He woke up, slightly dazed. Moaning softly he opened his eyes, the blindfold momentarily forgotten. He whimpered suddenly, remembering last night's events. Moving slightly, he realized he was still bound, hands tied securely behind his back, kneeling on the floor, cheek pressed against the cool tiles of the room, his well rounded ass high in the air. Attuned to the sounds of the room, he heard a faint clicking on the tiles. Lifting his head, he winced in remembrance as the heavy silver collar bit into the sensitive skin of his neck, which was attached to a short chain that was bolted to the floor. He strained to recognize the sound, heart racing, he licked his parched lips, wishing he could see what was going on, or what was about to happen. He heard the clicking sounds grow louder, he began whimpering softly as he recognized the sound. He struggled frantically against the bonds, aching to be free of the constrictions, knowing what his Mistress had in store for him. The big black dog approached the man, snout to the floor, sniffing out the interesting smells of the room. He cautiously approached the man, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he nuzzled the back of the man's thighs, tentatively licking, tasting the man. He reached out a paw, resting it on the bound man's ass as he continued exploring with his tongue, becoming excited. He thrust his snout against the man's ass, his thick wet tongue taking one long swipe across his puckered little ass. He whined softly as he continued licking, teasing his captive's ass. The man moaned low in his throat, feeling the dog sniffing and licking at him, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment even as he tried in vain not to react to the feel of his long wet tongue licking the backs of his thighs, moving higher, teasing his ass. He felt his cock grow hard instantly, straining against the chastity belt. He shifted slightly, spreading his legs farther apart to give the dog better access. He felt the dog nuzzling his ass, moaning out as the dog began to lick eagerly at the man's puckered opening. He wantonly began to thrust his hips, pushing back against the dog's snout as the he lapped at the tight hole, pressing his hot tongue hard against the man's ass hole. He shuddered, his cock thickening, aching as it pressed against the belt even as he thrust himself back onto the dog's tongue, feeling it slide inside him. Hearing the man gasping in pleasure, the dog shifted, his big paws resting on either side of the man's hips, mounting him as he would any bitch that was ready for him. He began thrusting his hips, whimpering softly as his cock throbbed, aching to be inside something warm and tight. The dog growled softly, teeth nipping and snapping at the nape of his neck. The dog thrust one last time, feeling his hard, aching cock slide deep inside the man's tight opening. Positioning himself, he began to thrust wildly into the man, hips pistoning, ramming his big cock into the poor man's tight little hole, using him ferociously. The man groaned low in his throat, his body shuddering in ecstasy as he felt the dog drive home inside his ass. He pushed frantically backwards, wanting, needing to be used like the little bitch he was, desperately wanting to please his Mistress. Whimpering softly, he begged for his release, knowing his Mistress was in the room, watching closely for his reactions. He shivered in pleasure as the dog's claws dug deep into his hips, already feeling red welts forming. The black dog continued fucking him, ramming his long shaft hard and mercilessly into his ass, causing him to move forward with every bone jarring thrust. Jumping slightly, the man felt warm hands sliding along his back, slowly moving to the front of his chastity belt. He shuddered, feeling the clasp being released and his hard, throbbing cock springing free from it's confines. Aching, shuddering as he felt her fingers tease and stroke the throbbing shaft. He gasped, his breathing ragged as he felt his Mistress's lips wrap around the head of his cock, the dog continued thrusting hard, causing him to fuck her mouth. The dog let out a low whine as he thrust hard and fast, fucking the man as he shot loads of cum deep inside his ass, emptying himself inside the bowels of the man. The dog licked and nipped at the man's neck, his hips still thrusting slightly as he kept hold of the man's hips. The man moaned out loud, feeling the dog's cum shoot into his ass, warm and wet. He shuddered, his cock thrusting inside his Mistress's mouth, her tongue teasing and rubbing along the underside of his cock. She slid her hand to his balls, pinching and tugging on them slightly as she deep throated him, taking his throbbing cock deep inside her mouth. Pulling back, until the head was just inside her mouth, lips wrapped tightly around the swollen head, she urged him on. He panted, grunting in animalistic pleasure, his balls tightening, crying out as he shot his hot sticky cum into her mouth, his body convulsing, shuddering as his orgasm hit. Drawing in a deep ragged breath, mewling softly as he felt his mistress lick him clean, softly kissing and nuzzling his cock, the very well used man collapsed as the dog pulled out of him, moaning softly as he felt the warm cum ooze out of his ass. Sighing softly, he whispered to his Mistress, "thank You Mistress." He gasped softly as he felt the dog nuzzle and lick at his well used and bruised ass, hoping against hope he pleased his Mistress enough to be free again.The End.
I went for a run on Sunday. I live near the coast and I like to run over the cliffs and along the beach whenever I can. The weather was very mild so I was able to go out in my running kit. This comprised of socks, running shoes, a running vest, a leather cock strap and a pair of nylon shorts. The shorts do not have an inner lining and the sides are cut away to the waistband, so there is a lot of leg showing. I love to have my cock and balls bounce away whilst I'm running and wearing the cock strap really pushes my cock and balls forward so that they are on show. It always gets a reaction. Anyway, I am running along the cliff top path and there is a fair amount of shrubs and small trees around, so the path meanders a bit. I've been running for about 20 minutes or so and my cock is bouncing away and is semi hard. I've already passed a few people out walking who have looked at my crotch and then looked at me with a smile in their eyes. But I've not seen anyone else for about 5 minutes. The path is going through a patch of trees and shrubs and I see another guy coming towards me also running. He's about 30 years old with dark, close-cropped hair; clean-shaven and quite stockily built. He has a very square cut face and deep set eyes. He is about 5' 6" tall and looks a dream. He was wearing a T-shirt and running shorts, all in black, so looked very severe. As we got closer to each other I was checking him out as he was checking me out. He had a fair sized package that was moving about in his shorts but they were obviously encased in a jock or something. He could see my cock bouncing away and as he passed could see a lot of thigh on display. He gave me a wicked smile with his bright and even teeth showing. I carried on for a few metres and stopped, looking out over the sea. I then looked behind me to see if I could see him running in the opposite direction. He wasn't anywhere to be seen. So I carried on running. A little further on, the same guy was running towards me again. He must have doubled back so he could pass me again. As we got closer, he was smiling at me as he casually squeezed his cock. As he passed I slowed right down and stopped a couple of metres on. I turned back and he had also stopped and turned to look back at me. We stood eyeing each other up. His hand was brushing the front of his shorts whilst I was brushing my hand over the exposed length of thigh under my shorts. He walked towards me and placed his hand on my thigh, it was electric. My cock jumped and tented the front of my shorts in an instant. I brushed my hand over his chest, careful to pass over each of his nipples, which reacted equally as fast as my cock. We didn't say anything; he looked at me and signalled me to follow as he moved away into the line of trees. I did follow and stopped when he did between the trees, just out of sight of anyone casually passing on the path. However, if they looked hard enough I'm sure they would have been able to see us. As we stood together he resumed stroking my thigh as I started to play with his nipples. He told me his name was Peter and asked me what I liked to do. I told him my name and said that I am willing to do whatever he wanted me to do. His eyes lit up even more at this. His hands began to move under the flaps of my shorts and he was stroking my ass cheeks. My hands had disappeared under his T-shirt to caress his smooth and muscular chest. He moved his hands from my ass to my running vest. He pulled the bottom of it away from the waistband of my shorts and pulled it up. I had to let go of his chest and lift my arms up so he could remove the vest. Once this was done I returned the favour and slid his T-shirt off over his head. What a chest. He obviously worked out. His chest was totally smooth, he either shaved or waxed and it was heaven. His mouth went for my nipples and he sucked and nipped them with his teeth. I wasn't able to return the favour so I let my hand slide down over his cock. It was certainly hard. I slid my hand into the top of his shorts and moved around to his ass. Oh heaven! He was wearing a jock strap. I felt his ass and caressed every muscle in that smooth ass. He let go of my nipples and slid his hands down to my shorts. He pushed them off my ass and eased my cock out from within them. Pushing them down to the ground he told me to step out of them. He looked down at my cock and sighed. I had shaved on Saturday so I was as smooth as a baby. He obviously liked that. Then he very gently stroked the skin around my cock and balls, tickling me as he did so. He told me to remove my shoes and socks so that I was totally naked. This I did immediately for him. Now I was standing on top of a cliff among some trees in full view of whoever wants to see me and I've a raging hard on. I slid my hands into the waistband of Peter's shorts and eased them off him. I also told him to step out of them. He had on a black jock which was struggling to hold back his hard on too. I ran my hand over the end of his cock. The tip was already wet and he was sensitive to the touch. I leant in and took his nipple in my mouth, nipping it gently with my teeth. He groaned with the pleasure. His hands were now back around my ass. I could feel him moving towards my hole. As I moved towards his other nipple I felt a finger find the target it was looking for and he applied gentle pressure, trying to get my hole to open for him. I sunk down onto my knees and took his jock encase cock into my mouth. He groaned loudly at the sensation. I devoured the jock covered cock, wanting to take it all in. He smelt very sweaty from his running and it was heaven. A very strong masculine smell. I let my hands move round to his ass and slid my fingers under the straps of his jock, kneading his ass whilst trying to eat his cock. I moved so that I had a finger pressing at his back door. He opened his legs wider to give me greater access and I applied a little pressure. The hole opened enough to get my finger in to the first knuckle. I played with his pucker, gently teasing the hole as I continued to suck on the jock. He pulled me up into a standing position and he then knelt down. He lifted my cock out of the way and started licking at my balls. He slurped away at the shaven sack and was obviously loving it. He was squeezing the cock and sack at the root where the cock strap was fitted. Doing so produced an even harder erection. He slipped one ball into his mouth and pulled gently. My cock was dancing away above his head. He then sucked the other ball into his mouth and I nearly shot my load there and then. I had to concentrate very hard in order that I didn't shoot too soon. He moved his tongue to that area between my balls and my hole and slurped on the smooth skin. Oh what pleasure a man can give you! After a few minutes of this I had to stop him or I would have lost my load. I made him stand up and I eased the waistband of his jock away from his body. I pulled the front away so that I could pull his cock and balls free. Oh what a sight. He also shaves. A clean smooth cock and balls for me to play with. I pulled off his jock and he stepped out of them. I undid his trainers and pulled them and his socks off. Now he was as naked as I was. I put out my tongue and licked the end of his cock, I found his piss slit and I got the tip of my tongue in there. I pulled on his sack and caressed the area under his balls between his legs. I had not realised before, but this was shaved too. My hand returned to his ass and following the crease to his waiting hole I realised that this area was also devoid of any body hair. I got the tip of his cock into my mouth and let my tongue play with it. I licked up and down the cock whilst playing with the ball sack. My mouth went down on his cock until it could go no farther, the tip of his 6" cock was at my throat. I pulled off him until just the head was resting on my tongue and slowly took him back in to the base. I did this several times whilst my hand found the entrance to his ass once again. I pushed slowly and the hole yielded to the pressure to let my finger into its entrancing cavern. I pushed until I was in to my second knuckle and then pulled out again, then back in and then out. Plunging in and out all the while his ass getting more and more stretched ready to take a second finger. As I was preparing to put a second finger in I heard voices right behind us. I froze not daring to turn around. I looked up at Peter and the look on his face was that of horror. I turned slowly and stood up. There just behind us were two guys both about 25 and both had their dogs with them on their leads. The guys had stopped and were looking straight at us. Both were dark haired, one with short hair and the other almost shaved. Both guys were pretty good looking. The one on the right looked quite menacing whilst the other had a sly grin on his face. Both dogs were German Shepherds and were being held back on tight leads from joining Peter and me. The menacing one spoke to his mate, saying "look what we've found, a couple of playmates for the dogs". His mate said that they should let the dogs go and let them fuck us, as we seem to be ready for a hard fucking. They moved forward with the dogs, Peter and I were frozen to the spot, scared with what they were planning to do. They came and stood next to us and the menacing one reached out his hand and ran it down my chest to my cock. When he got there he turned to his mate and said, "Well looky here, shaved as clean as a babies bum. It really looks as if we hit the jackpot her Jon". Jon was holding Peter's cock by now and said that yea they were going to have a great time now. The dogs were also interested in what was going on and one of them has its face in my ass then I felt it licking it. Jon turned to his mate and said, " Hey Paul, what say you and I have some fun and let the dogs watch, when we've done perhaps we'll let the dogs have their turn". Both Peter and I begged them to let us go, saying we've done no harm but they wouldn't have any of that. Paul instructed the dogs to stand guard and watch us. He ordered them to attack if we made any sudden moves. Both dogs sat and growled at us. I didn't dare move. Paul bent down and picked up our clothes and moved backwards into the trees putting them into a fork of a tree about 10 metres away. He came back to the dogs and took the leads and collars off them. The dogs did not move. Giving a collar and lead to Jon they attached one each to Peter and my neck. They then pulled us further into the tress as if we were dogs. Once we were out of sight of the path they stopped. Paul was pulling me and he led me to a tree with a horizontal branch about 2 metres from the ground. He told me to put my arms up, one either side of the branch and he tied my wrists together with the lead. I was now fastened to the tree and could not escape. I looked up to see that the same thing had happened to Peter at a nearby tree. I was really scared now, but my cock was still as hard as rock and precum was leaking from my piss slit. Paul called his dog over and gave the command to lick pointing at my cock. The dog came up to me and swiped its tongue over the tip of my cock. Then it started to lick both my cock and balls. Paul thought this was very funny and asked me if I was enjoying it. In a strange way I was, the sensation was very erotic and my cock seemed to be harder than ever. I couldn't see what was happening to Peter, but it looked as if Jon's dog was enjoying the same treat. I hadn't noticed before but Paul was dressed in a black T-shirt and black leather trousers and black leather boots. The T-shirt was tight across his chest and his well-defined chest was shown off to perfection. As the dog was licking my cock and balls, Paul pulled off his T-shirt revealing a very hairy chest and both nipples pierced with silver rings firmly attached. He bent down and undid the laces of his boots then removed them. He stood up in front of me and slowly undid the buckle of his leather belt, teasing me with whatever he had planned for me. He popped open the top button and then slowly undid each button of his fly. He pulled open the trousers and slowly slid them off his hips revealing a black leather Jock. I nearly shot my load in the dog's mouth. He pulled off the trousers and hung them and his T-shirt on a nearby branch. Coming back to me he called the dog off which then moved away a couple of metres and sat looking at me and licking its lips. Paul walked behind me and ran his finger down from my shoulder blades to the crack of my ass. Shivers went through my body at the feel of his touch. He leant into my ear and spoke quietly telling me that he loved a smooth body that would service him and do what he wants. He asked me if I was that body. I didn't answer and then the next thing I knew was a whack and a loud smack where he slapped my ass. He said it again, and I immediately answered this time saying yes I would do anything he wanted. He then stroked my ass saying good boy. His hand moved to my crack and started to part the cheeks. A finger found its way to my love shute and started to push it's way in. He wasn't very gentle and soon has a finger all the way in to the last knuckle. He leant around me and started to play with my nipples whilst roughly pistoning in and out of my ass with his finger. He let go of my ass and came around the front. This time he started to stroke my chest and worked his way lower until he found my cock strap. It wasn't fastened on the last press-stud so he popped it open and refastened it on the last stud. My cock was now so hard with the veins raised and looking ready to pop. He wrapped his hand around my cock and slowly started to jerk me off. His other hand pulled and squeezed on my ball sack. This was too much for me and I shot ribbons and ribbons of sperm all over his stomach and chest. He wasn't very happy that I had shot over him and so soon. I was on cloud nine; I can't remember when I've had such a powerful and erotic orgasm before. He finished jerking me off until there was no more cum left. He called his dog forward and it leapt up on him and licked my cum off his chest and stomach. The dog loved it. When it had got its' master cleaned up the dog turned to me and licked the end of my cock making sure that I had no cum lingering there. Paul then untied my hands and told me to get on my hands and knees, which I did. He refastened the lead to the collar and the other end he tied to the tree. The dog then came around again and started to lick my ass. Do you know how long a dogs tongue is? It wasn't long before I had my legs open wide and was pushing back to the dog so it could get its tongue in further. Paul was laughing at my antics and telling me what a good boy I was and if I were very good he would let his dog fuck me! Paul moved up close to my face and told me to take his cock out and start sucking. I went to pull his leather jock away and he slapped my hands away. I was told to use my mouth only. I started to lick the leather pouch. Up and down, side to side it was wonderful. I could feel his cock getting harder as I was paying special attention to the leather pouch. I managed to get my tongue inside the pouch from the side and I was able to lick a ball and part of his cock. He told me to get on with it so I withdrew my tongue and moved up to the waistband of the jock. Using my teeth I was able to move the jock down each hip a little at a time. The waistband was down so that it only half covered his swelling cock with a thick mass of black curly hair covering the top of the jock. Eventually I was able to get the jock clear of his cock and balls and then eventually to get it all the way to the ground when he stepped out of it. His cock was beautiful. 8" of straight thick uncut cock. My favourite. He had a pair of very low handing balls and a leather cock and ball strap to make sure they hung real low. I could wait any longer; I had to have a taste of that meat. I leant forward and let my tongue lick up the underside of his cock from the base to the head. I swiped my tongue across his piss slit and then licked down the other side to the root. Coming back up his cock I stopped at the head and let my mouth surround it. My tongue started work on getting inside his foreskin and I was able to get under the flange of the helmet. There was a residue of man juices, which tasted of nectar, by the time I was finished with his head he was spotless. I was sucking his cock as hard as I could, he was divine. My cock was again hard and ready for more action. Paul moved slightly and I caught sight of Peter and Jon. Peter was on his hands and knees and Jon was fucking him for all his worth. The look on Peter's face was that of a man who had died and gone to heaven. Paul was now breathing deeply and his hips were moving back and forth fucking my mouth. He had his hands on either side of my head getting the leverage he required for giving me a good fucking. I heard him say something but I could not identify what he said as my head was in his hands. The next thing I knew was his dog had mounted me and as it had done so, so Paul thrust his cock deep into my mouth to stop me screaming. The dog entered my ass. It was not gentle. The dog rammed in as hard at it could digging its claws into my hips and lower back. The dog thrust wildly whilst Paul continued to fuck my face and holding my head still. I could suddenly feel hot ropes of dog cum shooting up my ass the pain was just bearable but the pleasure it sparked off was unbelievable. My cock reacted by shooting spurt after spurt of thick cum into the soil. This was soon followed by Paul filling my mouth with his hot seed. I had no choice but to swallow as quickly as I could as he was showing no signs of stopping the flow of thick cum. Eventually Paul calmed down and breathing heavily let his cock drop from my mouth. He told the dog to get down and it removed its cock from my ass with a loud and sudden plop. My hole was gaping open and I could feel cold air whistling around the entrance. Paul moved away to pat his dog and told him what a good boy it was. I looked up to see Jon climaxing in Peter's ass. Peter had not yet cum. When Jon dismounted from Peter he walked around the front of him and told him to clean him up. Peter was protesting but as he opened his mouth Jon shoved his cock in so Peter had no choice but to wash Jon's cock clean. When Jon moved away I could see Peter was still hard and waiting for some release. Paul had obviously seen this too and sent his dog in to lick at Peter's cock. The dog loved it, licking the hot hard pole as if it was a favourite bone. Peter could do nothing but endure the onslaught that the dog was giving him. Within minutes Peter gave a loud cry and was shooting ropes and ropes of hot sticky cum on the dog's face. The dog was trying its hardest to catch it all in its mouth and that which it couldn't it was licking up as fast as it could. Paul and Jon were finished now and were getting dressed. Once they were ready they untied us both from our trees and got us standing. They removed the collar and leads from our neck and said their goodbyes. They hoped they would meet us again soon saying they walk their dogs this way most Sundays! Peter and I were left to find our clothes and go on our way. It was a fantastic experience that I had never thought about before and not one I am sure that I want to repeat. However, Peter and I have arranged to meet again soon and who knows we might find ourselves back on that cliff top on a Sunday morning soon.
I knew my wife was bisexual before I married her. She and her best friend had been to bed several times in high school, and even shared a boyfriend a few times. I hadn't had the pleasure of both of them before we were married, although I did come home one night, and after kissing Sue, could tell that they'd been to bed earlier. Our first wedding aniversary was comming up, and Sue asked me what we were going to do to celebrate. I had planned a nice dinner, perhaps a stage show or dancing, then back home to screw our brains out. When I explained, and asked why she wanted to know several weeks in advance, she simply smiled and suppressed a giggle, her grey eyes twinkling with an impish gleam. Luckily, our first anniversary fell on a Friday, and reservations made, we dolled ourselves up and went out for the evening. Dinner at a fine resturant and dancing at a local hot-spot kept us laughing and in a good mood. As we drove home, Sue sitting next to me, leaned over and caressed my thigh with her fingernails, sending a shiver through me. "You still want to fuck my brains out tonight?" She cooed. I said yes, I would happily keep her wet and jumping all night long. When Sue came, no one could doubt that she wasn't faking. Her tendency to "let go" in bed meant that she was prone to outbursts of very erotic (and sometimes downright dirty) talk, as well as moaning and thrashing wildly about the bed. Arm in arm, we climbed the stairs to our apartment, and once inside, we kissed passionatly for several long moments, running our hands over each other and bring desire to a boil. Sue broke the kiss and knelt straight down, unzipping my pants in the entry hall. She pulled my hardening cock out of my pants and slipped it into her mouth. Tounging the underside of the head, and teasing me, I felt my balls tingle and her wet mouth sliding like wet velvet over my shaft. I pulled her up to me and kissed her long and hard, my tounge exploring her mouth, teasing her tounge to follow mine back, squeezing her tits through her blouse. As I knelt in the hall, lifting her dress, she leaned back against the wall, bending her knees and spreading her thighs. I moved the hem of her dress up, and stared straight at her naked blonde pussy. She had been dressed in a garter belt and stockings, without panties, all night. I looked up at her, my warm breath tickling her bush, and she smiled that special way of hers, telling me she did it for our pleasure. I dove into her soft moist pussy, licking the glistening drops of cream from her bush. My tounge parted her moist lips, feeling the warmth of her, tasting her sweet eagerness. I circled her clit several times, holding on to her thighs when she tried to lower herself against my tounge. She pulled me up and kissed me long and hard, showing me how very hot her passions had become. She pulled a scarf from her pocket, smiling at me. "Stand still." She said. "I have a suprise for you." She used the scarf as a blindfold and led me into the darkened bedroom. I figured she'd gone out and bought some sexy clothes for me to take off of her. I heard matches striking, and the fragrance of scented candles impinged on my senses. "Setting the mood" I thought. She stood next to my, kissing me lightly on the cheek, her bare breast touching my arm. Slowly, she began to undress me. Making me feel every fiber move against my skin. Telling me to stay still, not to reach for her. She removed my shirt, gliding her hands lightly over my chest, tickling the hairs around my nipples. She removed the belt from my pants, slowly pulling it through the belt loops, making a long hissing sound as it slid against the fabric. She knelt and started untying my shoes, helping me out of them, sliding my socks off my feet. Her hands unfastened the snap at my waist, my zipper already undone, with my cock, hard and straight standing, waiting to be touched. She stopped and breathed into my ear, her tounge tracing the edge, warm and wet. "Just a second." She said softly. I heard her climb onto the bed, moving around on the sheets. My pants were pushed away from my hips, and I could feel her hair against my bare thighs as she lifted one leg, then the other out of my pants. Hands caressed my thighs, sliding up under the legs of my boxer shorts, fingernails lightly raking under my boxer shorts. Lips closed around the end of my shaft, with a tounge lightly caressing the head of my cock. "Tease." I muttered.
Hands quickly pulled my shorts off, making me naked and blind in the fragrant darkness. I moved to the bed, and her hands pushed me back against the pillows. I could feel the warmth of her body near me and I longed to reach out an stroke her. "Just lay back and enjoy this." She purred. More movements as she positioned herself on the bed. Again lips encircled the head of my cock, tounge swirling, wet and warm. The velvety smoothness caused me to moan softly, and I could feel her warm breath against my skin. All at once she swallowed my cock, deeply, into her throat. She'd never before been able to 'throat' my seven inches, and I gasped loudly as her lips tickled the hairs at the root. Rising slowly, lips tight against me, she flicked her tounge back and forth over the muscular ridge under my cock. I moaned my pleasure, letting her know I enjoyed this and wanted more. My hands reached out, only to be slapped away. I laid back and enjoyed the sensation of my cock being swallowed over and over. Slowly. Lovingly. She began to move quickly, her lips lightly touching the shaft, her saliva making moist noises as she changed directions. Using only her mouth, she pumped my cock up and down, her efforts shaking the bed. Several fast strokes would be followed by a long plunge. Taking me deep into her throat, she'd pause, letting me know how deep I was, feeling the tightness of her mouth. The velvety smooth, slick skin in the back of her throat caressed the head of my cock, feeling sooo very nice. Then she would pull up quickly, and repeat her fast strokes, again, only to plunge long and deep. She didn't touch me except with her mouth. Her hands I could feel near me on the bed, her hair not touching me as it normally would. Lacking any other distractions, my world consisted of my cock and her mouth, eagerly trying to suck me off. I could feel my cock trying to stiffen even more, as my balls tightened and tingled.
