Mistress of the World: The Glory of The American Woman


I’ve always like Americans principally for their obliviousness (I won’t use the word ignorance, as that can never be used affectionately). I am not talking here of the much mocked obliviousness of the external (non-American) world cheerily exhibited by small-town US citizens. I mean more the obliviousness, common across the class divide, which Americans display toward their own country and the extreme nature of their everyday reality.

I refer to how Americans are prepared to accept the most insane and evil things as utterly ordinary, unremarkable, and generally tolerable, from legally-owned sub-machine guns slung around the backs of obese white-supremacists in KFC restaurants, to extortionate health care fees, almost universal anti-depressant and opiate use, a history of genocide, segregation, and enslavement celebrated by monuments to the guilty, medieval prison routines, and the Roman-style blurring of the military and the state. None of this seems to disturb the average American citizen, or at least not enough to prompt them to emigrate to Canada, Britain or Australia. It is not strange enough for them to want to escape from it. It is part and parcel of their nation, the nation they swear allegiance to, and it is part of who they are.

America, of course, has always been an experiment in gigantism. They took things from the rest of the world and made them bigger – bigger, one might argue, than they needed to be. They took slavery from the West Indies and made it considerably bigger and considerably worse. They took military developments from Europe and expanded them to grotesque and potentially apocalyptic proportions. They took food from Italy, France, and Germany, and offered them in portions so big that the national stomach now requires surgery. America is a banquet, an overindulgence, with a history of vomiting, bleeding, and migraines, skilfully assembled to substitute for a national tradition.

Note – this is not intended as some juvenile anti-American screed. This author is not remotely troubled by capitalism, and would not want to live without it. I am not a bleeding heart defender of any tribe or race or nation. The world, I believe, has benefited immensely from American daring, initiative and forward-thinking. I mean only to say that America is grotesque, and that Americans are charmingly oblivious of the extent of this grotesqueness.

And I not only find this charming, but deeply, fiendishly erotic. American-ness in a woman is greatly arousing to me, precisely if  she possesses the most objectively negative traits associated with her country. Put simply, the more stereotypically (defectively) American a woman is, the more I find her sexually desirable.

When I lick the thick, burger-fed thigh of an American woman, I like to imagine she has the blood of Indian-killers, segregationists, gun-nuts, slave-owners, and overseers, flowing voluptuously beneath her pink American skin. As I taste her vagina, I think of the death penalty, high-school massacres, atom bombs, and oxycodone bottles. She is the human distillation of her entire country; the fattened posterity of unrivalled enslavement, violence, and conquest. I am licking America, its extreme past, present, and future.

I am also licking power, by measure of which America is obviously preeminent in the world.

An American woman, with her vote, has more power at her fingertips than a hundred thousand Estonians, Belgians or New Zealanders put together. She is carelessly and zealously protected by the world’s most powerful military, with its ICBMs, carrier strike groups, and M1 Abram tanks numbering by the thousand. Millions could be liquidated to defend her. She is thus an aristocrat of the democratic world. I should rightly be scared of her, awed by her power, desperate for her approval, fearful of upsetting her.

Of course, most Americans do not understand their power any more than they appreciate their extremity. Why else would American women treat English men as if we are their superiors? Why else would they seem to believe our accents, intelligence, and reputed charm, rightly merit their giggling humility? Britain is surely an irrelevance. In reality, we are prostrate at their feet, along with the rest of the world.

How I wish they would become conscious of their might!

The American woman is mistress of the world, to be obeyed, feared, and worshipped.


Purchase (and please review) my books:
The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery
Synopsis: Abigail and Susannah are half-sisters. Abigail is white. Susannah is not, being the result of their father’s extra-marital relations with a mixed-race slave at his tobacco plantation in Florida. When their father dies, Abigail inherits not only the estate, but her sister along with it. Their relationship soon changes out of all recognition as Abigail finds a dark part of her own nature that delights in the cruel treatment of her childhood rival.
Kindle & paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9
Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun
Synopsis: Hannah and Eden are old friends – and blossoming lovers. While the two are training to join the Israeli security forces, Hannah, a ruthless sadist, manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of extreme perversion.
Kindle : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07736XNYP
Paperback : https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conquerors-Israeli-Girls-Having-Fun/dp/1979313881
The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave
Synopsis: 1851. USA. Juliet is a blonde twenty-three year old farm slave in Appalachia. Only one thirty-second black by blood – nearly white by law – she hopes to have an illicit child (who will be legally white and thus free) with her owner, Jack. But that dream is soon shattered when Jack, under great financial strain, sells her to a sadistic Cherokee master with plans to use her for breeding.
Kindle & paperback : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B077SNXHW1

Anilingus: The Suspension of Civilisation


Sex is overrated. By this, I mean to say that the climax of sexual desire – the ‘in-out’ – to adopt Clockwork Orange vernacular – is overrated, and too much importance is ascribed to it.

Much better is foreplay; an (in)discipline of infinite variety. Like a game of chess, no two sessions of foreplay are exactly alike. They vary wildly. It can sometimes be boring, sure, perhaps a little routine. But it can also be heavenly; a banquet for the senses without limit. Via foreplay one can devour a person, not merely use them for pleasure. One can explore everything there is to know about that person. And to this end we can use not only our bodies, but our words and minds, our creativity. Foreplay is to sex what Jazz is to music. It is free-flowing and ecstatic, primitively complex.

And of the kinds of foreplay, the most exquisite activity is surely that which technical types refer to anilingus; the pleasuring of the anus with the mouth. (Colloquially this is known as ‘ass-eating’, and, to be honest, I prefer this more literal term.)

