On this night I always find myself thinking of those who've gone before. My parents, family members, some friends . . .
The feeling of loss is always there, but the conviction that there is more to all of us than this physical life, and there is a continuation after that ends, has never left me.
As for those of us still here, we miss them, we should honour them and live our lives as fully as we can.
Because that is what life is for.
So tonight we take a little time from our lives to think of them. I've posted this quote before but it surely belongs here:
The End. Unto them from whose eyes the veil of life hath fallen may there be granted the accomplishment of their true Wills; whether they will absorption in the Infinite, or to be united with their chosen and preferred, or to be in contemplation, or to be at peace, or to achieve the labour and heroism of incarnation on this planet or another, or in any Star, or aught else, unto them may there be granted the accomplishment of their wills; yea, the accomplishment of their wills. AUMGN. AUMGN. AUMGN.
-AC: Liber XV
Monday, 31 October 2011
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
Bert Jansch
The grim Reaper has paid another of his unwelcome visits.
Bert Jansch, a superb singer/songwriter/guitarist has gone. I was fortunate enough to see him with Pentangle 3 years ago. Amazing.
Here's one of my favorite songs of his:
Bert Jansch, a superb singer/songwriter/guitarist has gone. I was fortunate enough to see him with Pentangle 3 years ago. Amazing.
Here's one of my favorite songs of his:
Friday, 23 September 2011
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
A note
I know you.
Everything else I say from this point on will be nothing more than an explanation of those three simple words.
I know you.
In that knowledge of you, as in your submission, there is no pride or shame, no arrogance or humility. There is only truth, the type of truth which contemptuously sweeps aside the pathetic sexual conventions which are the twisted legacy of our Judeo-Christian heritage, conventions that we cling to, even though we despise them.
But let’s not become trapped into high-flown statements about how Society Is To Blame.
Because it isn’t. We are to blame if we let it restrict us.
Besides, I want to talk about your cunt - So much power in that word!
Consider the following statements:
“Master, please fuck my vagina” - Too clinical.
“Master, please fuck my pussy” - Too fluffy.
“Master, please fuck my cunt” - See what I mean?
Anyway, back to your cunt. I use the word ‘your’ in it’s technical sense, because it’s easier to talk about it that way, but in real terms, it isn’t yours, it’s mine. It belongs to me as your mouth, your tits, your arse do. You are my property, to be used as I see fit.
Your body is the altar on which we sacrifice to the Gods, the ultimate offering.
So I’m thinking about your cunt. I want you to think about it. Think about displaying your cunt, when ordered to do so. Your legs wide, your cunt held open for my appreciation. In that simple act you define yourself - ‘Here I am, my cunt is yours, not something to be hidden shamefully in the dark, furtively fucked with the lights out, but openly displayed - ‘This is my cunt, feel it, fuck it, whip it, order me to wank it until I come, do what you want with it’ .
Think about being strapped to the bench, your legs bound open so you couldn’t close them if you wanted to, (You particularly like that), your shaven cunt ready for use. not knowing whether your cunt is going to be stroked, fingered, fucked or whipped. Think about the flogger descending on your cunt, your body jerking with the sting, think about how good the thought of that is. Think about my fingers stroking and exploring, feeling the folds and crevices of your cunt, sliding into the wetness, of your slit, your hole. Think about my cock pushing into you, you surrendering to being fucked, because your cunt is greedy, your cunt is demanding, your cunt is the gateway to ecstasy, to the dark and joyous underworld where the ancient spirits of sexual power wait to be summoned.
Your cunt is hungry, and has a right to be fed. Your cunt is available, and needs to be used.
And, of course, your cunt is beautiful.
You may not think so, you may think it’s ugly, but such a thought is a denial of your submission. You have no right to think badly of your Master’s property. It is beautiful, and if you think otherwise, you will confess that thought when you see me next, and be punished for it. How hard would I have to whip you before you accepted that your cunt is beautiful, before the whip made you scream the words out? So why not accept it now and save yourself the pain? Unless, of course, you want it that way . . .