"Unnghh...I'm...gonna...cum!" I panted. Her pace quickened, her saliva dripped onto my balls, feeding the fires in them instead of quenching them. My hips moved up, a primitive instinct taking over control. I want to come in her mouth, give her all of my sperm, never wanting to stop. The dam broke, Vesuvius erupted, the floods came. Sperm rushed from my cock as she held me about half way into her mouth. Spasms wracked my body as come surged from me. After the fourth surge, I felt her let go and put my spurting rod against her chest, rubbing me back and forth until I spent myself.
Breathing heavily and moaning, I began to relax; to drift into that warm "afterglow" of total contentment and relaxation. I felt her hips move over mine, as she sat just over my lower stomach. Her hands untying the blind-fold. As the scarf fell away, revealing her slim form and pale skin in the flickering candlelight, I looked at her smiling above me, wearing only her garter belt and stockings. As she sat, almost grinning at me, I realized that her chest and tits were dry, yet they should have been shiny and wet with white drops of come. "Did you like that?" She laughed huskily. "Mmmmm, yessss!" I replied, still feeling the "glow". I a sudden motion, she moved off of me, laying on her side next to me. "You'd better thank her then." Sue laughed. I looked down, and laying alongside my legs, I saw Karen, Sue's best friend and lover, naked, except for a red bow tied around her neck, her breasts twinkling wetly in the dim light, her tounge licking her lips. She smiled at me, her light brown hair seeming to glow as a candle's light tried to weave its way through. "Happy Anniversary love!" Darlene laughed, kissing me on the cheek. I grabbed her and kissed her back, hard and rough, as much to thank her as to tell her that I'd wished I'd known it wasn't her. Sitting up, I pulled Karen to me and kissed her too, tasting the salty remnants of my come on her tounge. "That, sweetheart, " I said to Karen, "is for that tremendous headjob!" Karen laughed, telling me how much fun it was to suck me while I thought it was Sue going down. Sue told her it would be a few minutes until I was ready again, indicating my flacid cock. "Well, I certainly got all worked up over that." Karen said. Sue had her lay back, and as I watched, laid herself down between Karen's thighs. Her blonde hair and fair skin contrasting to the darker skin tone of the brunette. She slid her hands under Karen's thighs, as her mouth found the moistness between them. Karen crossed her ankles over the middle of Sue's back as a tounge caressed her warm, damp flesh. As I watched, I could feel my rod begin to straighten, getting harder and fuller as Darlene moaned softly between Karen's thighs. A candle on the headboard illuminated Sue's creamy ass, and I could see a glistening reflection deep between her legs. She continued to suck, her hands reaching up to pinch Karen's dark nipples, squeeze her full breasts, caressing the soft tender area on their undersides with her fingers. I placed my hand on the back of her thigh, sliding up halfway to her asscheek, stopping to give her thigh a gentle squeeze to let her know I was enjoying her "show". She moaned again, wiggling her ass slightly. Karen's face was one of concentration. She was laying back, trying to concentrate on the pleasures Sue was giving her, her legs locked tightly over the more delicate girl's back. I moved my hand up, cupping Sue's asscheek, pushing it up and away from me. The second time I did that, I heard a wet "smack" come from between her legs as her wet pussy lips parted stickily. I leaned over and began to alternate lifting each asscheek, pushing them together and pulling them apart as I did. It took only seconds to cause her pussy to make its approval known with wet noises. The candle light on her lips showed twinkling droplets of juice forming in her golden bush, moist and inviting. Her lips were full and beginning to swell as a white pearlescent drop began to peek from her cunt.
My handling of her ass was driving her crazy, as she sucked and licked Karen's pussy. Her soft moans indicated that she liked me feeling her ass, and that she wanted to make Karen come. Karen's legs suddenly closed around Sue's head as her hips lifted off the bed, carrying the blonde covered head with them. I watched as she stayed locked like this, her legs quivering, her breathing a series of short loud pants, until, finally, she collapsed on the bed. Sue caressed the dark bush and pussy, kissing it lightly several times in different places, causing Karen to ripple with shudders each time. When she sat up, she crawled down toward her friend, kissing her tenderly on the lips. "I love to eat you like that." Sue said softly. Karen replied lazily, "Ummmm, I love to cum in your mouth too." Sue slipped off the foot of the bed and walked around to me, sitting on the edge of the bed. We grabbed each other and kissed passionately, our tounges tasting Karen's cum together. I licked the slick wetness from her chin and neck, squeezing her small tits and pinching her nipples. As our mouths parted, we looked into each other's eyes. "See what a wanton slut you married?!" She laughed. Her use of the word "slut" told me that she was incredibly turned on. In the year we'd been married, she only used that word in bed when we had kept teasing each other, increasing our lust to a franticly high level. "Yes, I can see what a slut you are." I replied, playing on her horniness. "I saw how wet your cunt was getting while you fucked her with your tounge."
"Oooh, yesss, I'm sooo wet. See?" Her hand rose from her moist lips, the fingers glistening with a thick cream as she showed me her hand. "I'm sooo wet! Having you watch me suck pussy has me ready to cum!" She purred again, as she rubbed her own slick juice over her nipples. I leaned down, my tounge circling her nipples, licking her cream from the hard tips. I sucked a nipple into my mouth, pulling hard as my hand slid between her thighs. "Hmmm, suck my tits." She whispered. "Lick my nipples." I slipped three fingers into her sopping pussy, feeling her warm wetness ooze down into my hand. My cock touching her stomach caused her hands to encircle it and begin a slow stroking. "I want to watch my wet slut rub her pussy all over Karen's tits. Make her nipples all wet and creamy. Watch as my slut tries to fuck those nice big tits. Can you feel how wet they are? How wet your thighs are?" Her head tossed back as I crooned our "bedtalk" too her, her mouth open slightly, she moaned and hissed her reply. "Yesss. Fuck her tits...her wet creamy tits...cumming on her titssss." I glanced at Karen, laying back, watching us as she stroked her pussy. I kept my three fingers in Sue's dripping cunt as I renewed her lust. "She's watching you now...She's watching your cunt cream in my hand...Your girlfriend wants to lick your dripping pussy...She wants you to cum in her mouth this time...make her face wet." Sue looked at me with a primal, carnal lust. She grabbed my head and kissed me hard, her tounge shooting into my mouth barely after my lips parted. She pulled back, and wordlessly move away, my fingers sliding from her very wet pussy. She crawled down to Karen, pausing to look at her naked form. She turned around, lifting her ass and throwing one leg over Karen's body. Then, while she lowered herself onto Karen's left breast, I could see drops of her juice actually dripping onto the nipple, just before her blonde bush covered it. Looking directly at me, she began to rub herself against Karen's tit. Her pussy making wet smacking sounds as she moved faster. "I love to see you naked," I said, "with your cunt sooo wet and horny." "Naked? I'll show you NAKED." She said. Her arousal was complete and high. She ripped the garterbelt from her waist, tearing her stockings. Without lifting off Karen's nipple, she began to tear the stocking from her thighs, shredding the fabric. "Strip me. Strip me naked. Get me naked." She panted. Karen pulled the stockings from Sue's legs, as this carnal blonde fucked at her tits. "You wanna see me cum?" Sue said, looking at me with glassy eyes. "You wanna see me cum on her tits? On her face?" She slid backwards up to Karen's mouth, her nipples standing up like small cylinders from her breasts. Her panting loud. As she sat on Karen's face, she moaned, then commanded; "Sssuck me! Yesss, eat my pussy. Make me cum. Make me cum in your mouth!!" I moved over to her, her eyes half-closed, hips rocking furiously. I kept up the taunts hoping to send her over the edge. "You're such a hot carnal slut -- getting your twat sucked by a girl, your naked in bed with your girlfriend's tounge in your cunt, and you're going to cum...getting all wet for HER tounge in you...why don't you show me what a hot slut you are and eat her cunt too?" "Ahhhnngg" Darlene moaned as she fell down between Karen's open thighs. Her hands pushed the tanned thighs apart, as she shoved her face tightly against Karen's soaked pussy. She rocked her face back and forth, tounge extened, making wet slurping noises. "Ooooh that's sooo HOT!" I crooned to her, "Watching you rub your face in her cunt...I'd love to have a picture of you, naked, your legs spread, her tounge in your gushing wet pussy, while you rub her cum on your face." She stopped sucking Karen, her head arching back, mouth open, her eyes closed. Short sounds escaped from her lips as she neared her moment of triumph. "Make her face wettt babee...CUM in her mouth...make her face WET with your cum!" I encouraged. She started comming, thrusting her ass against Karen's mouth, her body first falling flat, arms splayed out, then she was upright, her hips shaking and her body twitching as she received little electric shocks through her clit. "Huh! Uh! Huh! Huh! Huh!" were the only sounds in the room except for the wet noises Karen was making between her soft thighs. She fell off of Karen, still shuddering and moaning. Her lust only partly sated, her eyes fell on us.
"Quick Karen," She panted, "fuck him. I wanna watch you FUCK! See your cunt FUCKED by his cock!" We moved together, Karen on her knees, and I slid into her pussy easily. Karen's pussy was so wet that I had trouble feeling anything as I pumped her hard and fast. She ground her hips against me, trying to bury me deeper in her smouldering cunt. We pounded each other, her cheeks rippling after each thrust, her tits bouncing, until I felt her hole tighten around my shaft. I plunged as deep as I could, splaying my legs wider than hers to get some leverage as I drove it deep against her cervix. Karen collapsed against the bed, her legs straight and locked together tightly, her moans and cries announcing her orgasm. I lay still until her contractions eased on my cock, then I started slow movements, drawing my cock slowly from deep inside, then quickly plunging back. "You're...still....hard?? Unngh." She said as I lowered my cock back to the depths of her cunt. Sue pulled me off of her brunette friend, eyes still filled with lust, as my cock slipped wetly from between Karen's cheeks. "I'M going to make you cum and cum and cum." She announced proudly. With her proclamation, she laid down and began to suck my cock, licking Karen's juice from my balls with a greedy tounge. Karen looked and made a comment about her being greedy, and a kinky idea hit me.
"You want me to fill your mouth with my jism?" I asked Sue. Her moaned response was a definite yes, as she laid under me, playing with her clit. Her hands were a blur over her light bush as she continued to suck me into her mouth. I pulled her into position having to forcibly remove my shaft from her eager mouth. I laid her on her back, sitting almost upright against several pillows as I straddled her stomach. She leaned forward to suck my cock, but I pulled back away, denying her. I had Karen sit next to us and placed her hand around my cock, showing her the best grip with which to jack me off. I sat back, resting not quite on Sue's stomach, and reached behind me to stroke her drenched pussy as Karen began to pump my shaft. I told my wife that Karen was going to make me cum in her mouth. That her best friend was going pump my cock until I came in her mouth, feel me cumming as she sucks the cum from me. I leaned forward so my cock entered her mouth, as Karen pumped me. Karen used her thumb and forefinger, pulling tightly around my cock, pulling the skin with her as she stroked. My fingering of her pussy made my wife greedy and she wanted to suck me herself. Several times Karen pulled me out, and still pumping my cock, kept it away from this carnal blonde until she started to behave. I reached down and stroked Karen's bush since she was doing me, and she leaned over and sucked my nipple. Karen's pussy was still wet and slick, her thighs wet from Sue's frantic licking. A look came into her eyes, and she slid her body down to lay on her side next to us. "Mmmm. Lick the head." She instructed. "Lick any cum from the head as I get him off. I'm gonna pump him into your mouth...fill your mouth with his hot spurting cum...I want to watch while he cums in your mouth."
Sue was sucking too much into her mouth, so Karen took me out and teased her with it, rubbing me against the side of her face, making her swing her head from side to side while she chased it.
"Mustn't take too much." Karen warned as she slid me back into Sue's mouth. "C'mon you naked little bitch, let him know how much you want him to cum. Make him cum in your mouth as much as he did in mine. Can you feel his balls rubbing your stomach? Those cum filled balls...rubbing on you?" I felt a well know sensation rising from those balls too. I was getting closer as these two teased. "After he gets hard again, I want him to fuck you from behind while I eat your pussy. I want to taste his cum inside you...suck it from you, drink you both.." Karen was stroking at a steady pace, but I wanted faster and told her to go faster, to make me cum. At the speed she was moving her hand, Sue had to pull back to just beyond the end of my cock to keep her lips from getting bruised. This left me looking at my naked wife, her grey eyes filled with a primal lust, mouth open, her tounge eagerly awaiting the arrival of the first drop as Karen sucked at her nipple. "Ohh God...I want to...Cum!" I panted. "Yessss!" Sue hissed back. "Shoot your hot thick cum in my mouth. I want you to fill my mouth. Shoot your jism all over me! Shoot your jism... let me drink you...drink your cum..." Karen chimed in with "That's it...tell him...I'm going to suck your wet cunt while you swallow his cum...suck you and make you wet and horny again. I want your slick cum on my face while he shoots his load in your mouth... your wet juice, his cum, all over us..." "Ohh, NOW!" I shouted, "I gonna...CUM...NOW...CUM!" I felt a surge well up inside me, a rush of cum flowed from the end of my cock into Sue's open mouth. She moved forward against the torrent, taking me into her mouth. Karen held on to my cock, holding her hand in one place while I bucked and worked more cum into my wife's hot mouth. Sue was wimpering and moaning as I shot another flood into her mouth, my cock twitching and throbbing. Another pulse exited my cock into her mouth. I could feel the warmth of my cum still in Sue's mouth, exciting me. Karen pulled my cock from Sue's mouth, jacking me off onto my wife's tits, while her voice dripped with lust, "Cum on her tits...yeah...all over her tits...make her your wet little slut..." Sue grabbed Karen's head and pulled her down for a kiss, cum dribbling from the one corner of her mouth. As they kissed, more cum leaked past their lips, as Karen rubbed my cock over my wife's chest and tits. As they parted, I heard them both swallow, Karen pulling my wife up from the bed to wipe the cum from her face with my softening cock, which Karen then sucked into her mouth. I collapsed on the bed and watched as they both licked each other off, and started touching and caressing each other. Later, I made love to each of these wonderful women, seperately, and together. When we were all finally sated, we cuddled and kissed, falling asleep together, content and smiling. From that night forward, Karen was always invited for a birthday or an anniversary party.
Patty refused to fuck her son again that day, as often as he
pestered her for another chance to slide his seemingly always hard
cock into her pussy. Refusing him wasn't easy. She spent most of
the evening finger fucking, locked in her room and feverishly rubbing
her wet pussy, all to thoughts of the joy she'd experienced with her
son's huge prick.
The next morning, Walter came to the breakfast table completely
naked, with an enormous throbbing hard-on that was already leaking
tasty looking cum juice. He made a valiant effort to fuck his mother
again, squeezing and fondling her body as she served him breakfast,
making her look at his magnificent cock. Again, Patty turned him
down.
Again, she had to spend the next several hours finger fucking.
She knew it was worth the effort. Her torrid fuck and suck session
the day before had been a one-time degenerate episode that could
never be repeated. What kind of mother spread her legs and opened
her pussy for her very own child?
Early that afternoon, Patty dressed and went shopping. The
first thing she heard when she let herself back into the house was
the frantic moaning and screaming upstairs. Patty just stood there,
unable to believe her ears, instantly feeling her pussy growing wet,
hot and sticky under her panties. Then she rembered what her son had
said the day before. He'd decided to keep his promise. He'd brought
home some young girl to fuck.
"Oh, fuck me, Walter!" The girl was obviously in the throes of
ecstasy. She sounded very young. "Unngh! Oh, fuck me with your big
cock, fuck me hard! Make me cum, Walter!"
Patty put the groceries on the kitchen counter. She was
trembling. She went upstairs, her mind already filing with obscene
images, of her hung son slamming his dripping prick into some lucky
little slut's gooey cunt.
The voices grew louder. Her son's bedroom door was open. Patty
told herself not to look, told herself that the sight of her son
fucking another girl would again put her incestuous lust for him over
the edge. Patty couldn't help herself. She stood in the open door,
staring in.
The girl was young, blonde and slinky. She was on top of
Walter, who lay on his back, smiling up at her, his hands folder
behind his head. The girl had a very quick, nimble ass, and she was
now gyrating it in a frenzy, frantically pistoning her wet little
pussy up and down Walter's cock.
"Gonna cum," the girl panted. She clutched Walter's shoulders,
shuddering as she slammed her hairy little fuck hole onto the base of
his prick. "Fuck me, Walter. Love your prick, Walter! Fuck me,
fuck me...."
"Get out," Patty hissed.
"Oh, shit!" the girl said.
The girl leapt off the bed, making Walter's cock slide out of
her pussy with an obscene popping sound. Patty advanced on her
menacingly. Thirty seconds later, the anonymous little slut was
gone, having set a potential world record in wiggling into her
clothes and dashing down the stairs.
She was alone in the house with her son again. Patty stood at
the foot of the bed, breathing hard, staring at her son's enormous
cock.
"What was the meaning of that?"
"I was horny," Walter shrugged, with a grin. "I told you I
might bring some chick over, Mom. I mean, if you won't fuck me
anymore, why shouldn't I?"
"You're disgusting," Patty hissed. "A girl that age, fucking
her like that right in your room. With the door wide open. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Can't you ever think about anything
but your big cock?"
"Nope. Matter of fact, I'm thinking about it right now. Why
don't you let me fuck your tight pussy again, Momma? Shit, I'd shoot
my cum up your pussy than that chick's any day."
"You're disgusting."
"Come on, Mom."
He got off the bed, naked, his enormous fuck organ wagging
obscenely before him as he advanced on his chaste, secretly sex-
starved mother. Patty just stood there. She knew she could have
left, or yelled at him again. But watching Walter's gigantic cock
boring into the young girl's pussy had made her so, so horny. Her
cunt was throbbing again, beating as it oozed juice into her panties.
Patty needed a good fucking very, very badly.
"Take your hands off of me," she said feebly.
But she didn't mean it, and they both knew it. Walter led her
to the bed. He put her on her back, letting his mother lie there as
he stripped off her clothes. Her large, stiff-nippled tit melons
wobbled tantalizingly as he pulled off her bra, and Walter paused to
nurse on his mother's tits, to slurp her red nipples deeply between
his lips.
Off came her shoes, her skirt, her wet, cunt juice-smelling
bikini panties. Then the fuck-hungry mother was completely naked.
Walter joined her on the bed, crawling up between her legs.
"Cock 'em up, Mom."
"No, Walter. You know it's a sin. You don't really want to
fuck Mommy again, do you?"
"I said cock 'em up."
"Oh, Walter...."
Shamefully, hornily, the mother then did as her son asked. She
raised her knees high over her shoulders, spreading them, completely
opening her wet, throbbing, curly-haired pussy hole for the invasion
of his cock. Walter grinned, mounting his mother. He fit the spongy
tip of his prick between the pouting petals of her very tight cunt.
"Man, I've really got a hot load now," he panted. "I was just
about to shoot off when you walked in. I'm gonna cum so fucking hard
I'll probably knock you off the bed!"
Patty didn't answer. She was too busy looking down, excitedly
watching her son's immense cock-lance boring into her pussy. The
stiff prick stretched her pussy lusciously, making the walls clasp
and grip exquisitely around the invading thickness of his cock.
For nearly a full day she'd fantasized about this, about again
feeling her boy's prick slamming back into the pussy that had birthed
him. Now it was deep inside her again, boring deep inside her cunt.
Shamefully the naked mother stared wigging and humping, fucking her
horny, itchy pussy onto the satisfying stiffness of Walter's cock.
"Yes, Walter, it feels so good now," she panted. "It's time to
fuck Mommy again, honey. Unnggh! Fuck your mother, lover, fuck your
mother's horny cunt!"
She cocked her long legs up higher, draping her ankles over his
shoulders, completely opening her gooey pussy hole for the skewering
shaft of his cock. Her hung son started fucking. He braced his
knees on the bed, looming over his mom, supporting his weight on
straight arms. Rhythmically he fucked her tightly grasping pussy,
spearing his big cock in and out of her cunt.
"Fuck me, fuck my pussy!" Patty gasped. She humped to meet his
strokes, her enormous tits bouncing and shivering, undulating every
time her son fucked her deep wit his cock. "Unnngh! Oh, shit,
Walter, you've really got a bit one! Give Mommy a good fucking now!
Harder, honey, harder! Fuck Mommy's cunt till I can't even walk!"
Walter moaned, experiencing the luscious tightness of his
mother's pussy. It seemed impossible that she had ever given birth;
her cunt was tighter, and sucked his cock more sweetly, than that of
the girl he'd been humping only minutes before.
Now his cock was all the way inside her syrupy fuck channel,
buried to the balls. Patty felt completely overwhelmed by the size
of his fuck shaft. It stuffed her belly, reaching into the depths of
her womb. Her horny son started working his ass rapidly on top of
her, spearing his big prick in and out of the clinging sheath of her
pussy.
"Do you like the way I fuck you, Mom?" he panted. "Do you want
me to fuck you harder, Mom? Do you like the way I fuck your tight,
juicy little cunt?"
"Yes, baby," Patty squealed. She started bucking her hips in a
frenzy, eager for harder, deeper thrusting of the wonderfully big
cock. "Fuck your mother, baby. Mommy's cunt's so juicy! Unngggh!
Harder, honey, please do it harder! Oh, fuck, oh, shit, Mommy needs
a good cum so much!"
Walter sprawled flat on his naked mother, crushing her giant
tits under his chest. Then he started fucking her pussy as fast as
he could. In and out his huge cock sawed, spearing into her womb.
Patty humped and shuddered beneath him, grimacing and twisting her
head from side to side, overwhelmed by the ecstasy of being fucked
with her own son's prick.
"Mommy's going to cum now!" she gasped, almost shouting out the
words. "Harder, Walter! Unnggh! Fuck your mother, fuck your horny
mother! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!"
Her pussy spasmed violently in orgasm, spewing juice onto
Walter's hammering cock, sucking the aching stiffness of his huge,
pounding prick. Walter kept fucking as hard as possible,
relentlessly drilling his organ into the depths of her pussy hole.
The cum lasted for nearly a minute straight. When it was over,
Walter was still ramming his cock into her belly as hard as he could.
He hadn't cum yet, had kept himself from filling his mother's belly
with his hot, spewing seed.
Which meant, Patty quickly realized, that she could suck it out
of his big prick instead.
"T-t-take it out, Walter," Patty panted, deeply ashamed of what
she longed to do next. "Please, stop fucking Mommy's pussy."
"Gotta cum," Walter grunted.
"I know. I....I want to suck it now. Please, Walter. Mommy
wants to suck your cock so bad."
Walter stopped humping, pausing to smile knowingly down at his
mom. Then he slid his throbbing prick out of her pussy and rose from
the bed. He stood up, his cock pulsing as he waited for his mom to
get on her knees in front of him. Patty did it. It made her feel
like even more of a slut to kneel like this in front of her son, to
be on her knees looking up at him as she popped his cock into her
mouth and started sucking to draw out its load of spunk.
"Give me some good cocksucking, Mom...."
Patty stared hungrily at the huge cock throbbing in front of her
face. She gripped it in her fist, sliding her hand down to the base
to hold his cock in position. Then she popped the cock knob into her
mouth, and then she started sucking it.
It tasted especially good now, from fucking two wet, creamy
pussies in a row. Contentedly Patty gurgled as she nursed on the big
prick, thrusting her tongue into the cum hole to lap up the oozing
jizz. The cock knob was already very fat and puffy, and the cum
cream oozed out every instant. Patty's pussy got itchy again as she
thought of how much cock juice was jacked in her son's balls, of how
heavily he would soon be showering her tonsils with cream.
"Man, you like putting my cock in your mouth, don't you, Mom?"
Patty didn't answer. She was too busy sucking cock. Loudly and
wetly she slurped on the tasty prick, hearing her own gurgling,
smacking sounds of cocksucking pleasure filling the bedroom. The
prick grew even stiffer, beating on the roof of her mouth. Patty
thrust her left hand between her thighs, beginning to rub her wet
pussy. Shamelessly she finger fucked and sucked hard cock at the
same time.
Her mouth was stretched to bursting, contorted obscenely as she
struggled to accommodate the blood-beating thickness of her young
son's cock. Patty bobbed her head, her blonde tresses bouncing on
her shoulders, urgently fucking her mouth with his cock. She
tightened her fingers around the base of his cock, and then she
started beating his prick meat much harder than before, urgently
whipping her right hand up and down the pulsing stalk of his prick.
"Gonna shoot it," Walter gasped.
He clutched her head with both hands, lunging forward, cramming
another half-inch of his cock between her lips.
"Suck it, Mom, suck it good! Unngh! You're a great cocksucker,
Mom! Oh, fuck, cumming now!"
The giant prick started spewing, spraying rich gobs of cum juice
down the cock-loving mother's throat. Patty nursed feverishly on her
boy's giant cock, loving the taste of his cream. Again and again,
the sappy white stuff sprayed out of his cock tip, spurting on her
tonsils, running down her throat. Patty clung shamelessly to the
huge, squirting cock, jacking and sucking it, feeling her belly
filing up with cream.
At last the sticky white cock juice stopped blasting out of his
hard-on. Patty popped the big, wet cock out of her mouth, panting as
she stared intently at the cock knob. She felt completely depraved
now, unable to suppress her constant craving to fuck and suck with
her own son. If she'd gone this far with him, she might as well go
the rest of the way. It had been a long, long time since she'd felt
a prick anywhere near as huge as her son's boring into her tender
little shitter.
