Southern Woman: A Worshipful Ode (erotic poem)


To you who make of others all

An ugly, lowly, cheapened swarm,

I bend my knee and raise my eyes

To chance admire pure white thighs.


The veins which run beneath your skin

Must boast in great supply within

The blood of masters, heartless kin,

Who dared correct the fault and sin


Of tired slaves, rebellious minds,

Who, cruelly owned by evil kinds

Superior in arms to them,

Did fight the ordering of men.


Pinke Grapefruit

You can support my writing by buying my erotic novels:

The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery” –

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 :
Paperback :

– or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

Conquerors: Israeli Girls Having Fun (erotic novella)


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 :

Paperback :

Pinke Grapefruit

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.


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Veronica Hurts Her Employees (erotic flash fiction)


I am too poor to refuse. I have no other options left to me. Though it stabs at my pride as if with a jagged-tipped blade, I have no way of resisting her.

I can hear Veronica rubbing her hands with lubricant behind me. The noise is nauseating. Chook, chook, chook, slide, slide, chook. It’s ghastly. Every nerve and muscle in my body is tensed to breaking. My feet are far apart. She has me as she wants me.

Why would she want to do this? Why would anyone? What strange pleasure can she derive from it?

“Here it comes, baby,” she says.

She has never called me this before.

But there is no time to think any more about it. Soon enough I feel the cold, sticky mess of her fingertips slide into the crack of my buttocks, parting them wider the further she penetrates. She is quickly up to her knuckles, and then past them; deeper, deeper still. It is the most bizarre and un-erotic sensation I have ever experienced. I feel like I am being examined.

“Nearly in,” she mutters excitedly. “Keep perfectly still.”

When her hand has squelched up to her wrist, I feel her fingers slowly begin to curl into a ball inside me. I know too little of biology to decide whether this is something that could damage me. But that is what my common sense cautions me.

The tightened elastic of my anal passage is resisting the swelling shape of her fist with everything it has. The squelching is growing ever more disquieting. The sensation is nearly indescribable.

“Good,” she sighs. “That’s great. Can you feel that?”


“Stupid question really,” she laughs pleasantly, as if expecting me to laugh along with her.

There is now a fist inside my anus. It is all the way in. She is trying to force it still higher. Only science can save me now.

I am breaking wind in long loud gusts. This is so undignified.

She fucks me with her hand, pushing and pulling the fist she has made up and down my anal canal.

“Take that, baby. Take it.”

I should have studied harder in school.


You can support my writing by buying my novel: – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media.

Is it OK to be aroused by this?


I read an interesting story this morning. A woman in Michigan, America, has been convicted of raping a man at gunpoint. The photo above is the woman in question.

This story aroused me. I cannot deny that it did. I prefer always to tell the truth.

As I read of the events alleged to have occurred, I developed an erection. As I pictured the scenario in my mind, my moral instincts melted from the heat of my lustfulness. A rape, the sexual assault of an innocent man, aroused me.

Let us be clear – just because, in this case, a woman is said to be responsible and the victim is a man, that does not make what is alleged to have transpired any less of a rape. Rape is rape. It is a gender-neutral crime, equally traumatic to both sexes.

But my arousal is nevertheless surely connected to the special circumstances of this case. I am not aroused by the rape of a woman by a man. As a heterosexual masochist, I have long fantasised specifically about being raped by a woman – about female-on-male rape. That is what I find erotic.

And how should I feel about this? Something in my conscience demands that I feel guilty for these thoughts. Are such fantasies really harmless? Am I not deriving enjoyment and pleasure from someone else’s misfortune and trauma?

It’s hard to deny these charges. And yet I remain excited. I enjoy imagining being put through the same trauma, but with a smile on my face.

Rape fantasies have always been a very difficult moral issue in the sadomasochistic subculture. Traditionally, such fantasises have been the preserve of women and gay men. But, as this story shows, it’s something we all have to think about at some point.


You can support my writing by buying my novel: – or you can confuse / scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias…

The Pleasuring of Cleopatra (erotic flash fiction)


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.


You can support my writing by buying my novel:  – or you can scare your friends by sharing my work on social media. Gracias.


Buy my debut novel – “The Torture of the Octoroon: A Tale of Sex & Slavery”


In this erotic novel, 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) : (Kindle) : (Paperback) :