, Riding off her own need upon the end of it Clutched so tightly in her own ravenous sex – A strange sound from the doorway Brought her back to herself. She stopped, and, looking up, By the door she saw his dark panther’s body Limned in the fold, fiery silver light Of the still-burning lamp, An impish quirk upon his mouth, A gleam in his tiger’s eyes: Her lord, Hades. His grossly engorged phallos Strained hard against his black-furred, Rock-hard belly. She started to gasp a protest, A warding spell – But, smiling, he held up one hand, Saying, “Peace, woman, Fear not.” And slowly he crossed the room To stand beside the couch And the two women intertwined so flagrantly Upon it, caught in timeless terror, Frozen in a tableau of lust discovered. Standing by them, He ran caressing fingers Over the swelling moons Of his wife’s nacreous buttocks, Then reached between her legs to stroke Hekate’s turgid sex, From which the dildo had now fallen, Teasing it open To test the hot, nectar-dewed depths within. Now, grasping Persephone’s slender hips, Trapping them within his huge, brown hands, Slowly her arched above her, Reached around her to slide the dildo’s swollen crown Back into Hekate’s quivering, aching need, And slid his basaltine phallos Up into Persephone’s burning rectum. Then, Reaching upward To cup Hekate’s swollen nipples With one hard, hot hand, He steadied his body above the two women With the other, And arched his pelvis forward, Giving up a rumbling groan, So that Persephone, willy-nilly, Perforce thrust the dildo Deep into Hekate’s greedy sex And up into her womb.

Locked together, The three bucked and cried out Their starburst release, Spiraling upward together Into a blazing burst of icy ecstasy, Screaming as one, like the challenge of dragons, Falling back together, Legs interwoven by the driving looms of lust, Falling together into a dark, lascivious chasm Of star-hot dream and midnight joy, All terror burned away In Eros’ holy fires, Three spirits with a single, Commingled soul, Beyond the reach of mortality’s petty pruderies.

The Brag of the Female SubGenius
by the Very Left Reverend Doktor Magistra Batrix, Το Μι κ ρ ο ν Θε ρ ι ο ν \cw ]xh The Infra-Red Woman of the Church of the SubGenius, Pope of All Broadview and About Half the 134th Block of Greenwood Avenue North, 23® = 3.14159™ This Brag is reverently dedicated to Hera, Nunu, and t y l a – and above all, to CoNnIe [Found graven into the floors of Mohenjo-Daro, under three feet of fossilized kitchen-midden, in Linear-B script, with an X-ray laser rock-borer] I’m the Infra-Red Woman! I’ve got the Beast of the Abyss between my legs. Vaginal spray deodorant is allergic to me. I’m so good that I make the L.A. Woman look like Miss Kansas City of 1910! I’m tighter than a constipated Scotsman in a pay-toilet! I’ve got muscles in my snatch that haven’t even been invented ye. I make the Virgin Mary look like the Grand Canyon! I use a Q-tip for a Tampax, and a micro-dot for a diaphragm! I’m atomic-powered, honey! You can run deep, but with me you can’t run silent! I’ll make you howl so loud they’ll be green-eyed on the Moon, and you’ll be so good they’ll have to incorporate Heaven as a suburb of Hell and start over! The New Age was invented just for me – I wore the old one out! I put the Magick in Sex-Magick – why, I shocked Aleister Crowley. I made the last ten Popes give up their vows! Billy Graham took up Tantra after seeing me. Why, who do you think Sappho wrote all those poems to? I’m so good, I made the Great Stone Face three times – and he doesn’t even exist from the neck down! I make Linda Lovelace look like a store-window dummy with the lockjaw. I made Thutmose V come back to life, throw off his bandages, and chase me around the Great Pyramids ten times before I let him catch me – and then I screwed him right back into his sarcophagus with a double-left reverse-twist hip-swivet! Han Solo, Darth Vader, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Luke Skywalker, Yoda, and the Emperor didn’t have any Force left when I got through with them – and Princess Leia thinks I’m pretty good, too! Come on and give me AIDS, baby – I’ll recombine it with my own E. Coli plasmids and turn it into venereal mescaline! I sweat nectar and menstruate ambrosia, I pee milk and honey and shit Cakes of Light! When I take off my clothes, fist-fights break out all over Olympus over me. The Gods line up for blocks for five minutes with me – along with a few of the Goddesses, too . . . 23 Mafia hit-men gave up their guns and took out their weapons for me. I’ve got a better swing in my hips than the San Francisco Earthquake of 1906! My pelvis moves on Johansen-finish ball-bearings. My measurements are 46-17-46 – and that’s not on the metric system, baby! They invented the D-cup bra just for me. There isn’t the girdle made brave enough to try my cellulite! I suckle tygers and turn ‘em into pussycats! I’m bitchy! I’m shrill and nasty! I’m a real shrew! Mad Rapists run screaming for help to the nearest Rape Crisis Center when they see me coming! I gave the Anti-”Bob” back his own VD and turned him into a Radical Feminist! When I’m in heat they come from hundreds of miles around for a try at me – the dogs and cats and wolves and bears and randy goats and 12-point bucks and pterodactyls and swallow-tail butterflies right beside the men. Unicorns and dragons fight over me! I do it with basilisks. I let Bellerophon and Pegasus both fuck me – simultaneously. Great Pan Himself fought a whole herd of Balrogs for a chance at my honey-pot! I wear out satyrs and terrorize griffins. Gandalf the Grey paid to eat me – right after I did it with Gollum . . . . I go Around the World with Orcs. Frodo beat the shit out of Dopey, Sneezy, and Doc so he could get into my flower-garden! I pulled a train with Donald Duck, the Three Pigs, Bugs Bunny, and all the bears in Bear Country!

You bet I’m a whore, sweetheart – I never took one damn dime for it, I do it for fun! You mess with me, baby, I’ll take you for your last dollar and make you like it! They’ll never stick this cunt in a kitchen – unless that’s where I want to be. I never pay taxes – the government pays me . . . not to wear out the workforce! I ranch crabs for fun and profit! I don’t charge money for it, honey – I charge Slack! When anyone calls me a bitch, I just bar right back at ‘em! I invented Time Control, darlin’ – if you’ve got five minutes to spare, I’ll give you an Aeon of sheer ecstasy! I take on whole submarines full of sailors and wear all of ‘em out, the captain included! Atomic power-plants hide their heads in shame when I go by! My snatch glows in broad daylight! I’m the reason that Cuban Supermen were invented! I’m so good, I made the Premier of the USSR sing “All Right by Me in America” – and mean it! I don’t have a pussy, luv – I’ve got a whole sabretoothed tiger in my tank! When the javelina-humping junkie that jumped the Men from Mars jumped me, he ended up proposing to me 666 times before dawn – then shot himself when I turned him down! Men fight over me. Women fight over me! I’ve had so many lovers that I made Alma Wehrfold Gropius Mahler look like Queen Victoria, and Polly Adler threw in the towel because of me! I fucked the Devil into Heaven and St. Peter in to Hell! I took on the Flaming Sword of the Archangel Michael – and put it out! The Fightin’ Jesus gave up fighting to have more time with me! The Blob got hard as a rock, thick as a brick, and stiff as steel at the mere sight of me! When he met me, Truman Capote went straight! And Elizabeth Taylor . . . Well, they invented the googol just to keep track of all the lovers I’ve had, the googolplex to record how many ways I did it with ‘ em – and the googolzillion to tally up how many times I made ‘em come! Why, I’ve been Around the World more times than Pan-Am! You heard that the X-ists are coming? Well, I’m the reason, darlin’! I’m a fusion reactor, baby – let’s fuse! I’m so hot, I make Chernobyl look like a rest-home for penguins! I fart pure ambergris and piss champagne. When I ball, they run the entire city plant of Los Angeles off the gyrations of my hips! I’m plug-compatible with King Kong. I made Mothra cry “Uncle,” and Godzilla joined a convent after one goround with me. HAL burned out all his chips over me. Why, I made Bad “Bob” say “please” and “thank you”! I made an honest man out of Richard Nixon – then put horns on him with Henry Kissinger! Pat Robertson got religion because of me – that old-time religion! He took up witchcraft and joined a coven and gave up Lent for sex! Choronzon cleaned up his act for me. I’m the reason Elvis is god. And just who do you think pulls Howdy Doody’s strings, hmm? I got it all, baby! I’m so brilliant, I make Albert Einstein look like Mortimer Snerd. Standford-Binet went out of business because of me! I put the fear of Almighty Goddess into Cal Tech – during Hell Week. Kate Millet looks like Phyllis Schlaffley’s Double-Mint Twin compared to me! I make Golda Meier look like a wimp! They threw Elizabeth I of England out of the Hall of Fame when I was born! I’m the Polly they named polymaths after. I joined MENSA on Monday and dropped out the next Friday because they couldn’t keep up with me! I’m so canny, I make Harry Truman look like Adlai Stevenson! I put the starch in Priapus’ pecker. I can pick up whole brontosauri with the suction from my snatch – I make a hard vacuum look like Rush Hour on Getaway Day on the Los Angeles Harbor Freeway Interchange in comparison! Abraham Lincoln shaved off his beard just to make me happy – then grew a mustache to keep my favor! James Watt became an ecologist for love of me; I made Ronald Reagan join the Peace Movement! The Bureau of Indian Affairs is giving Manhattan back to the Indians – and the Manhattan Project with it – just to get a date with me. Chief Sequoia was just the right size for me. Chief Crazy Horse went crazy over me; I made Sitting Bull stand up. After Muhammad Ali met me, he admitted he’s only second best. Elijah Muhammad found Dobbs and started a Clench in Cincinnati after a night with me! I blow the tops out of thermometers! I make taxi-meters run backwards! You’ve heard of black Holes? Well, come on up and see me sometime, sweetheart, and I’ll show you a Naked Singularity. I put the “collapse” into “collapsar”! Why, after I took a trip on the Enterprise, Mr. Spock couldn’t turn the Pon Farr off, the warp-drives went into permanent overdrive, Scotty forgot about all his other tools, Bones did it so many times with me he got a triple strangulated hernia, and the Klingons gave up hegemony and joined the Federation just for a chance at me! I make Hot Lips O’Hoolihan look like the Ross Ice Shelf – at both ends. The term “gun nut” took on a whole new dimension of meaning when they turned me loose – the NRA just declared me Woman of the Millennium and asked me to inspect all their weapons . . . I wore out Paul Bunyan and his Blue Ox, Babe! Pecos Bill discovered a gun he didn’t even know he had and left

Slew-Foot Sue because of me! Texas gave up all its yellow roses and started growing red ones, just for me! That Texan who shamed all Alaska when he killed the Eskimo bare-handed and fucked the polar bear couldn’t keep me satisfied! The reason for the Texas Panhandle is that the place went broke trying to meet my fees . . . I give Green Stamps. I don’t shave under my arms – I mow . . . when I don’t braid! I give underarm deodorant B.O.! I don’t use Kotex – I use Beautyrests! I left my nectar on the Washington Monument and douched with the Mississippi River. I don’t catch crabs – I catch mountain lions . . . and I gave a whopping case of them to Goliath! So step aside, all you slab-sided, prune-faced, whey-fleshed, dishrag-cunnied, androphobic, gynophobic, sarcophobic, biophobic, paint-covered, latex-armored, beehive-hairdo’d, pinch-browed, antiseptic, chemical-stenched, stilt-heeled, pucker-butted gunnysacks full of weasel-jerky! IBM invented computers just to keep track of me! I can out-think, outwit, outjoke, outfuck, and outfart any fifty men – or 500 Pinks! I fold, staple, spindle, and mutilate whole bureaucracies! I pass laws against Congressmen. I got the Supreme Court declared unconstitutional! I don’t just holler and yell, I break windows and shatter chandeliers twenty counties upwind when I start feeling good! I make a fool out of myself with style. I set trends. Ten top fashion designers shot themselves because of me! Hair-dressers hide when they see me coming! A dozen gynecologists gave up medicine and took up abalone-fishing after examining me. I have Senators for familiars! The American Academy for the Advancement of Science made telepathy illegal and declared psychokinesis a mortal sin after experimenting with me. Everything Carrie knows, she learned from me, and if you want a real Fire-Starter . . . well, you-all know who to come to, don’t you? Kali became a pacifist after meeting me! I don’t just have an Evil Eye, darlin’ – I’ve got Evil in places you’ve never even heard of! I was the one Dracula went bats over. Frankenstein’s Monster had to take the bolts out of his neck and use them to secure his pecker after I got through with him! I put the “Mo” in “Mojo” – and then took it out again! You’ve heard of the Bermuda Triangle? Well, darlin’, it formed as run-off of the Satanic nectars from my infernal honey-pot! When Davy Jones went Down on me, he fell in and drowned! I run a Marineland franchise in my cunt – with a special floor for the whole Cthulhu Mythos! When I pass by, geldings turn back into stallions, capons start hard-chargin’ Harpy Eagles, and steers go after locomotives! They created a brand-new subdivision of Hades just for me! I invented sin, honey – where do you think that Snake bought that apple he gave to Eve, anyway? I’m the reason that being bad feels soooo gooooooooood . . . . When the Incredible Hulk butt-fucked me, I farted him into the next county! When I clear my throat, all the members of the Philadelphia Philharmonic start tuning up their bonaphones and skin-flutes. And I live on the West Coast! I’m quadruple-jointed! I make octopi like arthritic! James Beard invented 13,013 brand-new recipes after one taste of me! Real men pay to catch VD from me! I don’t get zits – I break out in bon-bons and éclairs! I leak Elixir Vitae by the gallon. John de Lorean gave up cocaine and started snorting me! I open brand-new jars of fruit preserves with my snatch! You’ve heard that Hitler only had one ball – and Göbbels didn’t have any at all? Guess why . . . or rather, who. I free-base jism. I may be house-proud, darlin’ – but then, when the Prince of Wales gives you Buckingham Palace with his thank-you note, and a Prime Minister shows his appreciation with Number Ten Downing Street, well . . . You know all those places where they have signs that say “George Washington slept here”? Guess who he had with him – it sure as hell wasn’t Martha! All the major-league ball-teams awarded me both Pennants and the World Series after trying my game! The Four Horsemen of Notre Dame couldn’t pass my end! Their confessor wouldn’t let Knute Rockne do any more coaching until he’d said 500 Pater Nosters and 1,000 Ave Marias – 23 times. And all because of me . . . I made a pawn of Bobby Fisher. I got served by Jimmy Conners and Billie Jean King – the score was Love-Love! I’m not hard to please – all I want for Christmas is a dude-ranch . . . with my brand on all the dudes! Honey, I’ve got a spread so big, they map it by satellite reconnaissance telemetry. I got the world’s greatest swing – come on over and try my playground, anytime!

Bend all the spoons you want, sweetheart; I straightened Yuri Geller’s tool with my unaided ESP, and stroked off the Dali Lama with an idle thought. You may be insured against acts of God and Satan, darlin’, but not even Lloyd’s will insure you against me! When I bat my eyelashes, monks spew away their last chances at Heaven. Nuns and junkies all give up their habits for me. I drove the Whore of Babylon out of business! Astarte invented aphrodisiacs just to keep up with me! I am a mink in heat, I am a Tyrannosaura regina on the make, I make Jaws look like a Small-Mouthed Bass, a Black Hole is convex compared to me! Once you try me you’ll think the Big Bang is nothing but a wet firecracker! I bend in places where most women don’t even have places! I’m a walking, talking, strutting, balling volcano, I was whelped by Madame Pele and sired by Kanaloa, Nyarlathotep was mid-wife at my birth! The only one they could find to baby-sit me was Cthulhu, and she charged $50 a minute! I got kicked out of Saint Trinian’s for moral turpitude! My best friend was Lizzie Borden! I blackmailed Jack the Ripper for comic-book money, and put the screws on the Boston Strangler whenever I wanted new clothes! The Freeway Killer claimed asylum in San Quentin to get away from me. I pre-empted Our Lady of Fatima! UFOs fight to see which one gets to have an Encounter with me! Prophets give up their Visions for one look at me. John the Baptist came back to life to give me some of his head! I created DNA! Where do you think Calvin Klein got his genes? Charles Darwin revised his Theory after meeting me. You think you’re Illuminated? I make thermonuclear blasts look like the inside of a dark-room, the Buddha traded in Nirvana for me! I make Helen of Troy look like a waffle-iron with a hangover – my face launched the Federation Space Fleet! The Venus de Milo looks like a hippopotamus with psoriasis, compared to me! After meeting me, Pallas Athena started taking speed-reading courses and studying the “Increase Your Word Power” Sections of the Reader’s Digest, and traded in her spear and shield for a diaphragm and a bottle of Kama Sutra Oil! Aphrodite hires me as a consultant! I run a dating-service for Wonder Woman, Super Girl, and the Rogue! I turned the Wolverine into a puppy-dog! I drove Captain Cockroach sane with lust. The Tree of Life is watered with my nectar. I eat of the Fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil just for a between-meal snack! They had to invent a whole new Sign in the Zodiac just for me: Clittis, the Pornogram. You wouldn’t believe the aspects to my Nodes, darlin’ – my chart’s got all the angles! Heisenberg came up with the Uncertainty Principle after he met me. They say that Kükele discovered the benzene ring after having a dream about a snake eating its own tail – well, it wasn’t a snake, honey, and he sure as hell wasn’t asleep, either! I’m the Imperative in Kant’s Category! I made Dirac, Pauli, and Einstein get physical! They had to invent non-Euclidean geometry to describe my curves! They still don’t know whether my space is negative or positive . . . and they never stop measuring! They used up trigonometry and calculus and went on to fractals and they still haven’t got my shape nailed down! The other seven dimensions of space-time were made just for me – and they’re still going to have to come up with more! Where do you think the camel got his hump? When the bear lost his tail, he came to me to get it back! I’m the reason for the Billy-Goat’s Horn. Xaviera Hollander went broke trying to compete with me! I’m the one who fucks ‘em when they can’t take a joke – and makes ‘em smile again! Nell Gwynn gave it up as a bad job after Charles learned about me! I catch speeding bullets in my snatch – and send ‘em back where they came from! I jump tall studs with a single bound! I started a fist-fight between the Marquis de Sade and the Baron von Sacher-Masoch over me – and then ditched ‘em both for Casanova! La Voison poisoned herself over me! I taught Cagliostro all his tricks – what do you think he kept that cabinet of his for, luv? The Comte Saint Germaine tried out my cucurbit and used his pestle to grind my mortar – I taught him a language he’d never even heard of! I’m more powerful than the Hoover Company’s finest appliance! The dude wasn’t born that I couldn’t take on! I’m so fertile, octuplets are the smallest litter I produce – and I breast-feed ‘em all simultaneously! Jesse Helms turned pro-abortion because of me! My kids are the strongest, brightest, and meanest ones in town – I’ve turned out more doctors than Harvard Med! I’m the one B’nai B’rith calls in to solicit contributions for the Annual Eye-Bank Charity Ball! I sell pixie-dust to the Fairies, and acorns to Ents! Nobody turns me down – I got Adolph Eichmann to come across with a month’s pay for Jewish Relief! Why, I sold “Bob” back his own pipe! You know about that