"You're....you're a dirty boy, Walter," Patty panted, still
jacking his fuck pole slow and hard. "You're a dirty boy for wanting
to fuck your mother like this. Don't you feel dirty for letting
Mommy suck your cock?"
"No."
"I'll....I'll bet you fantasize about fucking Mommy's tight
little asshole too, don't you? That would be just like you. Do you
fantasize about fucking my hot little asshole when you jack off,
honey? Is that where you'd like to shove this big cock of yours
next?"
Walter just grinned in response, his prick throbbing harder than
ever. Patty rose unsteadily to her feet. The idea of asshole
fucking was morally repugnant to her, but that meant nothing to the
puckered, pink hole that was now already throbbing lewdly in and out.
It just happened to be the case that Patty had been born with an
unusually sensitive, itchy little asshole. Whenever her cunt got
wet, her asshole usually felt hot and tingly too.
"You'd better get some Vaseline from the bathroom, Walter. I
guess you're never going to get over your sick desire to fuck your
mother unless I let you fuck my asshole too."
Walter disappeared into the bathroom. Patty grabbed a pillow,
thrusting it under her belly to elevate her hips. She felt
completely ashamed of herself, knowing how badly she needed this
torrid session of assfucking with her son. Shamefully she gripped
her rounded little white ass globes, spreading them wide, revealing
her pink, puckered shit orifice to her only son.
Walter returned to the bedroom, finding his mother sprawled on
her stomach, holding her ass cheeks open. He grinned, again joining
her on the bed. Patty heard him moving behind her, uncapping the
Vaseline jar. She whimpered as her boy started pasting the lube
liberally all over her little shitter.
"Stick your fingers in, Walter. Get Mommy's little asshole nice
and juicy."
Walter did as his mother asked, straightening his fingers,
thrusting them into the gripping interior of his mother's shit
tunnel. Patty groaned, fucking her tight, itchy asshole onto his
hand. Then she heard a new sound behind her as her son basted his
huge cock liberally with Vaseline.
"That's enough, Walter. Time to fuck Mommy's asshole now,
honey. Hurry, honey, give Mommy's asshole a good, hard ass fucking!"
Walter mounted his naked mother, aiming his swollen cock tip at
her rubbery shit hole. Patty gasped with intense pleasure as she
felt the cock cleaving into her bowels, instantly stretching her
burning asshole to the bursting point around the invading thickness
of his prick.
It had been so, so long since her last asshole reaming. Patty's
asshole was already sucking and spasming needfully in response to her
son's cock, sucking and gripping Walter's prick to welcome it into
her body. Patty bit her lip, suppressing the slight pain she felt as
her asshole stretched to accommodate his cock. Then she started
humping again, wiggling at the same time, trying to help her hung son
stuff every inch of his fuck pole into her narrow, gripping ass.
"Fuck your mother, fuck Mommy's little asshole!" she pleaded.
Patty released her buns, no longer needing to hole them open.
She thrust her hand under her belly and started finger fucking,
rubbing her aching clitty as hard as she could.
"Mommy needs assfucking, Walter!" she panted. "Deeper, baby,
really ram it in now! Oh, fuck, oh, shit, fuck Mommy's asshole as
deep as you can!"
Walter grunted as he heaved on top of her, forcing his immense
cock deeper and deeper into the Vaseline-slickened heat of her
asshole. Then it was all the way inside her, buried to the balls,
his huge prick pulsating as it soaked in the indescribable tightness
of her shit tunnel.
Patty started humping harder, moaning and crying as she
shamefully fucked her stretched, tingling asshole onto his cock.
Walter pulled out slowly, then rammed his prick back into her bowels.
Then he settled into a hard, fast rhythm, slamming his prick in and
out of his mother's horny little shitter.
"Fuck my asshole, fuck my horny little asshole!" Patty pleaded.
She finger fucked her pussy in a frenzy, simultaneously thrusting her
asshole onto his cock. "Unngggh! Mommy's got such a horny little
asshole, honey! It needs fucking super bad! Oh, shit, please do it
harder! Oh, darling, fuck Mommy's asshole as hard as you can!"
Walter did as his mother asked, ramming his cock up her shit
chute as hard as he could. The enormous fuck organ had swelled even
stiffer, and Patty sensed that her hung son would soon be basting her
bowel tract with another load of cum.
The orgasm burst suddenly deep inside her, making her pussy gush
onto her fingers, and her asshole spasmadically grip and milk around
Walter's hammering cock. Patty shrieked with shameful pleasure,
humping and bucking and thrusting as hard as she could.
"Fuck my asshole, fuck Mommy's horny asshole!" she cried. "My
asshole's cumming now, Walter! Fuck it, fuck it good!
Cuummmiiinnngggg!"
Walter collapsed on top of her, ramming his cock to the hilt in
her tenderly sucking bowels. Then his load of cock juice spewed out
of his balls. It lashed out of his cock tip, spraying into his
mother's asshole, deluging her shitter with an ocean of cream.
Hornily the naked mother flexed her shitting muscles around the huge,
erupting cock, helping him draining his balls completely in her ass.
* * * * * * * *
She had to do something about Walter's craving to fuck her.
Patty paced her bedroom several hours later, trying to ignore the wet
ache in her pussy, wondering what she could do to end her shocking,
incestuous liaison with her son.
She'd make him see a counselor. Yes, that was right. A
counselor could help him deal with his uncontrollable sex drive.
Patty went to her bureau, finding her address book and thumbing
through the pages. She still didn't think that her own lust had
anything to do with the fact that she'd let her son fuck her. She
blamed it all on him.
Margaret Kelly. She was a therapist of some sort. Patty had
heard about her because Margaret Kelly sometimes worked with young
people referred by Walter's school. Margaret was supposed to be a
mother too, with a growing son of her own. Having a record of school
referrals was as much endorsement as Patty needed. She'd make sure
that Walter saw Margaret Kelly as soon as possible, to discuss his
shocking desire to suck and fuck his very own mother.
(For those who don't know The Turner Diaries is a pretty wild book. It was the main inspiration for Tim McVeigh in Oklahoma [besides the FBI murdering innocent people])
Chapter II
September 18, 1991: These last two days have really been a comedy of errors, and today the comedy nearly became a tragedy. When the others were finally able to wake me tip yesterday, we put our heads together to figure what to do. The first thing, we all agreed, was to arm ourselves and then to find a better hideout. Our unit-that is, the four of us-leased this apartment under a false name nearly six months ago, just to have it available when we needed it. (We just beat the new law which requires a landlord to furnish the police with the social security number of every new tenant, just like when a person opens a bank account.) Because we've stayed away from the apartment until now, I'm sure the political police haven't connected any of us with this address. But it's too small for all of us to live here for any length of time, and it doesn't offer enough privacy from the neighbors. We were too anxious to save money when we picked this place. Money is our main problem now. We thought to stock this place with food, medicine, tools, spare clothing, maps-even a bicycle-but we forgot about cash. Two days ago, when the word came that they were starting the arrests again, we had no chance to withdraw money from the bank; it was too early in the morning. Now our accounts are surely frozen. So we have only the cash that was in our pockets at the time: a little over $70 altogether (Note to the reader: The "dollar" was the basic monetary unit in the United States in the Old Era. In 1991, two dollars would buy a half-kilo loaf of bread or about a quarter of a kilo of sugar.) And no transportation except for the bicycle. According to plan, we had all abandoned our cars, since the police would be looking for them. Even if we had kept a car, we would have a problem trying to get fuel for it. Since our gasoline ration cards are magnetically coded with our social security numbers, when we stuck them into the computer at a filling station they would show
blocked quotas-and instantaneously tell the Feds monitoring the central computer where we were. Yesterday George, who is our contact with Unit 9, took the bicycle and pedaled over to talk to them about the situation. They're a little better off than we are, but not much. The six of them have about $400, but they're crowded into a hole in the wall which is even less satisfactory than ours, according to George. They do have four automobiles and a fair-sized store of fuel, though. Carl Smith, who is with them, made some very convincing counterfeit license plates for everyone with a car in his unit. We should have done the same, but it's too late now. They offered George one car and $50 cash, which he gratefully accepted. They didn't want to let go of any of their gasoline, though, other than the tankful in the car they gave us. That still left us with no money to rent another place, no} enough gas to make the round trip to our weapons cache in Pennsylvania and back. We didn't even have enough money to buy a week's groceries when our food stock ran out, and that would be in about another four days. The network will be established in ten days, but until then we are on our own. Furthermore, when our unit joins the network it is expected to have already solved its supply problems and be ready to go into action in concert with the other units. If we had more money we could solve all our problems, including the fuel problem. Gasoline is always available on the black market, of course-at $10 a gallon, nearly twice what it costs at a filling station. We stewed over our situation until this afternoon. Then, desperate not to waste any more time, we finally decided to go out and take some money. Henry and I were stuck with the chore, since we couldn't afford for George to get arrested. He's the only one who knows the network code. We had Katherine do a pretty good makeup job on us first. She's into amateur theater and has the equipment and know-how to really change a person's appearance.
My inclination was just to walk into the first liquor store we came to, knock the manager on the head with a brick, and scoop up the money from the cash register. Henry wouldn't go along with that, though. He said we couldn't use means which contradicted our ends. If we begin preying on the public to support ourselves, we will be viewed as a gang of common criminals, regardless of how lofty our aims are. Worse, we will eventually begin to think of ourselves the same way. Henry looks at everything in terms of our ideology. If something doesn't fit, he'll have nothing to do with it.
In a way this may seem impractical, but I think maybe he's right. Only by making our beliefs into a living faith which guides us from day to day can we maintain the moral strength to overcome the obstacles and hardships which lie ahead.
Anyway, he convinced me that if we are going to rob liquor stores we have to do it in a socially conscious way. If we are going to cave in people's heads with bricks, they must be people who deserve it. By comparing the liquor store listings in the Yellow Pages of the telephone directory with a list of supporting members of the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council which had been filched for us by the girl we sent over there to do volunteer work for them, we finally settled on Berman's Liquors and Wines, Saul I. Berman, proprietor. There were no bricks handy, so we equipped ourselves with blackjacks consisting of good-sized bars of Ivory soap inside long, strong ski socks. Henry also tucked a sheath knife into his belt. We parked about a block and a half from Berman's Liquors, around the corner. When we went in there were no customers in the store. A Black was at the cash register, tending the store. Henry asked him for a bottle of vodka on a high shelf behind the counter. When he turned around I let him have it at the base of the skull with my "Ivory special." He dropped silently to the floor and
remained motionless. Henry calmly emptied the cash register and a cigar box under the counter which held the larger bills. We walked out and headed for the car We had gotten a little over $800. It had been surprisingly easy. Three stores down Henry suddenly stopped and pointed out the sign on the door: "Berman's Deli." Without a moment's hesitation he pushed open the door and walked in. Spurred on by a sudden, reckless impulse I followed him instead of trying to stop him. Berman himself was behind the counter, at the back. Henry lured him out by asking the price of an item near the front of the store which Berman couldn't see clearly from behind the counter. As he passed me, I let him have it in the back of the head as hard as I could. I felt the bar of soap shatter from the force of the blow. Berman went down yelling at the top of his lungs. Then he started crawling rapidly toward the back of the store, screaming loudly enough to wake the dead. I was completely unnerved by the racket and stood frozen. Not Henry though. He leaped onto Berman's back, seized him by the hair, and cut his throat from ear to ear in one, swift motion. The silence lasted about one second. Then a fat, grotesque-looking woman of about 60-probably Berman's wife -came charging out of the back room waving a meat cleaver and emitting an ear-piercing shriek. Henry let fly at her with a large jar of kosher pickles and scored a direct hit. She went down in a spray of pickles and broken glass. Henry then cleaned out the cash register, looked for another cigar box under the counter, found it, and scooped the bills out. I snapped out of my trance and followed Henry out the front door as the fat woman started shrieking again. Henry had to hold me by the arm to keep me from running down the sidewalk. It didn't take us but about 15 seconds to walk back to the car, but it seemed more like 15 minutes. I was terrified. It was more than an hour before I had stopped shaking and gotten enough of a grip on myself to talk without stuttering. Some terrorist!
Altogether we got $1426-enough to buy groceries for the four of us for more than two months. But one thing was decided then and there: Henry will have to be the one to rob any more liquor stores. I don't have the nerves for it-although I had thought I was doing all right until Berman started yelling.
September 19: Looking back over what I've written, it's hard to believe these things have really happened. Until the Gun Raids two years ago, my life was about as normal as anyone's can be in these times. Even after I was arrested and lost my position at the laboratory, I was still able to live pretty much like everyone else by doing consulting work and special jobs for a couple of the electronics firms in this area. The only thing out of the ordinary about my lifestyle was my work for the Organization. Now everything is chaotic and uncertain. When I think about the future I become depressed. It's impossible to know what will happen, but it's certain that I'll never be able to go back to the quiet, orderly kind of life I had before. Looks like what I'm writing is the beginning of a diary. Perhaps it will help me to write down what's happened and what my thoughts are each day. Maybe it will add some focus to things, some order, and make it easier for me to keep a grip on myself and become reconciled to this new way of life. It's funny how all the excitement I felt the first night here is gone. All I feel now is apprehension. Maybe the change of scenery tomorrow will improve my outlook. Henry and I will be driving to Pennsylvania for our guns, while George and Katherine try to find us a more suitable place to live. Today we made the preparations for our trip. Originally, the plan called for us to use public transportation to the little town of Bellefonte and then hike the last six miles into the woods to our cache. Now that we have a car, however, we'll use that instead. We figured we only need about five gallons of gasoline, in addition to that already in the tank, to make the round trip. To be
on the safe side, we bought two five-gallon cans of gas from the taxi-fleet operator in Alexandria who always bootlegs some of his allotment. As rationing has increased during the last few years, so has petty corruption of every sort. I guess a lot of the large-scale graft in the government which Watergate revealed a few years back has finally filtered down to the man in the street. When people began realizing that the big-shot politicians were crooked, they were more inclined to try to cheat the System a little themselves. All the new rationing red tape has just exacerbated the tendency-as has the growing percentage of non-Whites in every level of the bureaucracy. The Organization has been one of the main critics of this corruption, but I can now see that it gives us an important advantage. If everybody obeyed the law and did everything by the book, it would be nearly impossible for an underground group to exist. Not only would we not be able to buy gasoline, but a thousand other bureaucratic obstacles with which the System increasingly hems the lives of our fellow citizens would be insurmountable for us. As it is, a bribe to a local official here or a few dollars under the counter to a clerk or secretary there will allow us to get around many of the government regulations which would otherwise trip us up. The closer public morality in America approaches that of a banana republic, the easier it will be for us to operate. Of course, with everyone having his hand out for a bribe, we'll need plenty of money. Looking at it philosophically, one can't avoid the conclusion that it is corruption, not tyranny, which leads to the overthrow of governments. A strong and vigorous government, no matter how oppressive, usually need not fear revolution. But a corrupt, inefficient, decadent government-even a benevolent one-is always ripe for revolution. The System we are fighting is both corrupt and oppressive, and we should thank God for the corruption. The silence about us in the newspapers is worrisome. The
Berman thing the other day wasn't connected to us, of course, and it was given only a paragraph in today's Post. Robberies of that sort-even where there is killing involved-are so common these days that they merit no more attention than a traffic accident. But the fact that the government launched a massive roundup of known Organization members last Wednesday and that nearly all of us, more than 2,000 persons, have managed to slip through their fingers and drop out of sight-why isn't that in the papers? The news media are collaborating closely with the political police, of course, but what is their strategy against us?
There was one small Associated Press article on a back page of yesterday's paper mentioning the arrest of nine "racists" in Chicago and four in Los Angeles on Wednesday. The article said that all 13 who were arrested were members of the same organization-evidently ours-but no further details were given. Curious! Are they keeping quiet about the failure of the roundup so as not to embarrass the government? That's not like them. Probably, they're a little paranoid about the ease with which we evaded the roundup. They may have fears that some substantial portion of the public is in sympathy with us and is aiding us, and they don't want to say anything that will give encouragement to our sympathizers. We must be careful that this false appearance of "business as usual" doesn't mislead us into relaxing our vigilance. We can be sure that the political police are in a crash program to find us. It will be a relief when the network is established and we can once again receive regular reports from our informants as to just what the rascals are up to. Meanwhile, our security rests primarily in our changed appearances and identities. We've all changed our hair styles and either dyed or bleached our hair. I've begun wearing new glasses with heavy frames instead of my old frameless ones, and Katherine has switched from her contact lenses to glasses. Henry has undergone the most radical transformation, by shaving off his
beard and mustache. And we all have pretty convincing fake driver's licenses, although they won't stand up if they are ever checked against state records.
Whenever any of us has to do something like the robberies last week, Katherine can do a quick-change job and temporarily give him a third identity. For that she has wigs and plastic gimmicks which fit into the nostrils and inside the mouth and change the whole structure of a person's face-and even his voice. They're not comfortable, but they can be tolerated for a couple of hours at a time, just as I can do without my glasses for a while if necessary. Tomorrow will be a long, hard day.
Chapter III
September21, 1991. Every muscle in my body aches. Yesterday we spent 10 hours hiking, digging, and carrying loads of weapons through the woods. This evening we moved all our supplies from the old apartment to our new hideout. It was a little before noon yesterday when we reached the turnoff near Bellefonte and left the highway. We drove as close to our cache as we could, but the old mining road we had used three years earlier was blocked and impassable more than a mile short of the point where we intended to park. The bank above the road had collapsed, and it would have taken a bulldozer to clear the way. (Note to the reader: Throughout his diaries Turner used so-called "English units" of measurement, which were still in common use in North America during the last years of the Old Era. For the reader not familiar with these units, a "mile" was 1.6 kilometers, a "gallon" was 3.8 liters, a "foot" was.30 meter, a "yard" was.91 meter, an "inc. ' was 2.5 centimeters, and a "pound" was the weight of.4s kilogram-approximately.) The consequence was that we lad nearly a two-mile hike each way instead of less than half a mile. And it took three round trips to get everything to the car. We brought shovels, a rope, and a couple of large canvas mail sacks (courtesy of the U.S. Postal Service), but, as it turned out, these tools were woefully inadequate for the task. Hiking from the car to the cache with our shovels on our shoulders was actually refreshing, after the long drive up from Washington. The day was pleasantly cool, the autumn woods were beautiful, and the old dirt road, though heavily overgrown, provided easy walking most of the way. Even digging down to the top of the oil drum (actually a 50-gallon chemical drum with a removable lid) in which we had sealed our weapons wasn't too bad. The ground was fairly soft, and
it took us less than an hour to excavate a five-foot-deep pit and tie our rope to the handles which had been welded to the lid of the drum. Then our trouble began. The two of us tugged on the rope as hard as we could, but the drum wouldn't budge an inch. It was as if it had been set in concrete. Although the full drum weighed nearly 400 pounds, two of us had been able to lower it into the pit without undue difficulty three years ago. At that time, of course, there had been several inches of clearance all around it. Now the earth had settled and was packed tightly against the metal. We gave up trying to get the drum out of the hole and decided to open it where it was. To do that we had to dig for nearly another hour, enlarging the hole and clearing a few inches all around the top of the drum so we could get our hands on the locking band which secured the lid. Even so, l had to go into the hole headfirst, with Henry holding my legs. Although the outside of the drum had been painted with asphalt to prevent corrosion, the locking lever itself was thoroughly rusted, and I broke the only screwdriver we had trying to pry it loose. Finally, after much pounding, I was able to pry the lever out from the drum with the end of a shovel. With the locking band loosened, however, the lid remained as tightly in place as ever, apparently stuck to the drum by the asphalt coating we had applied. Working upside down in the narrow hole was difficult and exhausting. We had no tool satisfactory for wedging under the lip of the lid and prying it up. Finally, almost in desperation, I once again tied the rope to one of the handles on the lid. Henry and I gave a hard tug, and the lid popped off! Then it was just a matter of my going headfirst into the hole again, supporting myself with one arm on the edge of the drum, and passing the carefully wrapped bundles of weapons up past my body so that Henry could reach them. Some of the larger bundles-and that included six sealed tins of ammunition were both too heavy and too bulky for this method and had to be
hauled up by rope. Needless to say, by the time we had the drum empty I was completely pooped. My arms ached, my legs were unsteady, and my clothing was drenched with perspiration. But we still had to carry more than 300 pounds of munitions half a mile through dense woods, uphill to the road, and then more than a mile back to the car. With proper pack frames to distribute the loads on our backs we might have carried everything out in one trip. It could have been done easily in two trips. But with only the awkward mail sacks, which we had to carry in our arms, it took three excruciatingly painful trips. We had to stop every hundred yards or so and put our loads down for a minute, and the last two trips were made in total darkness. Anticipating a daylight operation, we hadn't even brought a flashlight. If we don't do a better job of planning our operations in the future, we have some rough times ahead!
On the way back to Washington we stopped at a small roadside cafe near Hagerstown for sandwiches and coffee. There were about a dozen people in the place, and the 11 o'clock news was just beginning on the TV set behind the counter when we walked in. It was a news broadcast I'll never forget. The big story of the day was what the Organization had been up to in Chicago. The System, it seems, had killed one of our people, and in turn we had killed three of theirs and then engaged in a spectacular - and successful - gunfight with the authorities. Nearly the whole newscast was occupied in recounting these events. We already knew from the papers that nine of our members had been arrested in Chicago last week, and apparently they had had a rough time in the Cook County Jail, where one of them had died. It was impossible to be sure exactly what had happened from what the TV announcer said, but if the System had behaved true to form the authorities had stuck our people individually into cells full of Blacks and then shut their eyes and ears to what ensued.
That has long been the System's extra-legal way of punishing our people when they can't pin anything on them that will "stick" in the courts. It's a more ghastly and dreadful punishment than anything which ever took place in a medieval torture chamber or in the cellars of the KGB. And they can get away with it because the news media usually won't even admit that it happens. After all, if you're trying to convince the public that the races are really equal, how can you admit that it's worse to be locked in a cell full of Black criminals than in a cell full of White ones? Anyway, the day after our man-the newscaster said his name was Carl Hodges, someone I've not heard of before-was killed, the Chicago Organization fulfilled a promise they'd made more than a year ago, in the event one of our people was ever seriously hurt in a Chicago jail. They ambushed the Cook County sheriff outside his home and blew his head off with a shotgun. They left a note pinned to his body which read: "This is for Carl Hodges." That was last Saturday night. On Sunday the System was up in arms. The sheriff of Cook County had been a political bigwig, a front-rank shabbos goy, and they were really raising hell. Although they broadcast the news only to the Chicago area on Sunday, they trotted out several pillars of the community there to denounce the assassination and the Organization in special TV appearances. One of the spokesmen was a "responsible conservative," and another was the head of the Chicago Jewish community. All of them described the Organization as a "gang of racist bigots" and called on "all right-thinking Chicagoans" to cooperate with the political police in apprehending the "racists" who had killed the sheriff. Well, early this morning the responsible conservative lost both his legs and suffered severe internal injuries when a bomb wired to the ignition of his car exploded. The Jewish spokesman was even less fortunate. Someone walked up to him while he was waiting for an elevator in the lobby of his office building, pulled a hatchet from under his coat, cleaved the good Jew's head from crown to shoulder blades, then disappeared in the rush-hour crowd. The
Organization immediately claimed responsibility for both acts. After that, it really hit the fan. The governor of Illinois ordered National Guard troops into Chicago to help local police and FBI agents hunt for Organization members. Thousands of persons were being stopped on Chicago streets today and asked to prove their identity. The System's paranoia is really showing. This afternoon three men were cornered in a small apartment building in Cicero. The whole block was surrounded by troops, while the trapped men shot it out with the police. TV crews were all over the place, anxious not to miss the kill. One of the men in the apartment apparently had a sniper's rifle, because two Black cops more than a block away were picked off before it was realized that Blacks were being singled out as targets and uniformed White cops were not being shot at. This White immunity apparently was not extended to the plainclothes political police, however, because an FBI agent was killed by a burst of sub-machine-gun fire from the apartment when he momentarily exposed himself to hurl a teargas grenade through a window. We watched breathlessly as this action was shown on the TV screen, but the real climax came for us when the apartment was stormed and found empty. A quick room-by-room search of the building also failed to turn up the gunmen. Disappointment at this outcome was evident in the TV newsman's voice, but a man sitting at the other end of the counter from us whistled and clapped when it was announced that the "racists" had apparently slipped away. The waitress smiled at this, and it seemed clear to us that, while there certainly was no unanimous approval for the Organization's actions in Chicago, neither was there unanimous disapproval. Almost as if the System anticipated this reaction to the afternoon's events, the news scene switched to Washington, where the attorney general of the United States had called a special news conference. The attorney general announced to the nation that the Federal government was throwing all its police agencies into the effort to root out the Organization. He described us as "depraved,
racist criminals" who were motivated solely by hatred and who wanted to "undo all the progress toward true equality" which had been made by the System in recent years. All citizens were warned to be alert and to assist the government in breaking up the "racist conspiracy." Anyone observing any suspicious action, especially on the part of a stranger, was to report it immediately to the nearest FBI office or Human Relations Council.