Your cunt is juicy, and is it, perhaps, becoming a little bit juicier as you read this? Maybe a tiny tingle, a slight itch there? Touch it now. That is an order. Feel it’s beauty, little one. Let your fingers stroke your cunt-lips, feel inside you, slide along the wetness. Continue doing this as you read. You do not, as yet, have my permission to orgasm.
Then there is your mouth. Sweet. Kissable. Sucking. How many times have you taken your Master’s cock in your worshipful mouth over the years? Knelt before me in obedience, devotion and need? How many times? Remember your pledge, in the beginning, when we started down this path together. ‘I exist to serve my Master’s cock’ And you have, with great skill and awareness. Remember the time you told me that you needed to suck me, not just something you did as part of your submissive duty, that you felt deprived in some way if, on the odd occasion that it happened, a day went by without you being ordered to suck. That you needed to be ordered to do it as much as you needed to do it. The times when your fingers are busy in your cunt as you use your lips and your tongue. And those times when you’ve brought yourself to a shuddering orgasm as I fill your mouth.
Next, imagine this: you knelt on the bed, head down, legs open, presenting your arse to be buggered - it shouldn’t take much imagining, you’ve fulfilled this need of yours often enough . . .
Perhaps your wrists and anlkles are cuffed together, so you are helpless, vulnerable, available. Perhaps your arse is decorated with whip marks. Either way, I am knelt behind you, admiring your inviting arsehole. I rub the tip of my cock at the entrance, teasing you slightly as you try to move back on to it. Then you feel me entering, you open up, taking your Master’s cock deep inside you. “Fuck my arse, Master, please fuck my arse”.
There is power in the incantation.
And we musn’t forget the whip. How could we?
You love your Master’s whip. You need the whip. The whip is your friend.
You like to kiss the whip before it’s used on you.
(I do hope you’re still playing with your cunt)
The whip frees you. The whip takes you somewhere else, a special place, the deep place of being. Being fucked by your Master is so much sweeter when the whip has prepared you for it, reminded you of who you really are.
And who are you, really, my love?
Someone wise, someone beautiful. Someone infinitely desirable.
A woman of power. A Scarlet Woman. A woman who can give herself utterly to her Master’s cock, and the whip. A woman who can revel in being used like the lowest whore in creation, and, at the same time, realise that she is a priestess. Because there is no separation between the two.
As I said, I know you.
You now have my permission to orgasm, if you wish . . .
Everything else I say from this point on will be nothing more than an explanation of those three simple words.
I know you.
In that knowledge of you, as in your submission, there is no pride or shame, no arrogance or humility. There is only truth, the type of truth which contemptuously sweeps aside the pathetic sexual conventions which are the twisted legacy of our Judeo-Christian heritage, conventions that we cling to, even though we despise them.
But let’s not become trapped into high-flown statements about how Society Is To Blame.
Because it isn’t. We are to blame if we let it restrict us.
Besides, I want to talk about your cunt - So much power in that word!
Consider the following statements:
“Master, please fuck my vagina” - Too clinical.
“Master, please fuck my pussy” - Too fluffy.
“Master, please fuck my cunt” - See what I mean?
Anyway, back to your cunt. I use the word ‘your’ in it’s technical sense, because it’s easier to talk about it that way, but in real terms, it isn’t yours, it’s mine. It belongs to me as your mouth, your tits, your arse do. You are my property, to be used as I see fit.
Your body is the altar on which we sacrifice to the Gods, the ultimate offering.
So I’m thinking about your cunt. I want you to think about it. Think about displaying your cunt, when ordered to do so. Your legs wide, your cunt held open for my appreciation. In that simple act you define yourself - ‘Here I am, my cunt is yours, not something to be hidden shamefully in the dark, furtively fucked with the lights out, but openly displayed - ‘This is my cunt, feel it, fuck it, whip it, order me to wank it until I come, do what you want with it’ .
