Cleanliness of Blood

V0041892 An auto-da-fé of the Spanish Inquisition and the execution o

Maria was the first gentile I ever dated. She was only the second person I had ever dated. Perhaps what happened can be partly blamed on inexperience.

When I first encountered her, Maria, a Cantabrian Spaniard, was still glowing and dripping with the undried dew of youth and newness, moral perfection, intellectual innocence. A handsome brunette of 20, with a long and sultry face, and a chiselled, sharp chin, she charmed me without trying, without even having to try.

Her strangeness, as it soon revealed itself, took me altogether by surprise. It appeared out of nowhere, so to speak; out of a clear blue sky.

True, she had always seemed a little too interested in my Jewish heritage, asking boring and somewhat off-the-wall questions about it. But I put this down to nervousness on her part. She was just thinking of something, anything to say.

That her feelings proved not to be so benign is a needless understatement. I cannot recall exactly the number of times she delighted herself in humiliating me – racially, culturally, theologically. I can only recall that she did so, again and again and again.

I stuck with her only out of weakness. The weakness all men have for beautiful women. We can forgive them anything. Everything they do can be sexualised, made erotic. And I did enjoy things I should not have enjoyed.

One of Maria’s favourite routines was to have me kneel before her on the floor. She would position a plate of Cantabrian chorizo at her feet and commanded me thus in Spanish, “Prove your allegiance to the Christ, Jew! Prove your blood is clean!”

I would then be expected to eat the chorizo without using my hands, rather like a dog. And she would giggle.

She explained after the first time she had me do this that her ancestors used to do this to Muslim and Jewish converts during the inquisition. Since pork is unclean to both Judaism and Islam, the unfortunates suspected of dual theological loyalty would be so commanded to outrage their renounced gods in a public place.

She stroked me on the cheek after that first time, her intense brown eyes burrowing into mine.

“I will protect you, You are my special Jew.”


Purchase (and please review) my novels:

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.

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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.
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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.
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Pomelo: Catalonian Flu



I first met Maria in the supermarket as I browsed the fruit isle looking for white pomelos. At that moment she was standing above me on the flat apex of a short ladder, re-arranging things on the uppermost shelf.

I could see only her backside in detail from this position. Nice. Small. Two plump oranges wrapped in black fabric. They wobbled a little as she worked.

And then, after a minutes or so, she looked down over her shoulder, preparing to descend the ladder. But before my presence beneath her could register in her mind, Maria, my beloved, sneezed violently, sending a spray of salty gunge from her nose into my open mouth.

This woman’s face was shocking to my eyes. So pale for Spain. (I have since learnt that she is Catalonian.) Her black hair was tied back in a tight bundle, scraping her eyes higher than they would otherwise have been. It was a look I liked as soon as I saw it.

“Lo siento!” she said breathlessly, bringing her hands up in front of her face just a few seconds too late. “I’m sorry! Lo siento!”

But the fluid was in my mouth. And as I savoured it, the salty, gooey fruit of Catalonia; and as she noticed that I was savouring it, she transformed her face to present a Catalonian smile.


Purchase my 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.

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Paperback :

The Cherokee’s Nearly-White Slave

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The Beautiful Girl with a Cough


My girlfriend Meredith is beautiful. It’s a banal observation. But I’ve made it. Here’s another. Today, she is ill. We are lying together in bed, perhaps the hundredth time we have done so. Our relationship is anything but new.

But Meredith has just said something to me which I found quite revolting. She has been coughing phlegmatically for hours, spitting out the issue each time into a coffee mug on the floor by the bed. I did not – and do not – judge her for this. We all fall ill.

But just moments ago, Meredith lifted the mug to my eye level and tipped it so I could view the thick, patchily golden mess at the bottom of it. She then smiled and said, sweetly, with her usual feminine grace, “Look at that. Look at it.”

I frowned, revolted.

“Tell me I’m beautiful,” she said.

“I’ve already told you a million times,” I remarked.

“Is this beautiful,” she asked, gesturing with her eyes to her drying lung honey.

This was a bizarre question. For an answer, to produce anything resembling one, I had to think not with my mind but with my lust.

“Yes,” I said.

Satisfied, she laid the cup back down on the floor by the bed.


Support my writing. Support perversion. Buy my new erotic novel:

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 manages to persuade her weak-willed sweetheart into an act of sadism and revenge.