And then he said something very indiscreet, which really betrayed how worried the System is. He stated that any citizen found to be concealing information about us or offering us any comfort or assistance "would be dealt with severely." Those were his very words-the sort of thing one might expect to hear in the Soviet Union, but which would ring harshly on most American ears, despite the best propaganda efforts of the media to justify it. All the risks taken by our people in Chicago were more than rewarded by provoking the attorney general into such a psychological blunder. This incident also proves the value of keeping the System off balance with surprise attacks. If the System had kept its cool and thought more carefully about a response to our Chicago actions, it not only would have avoided a blunder which will bring us hundreds of new recruits, but it would probably have figured a way to win much wider public support for its fight against us.
The news program concluded with an announcement that an hour-long "special" on the "racist conspiracy" would be broadcast Tuesday night (i.e., tonight). We've just finished watching that "special," and it was a real hatchet job, full of errors and outright invention and not very convincing, we all felt. But one thing is certain: the media blackout is over. Chicago has given the Organization instant celebrity status, and we must certainly be the number-one topic of conversation everywhere in the nation. As last night's TV news ended, Henry and I choked down the last
of our meal and stumbled outside. I was filled with emotions: excitement, elation over the success of our people in Chicago, nervousness about being one of the targets of a nationwide manhunt, and chagrin that none of our units in the Washington area had shown the initiative of our Chicago units. I was itching to do something, and the first thing that occurred to me was to try to make some sort of contact with the fellow in the cafe who had seemed sympathetic to us. I wanted to take some leaflets from our car and put one under the windshield wiper of every vehicle in the parking lot. Henry, who always keeps a cool head, emphatically vetoed the idea. As we sat in the car he explained that it was sheer folly to risk calling any attention whatever to ourselves until we had completed our present mission of safely delivering our load of weapons to our unit. Furthermore, he reminded me, it would be a breach of Organization discipline for a member of an underground unit to engage in any direct recruiting activity, however minimal. That function has been relegated to the "legal" units. The underground units consist of members who are known to the authorities and have been marked for arrest. Their function is to destroy the System through direct action.
The "legal" units consist of members not presently known to the System. (Indeed, it would be impossible to prove that most of them are members. In this we have taken a page from the communists' book.) Their role is to provide us with intelligence, funding, legal defense, and other support.
Whenever an "illegal" spots a potential recruit, he is supposed to turn the information over to a "legal," who will approach the prospect and sound him out. The "legals" are also supposed to handle all the low-risk propaganda activity, such as leafleting. Strictly speaking, we should not even have had any Organization leaflets with us. We waited until the man who had applauded the escape of our
members in Chicago came out and got in a pickup truck. We drove by him and noted his license number as we pulled out of the lot. When the network is established, the information will go to the proper person for a follow-up.
When we arrived back at the apartment, George and Katherine were as excited as Henry and 1. They had also seen the TV newscast. Despite the exertions of the day, I could no more sleep than they, and we all piled back in the car, George and Katherine sharing the back seat with part of our greasy cargo, and went to an all-night drive-in. We could stay in the car and talk safely there without arousing suspicion, and that's what we did-until the early-morning hours.
One thing we decided was that we would move immediately to new quarters George and Katherine located yesterday. The old apartment just wasn't satisfactory. The walls were so thin that we had to whisper to one another to avoid being overheard by our neighbors. And I'm sure that our irregular hours had already caused the neighbors to speculate on just what we do for a living. With the System warning everyone to report suspicious-looking strangers, it had become downright dangerous to us to remain in a place with so little privacy. The new place is much better in every way except the rent. We have a whole building to ourselves. It is actually a cement-block commercial building which once housed a small machine shop in a single, garage-like room downstairs, with offices and a storeroom upstairs. The place has been condemned, because it lies on the right-of-way for a new access road to the highway which has been in the planning stages for the last four years. Like all government projects these days, this one is also bogged down-probably permanently. Although hundreds of thousands of men are being paid to build new highways, none are actually being built. In the last five years most of the roads in the country have deteriorated
badly, and, although one always sees repair crews standing around, nothing ever seems to get fixed. The government hasn't even gotten around to actually purchasing the land it has condemned for the new highway, leaving the property owners holding the bag. Legally, the owner of this building isn't supposed to rent it, but he evidently has an arrangement with someone in city hall. The advantage for us is that there is no official record of the occupancy of the building- no social security numbers for the police, no county building inspectors or fire marshals coming around to check. George just has to take $600-in cash-to the owner once a month. George thinks the owner, a wrinkled old Armenian with a heavy accent, is convinced we intend to use the place for manufacturing illegal drugs or storing stolen goods and doesn't want to know the details. I suppose that's good, because it means he won't be snooping around. The place really looks like hell on the outside. It's surrounded on three sides by a sagging, rusty chain-link fence. The grounds are littered with discarded water heaters, stripped-down engine blocks, and rusting junk of every description. The concrete parking area in front is broken and black with old crankcase oil. There is a huge sign across the front of the building which has come loose at one end. It says: "Welding and Machining, J.T. Smith & Sons." Half the window panes on the ground floor are missing, but all the ground-floor windows are boarded up on the inside anyway. The neighborhood is a thoroughly grubby light manufacturing area. Next door to us is a small trucking company garage and warehouse. Trucks are coming and going at all hours of the night, which means the cops will not have their suspicions aroused if they see us driving in this area at odd hours. So, having decided to make the move, we did it today. Since there was no electricity, water, or gas in the new place, it was my job to solve the heating, lighting, and plumbing problems while the others moved our things.
Restoring the water was easy, as soon as I had located the water meter and gotten the lid off. After turning the water on I dragged some heavy junk over the meter lid so no one from the water company would be likely to find it, in case anyone ever came looking. The electric problem was a good deal more difficult. There were still lines up from the building to a power pole, but the current had been shut off at the meter, which was on an outside wall. I had to carefully knock a hole through the wall behind the meter, from the inside, and then wire jumpers across the terminals. That took me the better part of the day. The rest of my day was occupied in carefully covering all the chinks in the boards over the downstairs windows and in tacking heavy cardboard over the upstairs windows, so no ray of light can be seen from the building at night. We still have no heat and no kitchen facilities beyond the hot-plate we brought over from the other place. But at least the john works now, and our living quarters are tolerably clean, if rather bare. We can continue sleeping on the floor in our sleeping bags for a while, and we'll buy a couple of electric heaters and some other amenities in the next few days.
(For those who don't know The Turner Diaries is a pretty wild book. It was the main inspiration for Tim McVeigh in Oklahoma [besides the FBI murdering innocent people])
A.M. New Baltimore April 100
Chapter 1
September 16, 1991. Today it finally began! After all these years of talking-and nothing but talking-we have finally taken our first action. We are at war with the System, and it is no longer a war of words. I cannot sleep, so I will try writing down some of the thoughts which are flying through my head. It is not safe to talk here. The walls are quite thin, and the neighbors might wonder at a late-night conference. Besides, George and Katherine are already asleep. Only Henry and I are still awake, and he's just staring at the ceiling. I am really uptight. l am so jittery I can barely sit still. And I'm exhausted. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, when George phoned to warn that the arrests had begun, and it's after midnight now. I've been keyed up and on the move all day. But at the same time I'm exhilarated. We have finally acted! How long we will be able to continue defying the System, no one knows. Maybe it will all end tomorrow, but we must not think about that. Now that we have begun, we must continue with the plan we have been developing so carefully ever since the Gun Raids two years ago. What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave talk by patriots, "The government will never take my guns away," and then nothing but meek submission when it happened. On the other hand, maybe we should be heartened by the fact that there were still so many of us who had guns then, nearly 18 months after the Cohen Act had outlawed all private ownership of firearms in the United States. It was only because so many of us defied the law and hid our weapons instead of turning them in that the government wasn't able to act more harshly against us after the Gun Raids. I'll never forget that terrible day: November 9, 1989. They knocked on my door at five in the morning. I was completely
unsuspecting as I got up to see who it was. I opened the door, and four Negroes came pushing into the apartment before I could stop them. One was carrying a baseball bat, and two had long kitchen knives thrust into their belts. The one with the bat shoved me back into a corner and stood guard over me with his bat raised in a threatening position while the other three began ransacking my apartment.
My first thought was that they were robbers. Robberies of this sort had become all too common since the Cohen Act, with groups of Blacks forcing their way into White homes to rob and rape, knowing that even if their victims had guns they probably would not dare use them. Then the one who was guarding me flashed some kind of card and informed me that he and his accomplices were "special deputies" for the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council. They were searching for firearms, he said. I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be happening. Then I saw that they were wearing strips of green cloth tied around their left arms. As they dumped the contents of drawers on the floor and pulled luggage from the closet, they were ignoring things that robbers wouldn't have passed up: my brand-new electric razor, a valuable gold pocket watch, a milk bottle full of dimes. They were looking for firearms! Right after the Cohen Act was passed, all of us in the Organization had cached our guns and ammunition where they weren't likely to be found. Those in my unit had carefully greased our weapons, sealed them in an oil drum, and spent all of one tedious weekend burying the drum in an eight-foot-deep pit 200 miles away in the woods of western Pennsylvania. But I had kept one gun out of the cache. I had hidden my.357 magnum revolver and 50 rounds of ammunition inside the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. By pulling out two loosened nails and removing one board from the door frame I could get to my revolver in about two minutes flat if I ever needed
it. I had timed myself. But a police search would never uncover it. And these inexperienced Blacks couldn't find it in a million years. After the three who were conducting the search had looked in all the obvious places, they began slitting open my mattress and the sofa cushions. I protested vigorously at this and briefly considered trying to put up a fight. About that time there was a commotion out in the hallway. Another group of searchers had found a rifle hidden under a bed in the apartment of the young couple down the hall. They had both been handcuffed and were being forcibly escorted toward the stairs. Both were clad only in their underwear, and the young woman was complaining loudly about the fact that her baby was being left alone in the apartment. Another man walked into my apartment. He was a Caucasian, though with an unusually dark complexion. He also wore a green armband, and he carried an attach_ case and a clipboard.
The Blacks greeted him deferentially and reported the negative result of their search: "No guns here, Mr. Tepper." Tepper ran his finger down the list of names and apartment numbers on his clipboard until he came to mine. He frowned. "This is a bad one," he said. "He has a racist record. Been cited by the Council twice. And he owned eight firearms which were never turned in." Tepper opened his attach_ case and took out a small, black object about the size of a pack of cigarettes which was attached by a long cord to an electronic instrument in the case. He began moving the black object in long sweeps back and forth over the walls, while the attach_ case emitted a dull, rumbling noise. The rumble rose in pitch as the gadget approached the light switch, but Tepper convinced himself that the change was caused by the metal junction box and conduit buried in the wall. He continued his methodical sweep. As he swept over the left side of the kitchen door frame the
rumble jumped to a piercing shriek. Tepper grunted excitedly, and one of the Negroes went out and came back a few seconds later with a sledge hammer and a pry bar. It took the Negro substantially less than two minutes after that to find my gun. I was handcuffed without further ado and led outside. Altogether, four of us were arrested in my apartment building. In addition to the couple down the hall, there was an elderly man from the fourth floor. They hadn't found a firearm in his apartment, but they had found four shotgun shells on his closet shelf. Ammunition was also illegal. Mr Tepper and some of his "deputies" had more searches to carry out, but three large Blacks with baseball bats and knives were left to guard us in front of the apartment building. The four of us were forced to sit on the cold sidewalk, in various states of undress, for more than an hour until a police van finally came for us. As other residents of the apartment building left for work, they eyed us curiously. We were all shivering, and the young woman from down the hall was weeping uncontrollably. One man stopped to ask what it was all about. One of our guards brusquely explained that we were all under arrest for possessing illegal weapons. The man stared at us and shook his head disapprovingly. Then the Black pointed to me and said: "And that one's a racist." Still shaking his head, the man moved on. Herb Jones, who used to belong to the Organization and was one of the most outspoken of the "they'll-never-get-my-gun" people before the Cohen Act, walked by quickly with his eyes averted. His apartment had been searched too, but Herb was clean. He had been practically the first man in town to turn his guns over to the police after the passage of the Cohen Act made him liable to ten years imprisonment in a Federal penitentiary if he kept them. That was the penalty the four of us on the sidewalk were facing. It didn't work out that way, though. The reason it didn't is that the raids which were carried out all over the country that day netted a
lot more fish than the System had counted on: more than 800,000 persons were arrested. At first the news media tried hard to work up enough public sentiment against us so that the arrests would stick. The fact that there weren't enough jail cells in the country to hold us all could be remedied by herding us into barbed-wire enclosures outdoors until new prison facilities could be readied, the newspapers suggested. In freezing weather! I still remember the Washington Post headline the next day: "Fascist-Racist Conspiracy Smashed, Illegal Weapons Seized." But not even the brainwashed American public could fully accept the idea that nearly a million of their fellow citizens had been engaged in a secret, armed conspiracy. As more and more details of the raids leaked out, public restlessness grew. One of the details which bothered people was that the raiders had, for the most part, exempted Black neighborhoods from the searches. The explanation given at first for this was that since "racists" were the ones primarily suspected of harboring firearms, there was relatively little need to search Black homes. The peculiar logic of this explanation broke down when it turned out that a number of persons who could hardly be considered either "racists" or "fascists" had been caught up in the raids. Among them were two prominent liberal newspaper columnists who had earlier been in the forefront of the antigun crusade, four Negro Congressmen (they lived in White neighborhoods), and an embarrassingly large number of government officials.
The list of persons to be raided, it turned out, had been compiled primarily from firearms sales records which all gun dealers had been required to keep. If a person had turned a gun in to the police after the Cohen Act was passed, his name was marked off the list. If he hadn't it stayed on, and he was raided on November 9-unless he lived in a Black neighborhood. In addition, certain categories of people were raided whether they
had ever purchased a firearm from a dealer or not. All the members of the Organization were raided. The government's list of suspects was so large that a number of "responsible" civilian groups were deputized to assist in the raids. l guess the planners in the System thought that most of the people on their list had either sold their guns privately before the Cohen Act, or had disposed of them in some other way. Probably they were expecting only about a quarter as many people to be arrested as actually were. Anyway, the whole thing soon became so embarrassing and so unwieldy that most of the arrestees were turned loose again within a week. The group I was with-some 600 of us-was held for three days in a high school gymnasium in Alexandria before being released. During those three days we were fed only four times, and we got virtually no sleep. But the police did get mug shots, fingerprints, and personal data from everyone. When we were released we were told that we were still technically under arrest and could expect to be picked up again for prosecution at any time. The media kept yelling for prosecutions for awhile, but the issue was gradually allowed to die. Actually, the System had bungled the affair rather badly. For a few days we were all more frightened and glad to be free than anything else. A lot of people in the Organization dropped out right then and there. They didn't want to take any more chances. Others stayed in but used the Gun Raids as an excuse for inactivity. Now that the patriotic element in the population had been disarmed, they argued, we were all at the mercy of the System and had to be much more careful. They wanted us to cease all public recruiting activities and "go underground." As it turned out, what they really had in mind was for the Organization to restrict itself henceforth to "safe" activities, such activities to consist principally in complaining-better yet, whispering-to one another about how bad things were. The more militant members, on the other hand, were for digging
up our weapons caches and unleashing a program of terror against the System immediately, carrying out executions of Federal judges, newspaper editors, legislators, and other System figures. The time was ripe for such action, they felt, because in the wake of the Gun Raids we could win public sympathy for such a campaign against tyranny. It is hard to say now whether the militants were right. Personally, I think they were wrong-although I counted myself as one of them at the time. We could certainly have killed a number of the creatures responsible for America's ills, but I believe we would have lost in the long run. For one thing, the Organization just wasn't well disciplined enough for waging terror against the System. There were too many cowards and blabbermouths among us. Informers, fools, weaklings, and irresponsible jerks would have been our undoing. For a second thing, I am sure now that we were overoptimistic in our judgment of the mood of the public. What we mistook as general resentment against the System's abrogation of civil rights during the Gun Raids was more a passing wave of uneasiness resulting from all the commotion involved in the mass arrests. As soon as the public had been reassured by the media that they were in no danger, that the government was cracking down only on the "racists, fascists, and other anti-social elements" who had kept illegal weapons, most relaxed again and went back to their TV and funny papers. As we began to realize this, we were more discouraged than ever. We had based all our plans-in fact, the whole rationale of the Organization-on the assumption that Americans were inherently opposed to tyranny, and that when the System became oppressive enough they could be led to overthrow it. We had badly underestimated the degree to which materialism had corrupted our fellow citizens, as well as the extent to which their feelings could be manipulated by the mass media. As long as the government is able to keep the economy somehow gasping and wheezing along, the people can be conditioned to
accept any outrage. Despite the continuing inflation and the gradually declining standard of living, most Americans are still able to keep their bellies full today, and we must simply face the fact that that's the only thing which counts with most of them. Discouraged and uncertain as we were, though, we began laying new plans for the future. First, we decided to maintain our program of public recruiting. In fact, we intensified it and deliberately made our propaganda as provocative as possible. The purpose was not only to attract new members with a militant disposition, but at the same time to purge the Organization of the fainthearts and hobbyists-the "talkers." We also tightened up on discipline. Anyone who missed a scheduled meeting twice in a row was expelled. Anyone who failed to carry out a work assignment was expelled. Anyone who violated our rule against loose talk about Organizational matters was expelled. We had made up our minds to have an Organization that would be ready the next time the System provided an opportunity to strike. The shame of our failure to act, indeed, our inability to act, in 1989 tormented us and drove us without mercy. It was probably the single most important factor in steeling our wills to whip the Organization into fighting trim, despite all obstacles. Another thing that helped-at least, with me-was the constant threat of rearrest and prosecution. Even if I had wanted to give it all up and join the TV-and-funnies crowd, I couldn't. I could make no plans for a "normal," civilian future, never knowing when I might be prosecuted under the Cohen Act. (The Constitutional guarantee of a speedy trial, of course, has been "reinterpreted" by the courts until it means no more than our Constitutional guarantee of the right to keep and bear arms.) So I, and I know this also applies to George and Katherine and Henry, threw myself without reservation into work for the Organization and made only plans for the future of the Organization. My private life had ceased to matter. Whether the Organization actually is ready, I guess we'll find out
soon enough. So far, so good, though. Our plan for avoiding another mass roundup, like 1989, seems to have worked. Early last year we began putting a number of new members, unknown to the political police, into police agencies and various quasi-official organizations, such as the human relations councils. They served as our early-warning network and otherwise kept us generally informed of the System's plans against us. We were surprised at the ease with which we were able to set up and operate this network. We never would have gotten away with it back in the days of J. Edgar Hoover. It is ironic that while the Organization has always warned the public against the dangers of racial integration of our police, this has now turned out to be a blessing in disguise for us. The "equal opportunity" boys have really done a wonderful wrecking job on the FBI and other investigative agencies, and their efficiency is way down as a result. Still, we'd better not get over-confident or careless. Omigod! It's 4:00 AM. Got to get some sleep!
It was the 19th Century that brought a whitewashing to Satanism, in the feeble attempts of "white" magicians trying to perform "black" magic. This was a very paradoxical period for Satanism, with writers such as Baudelaire and Huysmans who, despite their apparent obsession with evil, seemed nice enough fellows. The Devil developed his Luciferian personality for the public to see, and gradually evolved into a sort of drawing-room gentleman. This was the era of "experts" on the black arts, such as Eliphas Levi and countless trance-mediums who, with their carefully bound spirits and demons, have also succeeded in binding the minds of many who call themselves parapsychologists to this day!
As far as Satanism is concerned, the closest outward signs of this were the neo-Pagan rites conducted by MacGregor Mathers' Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and Aleister Crowley's later Order of the Silver Star (A... A... - Argentinum Astrum) and Order of Oriental Templars (O.T.O.)*, which paranoiacally denied any association with Satanism, despite Crowley's self-imposed image of the beast of revelation. Aside from some rather charming poetry and a smattering of magical bric-a-brac, when not climbing mountains Crowley spent most of his time as a poseur par excellence and worked overtime to be wicked. Like his contemporary, Rev.(?) Mantague Summers, Crowley obviously spent a large part of his life with his tongue jammed firmly into his cheek, but his followers, today, are somehow able to read esoteric meaning into his every word.
Perennially concurrent with these societies were the sex clubs using Satanism as a rationale - that persists today, for which tabloid newspaper writers may give thanks.
If it appears that the black mass developed from a literary invention of the church, to a depraved commercial actuality, to a psychodrama for dilettantes and iconoclasts, to an ace in the hole for popular media . . . then where does it fit into the true nature of Satanism - and who was practicing Satanic magic in those years beyond 1666?
The answer to this riddle lies in another. Is the person generally considered to be a Satanist really practicing Satanism in its true sense, or rather from the point of view taken by the opinion makers of heavenly persuasion? It has often been said, and rightly so, that all of the books about the Devil have been written by the agents of God. It is, therefore, quite easy to understand how a certain breed of devil worshippers was created through the inventions of theologians. This erstwhile "evil" character is not necessarily practicing true Satanism. Nor is he a living embodiment of the element of untrammeled pride or majesty of self which gave the post-Pagan world the churchman's definition of evil. He is instead the by-product of later and more elaborate propaganda.
The pseudo-Satanist has always managed to appear throughout modern history, with his black masses of varying degrees of blasphemy; but the real Satanist is not quite so easily recognized as such.
It would be an over-simplification to say that every successful man and woman on earth is, without knowing it, a practicing Satanist; but the thirst for earthly success and its ensuing realization are certainly grounds for Saint Peter turning thumbs down. If the rich man's entry into heaven seems as difficult as the camel's attempt to go through the eye of a needle; if the love of money is the root of all evil; then we must at least assume the post powerful men on earth to be the most Satanic. This applies to financiers, industrialists, popes, poets, dictators, and all assorted opinion-makers and field marshals of the world's activities.
Occasionally, through "leakages", one of the enigmatic men or women of earth will be found to have "dabbled" in the black arts. These, of course, are brought to light as in the "mystery men" of history. Names like Rasputin, Zaharoff, Cagliostro, Rosenberg and their ilk are links - clues, so to speak, of the true legacy of Satan . . . a legacy which transcends ethnic, racial, and econimic differences and temporal ideologies, as well. The Satanist has always ruled the earth . . . and always will, by whatever name he is called.
One thing stands sure: the standards, philosophy and practices set forth on these pages are those employed by the most self-realized and powerful humans on earth. In the secret thoughts of each man and woman, still motivated byt sound and unclouded minds, resides the potential of the Satanist, as always has been. The sign of the horns shall appear to many, now, rather than the few; and the magician will stand forth that he may be recognized. (EARTH)
THE BOOK OF BELIAL
THE MASTERY OF THE EARTH The greatest appeal of magic is not in its application, but in its esoteric meanderings. The element of mystery which so heavily enshrouds the practice of the black arts has been fostered, deliberately or out of ignorance, by those who often claim the highest expertise in such matters. If the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, then established occultists would do well as maze-makers. The basic principles of ceremonial magic have been relegated for so long to infinitely classified bits of scholastic mysticism, that the would-be wizard becomes the victim of the very art of misdirection which he, himself, should be employing! An analogy may be drawn of the student of applied psychology who, though knowing all of the answers, cannot make friends.
What good is a study of falsehoods, unless everyone believes in falsehoods? Many, of course, DO believe in falsehoods, but still ACT according to natural law. It is upon this premise that Satanic magic is based. This is a primer - a basic text on materialistic magic. It is a Satanic McGuffrey's Reader.
Belial means "without a master", and symbolizes true independence, self-sufficiency, and personal accomplishment. Belial represents the earth element, and herein will be found magic with both feet on the ground - real, hard-core, magical procedure - not mystical platitudes devoid of objective reason. Probe no longer. Here is bedrock!
THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF SATANIC MAGIC
(Definition and Purpose) THE definition of magic, as used in this book, is: "The change in situations or events in accordance with one's will, which would, using normally accepted methods, be unchangable." This admittedly leaves a large area for personal interpretation. It will be said, by some, that these instructions and procedures are nothing more than applied psychology, or scientific fact, called by "magical" terminology - until they arrive at a passage in the text that is "based on no known scientific finding". It is for this reason that no attempt has been made to limit the explanations set forth to a set nomenclature. Magic is never totally scientifically explainable, but science has always been, at one time or another, considered magic.
There is no difference between "White" and "Black" magic, except in the smug hypocrisy, guilt-ridden righteousness, and self-deceit of the "White" magician himself. In the classical religious tradition, "White" magic is performed for altruistic, benevolent, and "good" purposes; while "Black" magic is used for self-aggrandizement, personal power, and "evil" purposes. No one on earth ever pursued occult studies, metaphysics, yoga, or any other "white light" concept, without ego gratification and personal power as a goal. It just so happens that some people enjoy wearing hair shirts, and others prefer velvet or silk. What is pleasure to one, is pain to another, and the same applies to "good" and "evil". Every practitioner of witchcraft is convinced that he or she is doing the "right" thing.
Magic falls into two categories, ritual or ceremonial, and non-ritual or manipulative. Ritual magic consists of the performance of a formal ceremony, taking place, at least in part, within the confines of an area set aside for such purposes and at a specific time. Its main function is to isolate the otherwise dissipated adrenal and other emotionally induced energy, and convert it into a dynamically transmittable force. It is purely an emotional, rather than intellectual, act. Any and all intellectual activity must take place before the ceremony, not during it. This type of magic is sometimes known as "GREATER MAGIC".
Non-ritual or manipulative magic, sometimes called "LESSER MAGIC", consists of the wile and guile obtained through various devices and contrived situations, which when utilized, can create "change, in accordance with one's will". In olden times this would be called "fascination", "glamour", or the "evil eye".