International Conspiracy of Rich Jewish Bankers and the American Association of Cardboard Box Manufacturers that runs everything? Well, they’re just a front for the Aldebaranian Snake-Men . . . and I’m behind the Snake Men! I make the Dragon-Lady look like Patient Griselda! Messalina told me that I ought to be ashamed of myself – did I listen? I’m so weird, the Discordians joined the Republican Party in sheer self-defense! I put the “libertine” into “Libertarian”! I make Eris look dull! They say “Bob” is dead . . . but you couldn’t prove it by me! If you hear that Connie is leaving him . . . well, guess who she’s leaving him for? I’m illegal in over 30 countries and in 42 of the 50 United States! I was banned in Las Vegas – they outlawed me in Tijuana! I’ve gone down more times than the entire U.S. submarine fleet! I’m the reason the Second Coming is taking so long – Jesus still hasn’t recuperated from his first one yet! You heard that the Bomb ended World War II? Well, that isn’t quite the way it really was – you see, it was when President Truman threatened to sic me on ‘em that the Japanese High Command finally caved in . . . I’m the Queen of Heaven, the Dark Lady of Space, the Lovely Black Star of the Sea, the beautiful Blue-Lidded Daughter of Sunset. You’ll find my portrait on cave-walls at Lascaux, and carvings of me in kitchen-middens and burial-sites in Württemberg and Willendorf. I’m represented in bas-reliefs on the walls of the Temple of Karnak, painted on the walls of Pompeii, and done in stained-glass in the cathedrals of Europe! I’’ in the Pre-Scriptures! Jehovah-1 burns incense to me. I’m –

[Floor runs out]

The Second Brag of the Female SubGenius
by the Very Left Reverend Doktor Magistra Batrix, Το Μι κ ρ ο ν Θε ρ ι ο ν \cw ]xh The Infra-Red Woman of the Church of the SubGenius, Pope of All Broadview and About Half the 134th Block of Greenwood Avenue North, 23® = 3.14159™ Dedicated, with great affection and reverence, to those Great Goddesses, the incomparable Mae West and the inconceivable Rusty Warren [Found written on the dark side of the Moon, inscribed by Tokimak-driven γ -ray laser and polished with suppressed-electron ionic disintegrators a mile beneath the Lunar surface in Bell-Beaker script] I am the Mother of all Mutants! All true Yetinsyny are under me! Why, darlin’, I’m so good – I don’t need to brag! I made the New Age old before its time! Even Ol’ Scratch has an itch for me! Am I worried about my reputation? Why, honey, I don’t need to worry at all! You see, I don’t have a reputation – I have an attitude! Why, I can out-talk any man alive! – If you don’t believe it, darlin’, just go read my first brag! Worried you won’t get time with me, darlin’? Well, jes’ don’t you worry your po’ little self about that – I got ten snatches, no waiting! I was the one turned that ol’ Lion of Judah into a real pussycat! Why, darlin’ – I’m so weird, I scared Stephen King! Norman Bates resolved his Oedipus Complex for me! Freddy Kreuger runs screaming when he sees me comin’ . . . I even made Jason take off his mask! And after me, Hallowe’en looks like Mother’s Day! Darlin’, I’m not just politically incorrect, I’m existentially impossible! Why, I can even get down a lump o’ Cream o’ Wheat! And you wouldn’t believe what I can do with a dead frog . . . Honey, I am non-biodegradable, non-recyclable, non-negotiable, highly toxic, and environmentally unsound – not to mention illegal, immoral, and fattenin’ . . . but boy, howdy, am I fun! The Rockefellers may have the bucks, darlin’, but I’ve got the buns! I don’t just dance with wolves, darlin’ – I do the Horizontal Boogie with whole law-firms! When E. T. phone home, honey, you know who he was tryin’ to reach! And after one taste of me, Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter went on a diet. Normal women don’t believe I’m real after reading my first brag – that’s all right, then they won’t believe what I’m doin’ with their menfolk, either . . . You don’t need a space program, darlin’ – after all, ol’ Sir Isaac Newton wrote his Third Law of Motion after I fell on his face . . . I’m sure you-all’ve heard of the Lion in Winter; but what ol’ King Henry did in the summer was – me. Thelma an’ Louse, move over! All of my 23 husbands treated me jes’ fine – an’ I turned out to be an absolute hellcat, anyway! Both Abigail van Buren and Anne Landers write to me for advice! (You wouldn’t believe what I told ‘em . . .) I pulled a train with Dick Tracy, Little Orphan Annie, the Wizard of Id an’ ol’ Crankshaft the BusDriver – and left ‘em laughin’! Alfred E. Neuman really started worryin’ after he met me – ‘specially after Moxie Cowznowski started givin’ me the eye! Batman took a criminal career jes’ to meet my fees – and the Joker took the vow and became a Carmelite nun after dancin’ in the pale moonlight with me! WonderWoman ain’t a –Wonderin’ no more – an’ after tryin’ me out, Superman went back to green Kryptonite!

When they wanted to do a mastectomy on me, I jes’ cheered – it would jes’ make that much more room for the other 27 of ‘em! My hysterectomy never bothered me any . . . jes’ ask the 418 kids I had after it! Carl Sagan wanted to do it with me billions and billions of times – he said I was a sure cure for nuclear winter, an’ told me that if Broca had ever met me, he wouldn’t have needed a brain! Jacques Vallee said that I was the closest call – uh, encounter he’d ever had! Why, Stephen Jay Gould said I punctuated his equilibrium! Ol’ Martin Gardner and the Incredible Randi don’t believe I exist – but they still want to do It with me, anyway. An’ when they asked ol’ Doc Asimov to explain me, he jes’ grinned an’ said, “No comment!” It was after John W. Campbell, Jr. beat out both SFWA and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., to make time with me that they wrote the song, “Oh, no, John, no, John, NO!!!” Why, Robert A. Heinlein didn’t have enough time for me – he complained that I talk about sex too much! Hunter H. Thompson told me that after me, he no longer has fear and loathing in Las Vegas . . . or even Cincinnati . . . When the going got weird, I sold tickets to it! Robert Bloch went psycho over me – and when somebody told R. R. McCammon there was no way he could make time with me, he said, “Oh, Baal!” Norman Mailer turned into a raving Radical Feminist after trying the belly of my Beast – and even the National Enquirer can’t keep up with all the space-aliens, Sasquatches, and Elvis clones who’ve had close encounters with me! The reason they haven’t been able to photograph Nessie is . . . all this time, she’s been on a date with me! Darlin’, I even got Harlan Ellison to behave like a gentleman! An’ jes’ who do you think ol’ Howard Phillips learned his craft from, sweetie?! Honey, when I propositioned ol’ Anton Szandor LaVey, he said, “The Devil you say!” I’m Betty Page’s favorite pin-up girl! And Freddy, Franklin, and Phineas freaked out over me! Why, I had an orgy with Hastur, Nyarlathotep, all the Whatelys and the Marshes, the King in Yellow, Shub-Niggurath, and half o’ Salem’s Lot – but that wasn’t nothin’ compared to what happened when R’Lyeh rose . . . and Cthulhu got Her first glimpse of me . . . Why, I spoiled Joanna Russ for other women! I blackmailed J. Edgar Hoover! And Nancy Reagan wrote a biography of Kitty Kelley just to impress me! Andrea Dworkin fell in love with Norman Mailer and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and married ‘em both – simultaneously – after a taste of me! Why, I’ve got curves that make a Klein Bottle look like A. Square from Flatland! The Invaders from Mars joined Amnesty Interstellar after trying to invade me! You’ve heard of Peewee’s big day? Well, that was only his second one – guess who he had his first one with?! Now, his lawyer’s sure that as far as that silly arrest goes, Peewee’s sure to get off – but if he doesn’t, you can be sure that I’m the reason they were able to get any hard evidence on him at all – leastaways, the kind that’ll stand up in court . . . But don’t worry – the Squirt Police are going to let him go , anyway – all for love of me! When they told me that the nuclear reactor in my snatch was environmentally unsound, did I complain? Why, of course not! Never let it be said that I’m not ecology-minded! I jes’ smiled – and replaced that nasty ol’ reactor with two square miles of solar panels an’ a brand-new, cold fusion plant! Elvis Costello told me that I’m next millennium’s model – an’ Jerry Garcia himself wanted to smoke me! Ralph Nader finally decided that I’m consumer-friendly after testing me out himself, just to make sure. And after Gary Larson met me, cows became his Number Two subject! Gomez Addams forgot all about Morticia after he met me – but that was jes’ too bad, ‘ cause my dance-card was already full up – with time with Morticia, along with Uncle Fester, Lurch, and Cousin It. Puggsley and Wednesday were mad ‘cause they weren’t old enough – an’ Granny was sad ‘cause all these years, until she met me, she hadn’t known what she was missing! (But I was truly, deeply touched by Thing – he put his finger on the exact root of my problems, and solved them all!) Titian, Rembrandt, and Michelangelo all had designs on me! I dallied with Dali and diddled with Dada, and Pablo Picasso told me I’m as pretty as a picture! Russ Meyer gave me star billing – but he had to stand in line behind Will Shakespeare! Why, I corrupt the morals of perverts! I corrupt the morals of minors! I even corrupt the morals of majors – not to mention generals, colonels, lieutenants, corporals . . . The entire O.T.O. had to team up with L. Ron Hubbard to try to satisfy me and they still couldn’t quite cut the mustard! (Ol’ “Frater XXX” didn’t even know what “Clear” was until he metered my E!) I met Oliver North – and he didn’t shred me! I was the one who warmed up Eskimo Nell! The Clintons drew the line at me, and Janet Reno gave up politics and went to try out in Vegas after meeting me!

How do you do it 70 times in a Volkswagen Bug? Why, darlin’, jes’ take me in it along with you, and I’ll Fahrvergnügen you 669 times – in the glove compartment! Why, sweetheart, not only do I turn boys into men – an’ girls into women – I turn Pinks and Conspiracy honchos into full-blooded Yeti! After one night with me, the Judge told Doktors for “Bob” to suck his dick! Why, I can even out-rant Janor Hypercleats! I made William F. Buckley become politically correct – in sheer self-defense! Both the Pentagon and the Viet Cong offered to change the 35th Parallel to the 69th if I’d just go out on a date with ‘em! And ol’ Ben Franklin – why, he coined his famous saying, “Early to bed, early to rise,” after meetin’ me! (But what they told you in school about that “early to rise” part wasn’t exactly what he meant – he wasn’t talkin’ about getting out of bed . . .) Why, Danny Quayle learned to think and chew gum at the same time, an’ quadrupled his I.Q., jes’ to win my favor – that boy got all the way up to 8½ points on the Stanford-Binet scale before he had to quit from sheer exhaustion! I don’t rent the Presidential Suite, honey – I own it . . . complete with all the Presidents! Now, the George Bush thing isn’t really quite up to a thousand points of light . . . or even one. He begged me to be kinder and gentler to him – now, I ask you! An’ ol’ Ronnie – well, I may have tried jes’ about everything in my time, but that was one for the Hollywood Pet Sematary . . . Ford may have been an Edsel the rest of the time, but with me he turned into a Lotus XXIII! An’ when Tricky Dicky said “Sock it to me!” – why, he an’ I had jes’ had a little fun with the handcuffs, the whips, an’ the leather suits . . . When LBJ talked about the Great Society – well, you know whose company he was keepin’ . . . An’ JFK – why, he never asked what I could do for him – he wanted to know what he could do for Goddess! When ol’ Ike Eisenhower told us that “Things are more so now than they have ever been before!”. He’d jes’ spent some time with me. But Harry Truman – why, he jes’ couldn’t take the heat – when Bess caught him in my kitchen, he found out what a real nuclear device was all about! Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s poker-pals tried to win me away from him in a fast game of stud – why, he jes’ smiled and declared a New Deal! And that was the end of his Great Depression! Herbert Hoover jes’ didn’t have quite enough suction for me. But ol’ “Silent Cal” Coolidge – why, he was a good ol’ boy! When some of his buddies bet him he couldn’t win my favor, he jes’ grinned and told ‘em, “You lose!” Now, surely you know I wasn’t the one who trysted with Warren Gameliel Harding in that li’l ol’ White House linen closet – why, honey, for me, it’s either the penthouse or the Waldorf-Asteroria, or nothin’! After I went out on a date with him, Woodrow Wilson wanted to make democracy safe from me! But Taft went daft over me – and when Teddy Roosevelt charged up San Juan Hill, you know who was waitin’ for him at the top! Why, honey, I’ve done It with William McKinley, Benny Harrison, Chester Alan Arthur, James Abram Garfield, and Rutherford Birchard Hayes – and I did it with Grover Cleveland twice. Grant had a knock-down, drag-out with Lee for a date with me – Grant won that one, but how I loved Bobby Lee’s gracious Southern ways! I did it fourscore and seven times with Abraham Lincoln – but Jefferson Davis did it sixty-nine! I did It with Buchanan, Pierce, Taylor, Van Buren, Johnny Adams, J. Q. Adams, Madison, and Polk – and some guy named “Fillmore” I don’t remember all that well. Why, I even did It simultaneously with William Henry Harrison, Tippecanoe, and Tyler, too – ol’ Tip couldn’t take the strain, which was why Tyler made the White House . . . but he died happy just the same! And Andy Jackson’s ol’ hickory stick stuck up right proper for me! Why, James Monroe declared the Monroe Doctrine jes’ to try to keep me in his private sector (he didn’t succeed, but he sure had fun tryin’!). Thomas Jefferson gave me a big, red rose . . . on top of the Louisiana Purchase! An ol’ Georgie Washington – well, he crossed the Delaware in the dead of Winter to win my favor – not to mention the Potomac, the Susquehannah, the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Platte, the Snake, the Columbia, the Sacramento, the Amazon, the Orinoco, the Nile, the Volga, the Rhine, the Seine, the . . . Liberty is a 7-letter word, darlin’ – an’ it first me jes’ fine! The blood of patriots and tyrants waters my roots! Why, grab all the $lack you can is the whole of my law! I have the right to live by my own law, to grab my $lack as I Will to do:

To work as I Will; To play as I Will; To rest as I Will; To translate into the Beforelife when and how I will. I’ve got the right To ‘frop all I will, To all the GuruPee I Will, To throw my shoes wherever I Will – An’ pick ‘em up an’ throw ‘em any place else I will! I’ve got the right To think what I Will, To rant what I Will, To write what I Will, To draw, paint, carve, mould, etch, build as I Will, To dress an’ undress jes’ exactly the way I Will! I got the right to love as I will – any way I Will (you bring the aardvark, the turtle, the kazoo, and the waldoes). – Or kill me. Yacatizma is my law, $lack under Will! So therefore the one, true Representative of the United SubGenii/ae of the World, in Carnal Congress, in Orgies assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judgess of the Multiverse in the Turpitude of my Intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good Yetinsyny of the World, solemnly Publish and Declare, that these United SubGenii/ae are, and of Right ought to be, Free and Independent Mutated Persons; that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the Conspiracy, and that all political Connection between them and the Conspiracy, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent Mutant Persons, they have full Power to levy Wor, initiate Piece, contract Alliances, establish various kinds of interesting Traffick, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent Mutant Persons may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Yacatizma, I pledge my life, my Fortune, and my Sacred Honor. I tell you, Congress’ll never make a law that can shut me up! I declare, all Independent Mutated Persons have the right to worship at the Goddess of their choice – not to mention assemblin’ for piece! And when I talk – you can bet even the government listens! No one will ever infringe my right to bear arms – or arm bears, or bare arms, for that matter! No soldier, cop, or meter-maid will ever be quartered in my house – unless I want ‘em there! The only time you better try searchin’ me an’ mine is when I’m in a mood to be explored – an’ if you try seizin’ me, jes’ be prepared for a real handful! As for what I think about criminal law – why, honey, I decline to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me! Whatever you’ve a mind to accuse me of – bring out your witnesses, and do it right smart, and give me the best lawyer in town, because however bad it is, it ain’t a patch on what I’ve really been up to! – If you can find 12 Independent Mutated Persons dead enough to remain impartial to me, that is . . . You can tie me up, and tie me down, and chain me to a whorehouse bed, and let the whole world watch – but try lockin’ me up behind those steel bars, darlin’, an’ you’re gonna have problems! Anything which is not specifically allowed – is probably something I’m gonna try next week . . . An’ you know, the powers not delegated to Almighty Goddess, or to the individual demi-Goddesses, are hereby reserved for me! And when they come from far away, desolate and bowed from oppression, fleeing toward my light, they see me there: The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset shore shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome, her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” Why, even the Old World sings my praises – there are true Yetinsyny everywhere, and the Conspiracy’s time is a-runnin’ out – an’ all because of me! “Glasnost” and “perestroika” by any other names are me – and who do you think inspired real Solidarnosc in the first place, hmm? I light the door to the future! Why –

[Moon runs out]

The Third Brag of the Female SubGenius
by the Very Left Reverend Doktor Magistra Batrix, Το Μι κ ρ ο ν Θε ρ ι ο ν \cw ]xh The Infra-Red Woman of the Church of the SubGenius, Pope of All Broadview and About Half the 134th Block of Greenwood Avenue North, 23® = 3.14159™ Dedicated to Kali [Found written on the backside of God in purple crayon] Why, honey – blah, blah, blah blah, blah, blah blah, blah, blah blah, blah, blah • • • [God runs out]