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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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Jane is a Patriot


Jane Morris was a deeply patriotic and committed citizen of the United States. A CIA analyst and interrogator by the tender age of 22, she had risen rapidly through the ranks on the energies and passion of her uncomplicated nationalism. She said the pledge of allegiance when no-one was around to hear it – in front of the mirror every morning and before retiring to sleep every night. A huge, faded American flag was pinned above the headboard of her bed. So intense was this patriotism that Morris’s heart never really had the space to incorporate affection for any individual human being. She rarely had boyfriends or personal associates, preferring to invest all of her hormonal and intellectual drives into her national service. It was only after she was forced to retire early (at the age of 27) because of a psychiatric complaint that Morris began to consider the idea of fellowship with another person. And the first person to accept her advances was Derek Peterson, an 18 year old army cadet.

The first few meetings between the two were ordinary enough. But such was Morris’s insistence on discussing politics (particularly threats to America’s national security) that Peterson eventually advised that they no longer see each other.

Morris didn’t take this well. This much was obvious to Peterson the moment he came around in Morris’s bedroom, his mouth gagged, his limbs strapped tightly to a long gurney, and with long streams of angrily delivered spittle and phlegm running down his cheeks.

“You wouldn’t last a minute in combat,” Morris seethed, looking down at him. She was now dressed in full military uniform. “You’re fucking useless. No use to the national organism.”

Peterson writhed in vain beneath the straps, all of them expertly applied to nullify his every means of rebellion.

Morris pushed her olive green trousers down to her knees, exposing her thick and pale American thighs.

“I swear allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,” she declared, pulling her underpants down to her calves and taking a seat on Peterson’s terrified face, her cold and white buttocks pressing the full weight of her body onto his head, cutting off his airways.

“And to the republic for which it stands…”

Peterson jerked and wrestled with everything he had, desperate for another breath of oxygen. He could see nothing but blackness. He could move only his shoulders.”

“One nation under God,” she continued, pulling up under the gurney to keep her victim tightly fastened beneath her.

“…indivisible, with liberty…” she paused as the squirming began to lessen, “…and justice…” The squirming stopped altogether. “…for all.”

“God bless the United States,” Morris added, standing up. And then, with her trousers still at half-mast, she saluted the flag above her bed.


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Date with a Sadist (erotic flash fiction)


“She was beautiful,” Sam remarked to his friend. “If I had to compare her with someone, I’d probably go with Megan Fox. She had that dark, sultry look. You know, ethnically ambiguous?”

Darren nodded dreamily.

“But I won’t be seeing her again. I mean, she didn’t ask me for another date, but even if she did…”

“Why not?” Darren interrupted, frowning. “You don’t want another date with Megan Fox?”

“There was this thing she did when we were walking home.” Sam explained. “I still don’t fully understand it. It left me pretty shaken.”

“What? She told you she was born a…”

“This is serious, Darren. It was sick. It’s not something to joke about.”

Darren straightened his face and nodded. He drew lengthily from his black e-cigarette. “OK. Sorry. Go on.”

“We were walking down Shaftsbury Avenue. There was this really old guy sitting at the side of the street. He was sort of slumped forward, maybe drunk, maybe on drugs. I don’t know. He didn’t seem to be fully conscious.”

“A tramp?”

“Yeah. He had a little bowl of money in front of him. And a sign made out of cardboard. It said something like ‘Family dead. Have no means of support.’ It was really sad.”


“Anyway, Louise saw this guy and crouched down to read the sign. She looked back at me and smiled. It was a horrible smile, dude. I was freaked out by it straightaway. And then she opened her handbag and poured the money from the bowl into it.”


“Seriously, dude. She poured everything in. Didn’t leave the guy anything. And then she stood up and we walked on. I told her to put the money back. I told her he was probably starving. And then she grabbed my arm and said breathlessly, “Please don’t. Save it until we get back to mine.””

“What? She sounds crazy.”

“When we were back at hers, in her bedroom, she started playing with herself and asked me to talk about the guy, to tell her what impact her action might have on his life. I was so confused, but I explained he was probably going to cry and feel hopeless. I told her he was going to go without food the next day. And the more I said, the more breathless she seemed to get. She closed her eyes and fell back onto the bed. The sheets between her legs went from white to grey.”


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.