Most of the victims of the witch trials were not witches. Often the victims were eccentric old women who were either senile or did not conform to society. Others were exceptionally attractive women who turned the heads of the men in power, and were not responsive to their advances. The real witches were rarely executed, or even brought to trial, as they were proficient in the art of enchantment and could charm the men and save their own lives. Most of the real witches were sleeping with the inquisitors. This is the origin of the word "glamour". The antiquated meaning of glamour is witchcraft. The most important asset to the modern witch is her ability to be alluring, or to utilize glamour. The word "fascination" has a similarly occult origin. Fascination was the term applied to the evil eye. To fix a person's gaze, in other words, fascinate, was to curse them with the evil eye. Therefore, if a woman had the ability to fascinate men, she was regarded as a witch.
Learning to effectively utilize the command to LOOK, is an integral part of a witch's or warlock's training. To manipulate a person, you must first be able to attract and hold his attention. The three methods by which the command to look can be accomplished are the utilization of sex, sentiment, or wonder, or any combination of these. A witch must, honestly, decide into which category she most naturally falls. The first category, that of sex, is self-evident. If a woman is attractive or sexually appealing, she should do everything in her power to make herself as enticing as possible, thereby using sex as her most powerful tool. Once she has gained the man's attention, by using her sex appeal, she is free to manipulate him to her will. The second category is sentiment. Usually older woman fit into this category. This would include the "cookie lady" type witch, who might live in a little cottage, and be thought of by people as being a bit eccentric. Children are usually enchanted by the fantasy that this type of witch can provide for them, and young adults seek her out for her sage-like advice. Through their innocence, children can recognize her magical power. By conforming to an image of the sweet little old lady next door, she can employ the art of misdirection to accomplish her goals. The third category is the wonder theme. This category would apply to the woman who is strange or awesome in her appearance. By making her strange appearance work for her, she can manipulate people simply becuase they are fearful of the consequences should they not do as she asks.
Many women fit into more than one of these categories. For example, the young girl who has an appearance of freshness and innocence, but at the same time is very sexy, combines sex appeal with sinister overtones, uses sex and wonder. After evaluating her assets, each witch must decide into which category or combination of categories she fits, and then utilize these assets in their proper form.
To be a successful warlock, a man must similarly fit himself into the proper category. The handsome or sexually appealing man would, naturally, fit into the first category - sex. The second, or sentiment category would apply to the older man who has, perhaps, an elfin or forest wizard appearance. The sweet old grandpa (often a dirty old man!) would also be in the sentiment category. The third type would be the man who presents a sinister or diabolic appearance. Each of these men would apply his particular brand of the command to look, in much the same way as the women previously described.
Visual imagery utilized for emotional reaction is certainly the most important device incorporated in the practice of lesser magic. Anyone who is foolish enough to say "looks don't mean a thing" is indeed deluded. Good looks are unnecessary, but "looks" certainly are needed!
Odor is another important manipulative factor in lesser magic. Remember, animals fear and distrust anyone or anything that doesn't smell! And even though we may, as human animals, deny many of the judgments based on this sense consciously, we still are motivated by our sense of smell just as surely as any all-fours animal. If you are a man, and wish to enchant a woman, allow the natural secretions of your body to pervade the atmosphere immediately around you, and work in animalistic contrast to the vestments of social politeness that you wear upon your back. If you, as a woman, wish to bewitch a man, do not fear that you might "offend" simply because the oils and fragrances of your flesh have not been scrubbed away, or that place between your thighs is not dry and sterile. These natural odors are the sexual stimulants which nature, in her magical wisdom, has provided.
The sentiment stimulants are those odors that will appeal to pleasant memories and nostalgia. The enchanting of a man, through his stomach, is first established by the smell of cooking! A "sentiment" type of witch will find this one of the most useful of all charms. It is not so facetious to dwell upon the technique of the man who wished to charm the young lady who had been displaced from her home of childhood joys, which happened to be a fishing village. Wise to the ways of lesser magic, he neatly tucked a mackerel into his trousers pocket, and reaped the rewards that great fondness may often bring. THE THREE TYPES OF SATANIC RITUAL THERE are three types of ceremony incorporated in the practice of Satanic magic. Each of these correspond to a basic human emotion. The first of these we shall call a sex ritual.
A sex ritual is what is commonly known as a love charm or spell. The purpose in performing such a ritual is to create desire on the part of the person whom you desire, or to summon a sex partner to fulfill your desires. If you have no specific person or type of person in mind strong enough to cause direct sexual feeling culminating in orgasm, you will not succeed in performing as successfull working. The reason for this is that even if the ritual was successful, by accident, what good would it serve if you could not take advantage of your eventual opportunity because of lack of stimulation or desire? It is easy to confuse enchantment for your ulterior motives, with spell-casting to satisfy your sexual desires.
Enchantment for self-aggrandizement, when accompanied by ceremonial magic, falls into the category of either the compassion or the destruction ritual, or possibly both. If you want or need something so badly you are sad or feel much anguish without it, without causing hurt on another's part, then this would incorporate a compassion ritual to increase your power. If you wish to enchant or entrap a deserving victim for your own purposes, you would employ a destruction ritual. These formulas are to be adhered to, as applying the wrong type of ritual towards a desired result can lead to trouble of a complicated nature.
A good example of this is the girl who finds herself plagued by a relentless suitor. If she has done little to encourage him, then she should recognize him for the psychic vampire he is, and let him play his masochistic role. If, however, she has enchanted him frivolously, giving him every encouragement and then finds herself a steady object of sexual desire, much to her dismay, she has no one to blame but herself. Such exercises are only ego boosts, borne of an indoctrination of ego denial which makes these little bewitchments necessary. The Satanist has enough ego strength to use enchantments for her own sexual gratification, or to gain power or success of a specific nature.
The second type of ritual is of a compassionate nature. The compassion, or sentiment, ritual is performed for the purpose of helping others, or helping oneself. Health, domestic happiness, business activities, material success, and scholastic prowess are but a few of the situations covered in a compassion ritual. It might be said that this form of ceremony could fall into the realm of genuine charity, bearing in mind that "charity begins at home".
The third motivating force is that of destruction. This is a ceremony used for anger, annoyance, disdain, contempt, or just plain hate. It is known as a hex, curse, or destroying agent.
One of the greatest of all fallacies about the practice of ritual magic is the notion that one must believe in the powers of magic before one can be harmed or destroyed by them. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as the most receptive victims of curses have always been the greatest scoffers. The reason is frighteningly simple. The uncivilized tribesman is the first to run to his nearest witch-doctor or shaman when he feels a curse has been placed upon him by an enemy. The threat and presence of harm is with him consciously, and belief in the power of the curse is so strong that he will take every precaution against it. Thus, through the application of sympathetic magic, he will counteract any harm that might come his way. This man is watching his step, and not taking any chances.
On the other hand, the "enlightened" man, who doesn't place any stock in such "superstition", relegates his instinctive fear of the curse to his unconscious, thereby nourishing it into a phenominally destructive force that will multiply with each succeeding misfortune. Of course, every time a new setback occurs, the non-believer will automatically deny any connection with the curse, especially to himself. The emphatic conscious denial of the potential of the curse is the very ingredient that will create its success, through setting-up of accident prone situations. In many instances, the victim will deny any magical significance to his fate, even unto his dying gasp - although the magician is perfectly satisfied, so long as his desired results occur. It must be remembered that it matters not whether anyone attaches any significance to your working, so long as the results of the working are in accordance with your will. The super-logician will always explain the connection of the magical ritual to the end result as "coincidence".
Whether magic is performed for constructive or destructive purposes, the success of the operation is dependent on the receptivity of the person who is to receive the blessing or curse, as the case may be. In the case of a sex or compassion ritual, it helps if the recipient has faith and believes in magic, but the victim of a hex or curse is much more prone to destruction if he DOES NOT believe in it! So long as man knows the meaning of fear, he will need the ways and means to defend himself against his fears. No one knows everything, and as long as there is wonder, there will always be an apprehension of the unknown, where there are potentially dangerous forces. It is this natural fear of the unknown, a first cousin to the fascination towards the unknown, that impels the man of logic towards his very explanations. Obviously, the man of science is motivated to discovery by his very sense of wonder. And yet, how sad that this man who calls himself logical is often the last to recognize the essence of ritual magic.
If religious faith can make bleeding wounds appear on the body in approximation to the wounds supposedly inflicted on Christ, it is called stigmata. These wounds appear as a result of compassion driven to an emotionally violent extreme. Why, then, should there be any doubt as to the destructive extremes of fear and terror. The so-called demons have the power to destroy in a flesh rending manner, theoretically, as much as a handful of nails, long rusted away, can create blood-dripping ecstasy in a person convinced he is hooked upon the cross of Calvary.
Therefore, never attempt to convince the skeptic upon whom you wish to place a curse. Allow him to scoff. To enlighten him would lessen your chance of success. Listen with benign assurance as he laughs at your magic, knowing his days are filled with turmoil all the while. If he is despicable enough, by Satan's grace, he might even die - laughing!
A WORD OF WARNING!
TO THOSE WHO WOULD PRACTICE THESE ARTS -
Concerning Sex or Lust: Take full advantage of spells and charms that work; if you be a man, plunge your erect member into her with lascivious delight; if you be a woman, open wide your loins in lewd anticipation. Concerning Compassion: Be resolved that you'll have no regrets at the expense of the help that you have given others, should their new-found blessings place an obstacle in your path. Be grateful for things that come to you through the use of magic. Concerning Destruction: Be certain you DO NOT care if the intended victim lives or dies, before you throw your curse, and having caused their destruction, revel, rather than feel remorse.
HEED WELL THESE RULES - OR IN EACH CASE YOU WILL SEE A REVERSAL OF YOUR DESIRES WHICH WILL HARM, RATHER THAN HELP, YOU! THE RITUAL, OR "INTELLECTUAL DECOMPRESSION", CHAMBER A MAGICAL ceremony may be performed by oneself or in a group, but the advantages of each should be made clear.
A group ritual is certainly much more of a reinforcement of faith, and an instillation of power, than is a private ceremony. The massing together of persons who are dedicated to a common philosophy is bound to insure a renewal of confidence in the power of magic. The pageantry of religion consistently becomes a solitary situation it reaches into that realm of self-denail which runs concurrent with anti-social behavior.
It is for this reason that the Satanist should attempt to seek out others with whom to engage in these ceremonies.
In the case of a curse or destruction ritual, it sometimes helps the magician if his desires are intensified by other members of the group. There is nothing in this type of ceremony which would lead to embarrassment on the part of those conducting a ritual of this sort, since anger and the symbolic destruction of the intended victim are the essential ingredients.
On the other hand, a compassion ritual, with its unashamed shedding of tears, or a sex ritual, with its masturbatory and orgasmic overtones, would most likely succeed best if privately performed.
There is no place for self-consciousness in the ritual chamber, unless that very self-consciousness is an integral part of the role being played, and can be used to good advantage - i.e.: the shame felt by a prudent woman serving as an altar, who, through her embarrassment, feels sexual stimulation.
Even in a totally personalized ritual, however, the standardized preliminary invocations and devices should be employed before the intimate fantasies and acting out occur. The formal part of the ritual can be performed in the same room or chamber as the personalized working - or, the formal ceremony in one place, the personal in another. The beginning and end of the ritual must be conducted within the confines of the ritual chamber containing the symbolic devices (altar, chalice, etc.).
The formalized beginning and end of the ceremony acts as a dogmatic, anti-intellectual device, the purpose of which is to disassociate the activities and frame of reference of the outside world from that of the ritual chamber, where the whole will must be employed. This facet of the ceremony is most important to the intellectual, as he especially requires the "decompression chamber" effect of the chants, bells, candles, and other trappings, before he can put his pure and willful desires to work for himself, in the projection and utilization of his imagery.
The "intellectual decompression chamber" of the Satanic temple might be considered a training school for temporary ignorance, as are ALL religious services! The difference is that the Satanist KNOWS he is practicing a form of contrived ignorance in order to expand his will, whereas another religionist doesn't - or if he does know, he practices that form of self-deceit which forbids such recognition. His ego is already too shaky from his religious inculcation to allow himself to admit to such a thing as self-imposed ignorance! THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC A. Desire
THE first ingredient in the performance of a ritual is desire, otherwise known as motivation, temptation, or emotional persuasion. If you do not truly desire any end result, you should not attempt to perform a working.
There is no such thing as a "practice" working, and the only way that a magician could do "tricks" such as moving inanimate objects, would be to have a strong emotional need to do so. It is true that if the magician wishes to gain power through impressing others with his feats of magic, he must produce tangible proof of his ability. The Satanic concept of magic, however, fails to find gratification in the proving of magical prowess.
The Satanist performs his ritual to insure the outcome of his desires, and he would not waste his time nor force of will on something so inconclusive as folling a pencil off a table, etc. through the application of magic. The amount of energy needed to levitate a teacup (genuinely) would be of sufficient force to place an idea in a group of people's heads half-way across the earth, in turn, motivating them in accordance with your will. The Satanist knows that even if you succeeded in lifting the teacup from the table, it would be assumed that trickery was used anyway. Therefore, if the Satanist wants to float objects in mid-air, he uses wires, mirrors, or other devices, and saves his force for self-aggrandizement. All "gifted" mediums and white-light mystics practice pure and applied stage magic, with their blindfolds and sealed envelopes, and any fairly competent stage magician, carnival worker, or lodge-hall entertainer can duplicate the same effect - although lacking, perhaps, the sanctimonious "spiritual" overtones.
A little child learns that if he wishes for something hard enough, it will come true. This is meaningful. Wishing indicates desire, whereas prayer is accompanied by apprehension. Scripture has twisted desire into lust, covetousness, and greed. Be as a child, and do not stifle desire, lest you lose touch with the first ingredient in the performance of magic. Be led into temptation, and take that which tempts, whenever you can! THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC B. Timing
IN every successful situation, one of the most important ingredients is the proper timing. In the performance of a magical ritual, timing can mean success or failure to an even greater extent. The best time to cast your spell or charm, hex or curse, is when your target is at his most receptive state. Receptivity to the will of the magician is assured when the recipient is as passive as possible. No matter how strong-willed one is, he is naturally passive while he is asleep; therefore, the best time to throw your magical energy towards your target is when he or she sleeps.
There are certain periods of the sleep cycle that are better than others for susceptibility to outside influences. When a person is normally fatigued from a day's activities, he will "sleep like a log" until his mind and body are rested. This period of profound sleep usually lasts about four to six hours, after which the period of "dream sleep" occurs which lasts two or three hours, or until awakening. It is during this "dream sleep" that the mind is most receptive to outside or unconscious influence.
Let us assume the magician wishes to cast a spell on a person who would usually retire at 11 o'clock in the evening, and rise at 7 o'clock in the morning. The most effective time to perform a ritual would be about 5 o'clock in the morning, or two hours before the recipient awakens.
It is to be emphasized that the magician must be at his peak of efficiency, as he represents the "sending" factor when he performs his ritual. Traditionally speaking, witches and sorcerers are night people, and understandably so. What better schedule on which to live, for the sending of thoughts towards unsuspecting sleepers! If only people were aware of the thoughts injected into their minds while they slept! The dream state is the birthplace of much of the future. Great thoughts are manifest upon awakening, and the mind that retains, in conscious form, these thoughts, shall produce much. But he who is guided by thoughts unrecognized is led into situations that will later be interpreted as "fate", "God's will", or accident.
There are other times in each person's day that lend themselves to the receiving of the will of the wizard. Those times when day-dreaming or boredom ensue, or when time hangs heavy, are fertile periods of suggestibility.
If a woman is the target for your spell, do not forget the importance of the menstrual cycle. If man were not dulled through his stifling evolutionary development, he would know, as an all-fours animal knows, when the female was most sexually inclined. Man's snout, however unsullied by cheap opiates, is not normally equipped to ferret out such tell-tale erotic scents. Even if he were so endowed with such olfactory powers, the object of his quest would most likely "throw him off the scent" through the use of massive doses of perfumery to cover and smother the "offending" effluvium, or eliminate detection completely, by the astringent action of powerful deodorants.
Despite these discouraging factors, man is still motivated to desire or be repelled, as the case may be, by his unconscious recognition of the change in woman's body chemistry. This is accomplished in the form of a sensory cue, which is olfactory in its nature. To go backwards, in what would amount to a return to the all-fours animal, would seem to be the best exercise for the conscious application of these powers, but to the squeamish might smack of lycanthropy. There is, however, an easier way, and that is to simply ascertain the dates and frequency of the menstrual cycle of the woman who is your target. It is immediately before and after the period itself that the average woman is most sexually approachable. Therefore, the magician will find the sleep period during these times most effective for the instillation of thoughts or motivations of a sexual nature.
Witches and sorceresses have a much greater range of time in which to cast their spells toward the men of their choice. Becuase man is more consistent in his sexual drives than woman (although there are many women with equal or even greater lusts), day to day timing is not as important. Any man who is not already drained of all sexual energy is a "sitting duck" for the proficient witch. The time of the year following the spring equinox is the most fraught with sexual vigor in a man, and he asserts himself accordingly; but the witch, in turn, must work her magic stronger, as she will find his eyes will stray.
Should the fearful ask, "Is there no defense against such witchery?" it must be answered thus - "Yes, there is protection. You must never sleep, never daydream, never be without a vital thought, and never have an open mind. Then you shall be protected from the forces of magic." THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC C. Imagery
THE adolescent boy who takes great care in carving, on a tree, a heart containing his and his love object's initials; the little chap who sits by the hour drawing his conception of sleek automobiles; the tiny girl who rocks a scuffed and ragged doll in her arms, and thinks of it as her beautiful little baby - these capable witches and warlocks, these natural magicians, are employing the magical ingredient known as imagery, and the success of any ritual depends on it.
Children, not knowing or caring if they possess artistic skill or other creative talents, pursue their goals through the use of imagery of their own manufacture, whereas "civilized" adults are much more critical of their own creative efforts. This is why a "primitive" magician can utilize a mud doll or crude drawing to successful advantage in his magical ceremonies. To HIM, the image is as accurate as needs be.
Anything which serves to intensify the emotions during a ritual will contribute to its success. Any drawing, painting, sculpture, writing, photograph, article of clothing, scent, sound, music, tableau, or contrived situation that can be incorporated into the ceremony will serve the sorcerer well.
Imagery is a constant reminder, an intellect-saving device, a working substitute for the real thing. Imagery can be manipulated, set up, modified, and created, all according to the will of the magician, and the very blueprint that is created by imagery becomes the formula which leads to reality.
If you wish to enjoy sexual pleasures with the one of your choice, you must create the situation you desire on paper, canvas, by the written word, etc., in as overstated a way as possible, as an integral part of the ceremony.
If you have material desires, you must gaze upon images of them - surround yourself with the smells and sounds conducive to them - create a lodestone which will attract the situation or thing that you wish!
To insure the destruction of an enemy, you must destroy them by proxy! They must be shot, stabbed, sickened, burned, smashed, drowned, or rent in the most vividly convincing manner! It is easy to see why the religions of the right-hand path frown upon the creation of "graven images". The imagery used by the sorcerer is a working mechanism for material reality, which is totally opposed to esoteric spirituality.
A Greek gentleman of magical persuasion once wanted a woman who would satisfy his every desire, and so obsessed with the unfound object of his dreams was he, that he went about constructing such a wonderful creature. His work completed, he fell so convincingly and irrevocably in love with the woman he had created that she was no longer stone, but mortal flesh, and alive and warm; and so the magus, Pygmalion, received the greatest of magical benedictions, and the beautiful Galatea was his. THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC D. Direction
ONE of the most overlooked ingredients in the working of magic is the accumulation and subsequent direction of force toward an effective end.
Altogether too many would-be witches and warlocks will perform a ritual, and then go about with tremendous anxiety waiting for the first sign of a successful working. For all intent and purpose, they might as well get down on their knees and pray, for their very anxiety in waiting for the desired results only nullifies any real chance of success. Furthermore, with this attitude, it is doubtful that enough concentrated energy to even perform a proper ceremony could be stored up in the first place.
To dwell upon or constantly complain about the situation upon which your ritual would be based only guarantees the weakening of what should be ritualistically directed force, by spreading it thin and diluting it. Once the desire has been established strongly enough to employ the forces of magic, then every attempt must be made to symbolically give vent to these wishes IN THE PERFORMANCE OF THE RITUAL - NOT before or after!
The purpose of the ritual is to FREE the magician from thoughts that would consume him, were he to dwell upon them constantly. Contemplation, daydreaming and constant scheming burns up emotional energy that could be gathered together in a dynamically usable force; not to mention the fact that normal productivity is severely depleted by such consuming anxiety.
The witch who casts her spells between long waits by the telephone, anticipating her would-be lover's call; the destitute warlock who invokes Satan's blessing, then waits on pins and needles for the check to arrive; the man, saddened by the injustices wrought upon him, who, having cursed his enemy, plods his way, long of face, and forrowed of brow - all are common examples of misdirected emotional energy.
Small wonder that the "white" magician fears retribution after casting an "evil" spell! Retribution, to the guilt-ridden sender, would be assured, by their very conscience-stricken state! THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC E. The Balance Factor
THE Balance Factor is an ingredient employed in the practice of ritual magic which applies to the casting of lust and compassion rituals more than in the throwing of a curse. This ingredient is a small, but extremely important one.
A complete knowledge and awareness of this factor is an ability few witches and warlocks ever attain. This is, simply, knowing the proper type of individual and situation to work your magic on for the easiest and best results. Knowing one's own limitations is a rather odd bit of introspection, it would seem, for a person who should be able to perform the impossible; but under many conditions it can make the difference between success and failure.
If, in attempting to attain your goal through either greater or lesser magic, you find yourself failing consistently, think about these things: Have you been the victim of a misdirected, over-blown ego which has caused you to want something or someone when the chances are virtually non-existent? Are you a talentless, tone-deaf individual who is attempting, through magic, to receive great acclaim for your unmusical voice? Are you a plain, glamorless witch with oversized feet, nose, and ego, combined with an advanced case of acne, who is casting love spells to catch a handsome young movie star? Are you a gross, lumpy, lewd-mouthed, snaggle-toothed loafer who is desirous of a luscious young stripper? If so, you'd better learn to use the balance factor, or else expect to fail consistently!
There is certainly much evidence that past religions are, every day, lifting more and more of their ridiculous restrictions. Even so, when an entire religion is based on abstinence instead of indulgence (as it should be) there is little left when it has been revised to meet the current needs of man. So, why waste time "buying oats for a dead horse"?
The watchword of Satanism is INDULGENCE instead of "abstinence" . . . BUT - it is not "compulsion". ON THE CHOICE OF A HUMAN SACRIFICE THE supposed purpose in performing the ritual of sacrifice is to throw the energy provided by the blood of the freshly slaughtered victim into the atmosphere of the magical working, thereby intensifying the magician's chances of success.
The "white" magician assumes that since blood represents the life force, there is no better way to appease the gods or demons than to present them with suitable quantities of it. Combine this rationale with the fact that a dying creature is expending an overabundance of adrenal and other biochemical energies, and you have what appears to be an unbeatable combination.
The "white" magician, wary of the consequences involved in the killing of a human being, naturally utilizes birds, or other "lower" creatures in his ceremonies. It seems these sanctimonious wretches feel no guilt in the taking of a non-human life, as opposed to a human's.
The fact of the matter is that if the "magician" is worthy of his name, he will be uninhibited enough to release the necessary force from his own body, instead of from an unwilling and undeserving victim!
Contrary to all established magical theory, the release of this force is NOT effected in the actual spilling of blood, but in the death throes of the living creature! This discharge of bioelectrical energy is the very same phenominon which occurs during any profound heightening of the emotions, such as: sexual orgasm, blind anger, mortal terror, consuming grief, etc. Of these emotions, the easiest entered into of one's own violation are sexual orgasm and anger, with grief running a close third. Remembering that the two most readily available of these three (sexual orgasm and anger) have been burned into man's unconscios as "sinful" by religionists, it is small wonder they are shunned by the "white" magician, who plods along carrying the greatest of all millstones of guilt!
The inhibitive and asinine absurdity in the need to kill an innocent living creature at the high-point of a ritual, as practiced by erstwhile "wizards", is obviously their "lesser of the evils" when a discharge of energy is called for. These poor conscience-stricken fools, who have been calling themselves witches and warlocks, would sooner chop the head off a goat or chicken in an attempt to harness its death agony, than have the "blasphemous" bravery to masturbate in full view of the Jehovah whom they claim to deny! The only way these mystical cowards can ritualistically release themselves is through the agony of another's death (actually their own, by proxy) rather than the indulgent force which produces life! The treaders of the path of white light are truly the cold and the dead! No wonder these tittering pustules of "mystical wisdom" must stand within protective circles to bind the "evil" forces in order to keep themselves "safe" from attack - ONE GOOD ORGASM WOULD PROBABLY KILL THEM!
The use of a human sacrifice in a Satanic ritual does not imply that the sacrifice is slaughtered "to appease the gods". Symbolically, the victim is destroyed through the working of a hex or curse, which in turn leads to the physical, mental or emotional destruction of the "sacrifice" in ways and means not attributable to the magician.
The only time a Satanist would perform a human sacrifice would be if it were to serve a two-fold purpose; that being to release the magician's wrath in the throwing of a curse, and more important, to dispose of a totally obnoxious and deserving individual.