Persephone’s Dalliance (Journeys End in Lovers Meeting)
The movie begins with the theme music from The Twilight Zone. For a moment, as the music plays, we see a cobwebbed grandfather clock with no hands, the pane covering its face shattered, the few shards of glass left in the pane so grimy with dust and dirt that nothing can be seen through them. Then we hear the Narrator saying, in a voice like Rod Serling: At the uttermost end of Time, Eternity, Hope, and Despair: a room done all in deepest midnight black, save for long, long, silken drapes of sullen claret, blazing scarlet, and bloody crimson opening on tall windows framing a window-seat inset in a half-trapezoidal alcove off the room. The window-seat is furnished with ebon, satin pillows trimmed with shimmering, ice-white fringe like beards of cobweb trailing from the rafters of an abandoned house. We look through the windows . . . Next to the window on the left wall of the alcove is a calendar and a digital clock. The former displays the month of Despair, and the picture above it shows a be-fanged Santa Claus, his face contorted in a snarl of rage and hunger, lashing on his reindeer as he pursues two screaming toddlers through the snow. The case and front window of the latter is battered and nicked; its red-lit digital readout, the numerals the color of burning blood, inform us that it is 11:23:23 p.m., the 32 nd day of the 13th month of the year 700,000 AD. Through the window itself we can see a world heavily blanketed with snow. Gigantic snowflakes fall continuously from the black skies above. Somehow there is light, at least enough to see the drama being played out here: Human figures, indistinct, seeming to be clothed in rags, run desperately through the snow. Behind them, at an almost leisurely place, their tongues lolling out and their mouths open in snaggle-toothed grins as they run, come figures out of nightmare. Though they wear no clothes, the quasihumanoid pursuers are not entirely naked, for fur sprouts from their bodies in great patches, heavy fur like that of a bear or wolf rather than hair like that of a man. One of those fleeing before these semi-human, furry pursuers suddenly falls, perhaps as a result of tripping over some obstacle under the snow, or maybe from exhaustion. Long, terrible, eager howls of triumph and anticipation erupt from the pursuers, who fling themselves upon the prostrate figure in the snow. One of them, putting its foot on the prostrate figure’s back, gives a sudden twist and heave, and steps back with its prey’s right arm held triumphantly aloft, dripping blood . . . Next to the window on the right wall of the alcove is another calendar and digital clock. This calendar shows the month of January. Below it the digital clock, even more dilapidated than the one next to the first window, Red numerals show us the date and time: 6999999999:12:31 11:23:17 p.m. It is New Year’s Eve, just 43 minutes to midnight, but the room is strangely quiet. Through the window the view shows little cause for celebration: out there is the Earth, but her surface is a torrid, unrecognizable wasteland. The Sun has swollen to enormous size, so large that its seething red disk nearly fills the daytime sky. The planet Mercury and then Venus have already been obliterated, and now the tenuous outer reaches of the Sun’s atmosphere are about to overtake the receding orbit of Earth. But that the Earth, and even her primary, Father Sol, have survived at all is something of a miracle. For, around three and three-quarters of a billion years ago, their galaxy, the Milky Way, and her near neighbor, the Andromeda Galaxy, approaching each other for billions of years at an ever-faster pace, caught in each other’s monstrous gravitational fields, began their last, long, suicidal dance about each other, spiraling ever more closely toward each other, until finally they touched, then merged. The merger, which took another two billion years to complete, was accomplished in a vast, boiling upheaval in which the enormous masses of gas, dust, and dark matter filling the two galaxies collided with one another, releasing titanic amounts of energy so X-ray and gamma-ray bright that virtually nothing was left alive in either of them. The merger of their two unspeakably huge central supermassive black holes emitted so much energy that even if the collision of the matter within them and the petawatts of energy generated by that unthinkable catastrophe had somehow left any refuges for life anywhere within them, those refuges would have been utterly sterilized by the blue-white radiance of galactic matter falling into that final fruit of the marriage of their central black holes At last, the only life left on any worlds of any stars of the two galaxies, indeed, the only relatively intact planetary systems of any kind remaining to them, existed solely in several long tidal tails of the stars, gas, and dust kicked out of the two galaxies by the slingshot effects of their merger. Sol, which, around a billon years ago, had captured a companion star, Nemesis, a sullen white dwarf like Sol himself

would soon become, was one of the lucky ones, now drifting through the intergalactic night within such an orphan testament to the final fate of the Milky Way. Nemesis . . . wasn’t. Once more Sol plowed the ancient nighted seas of spacetime by himself, save for the corpses of most of his dead children, still revolving mournfully about him. Earth was one of them, another beneficiary of Lady Fortuna’s whims. Mercury and Venus likewise remained until Father Sol’s voracious appetite finally gobbled them both down. So did Jupiter and Neptune and many asteroids and Kuyper-Belt bodies. But Uranus, Saturn, and many smaller bodies of the Solar System had, like Nemesis, been kicked out into the void beyond the tidal tail in which Sol and what was left of his dead family still resided . . . Earth’s living oceans had by then long since evaporated, first into a crushing, sterilizing, Greenhouse blanket of water vapor that helped speed Earth’s evolution into a searing brown Hell even worse than Venus, and then, finally, into space. Not one drop of water remains now on the Earth, nor anywhere in her crust – if any is still left, it is far down in her mantle, a few drops of superheated steam in an ocean of incandescent magma. The surface thus uncovered is barren and rocky, utterly dead, on which can still be seen the faint revenants of ancient shorelines, ocean basins, and the low, eroded remnants of continent. By noon, the temperature here reaches nearly 1700 degrees Celsius, and the rocky surface will begin to melt. Already the equator is partly ringed by a broad, glowing patchwork of lava; when the bloody, bloated Sun eases beneath the horizon each night, the lava cools to form a thin, gray crust. Out there we can see a part of the surface which once cradled the forested moraines of southeastern Michigan. It has seen enormous changes over the billions of years that have since followed. What was once the North American continent has long since been torn apart by a geological rift which opened from Ontario to Louisiana and separated the old stable continental platform to produce a new expanse of sea floor. The sedimented, glaciated remains of Ann Arbor were eventually covered over by lava arriving from nearby rift volcanoes, coursing through old river channels until they reach this area. Later, the hardened lava and the underlying sedimentary rock were thrust up into a mountain chain as a raft of islands the size of New Zealand collided with the nearby shoreline. In the distance we can see the face of an ancient cliff which has been weakened by the Sun’s intense heat. A slab of rock breaks away from it in a spectacular landslide. There is thus exposed a perfectly preserved fossil of an oak leaf, somehow made visible to us by unknown telescopic properties in the window glass. This trace of a long-dead world vibrant with life, its land-surface covered with so much green that alien astronomers peering through their telescopes from the moons of Neptune would have instantly noticed it, slowly melts away in the unyielding heat, the pitiless telescopic glass of the window showing every detail of its destruction under the blast-furnace rage of that merciless, distended Sun. Soon all the Earth will be glowing a sullen, molten red, right down to her core as the gradually expanding Sun engulfs and then devours her. Tearing our eyes away from that vista of Earth’s cremation by her own Sun, we look toward that last window, the one directly before us. Next to it is another calendar and digital clock like the ones next to the first two windows: the calendar displays the month of Enduary, above which is a picture of a grinning, fire-blackened skull in the midst of a field of glowing embers; the clock’s digital readout informs us that it is 12:01:01 a.m., and the date is signified simply by “E,” which signifies that the year is so great that it falls beyond the clock’s capacity to express it – or perhaps it stands for “Eternity.” Through this window can be seen a night sky so black that it has a starkly cruel, radiant presence of its own, the black of absolute despair. In that sky are a few scattered, evil-looking, ancient Stars, wizened and venomous, children of a universe very near to its Heat-Death; they share that dreadful sky with a self-lit Moon which, unlike the normal balls of rock that dance attendance on the Planets of our own lively Cosmos, has the exact shape of a grinning skull, human save for the jutting sabre fangs of a Chakma baboon or a hungry vampire, shining with a leprous, eye-blasting radiance that clearly illuminates the woman sitting in the window-seat, her back to the window and that leering, voyeuristic skull. The Moon and Stars in that necrotic sky never move at all; this is a dead, unturning world, one upon which no Sun ever shines, its very soul shrouded in crepuscular forebodings, tenebrous with doom. Suddenly the long, flowing, scarlet drapes framing the two side windows glide smoothly across the views of the broiling Earth and the snow-covered world through which desperate human beings are pursued by humanoid wolves. The only window now open is that first one we looked through, showing us that skull-faced, self-lit Moon, those sere and blighted stars, and the endless black night that contains them all . . . We are spying through a crack in the walls of the world into this place beyond the end of worlds and Time, mortal mice impudently daring to sneak peeks at the private affairs of Gods, daring Actaeon’s fate in

order to scent Heaven’s roses in the wintery Night of Hell. Trembling in terror and desire, we look upon Her, and know that the fear of God is also the ultimate in lusts . . . She who sits in the window-seat is dressed only charcoal-gray silk stockings clocked with sprays of roses the color of ravens’ wings and rose-buds the color of battlefields, secured at mid-thigh with rolled scarlet garters trimmed with soot-black silk lilies; a huge, gleaming moonstone, set as a cyclopean eye in a silver skull that hangs on a chain of white gold between her lush, high, gleaming breasts like two full Moons in whose centers rear pylons of Poseidon’s loveliest corals; and long, pendant silver ear-rings hanging from the alabaster lobes of her shell-like ears in the form of tiny, complete, perfectly articulated human skeletons dancing an ecstatic bone-dance of necrotic ecstasy with every move she makes. Her lips are slightly parted in a smile that just shows the sharp crowns of her pearl-white teeth, between which the tip of her kitten-pink tongue darts incessantly. Those lips are the same rich, glowing rose-pink as the delicate tissues of her sex, which, because she is sitting with her cocked knees far apart, her ankles crossed beneath her crotch, is completely exposed to view. Her lustrous, light-brown hair tumbles down her back nearly to her waist in a great mass of soft curls. Her cool brown eyes dance with lickerish glee. Her long, viciously sharp nails are done in shiny, patent-leather black, tiny crimson hourglasses adorning their centers; as she watches the scene taking place before her, panting and gasping in ever-mounting delight, she unthinkingly rakes them with cruel strength across the scalp of the lithe, lovely demoness with robin’segg blue flesh kneeling before her, between her feet, on a high hummock, digging them pitilessly almost bone-deep into the demoness’ shoulders in her swelling frenzy of lust. All the while, the demoness explores the woman’s tumescent sex with the long, vermilion proboscis she possesses in place of a tongue, caressing her lady’s body with wickedly wise fingers. The woman has no hair anywhere on her lovely body beyond the midnight-and-platinum hair of her head, her argent eyelashes, and her plutonium eyebrows. This is Persephone, Queen of Hell, Lord of Reincarnation, Defender and Comforter of the Innocent Dead, Judge of and Arbitrator for the thronging shades that haunt Hell – Who also presides over the great basaltic basins of the world’s heart’s-blood whence spring the vast fountains of the Fires of the Spirit, the root-sources of all being, the magmal Kundalini Energies that power the Engines of Creation. Before her, tastefully arranged for her viewing pleasure, is a beautiful, young, naked woman trussed up in a framework of iron and oak, facing her. The other woman’s strong, slender legs are drawn up and spread wide apart, secured by straps and chains to the framework; her arms, likewise spread far apart, are manacled to the framework above and to either side of her head. Thus she is completely accessible on all sides to anyone who wishes to touch or look at any part of her body. She is not gagged, and her head is not secured – there is no need, for who would hear her screams, down here in Hell, and what could she do without having her head restrained that she could not do otherwise, anyway? The other woman is lithe and slender, muscled like a dancer, a little shorter than Persephone, but still an inch or two taller than average. An ocelot to the Goddess’s leopardess, she looks up at Persephone with great green eyes, chalices of emerald filled with an exotic blended wine of mingled terror, revulsion, awe, reverence, and lust. Her wheaten hair, which shimmers with Summer fires in the spare, Autumnal light, is cut off just above her shoulders. She wears no jewelry; only the gleaming steel manacles and chains, the black leather cuffs and rawhide straps that bind her tightly to the framework interrupt the gleaming, whitegold expanse of her skin, which is illuminated only by the sick, radioactive glare of that horrifying Moon that leers through the tall window behind Persephone’s taut, ecstatic body, and the sullen cerise glow of the coals in the bronze brazier that is set on a tripod a few feet to one side of the framework that holds her. By turning her head to her left as far as possible, she can just see the brazier, filled with blood-colored coals, and several oak-handled iron rods balanced on its rim, their tips buried in those coals, white with heat for half their length. The woman’s body, where it is not highlighted by the leprous white light of the Moon or the ominous scarlet glow of the brazier, is wrapped in shrouds of tenebrous gloom, a play of darkness portraying a marriage of despair and desire in living flesh. Another lovely demoness, this one with pale-green, satiny skin and ass-length, raven’s-wing hair, is busy shaving and plucking the last of the hair from the bound woman’s writhing body, the Summer-wheat wreath that frames her sex. In the process, the demoness manages to touch her preternaturally skillful, unnaturally long and nimble fingers to the lovely, nectar-slick petals of flesh between the woman’s upraised thighs in a thousand thousand wickedly sweet ways, none of them necessary to the task of depilating the woman’s body; each touch evokes gasps, moans, shudders, wails of fear/loathing/bliss/ecstasy from her patient. At the same time, the demoness runs her tongue, a long, slender tube of cerise flesh coated with fragrant nectar essentially identical to that with which her sister is caressing and titillating the Goddess, over the woman’s writhing body. This proboscis is like a butterfly’s,

except for the fact that it is a yard long and has a strange opening at its tip, a circular lip rimmed with luscious scarlet tissues. With it, the demoness savors every square millimeter of the woman’s shuddering flesh, paying particular attention to her nipples, clitoris, labia, vagina, and anus. From time to time, the proboscis pauses to touch its tip to one spot or another on the woman’s body, sucking at her flesh with the leisurely, sensual delight of a true connoisseur, drawing panting gasps, panting moans, screams of bliss/agony/terror/delight from her greater even than previous ones. A myriad tiny thorns line the surface of the demonesses’ probosces, by which they can inject a venom with the combined effects of opium, LSD, peyote, mescaline, aphrodisiacs, naloxone, aphrodisiacs, and sub-lethal doses of strychnine into whatever they touch. The demoness working on the bound woman has been injecting varying doses of this venom into her patient all along; at times, she even runs her proboscis far up into the woman’s womb or lower bowel, vibrating and swirling it about within the woman’s body with exquisite art, injecting her venoms again and again into the walls of the woman’s vagina and uterus or anus and lower bowel as she does so. Her sister, who serves Persephone, does the same for her Mistress, who gladly receives appalling doses of the stuff, and pants for more. With a God’s delight, Persephone leers down at her mortal lover, whose terror and revulsion are only a hot, piquant sauce added to the blond woman’s equally real, unspeakably greater pleasure, desire, and delight. She sways, enraptured, to the beat of Hell’s own music, rendered in screams, shrieks, moans, gasps, shuddering cries of ecstatic Billingsgate on the instruments of her mortal lover’s own mouth, throat and lungs: a symphony of sensual extremes, infinitely prolonged and perfected, major and minor themes of ecstasy and agony, bliss counterpointed with anguish and horror, a composition in the midnight-black of endings, crimson heat, Summer-gold amidst Autumn shadows, rose-white and -pink flesh, set off by silver, moonstone, steel, leather, and rawhide. So Persephone whiles away the eternities in dalliance, while Her divine lover and husband, Hades, is away. Perhaps She is practicing, here in Her hidden chambers at the end of Time and Creation, for elaborate love-play in which, later on, She will share with Him unspeakable joys drawn from Their own writhing, shrieking Immortality, as well as that of other Gods, or the souls of the mortals and the Nymphs who pass through Their realms or are drawn there, willy-nilly, by the Lord and Lady of the Dead on Their divine whims . . . Now the curtains are once more slowly drawn across this window into Hell, wherein we have been spying upon glorious, terrifying Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, as she avidly savors the fountaining gouts of ecstasy, horror, terror, agony erupting from Her young, mortal lover while, at Her orders, Her beautiful, demonic eroteuses subject her to endlessly varying erotic tortures, imaginable and unimaginable, throughout an eternal night of divine dalliance and love-play. As the curtains draw shut with nearly unbearable, teasing languor, we can still see the demonesses varying caresses, injections of erotically enhancing drugs, and other delights with administrations of fiery oils to the young woman’s tenderest tissues, vicious nipple-clamps like the skulls of tiny steel rats to her exquisite breasts, delicately cruel bites into her cringing flesh. And she writhes, twists, turns, shudders in agony, ecstasy, terror, joy, horror, hunger, hoping that her immortal lover’s lust for her will never falter, fearing that it will prove eternal . . .

Evendark
Come to me at evendark, Wrapped in flame and night; Cover me in your cloak of fire And set my soul alight With blazing rage of culmination, In revenge and hope and sorrow, Then stand with me, by my side, In the dawn of an alien tomorrow. Life is cradled in a chalice Of bone and blood and dream; Death is Hades’ draining pull At its fiery wine. Come to me in Samhein dusk With thy Staff incarnadine; Then ride with me in midnight joy Down Tartaros’ sorrowing stream That dreams in ash and myrrh and musk Through hells of Neptune and Mars, Across the blazing desert of Time And out to an Ocean of Stars. Drift with me on the Sea of Night To the crêpe-hung halls of Persephone; On a bed of skulls and a cushion of wraiths, Two screams embracing in Fire and Death, Silver crushed by iron and gold, Lace draggled through wet clay, Moonlight shattered by trumpets and bombs, Perfume over a ghoul’s breath.

The Way to Paradise is through Hades' Jungles
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white, On a white heal-all, holding up a moth Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth – Assorted characters of death and blight Mixed ready to begin the morning right, Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth – A snow-drop spider, a flower like froth, And dead wings carried like a paper kite. What had that flower to do with being white, The wayside blue and innocent heal-all? What brought the kindred spider to that height, Then steered the white moth thither in the night? What but design of darkness to appall? – If design govern in a thing so small. – Robert Frost, “Design”

