Mistress of the World: The Glory of The American Woman

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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.

PG


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

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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.

PG


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 Pleasuring of Cleopatra

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I have never been so terrified in all my life. With her long, bronze thighs clamping my head in place, I do my best to massage the depths of her vagina with my trembling tongue. It is so dark; the flesh of it is so pungent and sour. A bush of sweat-shined black hair, wiry and hard, tickles and scratches my face.

This tension is beyond the powers of language to express. I value my life. I live for my one true love. I have children. Why did she have to pick me? Why? But there is no way out of it. The god-empress has the right to whatever she desires. I am but a lowly servant.

Her vagina is so musty and strong-scented I am hardly able to conceal my revulsion. But one twitch, one signal of displeasure or disrespect will be the death of me. How can I survive this torture, this test of will? Her thighs are tight against my cheeks. Her skin is warm and damp with sweat. I want to see her face, but I am too scared to glance up at her. Is she enjoying it? Please let it be so! Please, please let it be so!

The woman whose vagina I am required to pleasure has legions of men ready to do her bidding in the blink of an eye. If I die, I will not die well. It will be slow and tortuous. She will want to watch. She always wants to watch.

Her vagina is beginning to dampen. The issue from it is bitter and unpleasant. I carry on licking and sucking and massaging. How will I know when she wants me to stop?

As soon as this thought occurs to me a hand is laid on the top of my head. I look up. The god-empress smiles, and then, after a pause, slowly shakes her head. Two masculine arms grip me by the shoulders and roughly drag me backwards.

The god-empress diminishes in size as I am pulled further and further away from the divan. My time has come. May the gods grant better fortune to my children.

PG


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.