Under NO circumstances would a Satanist sacrifice any animal or baby! For centuries, propagandists of the right-hand path have been prattling over the supposed sacrifices of small children and voluptuous maidens at the hands of diabolists. It would be thought that anyone reading or hearing of these heinous accounts would immediately question their authenticity, taking into consideration the biased sources of the stories. On the contrary, as with all "holy" lies which are accepted without reservation, this assumed modus operandi of the Satanists persists to this day!
There are sound and logical reasons why the Satanists could not perform such sacrifices. Man, the animal, is the godhead to the Satanist. The purest form of carnal existence reposes in the bodies of animals and human children who have not grown old enough to deny themselves their natural desires. They can perceive things that the average adult human can never hope to. Therefore, the Satanist holds these beings in a sacred regard, knowing he can learn much from these natural magicians of the world.
The Satanist is aware of the universal custom of the treader of the path of Agarthi; the killing of the god. Inasmuch as gods are always created in man's own image - and the average man hates what he sees in himself - the inevitable must occur: the sacrifice of the god who represents himself. The Satanist does not hate himself, nor the gods he might choose, and has no desire to destroy himself or anything for which he stands! It is for this reason he could never willfully harm an animal or child.
The question arises, "Who, then, would be considered a fit and proper human sacrifice, and how is one qualified to pass judgment on such a person?" The answer is brutally simple. Anyone who has unjustly wronged you - one who has "gone out of his way" to hurt you - to deliberately cause trouble and hardship for you or those dear to you. In short, a person asking to be cursed by their very actions.
When a person, by his reprehensible behavior, practically cries out to be destroyed, it is truly your moral obligation to indulge them their wish. The person who takes every opportunity to "pick on" others is often mistakenly called "sadistic". In reality, this person is a misdirected masochist who is working towards his own destruction. The reason a person viciously strikes out against you is because they are afraid of you or what you represent, or are resentful of your happiness. They are weak, insecure, and on extremely shaky ground when you throw your curse, and they make ideal human sacrifices.
It is sometimes easy to overlook the actual wrongdoing of the victim of your curse, when one considers how "unhappy" a person he really is. It is not so easy, though, to retrace the damaging footsteps of your antagonist and make right those practical situations he or she has made wrong.
The "ideal sacrifice" may be emotionally insecure, but nonetheless can, in the machinations of his insecurity, cause severe damage to your tranquility or sound reputation. "Mental illness", "nervous breakdown", "maladjustment", "anxiety neuroses", "broken homes", "sibling rivalry", etc., etc., ad infinitum have too long been convenient excuses for vicious and irresponsible actions. Anyone who says "we must try to understand" those who make life miserable for those undeserving of misery is aiding and abetting a social cancer! The apologists for these rabid humans deserve any clobberings they get at the hands of their charges!
Mad dogs are destroyed, and they need help far more than the human who conveniently made froths at the mouth when irrational behavior is in order! It is easy to say, "So what! - these people are insecure, so they can't hurt me." But the fact remains - given the opportunity they would destroy you!
Therefore, you have every right to (symbolically) destroy them, and if your curse provokes their actual annihilation, rejoice that you have been instrumental in ridding the world of a pest! If your success or happiness disturbs a person - you owe him nothing! He is made to be trampled under foot! IF PEOPLE HAD TO TAKE THE CONSEQUENCES OF THEIR OWN ACTIONS, THEY WOULD THINK TWICE! LIFE AFTER DEATH THROUGH FULFILLMENT OF THE EGO MAN is aware that he will die, someday. Other animals, when nearing death, know they are about to die; but it is not until death is certain that the animal senses his coming departure from this world. And even then he does not know exactly what is entailed in dying. It is often pointed out that animals accept death gracefully, without fear or resistance. This is a beautiful concept, but one that only holds true in cases where death for the animal is unavoidable.
When an animal is sick or injured he will fight for his life with every ounce of strength he has left. It is this unshakable will to live that, if man were not so "highly evolved", would also give him the fighting spirit he needs to stay alive.
It is a well known fact that many people die simply because they give up and just don't care anymore. This is understandable if the person is very ill, with no apparent chance for recovery. But this often is not the case. Man has become lazy. He has learned to take the easy way out. Even suicide has become less repugnant to many people than any number of other sins. Religion is totally to blame for this.
Death, in most religions, is touted as a great spiritual awakening - one which is prepared for throughout life. This concept is very appealing to one who has not had a satisfactory life; but to those who have experienced all the joys life has to offer, there is a great dread attached to dying. This is as it should be. It is this lust for life which will allow the vital person to live on after the inevitable death of his fleshly shell.
History shows that men who have given their own lives in pursuit of an ideal have been deified for their martyrdom. Religionists and political leaders have been very crafty in laying their plans. By holding the martyr up as a shining example to his fellow men, they eliminate the common sense reaction that willful self-destruction goes against all animal logic. To the Satanist, martyrdom and non-personalized heroism is to be associated not with integrity, but with stupidity. This, of course, does not apply to the situations which involve the safety of a loved one. But to give one's own life for something as impersonal as a political or religious issue is the ultimate in masochism.
Life is the one great indulgence; death the one great abstinence. To a person who is satisfied with his earthly existence, life is like a party; and no one likes to leave a good party. By the same token, if a person is enjoying himself here on earth he will not so readily give up this life for the promise of an afterlife about which he knows nothing.
The Eastern mystical beliefs teach humans to discipline themselves against any conscious will for success so they might dessolve themselves into "Universal Cosmic Awareness" - anything to avoid good healthy self-satisfaction or honest pride in earthly accomplishments!
It is interesting to note that the areas in which this type of belief flourishes are those where material gains are not easily obtainable. For this reason the predominant religious belief must be one which commends its followers for their rejection of material things and their avoidance of the use of labels which attaches a certain amount of importance to material gains. In this way the people can be pacified into accepting their lot, no matter how small it may be.
Satanism uses many labels. If it were not for names, very few of us would understand anything in life, much less attach any significance to it; - and significance compels recognition, which is something everyone wants, especially the Eastern mystic who tries to prove to everyone he can meditate longer or stand more deprivation and pain than the next fellow.
The Eastern philosophies preach the dissolution of man's ego before he can produce sins. It is unfathomable to the Satanist to conceive of an ego which would willfully choose denial of itself.
In countries where this is used as a sop for the willingly impoverished, it is understandable that a philosophy which teaches the denial of the ego would serve a useful purpose - at least for those in power, to whom it would be detrimental if their people were discontented. But for anyone who has every opportunity for material gain, to choose this form of religious thought seems foolish, indeed!
The Eastern mystic believes strongly in reincarnation. To a person who has virtually nothing in this life, the possibility that he may have been a king in a past life or may be one in the next life is very attractive, and does much to appease his need for self-respect. If there is nothing in which they can take pride in this life, they can console themselves by thinking, "there are always future lives." It never occurs to the believer in reincarnation that if his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, etc. had developed "good karmas", by their adherence to the same beliefs and ethics as his present ones - then why is he now living in privation, rather than like a maharajah?
Belief in reincarnation provides a beautiful fantasy world in which a person can find the proper avenue of ego-expression, but at the same time claim to have dissolved his ego. This is emphasized by the roles people choose for themselves in their past or future lives.
Believers in reincarnation do not always choose an honorable character. If the person is of a highly respectable and conservative nature, he will often choose a colorful rogue or gangster, thereby fulfilling his alter-ego. Or, a woman who has much social status may pick a harlot or famous courtesan for the characterization of herself in a past life.
If people were able to divorce themselves from the stigma attached to personal ego-fulfillment, they would not need to play self-deceitful games such as belief in reincarnation as a means of satisfying their natural need for ego-fulfillment.
The Satanist believes in complete gratification of his ego. Satanism, in fact, is the only religion which advocates the intensification or encouragement of the ego. Only if a person's own ego is sufficiently fulfilled, can he afford to be kind and complimentary to others, without robbing himself of his self-respect. We generally think of a braggart as a person with a large ego; in reality, his bragging results from a need to satisfy his impoverished ego.
Religionists have kept their followers in line by suppressing their egos. By making their followers feel inferior, the awesomeness of their god is insured. Satanism encourages its members to develop a good strong ego because it gives them the self-respect necessary for a vital existence in this life.
If a person has been vital throughout his life and has fought to the end for his earthly existence, it is this ego which will refuse to die, even after the expiration of the flesh which housed it. Young children are to be admired for their driving enthusiasm for life. This is exemplified by the small child who refuses to go to bed when there is something exciting going on, and when once put to bed, will sneak down the stairs to peek through the curtain and watch. It is this child-like vitality that will allow the Satanist to peek through the curtain of darkness and death and remain earthbound.
Self-sacrifice is not encouraged by the Satanic religion. Therefore, unless death comes as an indulgence because of extreme circumstances which make the termination of life a welcome relief from the unendurable earthyl existence, suicide is frowned upon by the Satanic religion.
Religious martyrs have taken their own lives, not because life was intolerable for them, but to use their supreme sacrifice as a tool to further the religious belief. We must assume, then, that suicide, if done for the sake of the church, is condoned and even encouraged - even though their scriptures label it a sin - because religious martyrs of the past have always been deified.
It is rather curious that the only time suicide is considered sinful by other religions is when it comes as an indulgence. RELIGIOUS HOLIDAYS THE highest of all holidays in the Satanic religion is the date of one's own birth. This is in direct contradiction to the holy of holy days of other religions, which deify a particular god who has been created in an anthropomorphic form of their own image, thereby showing that the ego is not really buried.
The Satanist feels: "Why not really be honest and if you are going to create a god in your image, why not create that god as yourself." Every man is a god if he chooses to recognize himself as one. So, the Satanist celebrates his own birthday as the most important holiday of the year. After all, aren't you happier about the fact that you were born than you are about the birth of someone you have never even met? Or for that matter, aside from religious holidays, why pay higher tribute to the birthday of a president or to a date in history than we do to the day we were brought into this greatest of all worlds?
Despite the fact that some of us may not have been wanted, or at least were not particularly planned, we're glad, even if no one else is, that we're here! You should give yourself a pat on the back, buy yourself whatever you want, treat yourself like the king (or god) that you are, and generally celebrate your birthday with as much pomp and ceremony as possible.
After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht and Halloween (or All Hallows' Eve).
St. Walpurgis - or Walpurga, or Walburga, depending upon the time and area in which one is referring to her - was born in Sussex about the end of the Seventh or the beginning of the Eighth Century, and was educated at Winburn, Dorset, where after taking the veil, she remained for twenty-five years. She then, at the instance of her uncle, St. Boniface, and her brother, St. Wilibald, set out along with some other nuns to found religious houses in Germany. Her first settlement was at Bischofsheim in the diocese of Mainz, and two years later (754 A.D.) she became abbess of the Benedictine nunnery at Heidenheim, within her brother Wilibald's diocese of Eichstadt in Bavaria, where another brother, Winebald, had at the same time also been made head of a monastery. On the death of Winebald in 760 she succeeded him in his charge, retaining the superintendence of both houses until her death on February 25, 779. Her relics were translated to Eichstadt, where she was laid in a hollow rock, from which exuded a kind of bituminous oil, afterwards known as Walpurgis oil, regarded as having miraculous efficacy against disease. The cave became a place of pilgrimage, and a great church was built over the spot. She is commemorated at various times, but principally on May 1st, her day taking the place of an earlier Pagan festival. Amazingly enough, all of this rigmarole was found necessary simply to condone the continuance of the most important Pagan festival of the year - the grand climax of the spring equinox!
The Eve of May has been memorialized as the night that all of the demons, specters, afreets, and banshees would come forth and hold their wild revels, symbolizing the fruition of the spring equinox.
Halloween - All Hallows' Eve, or All Saints' Day - falls on October 31st or November 1st. Originally, All Hallows' Eve was one of the great fire festivals of Britain at the time of the Druids. In Scotland it was associated with the time when the spirits of the dead, the demons, witches, and sorcerers were unusually active and propitious. Paradoxically, All Hallows' Eve was also the night when young people performed magical rituals to determine their future marriage partners. The youth of the villages carried on with much merry-making and sensual revelry, but the older people took great care to safeguard their homes from the evil spirits, witches, and demons who had exceptional power that night.
The solstices and equinoxes are also celebrated as holidays, as they herald the first day of the seasons. The difference between a solstice and an equinox is a semantic one defining the relationship between the sun, moon, and the fixed stars. The solstice applies to summer and winter; the equinox refers to autumn and spring. The summer solstice is in June, and the winter solstice is in December. The autumn equinox is in September, and the spring equinox is in March. Both the equinoxes and the solstices vary a day or two from year to year, depending on the lunar cycle at the time, but usually fall on the 21st or 22nd of the month. Five to six weeks after these days the legendary Satanic revels are celebrated.
THE BLACK MASS NO other single device has been associated with Satanism as much as the black mass. To say that the most blasphemous of all religious ceremonies is nothing more than a literary invention is certainly a statement which needs qualifying - but nothing could be truer.
The popular concept of the black mass is thus: a defrocked priest stands before an altar consisting of a nude woman, her legs spread-eagled and vagina thrust open, each of her outstretched fists grasping a black candle made from the fat of unbaptized babies, and a chalice containing the urine of a prostitute (or blood) reposing on her belly. An inverted cross hangs above the altar, and triangular hosts of ergot-laden bread or black-stained turnip are methodically blessed as the priest dutifully slips them in and out of the altar-lady's labia. Then, we are told, an invocation to Satan and various demons is followed by an array of prayers and psalms chanted backwards or interspersed with obscenities. . . all performed within the confines of a "protective" pentagram drawn on the floow. If the Devil appears he is invariably in the form of a rather eager man wearing the head of a black goat upon his shoulders. Then follows a potpouri of flagellation, prayer-book burning, cunnilingus, fellatio, and general hindquarters kissing - all done to a background of ribald recitations from the Holy Bible, and audible expectorations on the cross! If a baby can be slaughtered during the ritual, so much the better; for as everyone knows, this is the favorite sport of the Satanist!
If this sounds repugnant, then the success of the reports of the black mass, in keeping the devout in church, is easy to understand. No "decent" person could fail to side with the inquisitors when told of these blasphemies. The propagandists of the church did their job well, informing the public at one time or another of the heresies and heinous acts of the Pagans, Cathars, Bogomils, Templars and others who, because of their dualistic philosophies and sometimes Satanic logic, had to be eradicated.
The stories of unbaptized babies being stolen by Satanists for use in the mass were not only effective propoganda measures, but also provided a constant source of revenue for the Church, in the form of baptism fees. No Christian mother would, upon hearing of these diabolical kidnappings, refrain from getting her child properly baptized, post haste.
Another facet of man's nature was apparent in the fact that the writer or artist with lewd thoughts could exercise his most obscene predilections in the portrayal of the activities of heretics. The censor who views all pornography so that he will know what to warn others of is the modern equivalent of the medieval chronicler of the obscene deeds of the Satanists (and, of course, their modern journalistic counterparts). It is believed that the most complete library of pornography in the world is owned by the Vatican!
The kissing of the Devil's behind during the traditional black mass is easily recognized as the forerunner of the modern term used to describe one who will, through appealing to another's ego, gain materially from him. As all Satanic ceremonies were performed toward very real or material goals, the oscularum infame (or kiss of shame) was considered a symbolic requisite towards earthly, rather than spiritual, success.
The usual assumption is that the Satanic ceremony or service is always called a black mass. A black mass is not the magical ceremony practiced by Satanists. The Satanist would only employ the use of a black mass as a form of psychodrama. Furthermore, a black mass does not necessarily imply that the performers of such are Satanists. A black mass is essentially a parody of the religious service of the Roman Catholic Church, but can be loosely applied to a satire on any religious ceremony.
To the Satanist, the black mass, in its blaspheming of orthodox rites, is nothing more than a redundancy. The services of all established religions are actually parodies of old rituals performed by the worshippers of the earth and the flesh. In attempts to de-sexualize and de-humanize the Pagan beliefs, later men of spiritual faith whitewashed the honest meanings behind the rituals into the bland euphemisms now considered to be the "true mass". Even if the Satanist were to spend each night performing a black mass, he would no more be performing a travesty than the devout churchgoer who unwittingly attends his own "black mass" - his spoof on the honest and emotionally-sound rites of Pagan antiquity.
Any ceremony considered a black mass must effectively shock and outrage, as this seems to be the measure of its success. In the Middle Ages, blaspheming the holy church was shocking. Now, however, the Church does not present the awesome image it did during the inquisition. The traditional black mass is no longer the outrageous spectacle to the dilettante or renegade priest that it once was. If the Satanist wishes to create a ritual to blaspheme an accepted institution, for the purpose of psychodrama, he is careful to choose one that is not in vogue to parody. Thus, he is truly stepping on a sacred cow.
A black mass, today, would consist of the blaspheming of such "sacred" topics as Eastern mysticism, psychiatry, the psychedelic movement, ultra-liberalism, etc. Patriotism would be championed, drugs and their gurus would be defiled, acultural militants would be deified, and the decadence of ecclesiastical theologies might even be given a Satanic boost.
The Satanic magus has always been the catalyst for the dichotomy necessary in molding popular beliefs, and in this case a ceremony in the nature of a black mass may serve a far-reaching magical purpose.
In the year 1666, some rather interesting events occurred in France. With the death of François Mansart, the architect of the trapezoid, whose geometrics were to become the prototype of the haunted house, the Palace of Versailles was being constructed, in accordance with his plans. The last of the glamorous priestesses of Satan, Jeanne-Marie Bouvier (Madame Guyon) was to be overshadowed by a shrewd opportunist and callous business-woman named Catharine Deshayes, otherwise known as LaVoisin. Here was an erstwhile beautician who, while dabbling in abortions and purveying the most efficient poisons to ladies desirous of eliminating unwanted husbands or lovers, found in the lurid accounts of the "messes noir" a proverbial brainstorm.
It is safe to say that 1666 was the year of the first "commercial" black mass! In the region south of St. Denis, which is now called LaGarenne, a great walled house was purchased by LaVoisin and fitted with dispensaries, cells, laboratories, and . . . a chapel. Soon it became de rigueur for royalty and lesser dillettantes to attend and participate in the very type of service mentioned earlier in this chapter. The organized fraud perpetrated in these ceremonies has become indelibly marked in history as the "true black mass".
When LaVoisin was arrested on March 13, 1679 (in the Church of Our Blessed Lady of Good Tidings, incidentally), the die had already been cast. The degraded activities of LaVoisin had stifled the majesty of Satanism for many years to come.
The Satanism-for-fun-and-games fad next appeared in England in the middle 18th Century in the form of Sir Francis Dashwood's Order of the Medmanham Fanciscans, popularly called The Hell-Fire Club. While eliminating the blood, gore, and baby-fat candles of the previous century's masses, Sir Francis managed to conduct rituals replete with good dirty fun, and certainly provided a colorful and harmless form of psychodrama for many of the leading lights of the period. An interesting sideline of Sir Francis, which lends a clue to the climate of the Hell-Fire Club, was a group called the Dilettanti Club, of which he was the founder.
To illustrate the undebatable fact that masturbation is an entirely normal and healthy practice: it is performed by all members of the animal kingdom. Human children will also follow their instictive masturbatory desires, unless they have been scolded for it by their indignant parents, who were undoubtably berated for it by their parents, and so on down the retrocedent line.
It is unfortunate, but true, that the sexual guilts of parents will immutably be passed on to their children. In order to save our children from the ill-fated sexual destiny of our parents, grandparents, and possibly ourselves, the perverted moral code of the past must be exposed for what it is: a pragmatically organized set of rules which, if rigidly obeyed, would destroy us! Unless we emancipate ourselves from the ridiculous sexual standards of our present society, including the so-called sexual revolution, the neuroses caused by those stifling regulations will persist. Adherence to the sensible and humanistic new morality of Satanism can - and will - evolve society in which our children can grow up healthy and without the devastating moral encumbrances of our existing sick society. NOT ALL VAMPIRES SUCK BLOOD! SATANISM represents responsibility to the responsible, instead of concern for psychic vampires.
Many people who walk the earth practice the fine art of making others feel responsible and even indebted to them, without cause. Satanism observes these leeches in their true light. Psychic vampires are individuals who drain others of their vital energy. This type of person can be found in all avenues of society. They fill no useful purpose in our lives, and are neither love objects nor true friends. Yet we feel responsible to the psychic vampire without knowing why.
If you think you may be the victim of such a person, there are a few simple rules which will help you form a decision. Is there a person you often call or visit, even though you really don't want to, because you know you will feel guilty if you don't? Or, do you find yourself constantly doing favors for one who doesn't come forward and ask, but hints? Often the psychic vampire will use reverse psychology, saying: "Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that" - and you, in turn, insist upon doing it. The psychic vampire never demands anything of you. That would be far too presumptuous. They simply let their wishes be known in subtle ways which will prevent them from being considered pests. They "wouldn't think of imposing" and are always content and willingly accept their lot, without the slightest complaint - outwardly!
Their sins are not of commission, but of omission. It's what they don't say, not what they do say, that makes you feel you must account to them. They are much too crafty to make overt demands upon you, because they know you would resent it, and would have a tangible and legitimate reason for denying them.
A large percentage of these people have special "attributes" which make their dependence upon you more feasible and much more effective. Many psychic vampires are invalids (or pretend to be) or are "mentally or emotionally disturbed." Others might feign ignorance or incompetence so you will, out of pity - or more often, exasperation - do things for them.
The traditional way to banish a demon or elemental is to recognize it for what it is, and exorcise it. Recognition of these modern-day demons and their methods is the only antidote for their devastating hold over you.
Most people accept these passively vicious individuals at face value only because their insidious maneuvers have never been pointed out to them. They merely accept these "poor souls" as being less fortunate than themselves, and feel they must help them however they can. It is this misdirected sense of responsibility (or unfounded sense of guilt) which nourishes well the "altruisms" upon which these parasites feast!
The psychic vampire is allowed to exist because he cleverly chooses conscientious, responsible people for his victims - people with great dedication to their "moral obligations."
In some cases we are vampirized by groups of people, as well as individuals. Every fund raising organization, be it a charitable foundation, community council, religious or fraternal association, etc., carefully selects a person who is adept at making others feel guilty for its chairman or coordinator. It is the job of this chairman to intimidate us into opening first our hearts, and then our wallets, to the recipient of their "good will" - never mentioning that, in many cases, their time is not unselfishly donated, but that they are drawing a fat salary for their "noble deeds." They are masters at playing upon the sympathy and consideration of responsible people. How often we see little children who have been sent forth by these self-righteous Fagins to painlessly extract donations from the kindly. Who can resist the innocent charm of a child?
There are, of course, people who are not happy unless they are giving, but many of us do not fit into this category. Unfortunately, we are often put upon to do things we do not genuinely feel should be required of us. A conscientious person finds it very difficult to decide between voluntary and imposed charity. He wants to do what is right and just, and finds it perplexing trying to decide exactly who he should help and what degree of aid should rightfully be expected of him.
Each person must decide for himself what his obligations are to his respective friends, family, and community. Before donating his time and money to those outside his immediate family and close circle of friends, he must decide what he can afford, without depriving those closest to him. When taking these things into consideration he must be certain to include himself among those who mean most to him. He must carefully evaluate the validity of the request and the personality or motives of the person asking it of him.
It is extremely difficult for a person to learn to say "no" when all his life he has said "yes." But unless he wants to be constantly taken advantage of, he must learn to say "no" when circumstances justify doing so. If you allow them, psychic vampires will gradually infiltrate your everyday life until you have no privacy left - and your constant feeling of concern for them will deplete you of all ambition.
A psychic vampire will always select a person who is relatively content and satisfied with his life - a person who is happily married, pleased with his job, and generally well-adjusted to the world around him - to feed upon. The very fact that the psychic vampire chooses to victimize a happy person shows that he is lacking all the things his victim has; he will do everything he can to stir up trouble and disharmony between his victim and those people he holds dear.
Therefore, be wary of anyone who seems to have no real friends and no appearant interest in life (except you). He will usually tell you he is very selective in his choice of friends, or doesn't make friends easily because of the high standards he sets for his companions. (To acquire and keep friends, one must be willing to give of himself - something of which the psychic vampire is incapable.) But he will hasten to add that you fulfill every requirement and are truly an outstanding exception among men - you are one of the very few worthy of his friendship.
Lest you confuse desperate love (which is a very selfish thing) with psychic vampirism, the vast difference between the two must be clarified. The only way to determine if you are being vampirized is to weigh what you give the person compared to what they give you in return.
You may, at times, become annoyed with the obligations put upon you by a loved one, a close friend, or even an employer. But before you label them psychic vampires, you must ask yourself, "What am I getting in return?" If your spouse or lover insists that you call them frequently, but you also require them to account to you for their time spent away from you, you must realize this is a give and take situation. Or, if a friend is in the habit of calling upon you for help at inopportune moments, but you similarly depend upon them to give your immediate needs priority, you must regard it as a fair exchange. If your employer asks you to do a little more than is normally expected of you in your particular position, but will overlook occasional tardiness or will give you time off when you need it, you certainly have no cause for complaint and need not feel he is taking advantage of you.
You are, however, being vampirized if you are incessantly called upon or expected to do favors for someone who, when you need a favor, always happens to have other "pressing obligations."