Prologue: Cometfall Night
Out of the hot night they came, silent as the morning fog that boiled out of the arroyos in the mountains above Bogatá. There was no warning. One moment we were all either peacefully asleep in our beds or, in the case of our more incorrigible workaholics, working late in some back room of the embassy, thinking of nothing but whatever report or ledger or file it was that absolute had to be done by morning/next week/next year. The next moment, a vast explosion shook the embassy buildings the way a terrier shakes a rat, plaster sifting from the ceilings and windows imploding, and the terrible, silent, blackclad figures, their heads covered by dark hooded masks, swarmed into the embassy apartments and offices. Stuttering bursts of automatic-weapons fire racketed through the buildings that comprised the physical plant of the embassy. Shouts, screams, and bewildered, sleep-drugged cries filled the air. The attackers themselves were totally silent. They knew exactly what they were after, and had no need to talk to any of us. There was surprisingly little loss of life; mostly they held off the staff with CS or CN gas, or used one of the gentler nerve-gases on them, one that put them to sleep quickly, with no side-effects afterward save, at most, a mild hangover. The gunfire was mostly done for psychological effect, though one man, Cal Billings, the Comptroller for the embassy, was killed when, poor, brave fool, he tried to wrest an AK-47 from one of the attackers – when I heard about his death, later, I cried a little, for he had been one of my lovers, and better at the arts of Eros than any man I'd ever known before him. It was obvious from hindsight that the strike-force that was swarming in on us had approached from the Quintana Roo – an idea that was confirmed for me later on by Carlota, La Mariquíta's aide-de-camp. The guerrilla force that struck us wasn't actually based there, though; they had actually come from much further South of us, from a base deep in the forests of Colombia, a bastard rebel child of the Medellins, the legendary king cocaine cartel of the last century whose power had waxed and waxed until they were now the legitimate, official, hereditary rulers of that country. It was to that base, deep in Colombia, that they would return, moving effortlessly through and over the dense tropical forests on foot, by Land-Rover and jeep, and in a series of captured Bell-IV helicopters, true jungle wildlife gone high-tech without a qualm. With supreme efficiency, a squad of them entered the computer center of our compound, grabbed all the back-up diskettes, tapes, videotapes, and holocubes they could find, dumped the contents of the 2.5 Terabyte hard-drive soft-bubble-storage via virtual-tachyspeed maglaser light-pump into a portable Bubble-Master file-system; sprayed napalm liberally over everything in there and set it on fire; and left in

good order, porting the pirated information store away safely in heavy anti-static, insulating plastic cases they had brought with them just for this purpose. With that, they had what they had come for, as far as hard military objectives went. Everything they needed to now about the US base there in the newly independent nation-state of Yucatán was in those pirated files – along with a wealth of general information about the doddering US presence in Central and South America. Still trying to enforce its imperialistic dreams here, in spite of the fact that it was rapidly going the way of the dinosaurs (without even the help of a cosmic hand like whatever Hammer of God it had been that had, so long ago, struck here, almost spot on Yucatán's capital city, Chicxulub, so catastrophically, putting paid to those very dinosaurs, along with the Cretaceous Era itself), the American Eagle was still gamely hanging on here, if only by the tips of its talons. The information which the assault team had stolen from our files could help to make the US grasp on this part of the world even shakier – or maybe pry it loose altogether. Why they took me with them, however, when they already had that priceless trove of intelligence secured, I'm still not sure – a younger woman, with a better head for embassy business, or just the superb attractions of youth, would have suited their purposes far better, practically speaking. But La Mariquíta wanted me, specifically, had given them strict orders on that score. To this day, she still hasn't made her reasons for it clear to them or even tome, beyond a coy, "Oh, I have always wanted to have my very own Yanquí perra of a Mágica around to play with!" Whatever the reasons behind their orders, take me with them they did! They came into my room while I was still struggling upward out of the searing, black, haunted sleep with which I had been afflicted ever since I had first arrived there at the embassy, sleep sick with nightmares of dying archosaurs and suffocating humanity and a hostile world all around that hated every last one of us Yanquí perdidos working at the embassy, trying to make sense of the noise and confusion of which I was just beginning to be dimly aware. They took me right out of my bed, carrying me off with them slung in a fireman's hoist over the shoulder of one of the taller and stronger members of their band. They took me just as I was, clad only in skin-tight, French-cut red briefs – all I could stand to wear to bed in that relentless heat and unbearable humidity. They bound my hands behind me with soft but quite thoroughly unbreakable rope. Whoever tied those knots must have won her Girl Scout merit-badge in knot-tying hands down – there was no way in hell I could have gotten out of those bindings unaided, once they were secured. After tying me up, she considered for a moment while I lay there at her feet on the dusty earth, then threw another loop of rope around my ankles, pulled them up toward my crotch, and secured them that way, a few inches below my buttocks, by several loops around my waist. Then, after cutting away my briefs, leaving me stark naked, she and one of her mates threw me into the back of the Land-Rover. Later, when we pulled up to an air-strip cut into the heart of the forest in order to transfer to a Bell helicopter – the first of a series of such transfers, by which I was taken most of the way to their base in Colombia – they carried me into a shack, where they cut my bonds. One of them, an apostate nun who had been born in Duluth, Minnesota but had gone over the wall in Lima, Peru, kept me covered with her Kalashnikov while another, a short, well-built sabra who was now, as she told me proudly, "native to Ewah Alhim, Liberty," handed me clothing and ordered me to get dressed. The clothing, consisting of black French-cut briefs, a heavy-duty but somehow still sexy front-closure brassiere, well-made long-sleeved khaki shirt made of fine hemp cloth, black Levis, and buff-colored, knee-high suede boots, had almost certainly been taken either from our embassy or from another just like it. I got dressed rather gratefully – I had been getting more and more uneasy at the relentless, piercing looks which those guerrillas who had captured me directed at me, like art-dealers at an auction, or even, I thought, with an odd, shuddering frisson, like the expressions on the faces of those who patronize sex-shows seen by the performers just out of their reach in the cages on the stages before them. It didn't help any, either, that before they had me dress in the freshly-washed and -pressed clothing and those gorgeous suede boots, two of them had stripped down to the buff themselves and, shoving me ahead of them – a third (still dressed) bringing up the rear, holding an automatic pistol aimed dead-center at my back – had marched me into a shower-stall set up behind a partition in the one-room shack, and bathed me with great care. They had lathered soap over every part of my body with disturbingly lingering touches, especially my cunt and breasts. Then, ordering me out of the shower again, they had dried me off thoroughly with a huge, soft towel, with the same strangely lingering care with which they had just bathed me. Finally, they had anointed my throat, breasts, crotch, and arm-pits with an unbelievably seductive perfume that must have been loaded with perfumes, one that made Giorgio or Chanel No. 5 seem like the effluvium of a barnyard – strange item to be carried by the members of EJÉRCMIA – Ejército

Revolucíonario Collectivo Mujerista de Liberacíon (Women's Collective Revolutionary Army of Liberation)! For that is what they were: members of a vast army that was simultaneously a political movement embracing women from every nation on Earth, though most of its recruits came from Central and South America – a guerrilla army of liberation living in hidden jungle bases, safe-houses in the cities, underground tunnel-systems much like those that had been used by the Viet Cong during the long-ago U.S.-Vietnam War of 1956-1972, nomadic tent-cities that could pick up and travel to a new location at a moment's notice, any time, anywhere. Far more disciplined than the members of almost any regular army in history had ever been, infinitely more motivated than even people's armies and liberation movements of other times and places, the women who made up this enormous movement were among the deadliest warriors that had ever lived, far surpassing even the dreaded Khmer Rouge in both military competence and sheer, ruthless efficiency of purpose. They included only a very few men among their ranks, former soldiers, technicians, martial-artists and other superbly competent, highly trained individuals with skills and knowledge to share with them, most of whom had become feminists long after reaching maturity, after women they had loved had been brutalized, imprisoned, or murdered by patriarchist oppressors, modern gender-neutral technocratic regimes and corporate states, or the random predator. Otherwise, almost all the members of the movement were women. A majority of these women were lesbians, but not an overwhelming majority – maybe a little over half. The rest were either straight or bisexual. Sexual orientation was really the issue, anyway. Neither were such minor considerations as ethnic roots or race, former religion, age, education background, former socioeconomic stratum, caste, physical ability, professional training, career, or nationality. All that matter was a ravenous hunger to liberate women, children, and whatever men there were of good will from the ages-long evils that had, for so many thousands of years, wrapped the whole world in chains of misogynistic, homophobic, and pedophobic oppression, slavery, and sheer horror. Moreover, most of the women in the movement were oddly free of vengefulness per se, though God alone knows most of them had excellent reasons to want to write their names in blood, fire, and plague across the minds, souls, and bodies of the oppressor. Yet the bulk of them wanted justice – not to replace the old tyranny with a new, matriarchal one, changing only the signatures at the bottoms of the documents, but rather to bring freedom, justice, and light to the whole world, dreaming a pragmatic dream of an egalitarian, quasi-anarchistic, near-stateless world which their grandchildren would inherit, whether they themselves would live long enough to see it come to pass or not. And while no one in that huge army was required to believe anything whatsoever, to "think correctly" or otherwise cleave unto any sort of philosophical, emotional, or spiritual orthodoxy, most of them – including the few men that accompanied them, mates, brothers, fathers, sons, teachers, lovers – had spontaneously adopted belief in and worship of a strange new version of the Great Goddess, LibertyOurania. This newest avatar of the Goddess was She Whose statue had once graced New York City Harbor, lifting Her lamp of imprisoned lightning above Liberty Island, at Her nation's sea-washed, sunset gates for over a century. Then, one evil morning, on a day dawning in blasting, poisoned light, She and Her great city were offered up to the idiot Gods of terrorism and religious fanaticism in a holocaust whose toxic flames reached beyond the stratosphere, whose smoke poisoned the land for thousands of square kilometers around. But She had not been forgotten, for this vast, nomadic, feminist people, EJÉRCMIA, loved Her of the jade-bronze skin, seven-rayed Star-Crown, Book of Law and Torch of Light, Whose lovely feet, treading on Oppression's great chains, had burst them asunder and thereby freed the hearts and lives of literally billions of human beings. EJÉRCMIA had invented its own rituals for Her worship, its own hymns for Her praise, made cathedrals consecrated to Her worship everywhere it could – more often than not, dedicating and sanctifying them in that fructifying blood which Jefferson had, so long ago, said was the proper manure of the roots of the Tree of Liberty. Above all, the people of EJÉRCMIA worshipped the Lady of the Lamp in their beds, where they took pleasure as they would, with whom they would, mutually partaking of the holy ecstasy that is the ultimate manifestation of the Great Spirit, in defiance of the most savage of patriarchist proscriptions, those against the spontaneous pleasuring of body and soul between lovers, friends, strangers. It was a strike-force of this movement/army that had hit the embassy. There was nothing unusual in this; such strikes were becoming increasingly common all over both American continents, especially in Central and South America. What was strange about it was that they had taken me with them – generally, except in the case of certain high-ranking politicians, extremely wealthy industrialists and financiers, statesmen, and others of similar rank, position, and power – none of which I was – they did not take

prisoners. Normally, they herded any children and other non-combatants into out-of-the-way rooms, locking them up there, out of harm's way, injuring or killing only those who made a determined stand against them, and then only when they had to. (They never carried out summary on-site executions of known oppressors whom they captured. Instead, they took these back with them to one or another of their bases, where their prisoners were tried, sentenced, and dealt with before television cameras, the proceedings relayed to the whole world via randomly accessed satellite links. In the last century, Israel had dealt much the same way with Adolph Eichmann after his capture in South America by Israeli agents, trying, sentencing, and executing him before the whole world for his crimes against humanity.) What was unusual – in fact, utterly unique, as it played itself out – was my kidnapping. I'm an absolute nobody when it comes to power-politics, high finance, and higher society, at least as the patriarchist world looks at such things. I'm a published writer and poet and a practicing wild-cat Ceremonial Magickian who has had a few books and articles on Qaballah and Thelemic exegesis published in recent years. Because of this, I was hired as a jack-leg anthropological researcher by the U.S. State Department and stationed at the embassy in that God-forsaken hole in Yucatán, assigned to help analyze and make sense of artifacts that a team of archeologists on a joint UCLA-University of Mexico dig were unearthing in nearby ruins. How La Mariquíta heard of me, I don't know – and of course she refuses, with her characteristically teasing feline coyness, to tell me. She does so love to "do El Mágico Thelémico” with me – though she couldn't be more than three-fifths my age, and surely has far more physically attractive women available to her whom she could not only take but in fact had taken and still does take as lovers – and raves about my poetry, erotic and otherwise, so much of which is based on themes from the Classical Age of Greece. But to have those under her command take so much trouble and risk to bring me back with them – man, she must really dig poets and “Mágica” all to hell and gone, because there sure couldn't have been any other good reasons for it! La Mariquíta is by no means the leader of the movement – not in the way in which, say, Mao T'se-Tung was of Chinese Communism, or Toussaint Louverture was of Haiti's original independence movement, or Jesus of Nazareth was of Christianity. If EJÉRCMIA has any real leader at all, it is Liberty Herself. No mortal born heads it; its members are all essentially Discordian anarchists. La Mariquíta is just the commander of a base of operations for maybe 500 women, some 60 men, and a very few children, all of the latter over the age of 10, all of them dedicated revolutionary guerrilla warriors, and many of them, as well, gifted mechanics, engineers, and electronic and cybernetic technicians and scientists. Out of her base in the remote reaches of Colombia comes raid after raid in all directions upon U.S., Central American, and South American embassies, military installations, industrial centers, and any other sort of place that can yield up material and intelligence to EJÉRCMIA and/or might be a threat to it and its members. These raids have been stunningly successful – because of them, EJÉRCMIA has been able to entrench itself solidly in the trans-American heartlands in an astonishingly short time, even make inroads into the consciousness of other parts of the world via highly sophisticated use of modern information and satellite technology. It now even has its own fledgling space program, with installations hidden deep in the heart of what is left of South America's once-vast rain-forests, the result of an unbelievably successful night-raid on Brazil's showcase space installation near Rio. All this, thanks to the genius of La Mariquíta, the "Lady-Bug" so reviled in North American newspapers and praised with faint damns in Central and South American ones, also known as Estrella Negra Hermosa del Mar – the Beautiful Black Star of the Sea, the Immortal Goddess of Sea and Jungle – to those under her command. This formidable woman, whose birth-name had been Luisa Juana Beatrix Isabel Margarita Hernandez y Rey, now only answered to the name "Estrella" – and, if she were in the mood, to “La Contessa Mariquíta,” “Your Excellency,” and “La Generál.” In her youth, she had taken her baccalaureate in computer and military science at La Universidade do Brazil at Olinda, then had gone on to do post-graduate work in history and human ecology at Stanford University in California. But there she became bitterly sick of an enraged by the evils and injustice, the results of patriarchist society, which she saw all around her. The final straw was her gang-rape and near-murder by the members of one of Stanford's few remaining fraternities. The men involved had kidnapped her right out of her on-campus office and taken her, bound and gagged, to an underground "stag party" at a rural cabin in the hills above Oakland that belonged to the father of one of the, to be the evening's entertainment. She managed to escape when the men who had been playing with her passed out from drink and drugs or were too stoned to do much about preventing her escape – but so terribly had the bastards used her that she barely made it out to a nearby highway, where she was found by police and taken to the ER of San Jose municipal general hospital.

It took her long weeks to recover from her ordeal. Afterward, as soon as she was able, she had slipped away to Colombia where, she had recently heard, a feminist army of liberation was forming somewhere out in the jungles. Indeed there was. Once she had arrived in Bogatá, it took her very little time to make contact with members of that army. They took her in at once, coveting her tremendous education, skills, and breakthrough genius. Within a very few short years she had risen to the rank of Comandante, in charge of hundreds of the finest warriors and technicians of the movement (and, perhaps, the world), coordinating them into one of the greatest modern guerrilla strike-forces that had ever existed. Under her command, they were soon engaged in operations ranging from securing vast treasures of materiél and, even more precious, information from enemy bases all over Central and South America, to making possible the aforementioned nascent space-program of the movement. And it was this towering genius, this archetypal space-age, high-tech warrior, as much at home with 9th-Century AD ninja battle techniques as she was in the control-room of a space-base or the war-room of her military headquarters, who had specifically given her soldiers the militarily indefensible and otherwise (to me, anyway) incomprehensible order to take me along with the rest of the contraband, and even make me presentable for her with a bath, perfume, and fresh, clean, well-made norteamericano clothing, along the way! . . . Like I say, she must really dig "El Mágico," friend, 'cause I sure as hell can't think of any other reason she'd want to keep this old wreck around her! – But I was going to tell you what it was like, meeting her the first time. Well, son, I don't think the Los Angeles Times will print it . . . but if you like, I'll tell you the story, for your own personal edification, delectation, and maybe a way to pass the time for a while. – Is that a gun in your pocket, son . . . or are you just glad to be here? . . . Sure, La Mariquíta doesn't mind. She knows I'm bi. She doesn't care – in fact, she'll even watch, if you don't mind. – Good. . . . Do you like that? Mmmm . . . yes, you can unbutton it . . . the bra hooks in front, go ahead . . . At any rate, there I was, having just been taken captive by a squad of night-ninjas, or maybe shoggoths from R’Lyeh on a mission for Great Cthulhu Herself, for all I knew! But now we'd reached that tiny scrap of an airport, where we were to take the first of the choppers on to Colombia. The airport was completely hidden from prying eyes, unknown to all authorities, and the soldiers who'd taken me captive now began to take off their masks. I was stunned to find that I'd been captured by a guerrilla army of women! Even in the relatively small band who'd taken me from the embassy, nationalities from all over the world were represented. They ranged through the entire ethnic spectrum, from American women who could easily have passed as members of the D.A.R. and others, fairer-skinned still, from Europe, the United Kingdom, Russia, to the aforementioned Israeli woman, an Iranian, an Iraqi, a Turk, two Eurasians, a Melanesian lady, an Inuit woman, American Indians, Polynesians, Chinese, Japanese, African Americans, a Senagalese, a Phillipina, and women from all over Central and South America. They constituted an ethnic rainbow, including Indians, mestizas, mulattas, Asians, whites women, and Black women among them. Some of them conversed quietly among themselves, generally in Spanish, of which I still only knew about six words, one of them obscene. None of them tried to converse with me – as it was, they didn't need to, since, between gestures with their assault weapons and the occasional use of a little Aikido or something like it, they got the point across to me well enough when they needed to. I had nothing to say to them at that point, anyway. I had no idea what the hell was going on, and between the fact that I was still groggy from having been awakened too soon out of a none-too-restful sleep and the sudden, chaotic dislocations I had been put through over the past few hours, I didn't have it together enough to ask those women for the time of day – or to know what it was if I had received an answer, even if they'd told me in English. So I stayed silent while they forced me into the shower, bathed me in that disturbingly sensuous way, made me get dressed at gun-point, bundled me into a Bell-IV helicopter, and flew away with me and their pirate's hoard of contraband databases and embassy equipment and supplies on the first leg of the journey to the airfield near their Colombian base. Going from one postage stamp-sized bandit airfield to another, transferring to a new, freshly-fueled airborne remount each time, we made our way over the endless miles separating Yucatán from Colombia in a succession of captured Bell-IV and Commanche/Ferris helicopters. We finally arrived at our destination, high in the mountains, with a bone-jarring, Evel-Knievel touchdown that almost destroyed what little composure I still had. While the others unloaded the captured loot from the chopper, two of the women, gesturing with their weapons for emphasis, forced me out of the Bell-IV which had brought us on the last leg of the journey. Then, climbing out themselves, they marched me at gunpoint over about two miles of hilly, lushly overgrown terrain to their home base, the rest of the crew following behind, packing

in their booty with the help of a contraband solar-powered Aire-Flote IV they’d packed aboard along with everything else. Their home base comprised a number of buildings, the main one being a one-story affair built of stone, with long side-wings but a depth of no more than fifty feet from front to back. My guards marched me right through it, going in through the front door and out the back, then down a long path leading away from the building through fields so green they were nearly fluorescent under the tropical sun, up to a low, square concrete building that sat well behind the first building, and in through the latter’s front door. Inside, this second building was partitioned into small office-spaces, each with its own personal computer station and other office equipment. At the center of the building was a large space which comprised a hallway running from front to back. At the back of the building this hallway gave onto the landing of a flight of stone stairs that ran downward into a basement. They kept me moving along the hall, down the stairs, and on into the basement. When they had turned on the overhead fluorescents by means of a switch by the stairs, I could see that this basement area looked ominously similar to a castle dungeon, stone walls and all, except that the bars of the cells lining one wall were of bright, shiny, modern steel, the stone floor and walls were planed and polished smooth and dry, rather than the dank, rough surfaces typical of your standard dungeon, and the place was clean as the allosaurus bones in the New Smithsonian in Aurora, Colorado. In the middle of the room was a large, massive, gun-metal gray desk. It looked just like the one I’d had in my own office decades ago, when I worked for United States Naval Civil Service (I had programmed ballistics computers for the Navy’s guided missiles – the missiles which were finally scrapped, most of them, about twenty years ago, when the Cold War and the Soviet Empire collapsed together in one stunning, completely unexpected, cacophonous demonstration of Erisian pique and rough justice). An office chair drawn up to the desk completed the room’s furnishings. The chair was old, solidly built, finely crafted, made of genuine oak. The seat of the chair was mounted on gimbals screwed into a platform under which the chair’s legs were mounted on casters; whoever sat in it could learn far, far back without fear of tipping over. – Well, that wasn’t quite all. There were also four manacles, two of them secured by heavy steel chains welded securely to the bases of two of the bars at the front of one of the cells, the other two chains to a bar running high above the floor, directly above the first set of chains. One of the soldiers guarding me, a tall, slender woman with skin the color of chocolate, beckoned insistently with her Uzi for me to stand with my back to the bars of the cell, directing me to stand so that my feet, spread widely apart, were just in front of the places where the lower set of manacles were welded to the bars. When I complied, albeit with understandably bad grace, the other woman came up to me, motioned to me to put my hands above my head as high as I could reach, and then proceeded to manacle me securely to the bars of the cell, spread-eagled, my back against the bars, facing the desk sitting some thirty feet away. As a last, gracious touch, one of the soldiers, the short Eurasian lady who wore a machete holstered at her hip and carried an assault-rifle at the ready conjured up from somewhere a long, thin piece of snowwhite cloth like a cold-weather muffler and carefully tied it around my head so that it very effectively gagged me, but didn’t cover my nose or any of the rest of my face other than my mouth. – And then the two of them left me there, all alone, my legs and arms splayed far apart and chained tightly to the bars behind me, with no idea of what might come next –