The beauty of ass-eating derives from its perfect degradation of the giving partner. There is no way of dressing up anilingus as something dignified. It isn’t. It is shamelessness and surrender perfected. And that is why I am so utterly, proudly addicted to it.

When I lick my partner’s anus, I am caressing with my tongue the tube down which her excrement and flatulence travels. Without such gruesome aspects in mind, the activity is far less enlivening.

For a person to eat an ass is to surrender utterly to the animal part of his or her being. It is to strip away the veneer of civilisation completely and expose the chimp-like reality that is only ever half-obscured beneath the suits and ties, the sky-scrapers and the banks, the democracies and all other cants with which modernity powders its face in the morning.

Anilingus rolls us back down the evolutionary hill. It is the sport of kings and queens. And no life may be called complete without a taste of its mysteries.


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9 – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

The Head Doctor (erotic flash fiction)


It was especially hard today, what with my tongue being so horribly dry and my knees so sensitive and sore. But I had no choice. I never have a choice. The drug won’t give me one. And Dr Ramirez won’t, either.

“Keep going,” she said flatly as I ran my sandpaper tongue around the walls of her vagina. “Don’t stop for a second.”

As always, she had the pen in her hand, ready to write my relief. The pad was somewhere else. She must hide it very well. She produces it from a different place every time.

“You’re really going to earn it today,” she said, smiling. I could not see her. But I knew she was smiling. “Keep going.”

When finally she came, I collapsed forward onto my tender palms. Dr Ramirez rolled her skirt down her attractive but rough, middle-aged legs and went over to the drawers near the window.

“I’m going to give you twenty today,” she declared coldly. “I could tell you were putting little effort into it.”

She peeled off the script and threw it down onto the floor near where I was slumped.

“You know where to come for more. I suggest you work on your technique in the meantime.”


You can support my writing by buying my novel: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075CK7LB9  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias


Curious Corrine (erotic flash fiction)


No-one could ever understand why Corrine Hanson, 22, was seemingly unable to keep a man in her life. She was, after all, shockingly beautiful. She had gorgeous pre-Raphaelite hair, the purest of blacks, poured like melted wax around her broad, pleasant shoulders. And her face? Well, this was equally worthy of the attention of a painter, presenting as it did a perfect balance of Latin softness and Germanic nobility, the result of an Italian mother and Norwegian father. Yes, Corrine was beautiful alright. On that everyone could agree. But she was never seen with the same man on more than one occasion. And no-one, not even her dearest friends, could manufacture a satisfying explanation for this.

One day, one of her closest friends, Paul, bent on attempting a clearing of the fence from friend to lover, asked Hanson on a date. She accepted, as she always accepted the offer of a date. But in this case, she was especially pleased, since the two were already very affectionate with one another.

They met up on a rainy Saturday at his house, where they spent a pleasant evening watching a Japanese horror film on Netflix. And as the credits rolled, the host duly asked Corrine if she would like to go upstairs.

“Before we go any further,” Hanson replied anxiously, standing up from the couch on which they had been slumped, and turning to face her date, “I want you to know something. I can’t have the same thing happen again. I don’t want you to be like the others.”

“Tell me,” Paul said keenly, desperate to hear whatever she had to say. “I won’t judge you. It’s me, remember.”

And so, believing his assurances, Corrine told him. And then his face froze in shock.

She was disappointed by this reaction, but she was not surprised by it. It had happened so many times before.

“Well, regardless of how you feel,” she remarked sternly, “I must insist on having my fun. You know, I really thought you might be different. Obviously I was naïve. But it’s out of your hands now. I’m sure you understand.”

And so the two of them went upstairs and had hard and lengthy intercourse, Corrine moaning and growling with pleasure throughout, as, astride him, she rubbed her sweaty vagina forward and back on his reflexively stiff penis.

Paul stayed silent as a stone, his face unchanged from its condition upon hearing Corrine’s secret. But he had no way out now. It was out of his hands.



Buttocks by Jean-Christophe destailleur

“What does manchego mean?” Dorian asked, eyebrows raised, when our coffees had been laid before us  – with a clatter and a ding, the spoons already in the cups, the milk already stirred; very odd place.

“It’s a cheese,” Rafa replied, frowning, removing the piece of dripping cutlery from his drink. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s very curious. I was queuing in the supermarket today and a girl was there. She was pretty. Very pretty, really. I would say 25 years old. Dark hair. Light yellowish skin.”

“Like manchego then?” Rafa grinned.


“Her skin was light and yellowish, you say? That is what manchego is like. It looks much like cheddar. Only it’s softer. Fleshier.”

“That must explain it!” Dorian declared, clicking the fingers of one hand. “You see, this girl was dressed very lightly. A tee-shirt. A very short skirt. Her backside was round and quite large in proportion to the rest of her body. I know it’s vulgar to talk about these things. I mention it only because of what she went on to do.

“When she had been served. she turned and smiled at me. Naturally, I smiled back. She was very pretty, as I say. And then she put her bags down on the floor and reached up her skirt with one hand.”

“In front of others?”

“Yes. This was in the supermarket. There were two women behind me. This seemed to matter nothing to her. She scrunched up a handful of flesh from one of her yellow buttocks and wobbled it, her eyes still set on me, saying, “Manchego? Manchego para ti?”

“And what did you do?”

“I shook my head and told her I didn’t understand. I told her I was English. And then she said, “English? And you are not hungry? No manchego?” She seemed quite offended by my response, and then she left the store. I looked at the women behind me. They were both frowning. So I shrugged at them, as if to make clear I also didn’t understand what had just happened. And then they said disbelievingly, “You are not hungry?””