Many psychic vampires will give you material things for the express purpose of making you feel you owe them something in return, thereby binding you to them. The difference between your giving, and theirs, is that your return payment must come in a non-material form. They want you to feel obligated to them, and would be very disappointed and even resentful if you attempted to repay them with materal objects. In essence, you have "sold your soul" to them, and they'll constantly remind you of your duty to them, by not reminding you.
Being purely Satanic, the only way to deal with a psychic vampire is to "play dumb" and act as though they are genuinely altruistic and really expect nothing in return. Teach them a lesson by graciously taking what they give you, thanking them loudly enough for all to hear, and walking away! In this way you come out the victor. What can they say? And when you are inevitably expected to repay their "generosity," (this is the hard part!) you say "NO" - but again, graciously! When they feel you falling from their clutches two things will happen. First, they will act "crushed," hoping your old feeling of duty and sympathy will return, and when (and if) it doesn't, they will show their true colors and will become angry and vindictive.
Once you have moved them to this point, YOU can play the role of the injured party. After all, you've done nothing wrong - you just happened to have had "pressing obligations" when they needed you, and since nothing was expected in return for their gifts, there should be no hard feelings.
Generally, the psychic vampire will realize his methods have been discovered and will not press the issue. He will not continue to waste his time with you, but will move on to his next unsuspecting victim.
There are times, however, when the psychic vampire will not release his hold so easily, and will do everything possible to torment you. They have plenty of time for this because, when once rejected, they wil neglect all else (what little else they have, that is) to devote their every waking moment to planning the revenge to which they feel they are entitled. For this reason, it is best to avoid a relationship with this kind of person in the first place. Their "adulation" and dependence upon you may, at first, be very flattering, and their material gifts very attractive, but you will eventually find yourself paying for them many times over.
Don't waste your time with people who will ultimately destroy you, but concentrate instead on those who will appreciate your responsibility to them, and, likewise, feel responsible to you.
And if you are a psychic vampire - take heed! Beware of the Satanist - he is ready and willing to gleefully drive the proverbial stake through your heart! INDULGENCE . . . NOT COMPULSION
THE HIGHEST PLATEAU OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT IS THE AWARENESS OF THE FLESH! SATANISM encourages its followers to indulge in their natural desires. Only by doing so can you be a completely satisfied person with no frustrations which can be harmful to yourself and others around you. Therefore, the most simplified description of the Satanic belief is:
INDULGENCE INSTEAD OF ABSTINENCE People often mistake compulsion for indulgence, but there is a world of difference between the two. A compulsion is never created by indulging, but by not being able to indulge. By making something taboo, it only serves to intensify the desire. Everyone likes to do the things they have been told not to. "Forbidden fruits are sweetest."
Webster's Encyclopedic Dictionary defines indulgence thusly: "To give oneself up to; not to restrain or oppose; to give free course to; to gratify by compliance; to yeild to." The dictionary definition of compulsion is: "The act of compelling or driving by a force, physical or moral; constraint of the will; (compulsory, obligatory)." In other words, indulgence implies choice, whereas compulsion indicates the lack of choice.
When a person has no proper release for his desires they rapidly build up and become compulsions. If everyone had a particular time and place for the purpose of periodically indulging in their personal desires, without fear of embarrassment or reproach, they would be sufficiently released to lead unfrustrated lives in the everyday world. They would be free to plunge headlong into whatever undertaking they might choose instead of going about their duties half-heartedly, their creative urges frustrated by denying their natural desires. This would apply in the majority of cases, but there will always be those who work better under pressure.
Generally, those who need to endure a certain amount of hardship to produce to their full capabilities are in basically artistic vocations. (More will be said later about fulfillment through self-denial.) This does not mean to imply that all artists fit into this category. On the contrary, many artists are unable to produce unless their basic animal needs have been satisfied.
For the most part, it is not the artist or individualist, but the average middle-class working man or woman who is lacking the proper release for their desires. It is ironic that the responsible, respectable person - the one who pays society's bills - should be the one given the least in return. It is he who must be ever conscious of his "moral obligations", and who is condemned for normally indulging in his natural desires.
The Satanic religion considers this a gross injustice. He who upholds his responsibilities should be most entitled to the pleasures of his choice, without censure from the society he serves.
Finally a religion (Satanism) has been formed which commends and rewards those who support the society in which they live, instead of denouncing them for their human needs.
From every set of principles (be it religious, political, or philosophical), some good can be extracted. Amidst the madness of the Hitlerian concept, one point stands out as a shining example of this - "strength through joy!". Hitler was no fool when he offered the German people happiness, on a personal level, to insure their loyalty to him, and peak efficiency from them.
It has been clearly established that the majority of all illnesses are of a psychosomatic nature, and that psychosomatic illnesses are a direct result of frustration. It has been said that "the good die young". The good, by Christian standards, do die young. It is the frustration of our natural instincts which leads to the deterioration of our minds and bodies.
It has become very fashionable to concentrate on the betterment of the mind and spirit, and to consider giving pleasure to one's body (the very shell without which the mind and spirit could not exist) to be coarse, crude, unrefined. AS OF LATE, MOST PEOPLE WHO DEEM THEMSELVES EMANCIPATED HAVE LEFT NORMALCY ONLY TO "TRANSCEND" INTO IDIOCY! By way of bending their behinds around to meet their navels, subsisting on wild and exotic diets like brown rice and tea, they feel they will arive at a great state of spiritual development.
"Hogwash!" says the Satanist. He would rather eat a good hearty meal, exercise his imagination, and transcend by means of physical and emotional fulfillment. It seems, to the Satanist, that after being harnessed with unreasonable religious demands for so many centuries, one would welcome the chance to be human for once!
If anyone thinks that by denying his natural desires he can avoid mediocrity, he should examine the Eastern mystical beliefs which have been in great intellectual favor in recent years. Christianity is "old-hat", so those who wish to escape its fetters have turned to so-called enlightened religions, such as Buddhism. Although Christianity is certainly deserving of the criticism it has received, perhaps it has been taking more than its share of the blame. The followers of the mystical beliefs are every bit as guilty of the little humanisms as the "misguided" Christians. Both religions are based on trite philosophies, but the mystical religionists profess to be enlightened and emancipated from the guilt-ridden dogma which is typified by Christianity. However, the Eastern mystic is even more preoccupied than the Christian with avoiding animalistic actions that remind him he is not a "saint", but merely a man - only another form of animal, sometimes better, more often worse, than those who walk on all fours; and who, becuase of his "divine spiritual and intellectual development", has become the most vicious animal of all!
The Satanist asks, "What is wrong with being human, and having human limitations as well as assets?" By denying his desires the mystic has come no closer to overcoming compulsion than his kindred soul, the Christian. The Eastern mystical beliefs have taught people to contemplate their navels, stand on their heads, stare at blank walls, avoid the use of labels in life, and discipline themselves against any desire for materialistic pleasure. Nevertheless, I am sure you have seen just as many so-called desciplined yogis with the inablility to control a smoking habit as anyone else; or just as many supposedly emancipated Buddhists become just as excited as a "less aware" person when they are confronted with a member of the opposite - or in some cases, the same - sex. Yet when asked to explain the reason for their hypocrisy, these people retreat into the ambiguousness which characterizes their faith - no one can pin them down if there are no straight answers that can be given!
The simple fact of the matter is that the very thing which has led this type of person to a faith which preaches abstinence, is indulgence. Their compulsive masochism is the reason for choosing a religion which not only advocates self-denial, but praises them for it; and gives them a sacrosanct avenue of expression for their masochistic needs. The more abuse they can stand, the holier they become.
Masochism, to most people, represents a rejection of indulgence. Satanism points out many meanings behind the meanings, and considers masochism to be an indulgence if any attempt to sway or change the person from his masochistic traits is met with resentment and/or failure. The Satanist does not condemn these people for giving vent to their masochistic desires, but he does feel the utmost contempt towards those who cannot be honest enough (at least with themselves) to face and accept their masochism as a natural part of their personality make-up.
Having to use religion as an excuse for their masochism is bad enough, but these people actually have the effrontery to feel superior to those who are not bound-up in self-deceitful expression of their fetishes! These people would be the first to condemn a man who found his weekly release with a person who would beat him soundly, thereby releasing himself from the very thing which could, if unreleased, make him - as they are - a compulsive church-goer or religious fanatic. By finding adequate release for his masochistic desires, he no longer needs to debase and deny himself in his every waking moment, as do these compulsive masochists.
Satanists are encouraged to indulge in the seven deadly sins, as they need hurt no one; they were only invented by the Christian Church to insure guilt on the part of its followers. The Christian Church knows that it is impossible for anyone to avoid committing these sins, as they are all things which we, being human, most naturally do. After inevitably committing these sins financial offerings to the church in order to "pay off" God are employed as a sop to the parishioner's conscience!
Satan has never needed a book of rules, because vital natural forces have kept man "sinful" and intent on preserving himself and his feelings. Nevertheless, demoralizing attempts have been made on his body and being for his "soul's" sake, which only illustrate how misconceived and misused the labels of "indulgence" versus "compulsion" have become.
Sexual activity certainly is condoned and encouraged by Satanism, but obviously the fact that it is the only religion which honestly takes this stand, is the reason it has been traditionally given so much literary space.
Naturally, if most people belong to the religions which repress them sexually, anything written on this provocative subject is going to make for titillating reading.
If all attempts to sell something (be it a product or an idea) have failed - sex will always sell it. The reason for this is that even though people now consciously accept sex as a normal and necessary function, their subconscious is still bound by the taboo which religion has placed upon it. So, again, what is denied is more intensely desired. It is this bugaboo regarding sex which causes the literature devoted to the Satanic views on the subject to overshadow all else written about Satanism.
The true Satanist is not mastered by sex any more than he is mastered by any of his other desires. As with all other pleasurable things, the Satanist is master of, rather than mastered by sex. He is not the perverted fiend who is just waiting for the opportunity to deflower every young virgin, nor is he the skulking degenerate who furtively hangs around in the "dirty" bookstores, slavering over the "nasty" pictures. If pornography fills his needs for the moment, he unashamedly buys some "choice items" and guiltlessly peruses them at his leisure.
"We have to accept the fact that man has become disgruntled at being constantly repressed, but we must do everything we can to at least temper the sinful desires of man, lest they run rampant in this new age," say the religionists of the right-hand path to the questioning Satanist. "Why continue to think of these desires as shameful and something to be repressed, if you now admit they are natural?" returns the Satanist. Could it be that the white-light religionists are a bit "sour-grapes" about the fact that they didn't think of a religion, before the Satanists, which would be enjoyable to follow; and if the truth were known, would they too not like to have a bit more pleasure out of life, but for fear of losing face, cannot admit it? Could it also be that they are afraid people will, after hearing about Satanism, tell themselves "This is for me - why should I continue with a religion which condemns me for everything I do, even though there is nothing actually wrong with it?" The Satanist thinks this is more than likely true.
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He woke up, slightly dazed. Moaning softly he opened his eyes, the
blindfold momentarily forgotten. He whimpered suddenly, remembering last
night's events. Moving slightly, he realized he was still bound, hands tied
securely behind his back, kneeling on the floor, cheek pressed against the
cool tiles of the room, his well rounded ass high in the air. Attuned to
the sounds of the room, he heard a faint clicking on the tiles. Lifting his
head, he winced in remembrance as the heavy silver collar bit into the
sensitive skin of his neck, which was attached to a short chain that was
bolted to the floor. He strained to recognize the sound, heart racing, he
licked his parched lips, wishing he could see what was going on, or what
was about to happen. He heard the clicking sounds grow louder, he began
whimpering softly as he recognized the sound. He struggled frantically
against the bonds, aching to be free of the constrictions, knowing what his
Mistress had in store for him.
The big black dog approached the man, snout to the floor, sniffing out the
interesting smells of the room. He cautiously approached the man, tongue
lolling out of his mouth as he nuzzled the back of the man's thighs,
tentatively licking, tasting the man. He reached out a paw, resting it on
the bound man's ass as he continued exploring with his tongue, becoming
excited. He thrust his snout against the man's ass, his thick wet tongue
taking one long swipe across his puckered little ass. He whined softly as
he continued licking, teasing his captive's ass.
The man moaned low in his throat, feeling the dog sniffing and licking at
him, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment even as he tried in vain not to
react to the feel of his long wet tongue licking the backs of his thighs,
moving higher, teasing his ass. He felt his cock grow hard instantly,
straining against the chastity belt. He shifted slightly, spreading his
legs farther apart to give the dog better access. He felt the dog nuzzling
his ass, moaning out as the dog began to lick eagerly at the man's puckered
opening. He wantonly began to thrust his hips, pushing back against the
dog's snout as the he lapped at the tight hole, pressing his hot tongue
hard against the man's ass hole. He shuddered, his cock thickening, aching
as it pressed against the belt even as he thrust himself back onto the
dog's tongue, feeling it slide inside him.
Hearing the man gasping in pleasure, the dog shifted, his big paws resting
on either side of the man's hips, mounting him as he would any bitch that
was ready for him. He began thrusting his hips, whimpering softly as his
cock throbbed, aching to be inside something warm and tight. The dog
growled softly, teeth nipping and snapping at the nape of his neck. The dog
thrust one last time, feeling his hard, aching cock slide deep inside the
man's tight opening. Positioning himself, he began to thrust wildly into
the man, hips pistoning, ramming his big cock into the poor man's tight
little hole, using him ferociously.
The man groaned low in his throat, his body shuddering in ecstasy as he
felt the dog drive home inside his ass. He pushed frantically backwards,
wanting, needing to be used like the little bitch he was, desperately
wanting to please his Mistress. Whimpering softly, he begged for his
release, knowing his Mistress was in the room, watching closely for his
reactions. He shivered in pleasure as the dog's claws dug deep into his
hips, already feeling red welts forming. The black dog continued fucking
him, ramming his long shaft hard and mercilessly into his ass, causing him
to move forward with every bone jarring thrust. Jumping slightly, the man
felt warm hands sliding along his back, slowly moving to the front of his
chastity belt. He shuddered, feeling the clasp being released and his hard,
throbbing cock springing free from it's confines. Aching, shuddering as he
felt her fingers tease and stroke the throbbing shaft. He gasped, his
breathing ragged as he felt his Mistress's lips wrap around the head of his
cock, the dog continued thrusting hard, causing him to fuck her mouth.
The dog let out a low whine as he thrust hard and fast, fucking the man as
he shot loads of cum deep inside his ass, emptying himself inside the
bowels of the man. The dog licked and nipped at the man's neck, his hips
still thrusting slightly as he kept hold of the man's hips.
The man moaned out loud, feeling the dog's cum shoot into his ass, warm and
wet. He shuddered, his cock thrusting inside his Mistress's mouth, her
tongue teasing and rubbing along the underside of his cock. She slid her
hand to his balls, pinching and tugging on them slightly as she deep
throated him, taking his throbbing cock deep inside her mouth. Pulling
back, until the head was just inside her mouth, lips wrapped tightly around
the swollen head, she urged him on. He panted, grunting in animalistic
pleasure, his balls tightening, crying out as he shot his hot sticky cum
into her mouth, his body convulsing, shuddering as his orgasm hit. Drawing
in a deep ragged breath, mewling softly as he felt his mistress lick him
clean, softly kissing and nuzzling his cock, the very well used man
collapsed as the dog pulled out of him, moaning softly as he felt the warm
cum ooze out of his ass. Sighing softly, he whispered to his Mistress,
"thank You Mistress." He gasped softly as he felt the dog nuzzle and lick
at his well used and bruised ass, hoping against hope he pleased his
Mistress enough to be free again.The End.
I went for a run on Sunday. I live near the coast and I like to run over
the cliffs and along the beach whenever I can. The weather was very mild
so I was able to go out in my running kit. This comprised of socks,
running shoes, a running vest, a leather cock strap and a pair of nylon
shorts. The shorts do not have an inner lining and the sides are cut away
to the waistband, so there is a lot of leg showing. I love to have my
cock and balls bounce away whilst I'm running and wearing the cock strap
really pushes my cock and balls forward so that they are on show. It
always gets a reaction.
Anyway, I am running along the cliff top path and there is a fair amount
of shrubs and small trees around, so the path meanders a bit. I've been
running for about 20 minutes or so and my cock is bouncing away and is
semi hard. I've already passed a few people out walking who have looked
at my crotch and then looked at me with a smile in their eyes. But I've
not seen anyone else for about 5 minutes. The path is going through a
patch of trees and shrubs and I see another guy coming towards me also
running.
He's about 30 years old with dark, close-cropped hair; clean-shaven and
quite stockily built. He has a very square cut face and deep set eyes. He
is about 5' 6" tall and looks a dream. He was wearing a T-shirt and
running shorts, all in black, so looked very severe. As we got closer to
each other I was checking him out as he was checking me out. He had a
fair sized package that was moving about in his shorts but they were
obviously encased in a jock or something. He could see my cock bouncing
away and as he passed could see a lot of thigh on display. He gave me a
wicked smile with his bright and even teeth showing.
I carried on for a few metres and stopped, looking out over the sea. I
then looked behind me to see if I could see him running in the opposite
direction. He wasn't anywhere to be seen. So I carried on running. A
little further on, the same guy was running towards me again. He must
have doubled back so he could pass me again. As we got closer, he was
smiling at me as he casually squeezed his cock. As he passed I slowed
right down and stopped a couple of metres on. I turned back and he had
also stopped and turned to look back at me.
We stood eyeing each other up. His hand was brushing the front of his
shorts whilst I was brushing my hand over the exposed length of thigh
under my shorts. He walked towards me and placed his hand on my thigh, it
was electric. My cock jumped and tented the front of my shorts in an
instant. I brushed my hand over his chest, careful to pass over each of
his nipples, which reacted equally as fast as my cock.
We didn't say anything; he looked at me and signalled me to follow as he
moved away into the line of trees. I did follow and stopped when he did
between the trees, just out of sight of anyone casually passing on the
path. However, if they looked hard enough I'm sure they would have been
able to see us.
As we stood together he resumed stroking my thigh as I started to play
with his nipples. He told me his name was Peter and asked me what I liked
to do. I told him my name and said that I am willing to do whatever he
wanted me to do. His eyes lit up even more at this.
His hands began to move under the flaps of my shorts and he was stroking
my ass cheeks. My hands had disappeared under his T-shirt to caress his
smooth and muscular chest. He moved his hands from my ass to my running
vest. He pulled the bottom of it away from the waistband of my shorts and
pulled it up. I had to let go of his chest and lift my arms up so he
could remove the vest. Once this was done I returned the favour and slid
his T-shirt off over his head. What a chest. He obviously worked out. His
chest was totally smooth, he either shaved or waxed and it was heaven.
His mouth went for my nipples and he sucked and nipped them with his
teeth. I wasn't able to return the favour so I let my hand slide down
over his cock. It was certainly hard. I slid my hand into the top of his
shorts and moved around to his ass. Oh heaven! He was wearing a jock
strap. I felt his ass and caressed every muscle in that smooth ass.
He let go of my nipples and slid his hands down to my shorts. He pushed
them off my ass and eased my cock out from within them. Pushing them down
to the ground he told me to step out of them. He looked down at my cock
and sighed. I had shaved on Saturday so I was as smooth as a baby. He
obviously liked that. Then he very gently stroked the skin around my cock
and balls, tickling me as he did so. He told me to remove my shoes and
socks so that I was totally naked. This I did immediately for him. Now I
was standing on top of a cliff among some trees in full view of whoever
wants to see me and I've a raging hard on.
I slid my hands into the waistband of Peter's shorts and eased them off
him. I also told him to step out of them. He had on a black jock which
was struggling to hold back his hard on too. I ran my hand over the end
of his cock. The tip was already wet and he was sensitive to the touch. I
leant in and took his nipple in my mouth, nipping it gently with my
teeth. He groaned with the pleasure. His hands were now back around my
ass. I could feel him moving towards my hole. As I moved towards his
other nipple I felt a finger find the target it was looking for and he
applied gentle pressure, trying to get my hole to open for him.
I sunk down onto my knees and took his jock encase cock into my mouth. He
groaned loudly at the sensation. I devoured the jock covered cock,
wanting to take it all in. He smelt very sweaty from his running and it
was heaven. A very strong masculine smell. I let my hands move round to
his ass and slid my fingers under the straps of his jock, kneading his
ass whilst trying to eat his cock. I moved so that I had a finger
pressing at his back door. He opened his legs wider to give me greater
access and I applied a little pressure. The hole opened enough to get my
finger in to the first knuckle. I played with his pucker, gently teasing
the hole as I continued to suck on the jock.
He pulled me up into a standing position and he then knelt down. He
lifted my cock out of the way and started licking at my balls. He slurped
away at the shaven sack and was obviously loving it. He was squeezing the
cock and sack at the root where the cock strap was fitted. Doing so
produced an even harder erection. He slipped one ball into his mouth and
pulled gently. My cock was dancing away above his head. He then sucked
the other ball into his mouth and I nearly shot my load there and then. I
had to concentrate very hard in order that I didn't shoot too soon. He
moved his tongue to that area between my balls and my hole and slurped on
the smooth skin. Oh what pleasure a man can give you!
After a few minutes of this I had to stop him or I would have lost my
load. I made him stand up and I eased the waistband of his jock away from
his body. I pulled the front away so that I could pull his cock and balls
free. Oh what a sight. He also shaves. A clean smooth cock and balls for
me to play with. I pulled off his jock and he stepped out of them. I
undid his trainers and pulled them and his socks off. Now he was as naked
as I was. I put out my tongue and licked the end of his cock, I found his
piss slit and I got the tip of my tongue in there. I pulled on his sack
and caressed the area under his balls between his legs. I had not
realised before, but this was shaved too. My hand returned to his ass and
following the crease to his waiting hole I realised that this area was
also devoid of any body hair. I got the tip of his cock into my mouth and
let my tongue play with it. I licked up and down the cock whilst playing
with the ball sack. My mouth went down on his cock until it could go no
farther, the tip of his 6" cock was at my throat.
I pulled off him until just the head was resting on my tongue and slowly
took him back in to the base. I did this several times whilst my hand
found the entrance to his ass once again. I pushed slowly and the hole
yielded to the pressure to let my finger into its entrancing cavern. I
pushed until I was in to my second knuckle and then pulled out again,
then back in and then out. Plunging in and out all the while his ass
getting more and more stretched ready to take a second finger.
As I was preparing to put a second finger in I heard voices right behind
us. I froze not daring to turn around. I looked up at Peter and the look
on his face was that of horror. I turned slowly and stood up. There just
behind us were two guys both about 25 and both had their dogs with them
on their leads. The guys had stopped and were looking straight at us.
Both were dark haired, one with short hair and the other almost shaved.
Both guys were pretty good looking. The one on the right looked quite
menacing whilst the other had a sly grin on his face. Both dogs were
German Shepherds and were being held back on tight leads from joining
Peter and me.
The menacing one spoke to his mate, saying "look what we've found, a
couple of playmates for the dogs".
His mate said that they should let the dogs go and let them fuck us, as
we seem to be ready for a hard fucking.
They moved forward with the dogs, Peter and I were frozen to the spot,
scared with what they were planning to do. They came and stood next to us
and the menacing one reached out his hand and ran it down my chest to my
cock. When he got there he turned to his mate and said, "Well looky here,
shaved as clean as a babies bum. It really looks as if we hit the jackpot
her Jon".
Jon was holding Peter's cock by now and said that yea they were going to
have a great time now. The dogs were also interested in what was going on
and one of them has its face in my ass then I felt it licking it.
Jon turned to his mate and said, " Hey Paul, what say you and I have some
fun and let the dogs watch, when we've done perhaps we'll let the dogs
have their turn".
Both Peter and I begged them to let us go, saying we've done no harm but
they wouldn't have any of that. Paul instructed the dogs to stand guard
and watch us. He ordered them to attack if we made any sudden moves. Both
dogs sat and growled at us. I didn't dare move.
Paul bent down and picked up our clothes and moved backwards into the
trees putting them into a fork of a tree about 10 metres away. He came
back to the dogs and took the leads and collars off them. The dogs did
not move. Giving a collar and lead to Jon they attached one each to Peter
and my neck. They then pulled us further into the tress as if we were
dogs.
Once we were out of sight of the path they stopped. Paul was pulling me
and he led me to a tree with a horizontal branch about 2 metres from the
ground. He told me to put my arms up, one either side of the branch and
he tied my wrists together with the lead. I was now fastened to the tree
and could not escape. I looked up to see that the same thing had happened
to Peter at a nearby tree.
I was really scared now, but my cock was still as hard as rock and precum
was leaking from my piss slit. Paul called his dog over and gave the
command to lick pointing at my cock. The dog came up to me and swiped its
tongue over the tip of my cock. Then it started to lick both my cock and
balls. Paul thought this was very funny and asked me if I was enjoying
it. In a strange way I was, the sensation was very erotic and my cock
seemed to be harder than ever. I couldn't see what was happening to
Peter, but it looked as if Jon's dog was enjoying the same treat.
I hadn't noticed before but Paul was dressed in a black T-shirt and black
leather trousers and black leather boots. The T-shirt was tight across
his chest and his well-defined chest was shown off to perfection. As the
dog was licking my cock and balls, Paul pulled off his T-shirt revealing
a very hairy chest and both nipples pierced with silver rings firmly
attached. He bent down and undid the laces of his boots then removed
them. He stood up in front of me and slowly undid the buckle of his
leather belt, teasing me with whatever he had planned for me. He popped
open the top button and then slowly undid each button of his fly. He
pulled open the trousers and slowly slid them off his hips revealing a
black leather Jock. I nearly shot my load in the dog's mouth. He pulled
off the trousers and hung them and his T-shirt on a nearby branch.