Chapter 1: Dance of Fire
I have no idea how much time has gone by, now – maybe less than an hour, maybe several hours. It’s cool down here, almost cold, one hell of a contrast to the molten August heat of the Colombian forests through which they brought me to this place. The stone walls, ceiling, and floor effectively muffle all sounds; I can hear nothing at all from outside. They had me empty my bladder, squatting over a rock, just before we came to this damned building, and I’m not particularly hungry, understandable under the circumstances, so not enough time has gone by for any of my body’s clocks to let me know how long it’s been. I hang here against the bars, my booted feet spread far apart and manacled to the bars at floor-level so that they barely touch the floor, my arms also spread wide and secured to that horizontal bar ‘way above my head. Spread-eagled against the bars as I am, the top of my head must clear only about five feet or fivetwo from the floor, rather than my actual five-five – Christ, here I am like this, I’m trying to remember high-school trig to work out my height from a right-angled triangle formed by my leg and the mid-line of my body and the floor, for God’s sake! Is my telemetry jammed by what I’ve been through the past few hours, or what? – Suddenly, that huge steel door giving onto this dungeon-room opens. A gorgeous Hispanic lady is coming in – one of those fabulously lovely women with a striking, sultry beauty made only more so by the camouflage fatigues and patent-leather black dress boots she wears, which set her off the way midnightblack velvet does a flawless, 10-carat diamond. Her long, lustrous black hair is wrapped around her shapely skull in a braided coronet and secured with pearl-tipped bone pins. She wears a little scarlet liprouge; her closely-trimmed nails are done with a smoky red lacquer; her long-lashed serpentine eyes, which take everything in under her half-closed lids, are emphasized just slightly with the merest trace of ghostly, light-brown eye-shadow, their lashes barely accented with mascara. Beyond such minor genuflections to Aphrodite, she doesn’t seem at all concerned with fashion. She is all serene, elegant efficiency, performing every action with a quiet grace overlying a terrible, coiled energy. With her deceptively sleepy eyes, half-shut lids over gun-barrel gaze, and her slow, pantherine motions, she reminds me a little of a hamadryad cobra. This slender, elegant warrior carries an automatic pistol in a hip-holster and wears a long, wickedly sharp, heavy-bladed knife in a tooled-leather sheath on the other hip. The short, black hilt of a boot-knife shows briefly when her pants-cuffs ride up at each step. “So, Señora,” she says to me, “La Mariquíta has sent me here to, ah, prepare you.” Oh, Jesus, this is all I need! I’ve heard of the fearsome Mariquíta, the infamous “Lady Bug” (an epithet which La Mariquíta, herself, had originally coined, a multilingual cybermeister’s little joke on the world’s mostly cybernetically illiterate patriarchist leaders), A.K.A. the fabulous “Immortal Goddess of the Jungles,” a mysterious woman who, from all reports, is a cross between Pancho Villa and John Paul Jones, with more than a little Field-Marshall Erwin Rommell and General Francis Marion thrown in for good measure, to hear tell. – And, if there’s any truth to the rumors, there’s more than a little of one of my own ancestors in her, as well. What little I know of her strongly suggests a number of striking similarities between her and that strange, enigmatic, terrifying man. Knight of the Order of St. George, military governor of Wallachia, subject of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, he nearly single-handedly kept the Turks out of Europe just long enough to weaken their advance sufficiently so that when they finally broke through Europe’s defenses, they weren’t able to make Europe their permanent fief, the way they had so much else of the world. It was something no one else could have accomplished – no one else was cold-bloodedly, murderously clear-sighted enough to have succeeded at it. A bastard cross between King Arthur and Winston Churchill, there was never anyone like him – until just maybe, now. Yes, indeed, there’s a lot of him in her, I hear – she could have been his direct descendant, she could, a true spiritual heir of Vlad Tsepes, the Mountain Fox of Wallachia, my esteemed ancestor of most hideous repute, the Impaler of legend and lore. Right. I need this like the President of what’s left of the United States of America needs several more states to secede right now! What Gods have I offended, I ended up here?!? Didn’t I contribute enough last year to B’nai B’nith? How about my last annual contribution to Greenpeace? The Gay and Lesbian Libertarians for the Restoration of Hermaphroditic Monarchy? The – Of course, my gag very effectively presents me from replying to what my ministering angel, here, has just told me. Nor does she seem to expect any sort of response – other than the momentary tensing of my

entire body as my mind comes up with a thousand unpleasant ideas of just what she might have meant by the word “prepare . . . not to mention just what the devil I am to be prepared for. My involuntary flinch appears to amuse her; her red, red mouth curls briefly in a Giaconda grin and her eyes glitter like hot emeralds as she watches me squirm there on the bars. Then she returns to her work with the same serene unconcern with which she has, so far, accomplished everything else. She comes up and, taking a stance right in front of me, she shrugs off her heavy canvas backpack, dropping it on the floor at her feet so that she has convenient access to its contents. Then she reaches out and begins stripping my blouse off me. She starts by unbuttoning it, beginning at the top, taking her time about it, her long, deft fingers seeming almost to savor the feel, the texture of the buttons as she works. Seemingly by accident as she works on the buttons, the sides or backs of her hands or the tips of her fingers occasionally brush the tips of my breasts. Though they are covered by a well-made brassiere of good, strong cotton cloth, my nipples react sharply to each such touch. In spite of my determination not to let down the side, not to show fear or other weakness, I wince and writhe at the mingled pleasure and shame which each touch on my breasts sends coursing through me. “Oh, so sorry, Señora – I should be more careful, shouldn’t I?” she coos when one of her “accidental” touches provokes a stronger than usual reaction from me. Then, very deliberately, she reaches up and draws the tip of her right index finger around and around and around, over and under and around the nipple of my left breast in long, slow, lazy circles. For all the effect it has on that diabolically knowing caress, I might as well not be wearing that damned brassiere at all. I would scream at her, in my outrage and shame, except that the fucking gag is in the way! The last button undone, the sides of my blouse fall open, swinging free. My breasts, large and heavy, now emerge from their erstwhile prison of heavy white cotton cloth, more like twin gun-turrets than roe deer, damn the State Department’s idea of suitable clothing for “other attached female personnel” at their embassies! The woman before me reaches behind my straining back and unhooks the brassiere. Then, taking her time about it, she pulls its shoulder-straps out of the buckles binding them to the cups, and finally pulls it completely off me from under my blouse, casually dropping it on the floor. To be honest, I’m not all that sorry to have it off. It’s brand-new, or nearly so, and not quite large enough for me, and the elastic panels along its sides have been cutting into my ribs, quite irritatingly, all this time. Only now I’ve got another problem – I need to scratch my liberated ribs, which itch like hell from where the elastic cut into my flesh there – ahhh! Somehow instantly sensing my thoughts, the woman reaches up and gently scratches where it itches. I nearly moan with pleasure and relief. “Does that feel good, Señora?” she asks in a low, sensuous whisper, ripe with all sorts of promise. “This will make you feel even better . . .” she purrs as she begins stroking my naked nipples with the same slow, deliberate, circling strokes as she had done before, while they were still covered with cloth. Under her infernally wise touch, my nipples spring erect at once. With nanoseconds they become exquisitely, agonizingly sensitized to her cruelly sensuous manipulations. In spite of myself, I am soon hissing, then moaning with pleasure. She continues to caress and tease my breasts until I’m nearly out of my mind with the pleasure of it, writhing painfully against the bars, my nipples hard as rocks and my clit erect as well, moisture seeping from my sex. Suddenly, she slips one hand into her breast-pocket and pulls out two nipple-clamps, little light-weight steel cylinders the inner surfaces or which are lined with velcro fuzz, closed by means of screws through metal strips that pass around their barrels. Carefully she attaches one to each of my nipples, screwing it closed just tightly enough such that the sensation it evokes is precisely on the weird border separating ecstasy from agony. My nipples are relatively long, and not fully enclosed by the cylindrical clamps now encircling them. So their tips are exposed, naked to any further caresses to which she might care to submit them – and, with the clamps now tightly secured around them, the blood that has made them erect is now trapped in them, leaving them both erect and exquisitely sensitive, unable to detumesce, as long as the clamps remain on them. But now it appears that at least for the time being, she is through playing with my breasts. Now she takes out that huge knife on her hip, for which Jim Bowie would have given his left testicle – it’s sharp as a lunar shadow, like the fang of some enormous mechanical dragon. Which a few efficient, quick slashes she cuts my blouse away from me, leaving my upper torso completely bare. Throwing the slashed remnants of the blouse to one side, she looks me over critically for a few moments. Then, reaching behind my head to get at it, she carefully arranges my hair. First, she works loose the long braid in which the women who’d bathed me earlier had done my hair before they’d put me aboard the first of the helicopters, sending me on my way here. Then she brings my hair forward over both my shoulders so that it cascades in long, dark-

auburn waves over my breasts, shoulders, and belly, down to my hips. (Fortunately – for the sake of my personal vanity, anyway – I given it a rinse just three days ago. Otherwise those gray-white roots that get to be about three inches long before each monthly rinse would be showing. I may be in terrible trouble, but I sure as shit don’t look my real age!) She steps back to admire her handiwork. Apparently it pleases her, for she smiles, then says, “Ah, Señora, the martial arts and exercises you do there at the embajada norteamericana back there in Yucatán, useless as they may have been to equip you to resist us last night –” I glare at her, while she grins impishly at me. I’m not stupid – no way would I ever be fool enough to try to take on a commando group like that, all of them armed with Uzis or AK-47 assault rifles or God knows what other interesting pieces of hardware, with nothing but my bare hands, martial arts or no martial arts! Having gotten the reaction she wanted, she continues: “– Your exercises seem to be good for the physical condition, at least, no?” Affectionately she pats my stomach, which is far flatter than that of anyone nearing sixty – or, I’m proud to say, thirty, in many cases – has any right to be. The patting slowly transmutes into something else, something more; her hands turns to the side, then over, as she slides it back and forth, back and forth over the smooth skin of my belly, so that finally the back of her hand glides over it as lightly as an earlymorning spring breeze making love to the meadows of dawn, barely touching it. Her slow, feather-light caresses start a fire boiling in my lower body, an unlocalized conflagration built of emotional kindling drenched with the fuel of uncertain desire. I moan softly behind my gag. “Oh, you do like that, don’t you, mi amiga?” she purrs, laughing softly. “– My,” she adds, with a small gasp, as if a frisson of pleasure – though surely no more than a pale, weak imitation of the currents coursing along my own terrified, straining nerves as a result of her sure ministrations – had erupted somewhere in her body, perhaps in sympathy with mine, “my – such firm, silken flesh – it is true: you Mágicas negras norteamericanas have found El Fuente de Juventud somewhere, haven’t you? . . . Or is it just your tai chi workouts – and all those good Canadian vitamins your friends smuggled down to Yucatán for you, in spite of the ban on them in your country? Well, no matter: I am beginning to understand what _La Mariquíta_ might see in an old hag like you, after all . . .” Teasingly, she gives a particularly exquisite tweak to one of my nipples, then continues caressing my upper torso. Suddenly, with no warning she lets her maddeningly educated hand drop to the fly of my Levis. Slowly, toying with it, she undoes the top rivet, then begins to work her way down along my fly, from rivet to rivet, undoing them one by one. “It would be such a shame to ruin such well-made trousers, amiga,” she says thoughtfully, clucking fretfully. “Maybe if I go along the seams, Barbara can eventually sew it back together properly, God knows we’re short on clothing just now –” She takes out that great big knife of hers again and stars working it carefully along the seams, managing to sever the stitching while avoiding the cloth itself, most of the time, anyway, thus essentially salvaging the fabric, which begins to fall away from my straining body in long panels. Finally, except for the boots on my feet and the black, French-cut briefs I wear under what’s left of the jeans, I am naked before her. She steps back and considers once more. Then, stepping forward again, with two quick slashes she cuts through the briefs from top to bottom, so that their remnants come away from my body very nearly of their own accord at the beckoning of gravity, with only a slight assist from her. All I wear now are the boots. “I think La Mariquíta will love you, compañera – pardon me, for now it can only be amiga, if that . . . but no matter, I think you will soon change your mind and come to like us all very much!” she tells me softly. “At any rate, she will be especially pleased by the boots if we leave those on you for her, so that is what we will do. And now, before I shave you, let’s see about this –” She reaches into her pocket once again and brings out a small, green-and-blue capsule. “You Norteamericanas call El Acido – uh . . .” She hunts around for the word she wants in File: Damnyanquí Furriner-Speak, finally gives up, shrugs. “You know – Elessdé,” she says, smiling. She reaches into a hip-pocket with the hand not holding the tiny capsule and pulls out a tube of K-Y jelly, more loot from the embassy. Somehow, jiggling capsule and tube in her shapely fingers with virtuoso skill and grace, she manages to get the cap off the tube while still holding on to the capsule. Now, inserting the tube’s nipple into my vagina, she squeezes the tube, depositing about half its contents into the vestibule of my immortality. Then she does the same thing to my anus. Finally, throwing the now-empty tube aside, she reaches up between my legs and, with the care of a conscientious nurse, inserts the capsule far, far up into my anus.

“You will have absorbed the contents of that capsule in about an hour, Señora,” she tells me. “In the meantime, let’s get you shaved – and do the other things that will make you . . . ready for your . . . examination by La Mariquíta.” A little feline smiles flirts about the corners of her mouth as she says this. Turning, she goes over to the pack which she has placed on the floor. Squatting down, she rummages around in it, finally coming up with a plastic jar with a screw-top lid containing a high-quality, water-based shaving gel. Man, they really cleaned the place out when they raided us, didn’t they?! That’s primo stuff, imported from Canada, whose economy is in far, far better shape than that of the staggering, moribund remains of the United States of America. Packed tightly into the jar and immediately hermetically sealed to ensure that it will last a one hell of a long time before being opened and used, it’s one of the best shaving aids on the market today.* Along with the jar, she also brings out a pack of disposable razors, yet more loot taken during one of their frequent raids on what’s left of the U.S. presence in South America, probably the one that netted me, as well. (“Remember, assholes: first rape and pillage – then burn!”) “You’ll especially like this, Señora,” she tells me, sounding for all the world like a sales-girl in a shopping-mall demonstrating a new product. “These are absolutely of the finest quality – after all, we got them from one of your army’s supply depots. As you must surely be aware, being an intelligent, well-educated Yanquí running-dog yourself, your government makes sure that the soldiers it uses to terrorize and destroy other nations and peoples have only the very best. This is, of course, from British Columbia!” Where else? Okay, so this stuff wasn’t from the embassy, after all – but it was still looted from U.S. stores. Which is beside the point. What is the point, anyway? – Oh, yeah: so now what? Just what are you crazy broads planning to do to poor little me? (Not that I’m sure I really want to know . . .)

*Even if I hadn’t already known where the stuff originally came from, the fact that it was in a plastic jar, labeled in English, would have tipped me off anyway. Only the United States of America still makes and uses those damned spray-cans, in wanton violation of the Rio Environmental Accords. As for England, Australia, and the other countries today that use English as their premier language, those that still have an industrial capacity for anything beyond what is absolutely necessary for meeting their own people’s needs scrupulously observe an absolute embargo on trade with the USA, and have done so ever since my unhappy native land’s last, spastic attempt to start the Cold War up all over again, single-handedly.

She opens the jar, scoops out a generous portion of the gel with her hand, and begins applying it lovingly to my crotch. Soon, my mons, labia, the crack of my ass, and that place on my stomach next to the scars from my two abdominal surgeries are completely covered with a thick coat of gel, which she has applied with the most tender loving care possible – and surely it was only by accident that several times her finger slid down along the cleft between my labia and along my clit . . . Sure it was. Next, with the same competent, conscientious grace and care with which she has so far done everything else, she opens the sealed plastic package of razors and takes one out of it. This she now uses to shave my crotch as bald as an egg. Halfway through, the Acid begins to kick in. She is using that razor on my mons and labia with the same feather-light, slow caresses as those which, earlier, her hand had bestowed upon my belly. I now begin to experience each slow glide of the razor’s sharp edge over my sensitive skin as an exquisitely sensuous experience, with overtones of synesthesia, such that the touch of the razor is accompanied by smoky purple clouds of exotic incenses drifting upward across my belly and breasts from my crotch, snatches of some slow and sultry instrumental music, the taste of vanilla mixed with lemon-ice, a sensation of ice-cubes pressed briefly against the backs of my knees. Soon tsunamis of pleasure are rolling up my spine, breaking on the midnight shores of my mind in continuous cold explosions of silver-white bliss. The room and everything in it is filled with expanding and contracting rainbow auras, pulsing, purling, infalling and expanding in time with the drum-beats of ecstasy that reverberate through my body and brain. At last, to my overwhelming sorrow and frustration, she finishes with the razor and sets it down. Stepping back, she takes a medium-sized scarlet towel from her pack, and uses it to wipe every last remnant of the gel from my body. Then, setting the towel aside and kneeling at my feet, she now peers up at my critically, finally nodding. She returns once more to the pack, from which she removes what appears

to be a manicure-kit, and from it takes out a pair of tweezers. Returning to me, tweezers in hand, she kneels down again and, with agonizingly slow, precise care, begins plucking out all the remaining hairs on my labia and in the cleft of my buttocks which the razor couldn’t reach, one hair at a time. She doesn’t miss even one. At one point, she goes into the cell behind me, to the bars of which I’ve been manacled, kneels down behind me. From there, through the rather widely-spaced bars, she plucks out every last hair lining the crack of my ass, including the deeply-rooted little bastards that ring my anus. All the while, seemingly oblivious of my writhing, agonized attempts to pull loose from my manacles and by my muffled screams of pain – pain which is paradoxically weirdly mingled with rising sexual heat and an odd intense pleasure – she goes about the business of rendering my body completely hairless, humming an old tune popular back in the States back in the 1970s. Finally, having finished shaving and plucking me, she goes over to the desk with the razor and disposes of it there, probably into a waste-basket somewhere behind it or in it swell, as I hang exhausted in my chains, whimpering behind my gag. Then she returns once more to her all-purpose pack. This time, she pulls a bullwhip from it. A bullwhip is a very odd sort of artifact, not only in terms of the mechanics and effects of its use, but also because of the cultural symbolism so often attached to it. When most people see or think of one, they either think of the Marquis de Sade or good old long-dead Harrison Ford, who played Indiana Jones in Stephen Spielberg’s wonderful potboiler action-adventure movies such as the immortal Raiders of the Lost Ark.* It rarely dawns on them that this thing is a tool, something made to do a job with.