Think about being strapped to the bench, your legs bound open so you couldn’t close them if you wanted to, (You particularly like that), your shaven cunt ready for use. not knowing whether your cunt is going to be stroked, fingered, fucked or whipped. Think about the flogger descending on your cunt, your body jerking with the sting, think about how good the thought of that is. Think about my fingers stroking and exploring, feeling the folds and crevices of your cunt, sliding into the wetness, of your slit, your hole. Think about my cock pushing into you, you surrendering to being fucked, because your cunt is greedy, your cunt is demanding, your cunt is the gateway to ecstasy, to the dark and joyous underworld where the ancient spirits of sexual power wait to be summoned.
Your cunt is hungry, and has a right to be fed. Your cunt is available, and needs to be used.
And, of course, your cunt is beautiful.
You may not think so, you may think it’s ugly, but such a thought is a denial of your submission. You have no right to think badly of your Master’s property. It is beautiful, and if you think otherwise, you will confess that thought when you see me next, and be punished for it. How hard would I have to whip you before you accepted that your cunt is beautiful, before the whip made you scream the words out? So why not accept it now and save yourself the pain? Unless, of course, you want it that way . . .
Your cunt is juicy, and is it, perhaps, becoming a little bit juicier as you read this? Maybe a tiny tingle, a slight itch there? Touch it now. That is an order. Feel it’s beauty, little one. Let your fingers stroke your cunt-lips, feel inside you, slide along the wetness. Continue doing this as you read. You do not, as yet, have my permission to orgasm.
Then there is your mouth. Sweet. Kissable. Sucking. How many times have you taken your Master’s cock in your worshipful mouth over the years? Knelt before me in obedience, devotion and need? How many times? Remember your pledge, in the beginning, when we started down this path together. ‘I exist to serve my Master’s cock’ And you have, with great skill and awareness. Remember the time you told me that you needed to suck me, not just something you did as part of your submissive duty, that you felt deprived in some way if, on the odd occasion that it happened, a day went by without you being ordered to suck. That you needed to be ordered to do it as much as you needed to do it. The times when your fingers are busy in your cunt as you use your lips and your tongue. And those times when you’ve brought yourself to a shuddering orgasm as I fill your mouth.
Next, imagine this: you knelt on the bed, head down, legs open, presenting your arse to be buggered - it shouldn’t take much imagining, you’ve fulfilled this need of yours often enough . . .
Perhaps your wrists and anlkles are cuffed together, so you are helpless, vulnerable, available. Perhaps your arse is decorated with whip marks. Either way, I am knelt behind you, admiring your inviting arsehole. I rub the tip of my cock at the entrance, teasing you slightly as you try to move back on to it. Then you feel me entering, you open up, taking your Master’s cock deep inside you. “Fuck my arse, Master, please fuck my arse”.
There is power in the incantation.
And we musn’t forget the whip. How could we?
You love your Master’s whip. You need the whip. The whip is your friend.
You like to kiss the whip before it’s used on you.
(I do hope you’re still playing with your cunt)
The whip frees you. The whip takes you somewhere else, a special place, the deep place of being. Being fucked by your Master is so much sweeter when the whip has prepared you for it, reminded you of who you really are.
And who are you, really, my love?
Someone wise, someone beautiful. Someone infinitely desirable.
A woman of power. A Scarlet Woman. A woman who can give herself utterly to her Master’s cock, and the whip. A woman who can revel in being used like the lowest whore in creation, and, at the same time, realise that she is a priestess. Because there is no separation between the two.
As I said, I know you.
You now have my permission to orgasm, if you wish . . .
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Quote
Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
- William Blake - The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Think about it.
All of the implications.
- William Blake - The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
Think about it.
All of the implications.
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