*”Old movies never die – they just go through endless re-runs on late-night TV – not to mention the videocubes!”

That a bullwhip can be and often is used as a special sort of tool, in a category that includes, say, scalpels, knives, guns, flame-throwers, et al., a weapon and/or an instrument of torture, is obvious from one fairly simple demonstration of some of its more common uses. It can be used to split a board – or a skull, say, or rip open someone’s hide, take out an eye, – its tremendous range of practical applications runs all the way from “useful” or even “elegantly nasty,” through “ugly” and “vicious,” ‘way past “gruesome,” “ghastly,” or even “appalling,” clear on to “please omit flowers.” A strong, skilled man can use one to take apart something like a small shack or even kill a large, strong, fighting-mad animal such as a full-grown bull with relative ease. In the hands of someone really skilled in its use, deployed with somewhat less force but far more finesse, it can send someone into prolonged screaming agony, cutting deeply into the skin wherever it touches, though not so deeply that it severs blood-vessels, sending lightning-bolts of agony sizzling everywhere in random, chaotic sheets of fire over the network of nerves which normally coordinate all that the body does into one finely-choreographed dance of biological perfection so that, after awhile, the victim of such attentions is thrown into non-stop, bone-breaker convulsions. Bullwhips were originally designed for use by cattle-drovers and teamsters to enable them to bring even maddened bulls or runaway horses under control quickly and effectively by appropriate use of one the things. Comprising a heavy wooden or metal stock to which is attached a lash about fifteen or twenty feet long consisting of a multistranded braid of strong, supple leather, in the hands of someone who knows how to use it, such a whip can peel paint off the wall – or skin off bones – at up to about twenty feet away. But in the hands of a true master of its use, such a whip can also be applied in a much different way, one requiring extreme, exacting finesse and something very nearly like telepathy between the user and her intended target, to enable the former to employ the whip with an accuracy greater than even that ever needed by an ophthalmological surgeon. In this case, the very tip of the lash is made to fall upon one precisely selected point on a designated surface, that one point and no other, with exactly enough directed kinetic energy to energize just that one point and nothing else. More to the point, when used upon living flesh, the lash is made to touch one single point on the surface of the skin, neither breaking it nor bruising the flesh below it at all. All the awful force of the blow, rather than being employed to tear flesh or break bone, is instead directed into the termini of the nerves lying just below the point on the skin to which it is directed, and/or into any acupuncture meridians terminating there. No physical wound is made by the whip’s terrible talon; it does not damage the flesh at all. Instead, it causes a single isolated nerve or ganglion to fire, or chi energy to surge through the body via the chi meridian into which it thus deposits its

horrendous cargo of kinetic energy in this way, in precisely the way and with precisely the effects upon the victim desired by the one wielding the whip. The whip seems almost to produce its effects by a sort of induction due to its passage along or over the skin, rather than by anything so crude as physical pressure directly applied to anything, particularly one delivered with the full, terrifying, awesome force of a bullwhip lash traveling well over Mach 1. Used in this way, the whip’s lash can be played over a living body so that it evokes from that body a superbly orchestrated symphony of unspeakably intense sensations, all blended together in perfect harmony like a neurosensory version of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, running the entire gamut of tactile response blazing heat/freezing cold through pressure and texture to pain/pleasure and, finally, ecstasy/agony. And, as it turns out, the woman who has been working on me all this time is just such a master of the Art of the Whip. Taking up the bullwhip, she looks me over critically. Finally, coming to a decision, in one fluid motion she brings up the whip and lets fly, the lash curling out and back through the stunned air with its distinctive, awful craaaackk!, eerie echoes of its passage racketing around the room in its wake, its tip kissing the nipple of my left breast with an utterly indescribable Luciferian bite. Before I can even begin the scream that tries to rip its way up out of my throat and through my gag, or the agonized convulsions that are about to rip through me, she is bestowing that viper’s kiss again and again everywhere on all the most tender places of my quailing body: clit, nipples, navel, inner elbows, backs of the knees, palms of my outward-turned hands, earlobes, tip of the nose – even, with intricate flourishes of the whip, my vulva and anus, the lash flicking like the tongue of some terrifying venomous serpent between my legs and, at the last instant, curling upward to give its terrible, brief, napalm-hot caress to the most sensitive membranes of my body. Wherever the pulse of my life beats most strongly, there the lash gives me its awful kiss. For at least five minutes she keeps it up: one evilly evocative touch of the whip after another falling upon the most exquisitely sensitive places of my body, one such touch separated from the next by no more than the time it takes her to bring the lash back from its last strike and bring it forth again for the next. The pain begins to turn weird, in both quality and simple, sheer intensity. I seem to float slightly away from my body, still feeling the pain in all its awful electric intensity, but emotionally distanced from it. Shimmering tapestries of rainbow paisley light hang delicately in the air everywhere, and strange music fills the air, two fluted notes repeating endlessly, maddeningly. I taste sushi and citrus, catch the scent of pine forest mingled with baking bread. Suddenly the whip ceases its work. I come back to myself a little to see the woman standing before me, catching her breath, rubbing the biceps of her working arm to relieve the strain of the unusual and highly controlled exertion she has just undergone. She has dropped the whip; it lies a little way from her on the floor. Her eyes meet mine; a slow, knowing smile curls catlike around her mouth. Coming close to me, she reaches up and, once more, gives my belly a soft, slow caress with her cool, strong hand – the hand which has just used that bullwhip on me with such horrifying virtuoso skill. Rip-tides of reaction, emotional as well as sensory, are still surging through my body. My arms and legs ache from the tension they have just undergone throughout my ordeal under the whip, during which I seem to have struggled against my bonds with such mindless intensity and concentrated purpose that I have bruised myself quite badly on the inner surfaces of my manacles in spite of their thick padding. The Acid is doing its weird work: everywhere I look I see flashing, vibrant, many-colored auras, light pulsing from every surface in the room, including the woman in front of me, in all the colors of what I have just undergone, from the deep, sullen scarlet of burning agony to the screaming yellow of fear, to the royal blue of my torturer’s pure, pin-point concentration at her task – and the deep, seductive purple of her touch on my belly. Again tsunamis of sensation surge through me – not pain, not pleasure, but instead something more like the pure idea of “intensity” absolutely abstracted from all context, then cast in concrete form as a neurosensory phenomenon. I realize that she has touched me again, and look down to see her finger tracing its way lovingly along the cleft of my sex. Withdrawing her finger, leaving behind a pulsing shadow of its touch in the form of a burst of clitoral pleasure almost too alien to be recognizable as such in the aftermath of what I have just been through, she bends over and gently presses her luxuriously soft, full lips to the skin just below my navel. Then, straightening up and gathering her things together with that same serene efficiency that has characterized everything else she has done here, the little witch departs, bestowing that infinitely knowing smile of hers upon me one last time.

Chapter 2: The Lady-Bug, Herself
An eternity passes, limned in softly pulsing rainbow fire and the dying sparks of the bonfire of alternating bliss and agony called forth from me by my erstwhile tormentor’s caressing hands, the gel, shaver, tweezers, whip. Trickles of nectar which had been sent flowing from my sex down the skin of my inner thighs by my body’s reaction to the ordeal it has just gone through have dried completely in the cool, humid air of the dungeon. Clearly a significant period of time has gone by – though not likely anything like the endless Aeons which, in my Acid-fogged mind, seem to separate the Now from the departure from the room of that cool, calm, wickedly talented little woman who put me through Satan’s own dances there against the bars. Have they forgotten me down here? Am I to be left to die of thirst and hunger here in my chains? Suddenly the door opens, and four women enter the room. Two are completely naked, save for jewelry which, if anything, only enhances their nakedness, and tiny, black patent-leather, spike-heeled sandals. The third one wears a crotch-splitter of slender, soft, bright scarlet rope long enough to be wound about her upper torso and breasts as well, supporting her breasts and holding them high and taut, in addition to jewelry and the same sort of sandals as those worn by the first two. Jet-black nipple-clamps in the shape of tiny dragon-skulls, their ivory needle teeth cruelly nipping her tender flesh, bite into her nipples. The luscious flesh of all three is sheened with some fragrant oil, the scent of which seems to fill the universe with shimmering erotic promise. The fourth woman is obviously in charge. Relative to the first three, she is almost primly dressed in a short, white linen skirt; a white, long-sleeved linen blouse to which are appliquéd insignia of high rank and the tails of which aren’t confined within the waistband of the skirt; and knee-high, black, high-heeled boots. Like the other three women, she wears skillfully applied cosmetics – enough to enhance, not enough to detract from her basic, essential, fine-boned attractiveness. She wears carefully applied touches of what has to be Poison, the $ND500/oz luxury perfume; it adds a nearly overwhelming quality of compulsion to the scent that comes from the other three. The woman in white, whom the other three address as “La Mariquíta” – oh, my god, it’s her! I’m road-kill! – goes over to the desk across the room from me, pulls the chair out from its well, and sits down in it after pulling it around in front of the desk. Thus, once she has seated herself in the chair, she is facing me, and she and I have unobstructed views of each other. With a long, slow, feline smile at me, staring directly into my right eye, predator facing down predator, she tilts far back in the seat and raises first her right, then her left leg, hooking one thigh after the other over the armrests so that her legs below her shapely knees dangle down the outside. As she does so, of course her short skirt rucks high up, clear up to her belly: I now have an absolutely clear view of her naked sex, her delicious pink labia peeking coyly out at me from their dense nest of raven-black pubic hair. Under her skirt, it is now apparent, she wears only charcoal-gray mesh stockings, clocked with little cloth roses with fiery-red petals and leaves the incandescent burning color of the April flesh of the Green Man, kept in place on her lovely thighs by rolled garters. “Ven acá, Maria,” she says, beckoning to the lady who is dressed only in scarlet rope, black sandals, and ethereally delicate jewelry made of bone, mother-of-pearl, silver, and moonstone. “Do me, for the edification and pleasure de nuestra amiga norteamericana, here.” Maria, hips swaying provocatively, glides over to her and sinks lazily to her knees on the floor between her commander’s legs. Smiling softly, she reaches up with one graceful, long-fingered hand (that hand which, I will later learn, performs as admirably with a scalpel in her daylight life as base surgeon as it does the Arts of Eros in her demimonde aspect as one of La Mariquíta’s eager courtesans and playmates) and delicately traces the cleft between La Mariquíta’s labia with one long, slender finger. Bringing up her other hand, she uses the index fingers of both hands to open, with infinite care, the lips of the other woman’s sex. Then, leaning forward, she takes her commander’s clit between her lips, her cerise tongue briefly gliding out to taste it, like some rare, strange fruit. Gradually she pulls it as far as she can into her mouth, sucking on it slowly, savoring it with a true gourmet’s delight. La Mariquíta’s legs open a little wider, the toes of her boots briefly exhibiting an almost unnoticeable, rippling tremor, like Spring leaves in a sudden, short zephyr. She gasps, once, then recovers her feral

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composure, La Jaguara intently watching her prey from a high vantage, anticipating the feast to come with barely suppressed excitement. She asks me, her tones silken, sweet menace edging every word, “Do you wonder, mi querida, what we’re going to do with you?” Oh, nothing like that – gee, lady, you must be a mind-reader, can’t understand how you could possibly have known that! She laughs softly, reading my mind right off my face. “Well, chiquita, you’ll know soon enough,” she purrs. “In the meantime, why don’t you just relax and enjoy the show?” When about to be raped . . . No, actually, dearies, I was just about to di-di bop down to Rio for an appointment with my dentist! You think I’m going anywhere? You think I think I’m going anywhere? She turns her head to the other two women who came in with her and are waiting patiently nearby. “Barbara, Teresa – why don’t you show our new friend, here, what you like to do best? You know – what little boys only wish they could do with little girls?” “Sí, Estrella!” One of the women, Teresa, wearing an impish expression, comes up to the desk, where the commander has laid down her backpack, along with the automatic rifle which La Mariquíta had with her when she entered the room. Rummaging around in the pack, Teresa comes up with something long and slender wrapped in violet silk. Strutting back with it to Barbara, her companion, she unwraps the object’s violet swaddling, revealing a long, thin dildo equipped with a harness. The dildo, jet-black with a gleaming ruby-red hourglass on its underside and at least a foot long from scrotum to the tip of its fake penis, looks to be made out of that flexible plastic that has the texture of flesh, “for your greater pleasure.” Giving the dildo a mischievously amorous kiss, Teresa hands it to Barbara. Barbara takes the dildo from Teresa and straps it onto her own lean, muscular hips. Once Barbara has the thing secured in place, she proudly rolls her hips, her satiny, café au lait skin moving over the muscles beneath them like beige raw silk gliding across amber, displaying the artificial erection now springing upward from her loins with all the randily insouciant impudence of an adolescent satyr. She gestures imperiously at Teresa; Teresa, getting to her hands and knees on the floor before Barbara, shamelessly presents her lovely buttocks and cherry-red sex to her companion, a sultry, languorous smile of anticipation a smoky wreath about her beestung, scarlet mouth. Barbara gets down on her knees on the floor behind Teresa’s rump, between Teresa’s out-splayed legs, so that the dildo at her crotch almost touches Teresa’s beautiful ass. She puts the index and middle finger of her right hand into her mouth, moistening them liberally with saliva, then reaches out to finger Teresa’s sex and anus, teasingly exploring them. Frowning a little, unsatisfied with what she has found there, she bends over and liberally applies her tongue to Teresa’s vulva, then rims the other woman with generously wet strokes of her wickedly agile tongue. Teresa begins panting heavily. Barbara straightens up, bringing her torso erect. Bringing her hips forward in a long, slow, gliding thrust, she penetrates Teresa’s sex with the dildo, thrusting about a third the length of the thing into the other woman’s body. Slowly she begins to pump her hips back and forth, the dildo gliding in and out of Teresa’s sex in languid, graceful strokes. Teresa cries out in rapture; the temp and intensity of her breathing increase sharply. Now, bending over in order to slide one long, graceful hand beneath Teresa’s belly, Barbara begins to finger the other woman’s clit as, simultaneously, she pumps the dildo in and out, in and out, slowly building up her tempo in a strong, steady rhythm. Suddenly, she arches backward, crying out wildly, as if in mingled grief and delight; her lover, shuddering beneath her, adds her own wild cries to Barbara’s. Barbara, sliding backward onto her haunches, avoids falling over only by the expedient of bracing her body upright with her hands. Teresa, meanwhile, falls to the floor, onto her belly, gasping in bliss and release. All this time, La Mariquíta watches the two of them with intense, almost reptilian concentration. Obviously she herself is thoroughly enjoying the sliding, sucking rhythms of Maria’s lips and tongue upon her sex, but so far she doesn’t seem to be anywhere close to her own climax, nor has she lost her casehardened steel self-command in any way. She hisses a little with pleasure from time to time as her lover performs some particularly exquisite oral delight upon her, but that’s all. Looking up at me, she asks me, “Have you heard, mi amiga yanquí? They call me ‘Estrella Negra Hermosa del Mar’ – ‘the Beautiful Black Star of the Sea.’ I am my people’s Anti-Virgin – Mother of All Fleshly Delights, Bride of the Holy Wisdom of the Living Beast, the Woman Clothed in Scarlet, rather than an eidolon of misogynist martyrs and fanatical patriarchist terrorists. – Barbara, come over here, now, and play with Compañera Maria, here, while she attends to me,” she says suddenly, looking over at Barbara, beckoning languidly to her.

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Barbara climbs to her feet, still wearing the dildo, and makes her way over to Maria, who is busily at work with lips, tongue, and hands on her commander’s sex and the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Turning back to me, her gold-flecked, amber eyes watching me intently from under her long, thick, midnight lashes, La Mariquíta continues, “Well, I want a confession from you, perra yanquí patriarca y imperialista – but not the usual one, of betrayals of military secrets, or set speeches and brainwashed, coerced, rote-learned declarations against your people. Oh, no, mi querida – you are not a militarista, anyway, only a jackleg mágica who surely would not be aware of more than a thousandth or less the intelligence we have already, thanks to the information stored in your embassy’s lovely computer-system, which we appropriated during our raid on your installation. And no one is impressed with rhetoric anymore, as it is – besides, it is no bad thing to love your country (though of course it isn’t good to blindly follow the monsters who often form its government), for the land and its people are holy, all lands, all peoples, and to love them is to love the Great Spirit, She Who gave us all life. “No, querida, what I want you to give me –“ She hisses in sudden intense pleasure. Maria, whose nipples, clit and anus Barbara is now gently, deftly fingering with her witch’s hands, runs her tongue in lingering strokes up and down La Mariquíta’s clit and in and out of her sex. “I want you to confess,” La Mariquíta begins again, her voice slightly shaky, “what your most secret, most shameful . . . ahhh, Maria, más, más! . . . most delightfully dark and delicious desires are, the ones you hide in the abysses far below your heart, close to the coiled centers of all being, so that even your male lovers over all these years do not know of them . . . “Teresa, querida,” she says, sighing and turning her head to look at the woman, who is momentarily unemployed. “Ve a la perra yanquí, y restrega la con el óleo, para que comensemos!” Barbara’s erstwhile lover had been lying sprawled supine on the stone floor, recovering from her climax. Now she sits up and, getting to her feet, goes over to the desk, where she digs out a small, stoppered jar from the pack there on the desk. Holding the jar, she starts toward me. “No,” La Mariquíta suddenly tells her. La Mariquíta is now gasping sporadically, holding on to her self-control with obvious effort as Maria employs her tongue with wicked skill on La Mariquíta’s sex. “Get another capsule of El Ácido out of the pack for her, too – I want her to see the Goddess, face to face – I mean her to be fucked by the Goddess, sex and ass and mouth and brain, body and mind and soul, so that she loses her mind for holy bliss by the time we’re done with her! . . . In fact, get two capsules out. Let’s do this properly. Now get her ready.” Teresa nods, then turns to the desk. Pulling open a top drawer, she removes a vial from it, takes out two capsules and puts the vial away again. Then, swinging her hips with impish flair, Teresa saunters up to me, her ridiculous little spike-heeled sandals giving her legs and ass lovely serpentine curves as she sways up to me, a willow in Eros’s winds. Laughing, she comes up to me and holds the capsules up before my eyes, so I can get a good look at the terrible cosmic traffic accident that’s about to happen tome. Then, with slow, teasing care, she inserts them, one after the other, into my anus. I’m already nearly on the fucking Moon from the last dose, which had to have been at least 1,200 mikes of Windowpane, or something at least as good – the four women down in this dungeon with me, rather than being just mere, ordinary mortal clay in spite of their obvious pulchritude and admittedly fantastic erotic gifts, already have the seeming of a Goddess attended by three of Her lovely nymphs; the whole universe seems to fill the room up with black, sparkling fullness, the room’s walls still in place but of no relevance, and I look up, down, in all directions, hanging in the middle of intergalactic space, spiral galaxies, anomalous galaxies, Wolf-Seyfert exploding galaxies, black holes surrounded by their lovely cloaks of blue-white ionization and indigo-violet Cherenkov radiation, galactic clusters above us, below us, on all sides of us, falling away forever . . . What, on top of the 1,200 mikes or so of Sandoz-pure Acid already in my system, which has only just begun to process the supernally puissant stuff, would another 2,400-3,000 mikes of it do? Translate me into another universe? The 23rd Luck Plane? the Beforelife? the 17th hell of Narnini? My head spinning, I look down to find that Teresa is now unstoppering a little clay jar. The same lovely aroma that had burst forth from the jar of oil with which the woman who had “prepared” me earlier had anointed me wafts out of the jar, permeating the room with its overwhelmingly erotic scent. I can actually see the tracks of the drifting passage of the clouds of molecules with which it has gifted the air, hanging in gauzy, rippling scarves and banners and curtains everywhere, looping lazily about the bodies of the other women like the hands of lovers, filling the air with shimmering auroras of turquoise, peacock, amber, olive, rose, bright green, and sky-blue. Teresa puts some of the oil onto the palm of one lovely hand. It gleams there like molten gold against the delicate pink of her palm. Carefully she re-stoppers the little jar and sets it on the floor. Then, straightening up, the long, raven curtains of her lustrous hair

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swaying back and forth across her shoulders and back, she begins to apply the oil to my groin, labia, clit, vulva, and anus with long, slow, graceful, swirling strokes, employing lascivious care in rubbing it into my flesh, as if she were rubbing top-quality walnut oil into the wood of fine mahogany furniture, to preserve and protect it and evoke its internal light. At first, behind the thick gag of white cloth covering my mouth I begin to scream, with utterly shameless abandon. Fires of white phosphorus and napalm erupt in my most tender flesh, and the whole universe becomes Hell’s own most bitter agony, immersion in the very fires of Phlegethon – this time, the Tabasco Sauce has been added to the perfumed oil ahead of time, it seems! Mindlessly I writhe and struggle against my bonds. But even as I hear, through an incandescent haze of molten agony, La Mariquíta, laughing softly, purr at me, “Don’t worry, perra linda yanquí – the fire will soon become the true Fountain of the Waters of Paradise!”, once again I experience the first beginnings of the transmutation of that agony to ecstasy. Pleasure wars with pain for mastery in my vulva and anus, along my clit and labia; gradually pleasure gains the upper hand. And when it has clearly won the war, and is hoisting its peacock/gold/royal-purple banners of victory amidst the bursting scarlet/silver/cobalt fireworks now erupting wildly in my devastated daylight mind, its message of liberation already having reached my nipples, which now expand even more in the maddening velcro grasp of the clamps biting into them with such delicious cruelty, Teresa’s hand reaches out and lights on my swelling labia, the delicate feet of a café au lait butterfly kissing the vermilion and lavender petals of some exotic flower. Suddenly, hissing a little again in her ever-mounting pleasure and arousal, La Mariquíta calls out to Teresa, “No.” Puzzled, Teresa turns her languid, dark, sidelong gaze to her commander from beneath silky ebon eyelashes like the delicate legs of some strange mutant black widow spiders. As she turns, arching slightly backward to look at La Mariquíta, her lovely, creamy-fleshed breasts, capped with swelling winedark nipples, rise slightly; halos of indigo, silver, and royal purple seem to radiate away from them in swelling globes of pure, divine light, eventually shattering apart in starbursts of paisley fire, while a deep purple-and-scarlet glow flows out of her loins, weaving about her long, slender legs like silken draperies, trains of luminescence for her gown of light. I have a sudden mad urge to suck on those breasts, to kneel between her legs and drink Nectar of the gods from the delicate floral chalice that hides there between her legs, deep in its thicket of dense auburn, curly hair. “In my pack,” La Mariquíta tells her slowly – in English, for the benefit of my ever-more fearfully delighted and agonizingly aroused soul – “are other capsules, besides the . . . Acid. There are some blackand-tan ones, and some blue-and-green ones. These are, respectively, concentrated opium and THC – ‘hash,’ they call it, after Hassan al Rashid, the Assassin, who commanded fantastic loyalty among his legions, providing them with concentrated hemp resin to smoke and, thereby, enter Allah’s Gardens of Delight . . .” She smiles her lazy, heavy-lidded, predator’s smile. “They called him the Old Man of the Mountains. “Well, querida perra,” she says, turning back to me, “my high-breasted, high-stepping, juicy-cunted, puta perdida of a yanquí mágica, lovely slut of the Dark Light, I am la Diosa immortala de la Selva, and I will open the Gates of the Gardens of EL-ITh’s Paradise to you, lucky fool . . . “Teresa, get the capsules, two each, would you? Insert them into her anus, along with one more capsule of Acid. Then anoint the whore’s cunt and anus with Erzuli’s Fire once more – she’ll definitely see those gates begin to open to her, then, the lights will go on all over Paradise for her . . .”

Chapter 3: Hammer of God
Swinging her luscious hips in that maddeningly enticing way, Teresa struts on her tiny sandals, with their pin-point spikes, back to the pack. While she searches in it for the capsules, I am suddenly awash in an overwhelming tsunami of churning, contrapuntal washes of terror and desire, both rising, like flames from a flesh-lit gasoline fire, to heights so great it seems I cannot bear them – but I do, somehow, though I am nearly torn apart by them as they strain to pull me in completely opposite directions. Finally, Teresa turns away from the pack and comes sauntering back, nonchalantly juggling the capsules in one hand, snapping the fingers of the other in time to some melody which only she can hear, swinging her hips saucily to its rhythm as she comes toward me. My sex tingles in anticipation of remembered agony/ecstasy as I watch her approach. Reaching me, she delicately pokes the capsules of chemical Enlightenment well up into my anus, five of them, two massive doses each of opium and THC, one of LSD. Then she stoops to the floor beside me and picks up the vial of Erzuli’s Fire once again. Rising to her feet, she pours out a

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generous helping of the molten stuff into the cupped palm of her hand. After setting the vial down, she begins to massage the oil into my sex and anus and spread it lavishly over my groin and labia with lascivious, slow, delicate touches, running her fingertips lightly over my clit again and again and fingering my vagina and anus with wickedly talented manipulations as she does so. I begin to scream myself rawthroated behind my gag as supernova-class hellfire erupts along the most sensitive membranes of my body, vast, rapidly exploding fireballs boiling with all the colors of the electromagnetic spectrum, including ones I had never been able to see until now, such as the Color Out of Space that the weird witch’s-brew of psychedelics just beginning to add itself to the Acid already in my bloodstream has given me eyes to see, ears to hear, and oh, the lovely horror of the fantastic dance of demons up and down my clit, along my vagina and the interior walls of my anus, accompanied by the shrieking of all the damned souls in a Nazi Hell, or is that me, is it me, is it me?, and the cymbals clash, the drums go bang, the guns they blaze away . . . Surfing on a cresting tsunami of lava and incandescent Pelèan gases which wrap themselves tightly about every part, every fold and cranny of my body, I rise to ever-greater heights of agony, burning, molten glass rippling before me and an angel beckoning me on the other side, an archangel, an archangel who leers at me and, with a wave of his clawed, membranous wing, sends me spiraling back down into Hellfire agony once more – “Take off her gag,” La Mariquíta instructs Teresa. “Sí, querida Mariquíta.” By some miracle, in the midst of Eternity’s forever fires of damnation and an infinite, coruscating universe of exploding royal-blue/aquamarine/scarlet Stars, I am still somehow aware of everything going on around me in that room – the Godzilla tsunami of psychedelics now flooding through my bloodstream and neuroendocrine system enhances awareness even as it destroys the ego. With every nerve-ending in my body, all my senses, I am aware of every motion, every touch, every photon of light, everything in that room, my perceptions only enhanced and sharpened by the Chernobylian holocaust cascading through my nerves, brain, and glands, set off by its Satanic background music in the same way that a fine setting enhances the glory of a perfect gemstone. I watch as Teresa reaches up to pull the gag from my mouth, feel the cerise tips of the nipples of her lovely breasts draw carnelian and peacock fire across my chest and my own breasts as she does so. Pulling my gag around so that the knot is to the fore, beneath my chin, she undoes the knot with a few deft motions, casting the long white flannel cloth of the gag to one side once she has it off me. My screams and moans, edged with a thrilling shrill like the Harpy Tabernacle Choir doing Vangelis, fill the dungeon, echoing off the walls in vast waves of ultraviolet yearning, the backwash limning everything and everyone in the room with brilliant, Lovecraftian halos of horror. La Mariquíta, a cat savoring a bird she has caught after enormous planning and effort, smiles in satisfaction, relishing the sight of my writhing body, my futile attempts to break free of the manacles by which I am secured to the bars, listening to my agonized cries with a connoisseur's delight. She leans back in her chair, spreading her legs wider still for Maria’s teasing tongue, lips, and hands, her own hands tautly poised on the arm-rests of her chair. Slowly she lifts a hand, unbuttons her blouse, and lets it fall open. Leaning forward slightly in her chair, using both hands now, she begins removing her brassiere, finally managing to work it off without once moving her lower torso or legs. Her gasps of pleasure coming faster and faster, every more strongly, she drops the brassiere to the floor, then leans back in her chair once again and begins playing with her own nipples, which are already so taut and distended with blood that her pleasure at touching them must be shot through with knife-edged pain. Dark violet and pearl halos radiate from her breasts as she strokes and pulls at her own nipples; she leans her head back, her eyes closing for a moment in her pleasure, and a blazing ultraviolet prominence bursts starward from the crown of her head. In the meantime, Barbara has been using her own brand of El Mágico on Maria; her hands, darting over Maria’s body like swallows on the wing, draw ever-stronger gasps and moans of pleasure from the other woman, even though the strands of the crotch-splitter Maria wears are so tightly aligned over her vulva and anus that Barbara is unable to insert so much as the tip of her little finger between them. On the one hand, there are Maria’s nipples, standing out in all their full, naked, impudent glory, and the soft flesh of her inner thighs, the backs of her legs, the sides of her breasts, her belly, neck, the hollow of her throat, all utterly naked to Barbara’s questing witch hands. On the other, Maria is now so aroused herself that the tip of her erect clit has managed to thrust itself between and beyond the taut strands of the thin rope meant to conceal it. Barbara’s talented hands draw fire from every part of Maria’s body. Maria is so aroused by that she is close to screaming, yet still Barbara keeps her just short of a climax.

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Meanwhile, the supernova that has erupted in my sex have once more begun to transmute into the incandescent kiss of Lucifer – or the Archangel Mikhail. Through some supernal alchemy, the californium that powers the engines of Hades that have engulfed the delta and well of my immortality with Satan’s own unspeakable fire is breaking down into the elemental particles out of which a universe of ecstasy is built. Deep inside my body, the five capsules of chemical transubstantiation with which Teresa has just dosed me have already melted and released their holy treasures into my bloodstream through the walls of my lower colon, united in a river of molten jewels whose light pulses through and out of my body, streaming outward, into the room, bathing everything near me in a rainbow benison, a holy radiance to which all it touches responds in sympathy, emitting a flood of light and music of its own, seeming newly created and all things united in innocence . . . The aching, burning pleasure boiling in my sex and anus is translated into scent, sight, sound, taste as well as touch as it mounts to a crescendo: citrus-and-cheese flavored starbursts explode in the depths of my pelvic basin, counterpointed by angelic silver carillons rapturously crying out in song to the Empyrean, saxophones wailing of the day after Doomsday, when new heavens and a new Earth shall be perfected, and there shall be no evil anywhere. Splashes of rainbow light run off my tongue, crying like birds, releasing a perfume of yearning, the taste of hope. Magnificent blossoms, the flowers of Ecstasy, spring up in polychrome splendor from my sex, singing songs to the greater glory of Goddess. Suddenly, without warning, La Mariquíta, her chest heaving, her poised hands trembling as her own bliss, spurred ever upward by Maria’s probing tongue and caressing lips, mounts heavenward, cries out, “¡Teresa, haz uso del Beso de Vierne sobre ella!” Teresa’s impish smile now takes on an almost demonic cast. Turning from me, pirouetting lightly on her toes, she turns from me and goes over to the table. Reaching into the pack again, this time she draws out a long-lashed, midnight-black coachwhip. Prancing back to me like a randy filly, she strikes a pose in front of me, letting me get a very good look at that lash. A boiling, ecstatic rage rapidly blooming into a Hellflower of titanic proportions is the only thing that keeps me from crying out now in fear of what I know now is coming for me. Both Teresa and La Mariquíta study my face intently for a few moments, and finally seem to approve of whatever it is they find in it. God knows what it is – in my position, and in the stateless state which my erstwhile mind has finally achieved, whatever they could find there to approve of us something entirely beyond my understanding. La Mariquíta nods. “Good. Let’s give her one more taste of Hell before we let her enter Heaven – it’ll only make her open herself the more to the Goddess.” Teresa’s chin tilts slightly in agreement; then, taking a stance, she brings the lash back and lets fly in one quicksilver motion. Craaack! The tip of the lash just barely kisses the engorged, maroon tip of my clit, now protruding well beyond the swollen folds of my labia, with a burning touch like a pin-point eruption of white phosphorus. They must be able to hear my scream all the way to fucking Buenos Aires! Even before my first raw-throated scream is well-begun, the lash has danced its evil saraband up to my breasts, giving each nipple one incandescent, flickering, venomous kiss like a love-bite from a playful rattlesnake. Then its scorpion’s barb descends down to my belly, to my clit again, up to my earlobes, to do the same there. My screams become the agonized howls of some wild, degenerate, brainless descendant of fallen Gods, the weird starward ululations of a damned soul howling in defiance of its fate as Judgment leers close, mindless prayers to idiot Gods and infinitely powerful demons. Intermingled with them are wailing pleas for her to stop, have mercy, hold off – like the scream, these erupt from me without any volition on my part, and I stand aside, amazed, watching them pour forth from my alien throat, wondering dazedly where they are coming from. The lash’s acid-tipped sting arcs through the air again and again, striking just those points on my body which overlie rich clusters of nerve-endings or the ends of single neurons, all of which seem to be directly wired into the pain-centers of my brain, or the termini of selected acupuncture meridians, with deadly precision and accuracy. Again and again and again the lash caresses me with its deadly stone-fish kisses, working over every erogenous zone of my body with evil precision, touching all the most exquisitely sensitive places of my body with Hell’s own knowing skill, drawing forth from me an agony greater than I have ever known before in all my life, even at the hands of that little witch who had “prepared” me so skillfully for this Hekate of a Mariquíta and the lovely Furies who are Her handmaidens. Never once does she draw blood for me, nor ever bruise my quailing flesh. Each time the lash she wields so adroitly descends, it barely touches me at all, instead appearing to glide a few microns above the surface of my skin, setting off the nerves or stimulating the acupuncture meridians lying just below it by

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some occult process of induction, somehow pouring all its tremendous freight of kinetic energy, the supersonic power of its terrible fang, into the nerve or chi channel that is its target without ever actually directly touching the skin at all. Given the size and strength of the whip, and her own strength and skill in the whip’s use, clearly Teresa could flay the skin right off my bones, take out an eye or worse, if she so chose. This confers an extra frisson of ecstatic horror upon what I’m experiencing, magnifying it by a myriadfold. What if her hand should slip? What if, seeing my pale skin and that nasty label, “Yanquí,” stapled to me in her mind, she should decide to ignore those few features of mine that hint of indio or Asian ancestors, and take to venting years of pent-up rage against the imperialistic, patriarchist, norteamericano monsters that have fucked the world up so horribly for everyone else in general, and women in particular? She could do truly hideous damage to me with that thing, helpless as I am, and I know it – and I am all too aware that she knows it, that a good deal of that gleeful shine in her Lilith eyes is due to that awareness. For a while, the fear this evokes from me acts to keep me too alert to slip completely over the edge into mindless, writhing turmoil of pure animal reaction to the lash’s biting, burning, exquisitely tormenting kisses, that timeless, unknowing place of pure reaction to which it would be bliss, now, to retreat. But, perhaps because of the stew of psychedelics now in my system together with the adrenaline-rush which my agony under the lash is adding to it, I am denied this mercy. Again and again the exquisite kisses of the demon-barb of the lash rain upon me – nipples, clit, anus, earlobe, nipple, belly, clit, palm, inner thigh, nipples, weaving an intricate tapestry of agony around my shuddering body. More and more it comes to concentrate on my clit, and lightning-bolts of blue Hellfire are beginning to strike upward from there into my brain, which reacts by launching cascades of thermonuclear devastation at random throughout my body via the totality of my nervous-system, which has been thrown into total confusion by what is happening to it now. – Then she stops, and lays down the whip. With her silken hands, agile tongue, full lips, she begins to soothe the body she has just put through such infernal torment. A devotee of Eros, worshipping Him on the altar of my body, she makes sweet offerings to Him of her tongue, lips, and fingertips. The pain of the lash quickly fades, to be replaced by burgeoning pleasure and desire. As her fingers play over my labia and her lisp work at my clit with delicate, lingering caresses of its swelling tip, I pant and moan, become ever more aroused. “Oh, suck me, you beautiful Hellspawn bitch! – Ohhh . . . that’s it . . . yes, keep licking it like that –“ La Mariquíta’s eyes glitter hotly, radiating blue-white brilliance, filled with the lightnings of Eros. She watches Teresa’s devotions at the altar of the Gods of Ecstasy which I have become as intently as a crocodile watches a buffalo caught in a sudden rip-tide in its river. Her breath hisses like a nest of rattlesnakes, and her hands dance over the back of Maria’s head, back and forth, as her arousal becomes tigerish in its fevered intensity. – Then Teresa suddenly ceases what she is doing to me. Gracefully, she bends down and retrieves the whip, which lies on the floor at her feet. Taking her stance again, she lets fly once more, and the song of the lash begins again, drawing fire from my body, agony from my brain, lunatic frenzies from my writhing mind and soul, counterpointing the eagle-screams that erupt, cry upon shattered cry, from my tortured throat, Prometheus under the talons of the wrath of Zeus. – And then, just as I am about to shatter into complete mindlessness once and for all, she stops, lays down the whip, and once more begins to tease me into erotic frenzy. And so, for an unknown span of time, eternity or only minutes, there is no way to know how long, it goes: the agonizing dance of the lash over my writhing body alternating with the lewdly delicious caresses which Teresa visits on me, erotic bliss alternating with Hell’s own torments, again and again and again and again, world without end, amen, Shemhamforash, Ave Shaîtan, Ave Lucifer, Ave Mikhail! The pleasure of her caresses mounts higher and higher; the pain with which that pleasure alternates becomes worse and worse, plunging into the most obscenely deepest regions of Hell, the lash concentrating almost entirely now on my nipples and clit. How long this goes on, I have no idea – minutes, hours, forever, who knows. Suddenly, in the midst of one endless damnation of lashings, the agony turns weird, just as it had under the ministrations of the woman who had “prepared” me earlier for Medusa and Her Maidens here. Now, every time the lash sends the exquisite, fiery pain of its touch shrieking along my nerves and into my quivering brain, mind, soul, I see, synesthetically hitched to the striking lash with golden chains of synchronicity, long streaks of indigo and orange falling across my vision, hear the music that the choir of angels attending Rigel or Aldebaran must sing, smell strange, nameless, elusive perfumes and stenches, taste cinnamon, musk, oranges, roses,

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wine, and the color purple erupting along my tongue, feel the tingle pleasure of velvet moaning eerily along my forearms and across my fingertips, zelkleet the silver-and-green chiming notes elnikastering across the bridge of my nose – And then I am as I am, and it happens: the kisses of the lash, now falling exclusively on my clit, evolve in one swift, serene transmutation, like a perfectly done transition in a tai chi sequence, from needle-point eruptions of indescribable agony attended by tidal-waves of terror and hot shame into silvery bursts of pure, blissful exaltation, moving out in rainbow rings and spheres of light to engulf my whole body in a holy ecstasy, ecstasy so great there is no room anywhere in all the universe for anything else, pure samadhi, in the middle of which I am, YHVH ALHIM IA AHIH, utterly mindless, even as I am also utterly present and aware, wholly open to the touch of the lash, welcoming it, craving it, not for the pain it brings – it no longer calls forth from me anything remotely like pain at all – but rather for the overwhelming weird ecstasy which its every touch evokes from the very Tartarean roots of my soul, pleasure that directly connects my clit to my vulva, womb, breasts, hands, throat, tongue, earlobes, and lips with incandescent silver wires of bliss, and the whole to the Heart of Heaven, all shouting together for joy in exaltation so vast that it leaves no room at all for any boundaries of being, any separation between I and That, between Self and Godhood. I am still screaming – but now in joy, wonder, delight, out of the bliss of an ongoing upward rush of pure erotic pleasure that is a million times more intense than anything I’ve ever experienced before – And then it stops, at a signal from La Mariquíta. I still float far above the world on a residual cushion of the exaltation I have just known, but the flaming silver bursts of ecstasy are no longer singing through me, and I cry out in aching grief, mourning their loss. Suddenly, without warning, Teresa’s wonderful fingertip gently slides down the cleft of my sex, comes to my clit, which feels as if it were at least a foot long, hard as iron, glowing red-hot with lascivious, molten best, and then begins to glide up and down its length, which is slick with my own nectar as well as from the oil she applied to it earlier. I moan as the fires of bliss once more begin to rise Into the night of my soul, reaching with exalted urgency toward the God that hovers above my soul, brushing it with Its Archangelic wings. “That’s it, querida – start her slowly, now, very slowly. – Oh, and stroke her nipples with your other hand – yes, That’s it,” pants La Mariquíta over Maria’s whispers of pleasure and Teresa’s wicked, urgent laughter. “Oh, yes – now change places, you two,” she directs Maria and Barbara. Teresa laughs with delight. Maria, who had been on the verge of climaxing, groans in frustration. But La Mariquíta will brook no mutiny – so, slowly, reluctantly, Maria trades places with Barbara, who clamps her mouth hungrily to La Mariquíta’s sex – and ¡yips! in startled pique: a vengeful Maria has pinched her clit . . . But before remonstrations can begin, Maria has already begun soothing the same outraged bit of tissue she has just insulted, tracing long, teasing strokes along Barbara’s clit and vulva with her elegant, deft fingers, simultaneously rimming the other woman with sly, flickering touches of her pink kitten’s tongue, a butterfly probing for nectar. Teresa, giving little hitching gasps of pleasure at Maria’s ministrations, settles down to service La Mariquíta. In the meantime, Teresa’s finger, slowly moving over the most sensitive areas on my clit, drawing bliss forth from it like a Magick wand drawing astral Fire from the Inner Planes, has settled into a steady rhythm – one stroke per second, back and forth, no more, no less. The fingers of her other hand stroke the tips of my nipples with the same agonizingly slow motion – to slow to bring me to a climax, but swift enough to bring any surface they touch into a blazing frenzy of ecstatic reaction. “Ahora, yanquí perra,” La Mariquíta says to me, playing her feral smile over me like a slow blowtorch, “what do you want? Tell me what you’d like Barbara to do for you? What you want me to do?” “I – I –“ my voice comes out in a hoarse rasp. It sounds rusty. The effort of speaking is nearly too much for me. The opium is really beginning to hit, hard – all my critical faculties are going straight to Hell on a one-way ticket. I am slipping into a hypnogogic state, one completely lacking in shame, inhibition, anxiety, social consciousness, even a sense of self – just a little more of this and I’ll be able to bend spoons with my unaided mind . . . stroke off the Dali Lama with a single thought . . . leap over tall consensual certainties with a single bound. I am a knot of pure desire wrapped around a core of molten ecstasy, a hole through a hole in a hole of pure bliss, a Klein Bottle made of the Foreskin of the Holy Clitoris of the Goddess, nothing more. “Tell me, querída,” La Mariquíta purrs at me. “—Or Teresa will never give you any satisfaction, never bring you off. You will be in an ever-increasing Hell of need – we will catheterize you, so that we need not ever unchain you from those bars – bathe you while you writhe there in your manacles – tease you

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and tease you forever – and you will finally go insane from the agony of your need for sexual release, then die of starvation and exhaustion in the damnation of that need. “And don’t make the terrible error of assuming that I am only jesting, exaggerating, or prevaricating – or, for that matter, raving. We will be delighted to demonstrate the truth of it for you, and it won’t take you too long to find out that we can do to you exactly what I have just claimed . . . and will. “If you would escape that, querída yanquí puta, then tell me what you want us to do to you!” Now the THC hits. The ecstasy evoked from me by Teresa’s Magickal caresses is becoming edged with molten plutonium, streaming rainbow fire, scented with clove, myrrh, cinnamon, and roses. I fall endlessly backward into black seas of delight as she begins to tongue my clit and pluck it delicately with her full lips, slowly stroking my breasts, nipples, belly, and the flesh of my inner thighs with her wizard’s hands. “I – oh, damn you, please, suck harder, harder –“ “That’s it, querída!” La Mariquíta gasps with delight as Barbara flicks her agile tongue rapidly in and out of La Mariquíta’s sex. Pulling herself together with supreme effort, the commander adds, gasping, “Teresa, speed up the rhythm. Give her a little more – she’s being a good girl, let’s encourage her. And stimulate her anus, too.” Now Teresa’s diabolically wise finger begins to slid in and out of the vestibule of my anus with maddening skill, while her tongue plays up and down the length of my clit, faster and faster, like the feet of butterflies from Hell, delicately treading the petals of the living blossoms of a sentient rose-tree, treading out a message of bliss on their quivering surfaces. Hands skim along my heaving body, tracing incandescent curves and loops of bliss wherever they go. “Oh, God – do it – faster – please, my clit, please suck it harder –“ “¡O, es marvilloso, querída! ¡Acelera el tiempo, Teresa!” La Mariquíta orders, panting and gasping in a heavy rhythm. And somehow, she and I, La Mariquíta and her captive Mágica, are now linked together in our pleasure. We are separated by at least thirty feet of thin air, not to mention the Abysses of culture and history that lie between us. There is no physical connection whatsoever between us, no apparent reason for the sympathy that is suddenly there, come fully to life all at once as if enfolded between us by the hand of some whimsical God, just to see what would happen – yet it is surely she, La Mariquíta, who is making love to me, Teresa only an extension of her body and will, her hands, her tongue, her lips, no more. At the same time, it is I who am tonguing, savoring, stroking her creamy or rhododendron flesh, Barbara some intricate living extension of my body, like some exquisite slaved android controlled by my own will, Maria only a lovely sex-toy I am in turn using to stimulate Barbara to a frenzy of pleasuring La Mariquíta, as if I were simultaneously eating her out and stimulating my own clit or sex or anus with my fingers or a dildo in order to excite myself to ever-more ardently talented oral lovemaking. My womb begins to pulse. I scream, “Fuck me, you fucking tease! God damn you – fuck me!”, a blind, blazing, scarlet rage rising in me that is at least as great as my burning agony of need.

Chapter 4: Hammerstrike
Suddenly La Mariquíta pushes a startled Barbara away from her. Springing to her feet, as Barbara nearly falls backward onto Maria, La Mariquíta goes over to that bottomless, ever-filled rucksack of hers and pulls out a long, slender dildo, something like the one which Barbara still wears except that, if anything, it’s even longer and more realistically molded into the shape of a gargantuan cock. Tearing off her linen skirt, her proud body clad now only in boots, garters, and rose-clocked nylon stockings, she quickly straps on the dildo. Then, coming over to me, she pushes Teresa to one side, telling her, “Go savor the delights which Maria and Barbara have in such abundance – we’ll put on a lovely show for you, the Magíca and I!" Grinning, Teresa retreats to where the other two women sit, panting, at the foot of the chair which has just been vacated by La Mariquíta. Joining them, she urges Barbara to lie back on the floor, that randy rubber cock which Barbara wears springing proudly into the air as Barbara eagerly obeys, lying spreadeagled and waiting. Impaling herself on it, Teresa reaches down with lascivious fingers to play with Barbara’s clit. Maria straddles Barbara’s face, touching her own clit, a bud of crimson fire protruding proudly between the scarlet ropes covering her sex, to Barbara’s eager lips. Soon all three of them are moving blissfully in the rhythms of the Dance of Eros, approaching a simultaneous, tripartite climax with frenzied, moaning intensity, gasping for breath and crying out in their passion.

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In the meantime, La Mariquíta stands before me with her belly almost touching mine, her feet below my straining sex. “Well, mi querída puta yanquí, what will it be? What is it you want?” she purrs, grinning at me. “I want you to fuck me, you diabolical little bitch! What the fuck do you think I want? God damn you, anyway – what do you want me to say, hunh?” I scream at her. “I want you,” she tells me in an intense, smoky whisper, “to tell me all the lovely details of how you like best to be fucked . . . Do you like it in the ass? In the mouth? In your cunt? Between those lovely, heavy breasts of yours, señora vieja? Is the secret of your youth, your strength, which no woman your age has any right to, unless it is from the hand of the Goddess Herself – is your secret only the stolen fruits of the lands of the victims of patriarchist, imperialist aggression and rapine? Or is it the result of strange, arcane practices of ours, o Mágica? Is it from the employment of the diabolical tricks by which you delight your male lovers, the ones you teach them to use to pleasure you? Tell me what it is you like to do on the couch of Love, querída – do you like only to have them ram their great, knobby horse-docks into you? Are you so crude? Or do you know the finer arts of love? Do you like to be sucked? To be caressed into insensibility, as Teresa, here, was on the verge of doing to you, at my command? Tell me, you whore!” “I want you to suck my clit until it bleeds – I want you to pinch my nipples until they’re on fire – I want to have you ram that Goddamn’ dildo into my ass, all the way up to my throat – is that what you want to hear, you witch? Do you want me to talk like a whore, curse like a longshoreman, does it turn you on to hear me say ‘clit’ and ‘cunt’ and ‘suck’ and all the rest of it? What sort of perverted charge do you get out of torturing me like this? Are you trying to rape my mind, like a boy getting a little girl to talk dirty, to jack off his mind?” I screamed at her in rage mingled with lust. “Let me down from here and I’ll show you what I want, you chickenshit little tease – I’ll fuck you into Heaven and then into Hell and then back into Heaven, I’ll drink your nectar like strange wine from the Moon, from Mars, from the Stars, by the chaliceful, and give you bliss so great you’ll scream loud enough to wake the dead – and then I’ll pull that fucking dildo off you and show you what I can do with just my mouth and my hands, I’ll have you begging for it, again and again, I’ll rape your dear little coal-black evil heart – and then, my darling, my very dear little demoness, I’ll tell you ¡adíos!, and leave you weeping, knowing you’ll never again have what I –“ Crack! Furious, she hits my face with her open hand so hard it nearly knocks me out. I manage to pull myself together enough to grin at her and say, “Hurts, doesn’t it, you coward! – You gonna let me down from here, so I can see if there’s enough to you that I really do want you, now? Or don’t you have the guts?” I sneer. Almost, she hits me again – but restrains herself before she can go through with it, barely suppressed rage making her pant for breath, Pulling away, she looks at the wall, takes a deep breath, wills her fury away by iron effort. Finally, she turns back to me again, fully under control. “Oh, I don’t know . . .” For a few moments, she stands there panting, thinking. Then a mischievous smile quirks at her lips; she reaches up and slyly pinches one of my nipples, and I cry out with pain and fury an desire. She bends down to take the other nipple into her red, red mouth, running her tongue over it tenderly; simultaneously, she reaches down with one hand and begins toying with my clit, using infinitely greater skill in doing so than even the exquisitely talented Teresa. “God damn you, bitch – suck me, don’t just dick around with it! Suck me! Fuck me! Take me! I can’t fucking stand any more of this – unchain me, you gutless bitch, and I’ll show you how a yanquí mágica makes love! You’ll think you’re in the arms of the Goddess. Undo these chains, you spineless whore, and let me fuck you! Damn you to hell – oh, my God, how are you doing that? That’s – oh, Jesus, that’s heavenly, don’t stop –“ Her questing fingers, tongue, and lips are nearly driving me crazy with bliss and need. “Tell me again, yanquí . . . querída . . . bruja hermosa – tell me what you want, and I will be the lover you always ached for and never had . . .” she pants hoarsely, one finger sliding sweetly over and down, up and over and down my clit, the other moving in and out of my anus like the flickering tongue of a viper, the way her tongue darts and flickers and weaves over and around and across my nipples. “You cheap, cheap, cheap little puta – take these fucking chains off me, bitch, and I’ll make you think you’re in the Third Circle of Paradise, where the Angels give the Faithful all the delights of Eros, forever and ever, amen! You don’t know what – oh, Jesus! – oh, don’t stop . . .” My mind is now just one whirling, ecstatic swirl of light, color, music, erotic bliss, heavy perfume of languorous tropical blossoms, taste of citrus, of Elixir Vitae, of angels’ cum. My womb begins to contract in long, terrible, slow ripples of unbearably exquisite need and pleasure, as if I were giving birth to myself.

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“¿Quí es lo, yanquí? ¿Quí quieres tu de me?” she cries in delight. “Fuck me, God damn you – take me!” I scream. And with one quick thrust of her lean hips, she finally gives me what I’m aching for, dying for. She begins to fuck me in long, slow, exquisite strokes of the dildo, in and out, rocking back and forth, her hips gyrating elegantly, the dildo touching my cervix, retreating, entering my womb, retreating, father, father . . . She clamps her hands on my breasts, kneading them hungrily, almost cruelly, her mouth on mine, her tongue thrusting into my mouth as if it were a cock and my mouth the sex it was so avidly fucking. Together we mount toward, reach, are engulfed in the mutual ecstatic green-white world-shattering holocaust of our climax, a hammerstrike of release like the city-cracking punch of the plutonium fist of a nuclear explosion, the mingle cries and moans of the other three women in their mutual climax accompanying us into a whirlpool fall from grace to grace to fugued grace . . . *** I awake to find myself lying spread-eagled on a vast bed, its surface resilient as cloud, my arms and legs manacled to the bed-posts. I’m still naked. So is La Mariquíta, who, lying between my legs, her upper torso arched over me, looks down at me with a fond, tender smile. Tracing slow, lazy circles around one of my nipples with a knowing finger, she tells me affectionately, “I think I’ll keep you awhile, querída yanquí puta – you’re much too good for the masses . . . well, los inocentónes patriarcos imperialistos, anyway.” And, moving father down between my legs, so that her face is above my groin, she leans down and fixes her lovely mouth onto my sex. Once again, I begin to ascend into the Gardens of Delight of the inner circles of Paradise, the golden fires of the terrifying sweet tongues of Lucifer and Mikhail lightly playing along my clit, my sex, the lovely holy fire surging into my womb, up my spine, into my nipples, the palms of my hands, my throat, my tongue, my lips, my eyes, my reeling, stunned brain, bursting from the crown of my skull with a surge of blinding blue-white lighting, the Hammer of God –

Epilogue: Fallout
Am I a lesbian? No – like I said, I guess I’m bisexual. I still dig men – well, the ones that are as attractive as you, anyway, my dear. I don’t often find women attractive, unless they’re like my dear, longdeparted daddy. – Is Estrella like him? Hah – you have to ask? Jesus, of course she is! – Except for looks, of course . . . my old man wasn’t exactly what you’d call Mr. America, or even Poland’s Mr. Glamour – although man, oh man, did he ever have sexual magnetism! There’s no way in Hell you’d ever have mistaken him for a woman, even in a dim light. . . . Come to think of it, Estrella has at least as much sexual charisma, of about the same kind – and I guess that’s what counts. – That’s right, let me straddle your lap, sitting almost on your knees. Why don’t you stroke me – there – while I do the same for you for awhile? . . . Oh, yes, that feels sooo good . . . – That’s right, now slip it into me – pull me forward onto your thighs – ohhh, that’s good . . . – Sí, Estrella querída, slip that into me from behind, while he takes me from in front – oh, my God, that’s good! Oh, yes – oh, yes, ohyesohyesohyesohyes –

“How to Tie a Crotch-Splitter” by Randy Ropetrix Randy H. Crawford) [Excised by request of the artist]

Inside back cover

The Ravishing of the Wizard’s Only Daughter by the High King of R’Lyeh
On the Western shores of the Ocean Sea, By the Door to the Halls of Persephone, Past meadows rife with asphodel, In a bower in a haunted, tenebrous dell By the bloody rapids of Acheron, The wailing darkness of Hades’ Deeps, The vast, crepuscular Abyss of Dream, Where Death His dark cathedral keeps – There the High King bears me down on his bed, Below the rotting rocks of his haunted hills, And from the boiling cauldrons of my heart, There he drinks his slavering fill . . . . . . While I drink from that same dark fountain’s source, Where worlds collide, and Suns give birth, And Eternity runs its endless course – And the hands of a God heal the savaged Earth. About the Author Yael Ruth Dragwyla comes from an old family who have also been known to spell it Dracula. She was born on 20 March 1945 at 5:48 PM Pacific War Time, at Pasadena, California, with the Sun in the 7 th house, ruling the 12th house cusp, with the cusp at 17 degrees Leo. Her life and chart seem to have an affinity with catastrophe: her birth mother relinquished her on July 16 1945, her adoptive father died on Sunday December 7, 1958 and her fiancé died on August 6th 1963. She is Magistra Batrix of the Church of the SubGenius™, in which she is known as the Infra-Red Woman. Her interests include ninjutsu, Bujinkan ninpo taijutsu, bad puns, tai chi, unearned money, ceremonial Magick, practical jokes, and belly dance as an invocation of the goddess. She has two cats, both walking attitudes, and a weasel who doesn’t even need the attitude.

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(Outside back cover) Yael R. Dragwyla’s Treasures of Hades, Blackberry House’s first Salmon book, isn’t just filth, it’s high-level radioactive waste!

“Not since Oktobriana . . .” – Mikhail Gorbachev “Not since Raisa . . .” – Boris Yeltsin “Shocking.” – Fanny Hill “It tickled my SubGenitals.” – Neslo Ymmij “Build a better class of pornography and the world will beat off at your door.” – Johnny Wendell Holmes “I have nothing negative to say.” – Bob Black