Coming back to me he called the dog off which then moved away a couple of
metres and sat looking at me and licking its lips. Paul walked behind me
and ran his finger down from my shoulder blades to the crack of my ass.
Shivers went through my body at the feel of his touch. He leant into my
ear and spoke quietly telling me that he loved a smooth body that would
service him and do what he wants. He asked me if I was that body. I
didn't answer and then the next thing I knew was a whack and a loud smack
where he slapped my ass. He said it again, and I immediately answered
this time saying yes I would do anything he wanted.
He then stroked my ass saying good boy. His hand moved to my crack and
started to part the cheeks. A finger found its way to my love shute and
started to push it's way in. He wasn't very gentle and soon has a finger
all the way in to the last knuckle. He leant around me and started to
play with my nipples whilst roughly pistoning in and out of my ass with
his finger.
He let go of my ass and came around the front. This time he started to
stroke my chest and worked his way lower until he found my cock strap. It
wasn't fastened on the last press-stud so he popped it open and
refastened it on the last stud. My cock was now so hard with the veins
raised and looking ready to pop. He wrapped his hand around my cock and
slowly started to jerk me off. His other hand pulled and squeezed on my
ball sack. This was too much for me and I shot ribbons and ribbons of
sperm all over his stomach and chest. He wasn't very happy that I had
shot over him and so soon. I was on cloud nine; I can't remember when
I've had such a powerful and erotic orgasm before. He finished jerking me
off until there was no more cum left. He called his dog forward and it
leapt up on him and licked my cum off his chest and stomach. The dog
loved it. When it had got its' master cleaned up the dog turned to me and
licked the end of my cock making sure that I had no cum lingering there.
Paul then untied my hands and told me to get on my hands and knees, which
I did. He refastened the lead to the collar and the other end he tied to
the tree. The dog then came around again and started to lick my ass. Do
you know how long a dogs tongue is? It wasn't long before I had my legs
open wide and was pushing back to the dog so it could get its tongue in
further. Paul was laughing at my antics and telling me what a good boy I
was and if I were very good he would let his dog fuck me!
Paul moved up close to my face and told me to take his cock out and start
sucking. I went to pull his leather jock away and he slapped my hands
away. I was told to use my mouth only. I started to lick the leather
pouch. Up and down, side to side it was wonderful. I could feel his cock
getting harder as I was paying special attention to the leather pouch. I
managed to get my tongue inside the pouch from the side and I was able to
lick a ball and part of his cock. He told me to get on with it so I
withdrew my tongue and moved up to the waistband of the jock. Using my
teeth I was able to move the jock down each hip a little at a time. The
waistband was down so that it only half covered his swelling cock with a
thick mass of black curly hair covering the top of the jock. Eventually I
was able to get the jock clear of his cock and balls and then eventually
to get it all the way to the ground when he stepped out of it.
His cock was beautiful. 8" of straight thick uncut cock. My favourite. He
had a pair of very low handing balls and a leather cock and ball strap to
make sure they hung real low. I could wait any longer; I had to have a
taste of that meat. I leant forward and let my tongue lick up the
underside of his cock from the base to the head. I swiped my tongue
across his piss slit and then licked down the other side to the root.
Coming back up his cock I stopped at the head and let my mouth surround
it. My tongue started work on getting inside his foreskin and I was able
to get under the flange of the helmet. There was a residue of man juices,
which tasted of nectar, by the time I was finished with his head he was
spotless.
I was sucking his cock as hard as I could, he was divine. My cock was
again hard and ready for more action. Paul moved slightly and I caught
sight of Peter and Jon. Peter was on his hands and knees and Jon was
fucking him for all his worth. The look on Peter's face was that of a man
who had died and gone to heaven.
Paul was now breathing deeply and his hips were moving back and forth
fucking my mouth. He had his hands on either side of my head getting the
leverage he required for giving me a good fucking. I heard him say
something but I could not identify what he said as my head was in his
hands. The next thing I knew was his dog had mounted me and as it had
done so, so Paul thrust his cock deep into my mouth to stop me screaming.
The dog entered my ass. It was not gentle. The dog rammed in as hard at
it could digging its claws into my hips and lower back. The dog thrust
wildly whilst Paul continued to fuck my face and holding my head still. I
could suddenly feel hot ropes of dog cum shooting up my ass the pain was
just bearable but the pleasure it sparked off was unbelievable. My cock
reacted by shooting spurt after spurt of thick cum into the soil. This
was soon followed by Paul filling my mouth with his hot seed. I had no
choice but to swallow as quickly as I could as he was showing no signs of
stopping the flow of thick cum.
Eventually Paul calmed down and breathing heavily let his cock drop from
my mouth. He told the dog to get down and it removed its cock from my ass
with a loud and sudden plop. My hole was gaping open and I could feel
cold air whistling around the entrance. Paul moved away to pat his dog
and told him what a good boy it was. I looked up to see Jon climaxing in
Peter's ass. Peter had not yet cum. When Jon dismounted from Peter he
walked around the front of him and told him to clean him up. Peter was
protesting but as he opened his mouth Jon shoved his cock in so Peter had
no choice but to wash Jon's cock clean.
When Jon moved away I could see Peter was still hard and waiting for some
release. Paul had obviously seen this too and sent his dog in to lick at
Peter's cock. The dog loved it, licking the hot hard pole as if it was a
favourite bone. Peter could do nothing but endure the onslaught that the
dog was giving him. Within minutes Peter gave a loud cry and was shooting
ropes and ropes of hot sticky cum on the dog's face. The dog was trying
its hardest to catch it all in its mouth and that which it couldn't it
was licking up as fast as it could.
Paul and Jon were finished now and were getting dressed. Once they were
ready they untied us both from our trees and got us standing. They
removed the collar and leads from our neck and said their goodbyes. They
hoped they would meet us again soon saying they walk their dogs this way
most Sundays!
Peter and I were left to find our clothes and go on our way. It was a
fantastic experience that I had never thought about before and not one I
am sure that I want to repeat. However, Peter and I have arranged to meet
again soon and who knows we might find ourselves back on that cliff top
on a Sunday morning soon.
A True (and fun) Story
I knew my wife was bisexual before I married her. She and her best
friend had been to bed several times in high school, and even
shared a boyfriend a few times. I hadn't had the pleasure of both
of them before we were married, although I did come home one night,
and after kissing Sue, could tell that they'd been to bed earlier.
Our first wedding aniversary was comming up, and Sue asked me what
we were going to do to celebrate. I had planned a nice dinner, perhaps
a stage show or dancing, then back home to screw our brains out.
When I explained, and asked why she wanted to know several weeks in
advance, she simply smiled and suppressed a giggle, her grey eyes
twinkling with an impish gleam. Luckily, our first anniversary fell
on a Friday, and reservations made, we dolled ourselves up and went out
for the evening. Dinner at a fine resturant and dancing at a local
hot-spot kept us laughing and in a good mood. As we drove home, Sue
sitting next to me, leaned over and caressed my thigh with her fingernails,
sending a shiver through me. "You still want to fuck my brains out tonight?" She
cooed. I said yes, I would happily keep her wet and jumping all
night long. When Sue came, no one could doubt that she wasn't
faking. Her tendency to "let go" in bed meant that she was prone
to outbursts of very erotic (and sometimes downright dirty) talk,
as well as moaning and thrashing wildly about the bed. Arm in arm,
we climbed the stairs to our apartment, and once inside, we kissed
passionatly for several long moments, running our hands over each
other and bring desire to a boil. Sue broke the kiss and knelt
straight down, unzipping my pants in the entry hall. She pulled my
hardening cock out of my pants and slipped it into her mouth.
Tounging the underside of the head, and teasing me, I felt my balls
tingle and her wet mouth sliding like wet velvet over my shaft. I
pulled her up to me and kissed her long and hard, my tounge
exploring her mouth, teasing her tounge to follow mine back,
squeezing her tits through her blouse. As I knelt in the hall,
lifting her dress, she leaned back against the wall, bending her
knees and spreading her thighs. I moved the hem of her dress up,
and stared straight at her naked blonde pussy. She had been
dressed in a garter belt and stockings, without panties, all night.
I looked up at her, my warm breath tickling her bush, and she
smiled that special way of hers, telling me she did it for our
pleasure. I dove into her soft moist pussy, licking the glistening
drops of cream from her bush. My tounge parted her moist lips,
feeling the warmth of her, tasting her sweet eagerness. I circled
her clit several times, holding on to her thighs when she tried to
lower herself against my tounge. She pulled me up and kissed me
long and hard, showing me how very hot her passions had become.
She pulled a scarf from her pocket, smiling at me. "Stand still."
She said. "I have a suprise for you." She used the scarf as a
blindfold and led me into the darkened bedroom. I figured she'd
gone out and bought some sexy clothes for me to take off of her. I
heard matches striking, and the fragrance of scented candles
impinged on my senses. "Setting the mood" I thought. She stood
next to my, kissing me lightly on the cheek, her bare breast
touching my arm. Slowly, she began to undress me. Making me feel
every fiber move against my skin. Telling me to stay still, not to
reach for her. She removed my shirt, gliding her hands lightly
over my chest, tickling the hairs around my nipples. She removed
the belt from my pants, slowly pulling it through the belt loops,
making a long hissing sound as it slid against the fabric. She
knelt and started untying my shoes, helping me out of them, sliding
my socks off my feet. Her hands unfastened the snap at my waist,
my zipper already undone, with my cock, hard and straight standing,
waiting to be touched. She stopped and breathed into my ear, her
tounge tracing the edge, warm and wet. "Just a second." She said
softly. I heard her climb onto the bed, moving around on the
sheets. My pants were pushed away from my hips, and I could feel
her hair against my bare thighs as she lifted one leg, then the
other out of my pants. Hands caressed my thighs, sliding up under
the legs of my boxer shorts, fingernails lightly raking under my
boxer shorts. Lips closed around the end of my shaft, with a
tounge lightly caressing the head of my cock. "Tease." I muttered.
Hands quickly pulled my shorts off, making me naked and blind in
the fragrant darkness. I moved to the bed, and her hands pushed me
back against the pillows. I could feel the warmth of her body near
me and I longed to reach out an stroke her. "Just lay back and
enjoy this." She purred. More movements as she positioned herself
on the bed. Again lips encircled the head of my cock, tounge
swirling, wet and warm. The velvety smoothness caused me to moan
softly, and I could feel her warm breath against my skin. All at
once she swallowed my cock, deeply, into her throat. She'd never
before been able to 'throat' my seven inches, and I gasped loudly
as her lips tickled the hairs at the root. Rising slowly, lips
tight against me, she flicked her tounge back and forth over the
muscular ridge under my cock. I moaned my pleasure, letting her
know I enjoyed this and wanted more. My hands reached out, only to
be slapped away. I laid back and enjoyed the sensation of my cock
being swallowed over and over. Slowly. Lovingly. She began to
move quickly, her lips lightly touching the shaft, her saliva
making moist noises as she changed directions. Using only her
mouth, she pumped my cock up and down, her efforts shaking the bed.
Several fast strokes would be followed by a long plunge. Taking me
deep into her throat, she'd pause, letting me know how deep I was,
feeling the tightness of her mouth. The velvety smooth, slick skin
in the back of her throat caressed the head of my cock, feeling
sooo very nice. Then she would pull up quickly, and repeat her
fast strokes, again, only to plunge long and deep. She didn't touch
me except with her mouth. Her hands I could feel near me on the
bed, her hair not touching me as it normally would. Lacking any
other distractions, my world consisted of my cock and her mouth,
eagerly trying to suck me off. I could feel my cock trying to
stiffen even more, as my balls tightened and tingled.
"Unnghh...I'm...gonna...cum!" I panted. Her pace quickened, her
saliva dripped onto my balls, feeding the fires in them instead of
quenching them. My hips moved up, a primitive instinct taking over
control. I want to come in her mouth, give her all of my sperm,
never wanting to stop. The dam broke, Vesuvius erupted, the floods
came. Sperm rushed from my cock as she held me about half way into
her mouth. Spasms wracked my body as come surged from me. After
the fourth surge, I felt her let go and put my spurting rod against
her chest, rubbing me back and forth until I spent myself.
Breathing heavily and moaning, I began to relax; to drift into that
warm "afterglow" of total contentment and relaxation. I felt her
hips move over mine, as she sat just over my lower stomach. Her
hands untying the blind-fold. As the scarf fell away, revealing her
slim form and pale skin in the flickering candlelight, I looked at
her smiling above me, wearing only her garter belt and stockings.
As she sat, almost grinning at me, I realized that her chest and
tits were dry, yet they should have been shiny and wet with white
drops of come. "Did you like that?" She laughed huskily. "Mmmmm,
yessss!" I replied, still feeling the "glow". I a sudden motion,
she moved off of me, laying on her side next to me. "You'd better
thank her then." Sue laughed. I looked down, and laying
alongside my legs, I saw Karen, Sue's best friend and lover,
naked, except for a red bow tied around her neck, her breasts
twinkling wetly in the dim light, her tounge licking her lips. She
smiled at me, her light brown hair seeming to glow as a candle's
light tried to weave its way through. "Happy Anniversary love!"
Darlene laughed, kissing me on the cheek. I grabbed her and kissed
her back, hard and rough, as much to thank her as to tell her that
I'd wished I'd known it wasn't her. Sitting up, I pulled Karen to
me and kissed her too, tasting the salty remnants of my come on her
tounge. "That, sweetheart, " I said to Karen, "is for that
tremendous headjob!" Karen laughed, telling me how much fun it was
to suck me while I thought it was Sue going down. Sue told
her it would be a few minutes until I was ready again, indicating
my flacid cock. "Well, I certainly got all worked up over that."
Karen said. Sue had her lay back, and as I watched, laid
herself down between Karen's thighs. Her blonde hair and fair skin
contrasting to the darker skin tone of the brunette. She slid her
hands under Karen's thighs, as her mouth found the moistness
between them. Karen crossed her ankles over the middle of
Sue's back as a tounge caressed her warm, damp flesh. As I
watched, I could feel my rod begin to straighten, getting harder
and fuller as Darlene moaned softly between Karen's thighs. A
candle on the headboard illuminated Sue's creamy ass, and I
could see a glistening reflection deep between her legs. She
continued to suck, her hands reaching up to pinch Karen's dark
nipples, squeeze her full breasts, caressing the soft tender area
on their undersides with her fingers. I placed my hand on the back
of her thigh, sliding up halfway to her asscheek, stopping to give
her thigh a gentle squeeze to let her know I was enjoying her
"show". She moaned again, wiggling her ass slightly. Karen's face
was one of concentration. She was laying back, trying to
concentrate on the pleasures Sue was giving her, her legs
locked tightly over the more delicate girl's back. I moved my hand
up, cupping Sue's asscheek, pushing it up and away from me.
The second time I did that, I heard a wet "smack" come from between
her legs as her wet pussy lips parted stickily. I leaned over and
began to alternate lifting each asscheek, pushing them together and
pulling them apart as I did. It took only seconds to cause her
pussy to make its approval known with wet noises. The candle light
on her lips showed twinkling droplets of juice forming in her
golden bush, moist and inviting. Her lips were full and beginning
to swell as a white pearlescent drop began to peek from her cunt.
My handling of her ass was driving her crazy, as she sucked and
licked Karen's pussy. Her soft moans indicated that she liked me
feeling her ass, and that she wanted to make Karen come. Karen's
legs suddenly closed around Sue's head as her hips lifted off
the bed, carrying the blonde covered head with them. I watched as
she stayed locked like this, her legs quivering, her breathing a
series of short loud pants, until, finally, she collapsed on the
bed. Sue caressed the dark bush and pussy, kissing it lightly
several times in different places, causing Karen to ripple with
shudders each time. When she sat up, she crawled down toward her
friend, kissing her tenderly on the lips. "I love to eat you like
that." Sue said softly. Karen replied lazily, "Ummmm, I love to
cum in your mouth too." Sue slipped off the foot of the bed and
walked around to me, sitting on the edge of the bed. We grabbed
each other and kissed passionately, our tounges tasting Karen's cum
together. I licked the slick wetness from her chin and neck,
squeezing her small tits and pinching her nipples. As our mouths
parted, we looked into each other's eyes. "See what a wanton slut
you married?!" She laughed. Her use of the word "slut" told me that
she was incredibly turned on. In the year we'd been married, she
only used that word in bed when we had kept teasing each other,
increasing our lust to a franticly high level. "Yes, I can see what
a slut you are." I replied, playing on her horniness. "I saw how
wet your cunt was getting while you fucked her with your tounge."
"Oooh, yesss, I'm sooo wet. See?" Her hand rose from her moist
lips, the fingers glistening with a thick cream as she showed me
her hand. "I'm sooo wet! Having you watch me suck pussy has me
ready to cum!" She purred again, as she rubbed her own slick juice
over her nipples. I leaned down, my tounge circling her nipples,
licking her cream from the hard tips. I sucked a nipple into my
mouth, pulling hard as my hand slid between her thighs. "Hmmm, suck
my tits." She whispered. "Lick my nipples." I slipped three fingers
into her sopping pussy, feeling her warm wetness ooze down into my
hand. My cock touching her stomach caused her hands to encircle it
and begin a slow stroking. "I want to watch my wet slut rub her
pussy all over Karen's tits. Make her nipples all wet and creamy.
Watch as my slut tries to fuck those nice big tits. Can you feel
how wet they are? How wet your thighs are?" Her head tossed back
as I crooned our "bedtalk" too her, her mouth open slightly, she
moaned and hissed her reply. "Yesss. Fuck her tits...her wet
creamy tits...cumming on her titssss." I glanced at Karen, laying
back, watching us as she stroked her pussy. I kept my three fingers
in Sue's dripping cunt as I renewed her lust. "She's watching
you now...She's watching your cunt cream in my hand...Your
girlfriend wants to lick your dripping pussy...She wants you to cum
in her mouth this time...make her face wet." Sue looked at me
with a primal, carnal lust. She grabbed my head and kissed me
hard, her tounge shooting into my mouth barely after my lips
parted. She pulled back, and wordlessly move away, my fingers
sliding from her very wet pussy. She crawled down to Karen,
pausing to look at her naked form. She turned around, lifting her
ass and throwing one leg over Karen's body. Then, while she lowered
herself onto Karen's left breast, I could see drops of her juice
actually dripping onto the nipple, just before her blonde bush
covered it. Looking directly at me, she began to rub herself
against Karen's tit. Her pussy making wet smacking sounds as she
moved faster. "I love to see you naked," I said, "with your cunt
sooo wet and horny." "Naked? I'll show you NAKED." She said. Her
arousal was complete and high. She ripped the garterbelt from her
waist, tearing her stockings. Without lifting off Karen's nipple,
she began to tear the stocking from her thighs, shredding the
fabric. "Strip me. Strip me naked. Get me naked." She panted. Karen
pulled the stockings from Sue's legs, as this carnal blonde
fucked at her tits. "You wanna see me cum?" Sue said, looking
at me with glassy eyes. "You wanna see me cum on her tits? On her
face?" She slid backwards up to Karen's mouth, her nipples standing
up like small cylinders from her breasts. Her panting loud. As
she sat on Karen's face, she moaned, then commanded; "Sssuck me!
Yesss, eat my pussy. Make me cum. Make me cum in your mouth!!" I
moved over to her, her eyes half-closed, hips rocking furiously. I
kept up the taunts hoping to send her over the edge. "You're such a
hot carnal slut -- getting your twat sucked by a girl, your naked
in bed with your girlfriend's tounge in your cunt, and you're going
to cum...getting all wet for HER tounge in you...why don't you show
me what a hot slut you are and eat her cunt too?" "Ahhhnngg"
Darlene moaned as she fell down between Karen's open thighs. Her
hands pushed the tanned thighs apart, as she shoved her face
tightly against Karen's soaked pussy. She rocked her face back and
forth, tounge extened, making wet slurping noises. "Ooooh that's
sooo HOT!" I crooned to her, "Watching you rub your face in her
cunt...I'd love to have a picture of you, naked, your legs spread,
her tounge in your gushing wet pussy, while you rub her cum on your
face." She stopped sucking Karen, her head arching back, mouth
open, her eyes closed. Short sounds escaped from her lips as she
neared her moment of triumph. "Make her face wettt babee...CUM in
her mouth...make her face WET with your cum!" I encouraged. She
started comming, thrusting her ass against Karen's mouth, her body
first falling flat, arms splayed out, then she was upright, her
hips shaking and her body twitching as she received little electric
shocks through her clit. "Huh! Uh! Huh! Huh! Huh!" were the only
sounds in the room except for the wet noises Karen was making
between her soft thighs. She fell off of Karen, still shuddering
and moaning. Her lust only partly sated, her eyes fell on us.
"Quick Karen," She panted, "fuck him. I wanna watch you FUCK! See
your cunt FUCKED by his cock!" We moved together, Karen on her
knees, and I slid into her pussy easily. Karen's pussy was so wet
that I had trouble feeling anything as I pumped her hard and fast.
She ground her hips against me, trying to bury me deeper in her
smouldering cunt. We pounded each other, her cheeks rippling after
each thrust, her tits bouncing, until I felt her hole tighten
around my shaft. I plunged as deep as I could, splaying my legs
wider than hers to get some leverage as I drove it deep against her
cervix. Karen collapsed against the bed, her legs straight and
locked together tightly, her moans and cries announcing her orgasm.
I lay still until her contractions eased on my cock, then I started
slow movements, drawing my cock slowly from deep inside, then
quickly plunging back. "You're...still....hard?? Unngh." She said
as I lowered my cock back to the depths of her cunt. Sue pulled
me off of her brunette friend, eyes still filled with lust, as my
cock slipped wetly from between Karen's cheeks. "I'M going to make
you cum and cum and cum." She announced proudly. With her
proclamation, she laid down and began to suck my cock, licking
Karen's juice from my balls with a greedy tounge. Karen looked and
made a comment about her being greedy, and a kinky idea hit me.
"You want me to fill your mouth with my jism?" I asked Sue.
Her moaned response was a definite yes, as she laid under me, playing
with her clit. Her hands were a blur over her light bush as she
continued to suck me into her mouth. I pulled her into position
having to forcibly remove my shaft from her eager mouth. I laid
her on her back, sitting almost upright against several pillows as
I straddled her stomach. She leaned forward to suck my cock, but I
pulled back away, denying her. I had Karen sit next to us and
placed her hand around my cock, showing her the best grip with
which to jack me off. I sat back, resting not quite on Sue's
stomach, and reached behind me to stroke her drenched pussy as
Karen began to pump my shaft. I told my wife that Karen was going
to make me cum in her mouth. That her best friend was going pump
my cock until I came in her mouth, feel me cumming as she sucks the
cum from me. I leaned forward so my cock entered her mouth, as
Karen pumped me. Karen used her thumb and forefinger, pulling
tightly around my cock, pulling the skin with her as she stroked.
My fingering of her pussy made my wife greedy and she wanted to
suck me herself. Several times Karen pulled me out, and still
pumping my cock, kept it away from this carnal blonde until she
started to behave. I reached down and stroked Karen's bush since
she was doing me, and she leaned over and sucked my nipple.
Karen's pussy was still wet and slick, her thighs wet from
Sue's frantic licking. A look came into her eyes, and she slid
her body down to lay on her side next to us. "Mmmm. Lick the head."
She instructed. "Lick any cum from the head as I get him off. I'm
gonna pump him into your mouth...fill your mouth with his hot
spurting cum...I want to watch while he cums in your mouth."
Sue was sucking too much into her mouth, so Karen took me out
and teased her with it, rubbing me against the side of her face,
making her swing her head from side to side while she chased it.
"Mustn't take too much." Karen warned as she slid me back into
Sue's mouth. "C'mon you naked little bitch, let him know how
much you want him to cum. Make him cum in your mouth as much as he
did in mine. Can you feel his balls rubbing your stomach? Those
cum filled balls...rubbing on you?" I felt a well know sensation
rising from those balls too. I was getting closer as these two
teased. "After he gets hard again, I want him to fuck you from
behind while I eat your pussy. I want to taste his cum inside
you...suck it from you, drink you both.." Karen was stroking at a
steady pace, but I wanted faster and told her to go faster, to make
me cum. At the speed she was moving her hand, Sue had to pull
back to just beyond the end of my cock to keep her lips from
getting bruised. This left me looking at my naked wife, her grey
eyes filled with a primal lust, mouth open, her tounge eagerly
awaiting the arrival of the first drop as Karen sucked at her
nipple. "Ohh God...I want to...Cum!" I panted. "Yessss!" Sue
hissed back. "Shoot your hot thick cum in my mouth. I want you to
fill my mouth. Shoot your jism all over me! Shoot your jism...
let me drink you...drink your cum..." Karen chimed in with "That's
it...tell him...I'm going to suck your wet cunt while you swallow
his cum...suck you and make you wet and horny again. I want your
slick cum on my face while he shoots his load in your mouth... your
wet juice, his cum, all over us..." "Ohh, NOW!" I shouted, "I
gonna...CUM...NOW...CUM!" I felt a surge well up inside me, a rush
of cum flowed from the end of my cock into Sue's open mouth.
She moved forward against the torrent, taking me into her mouth.
Karen held on to my cock, holding her hand in one place while I
bucked and worked more cum into my wife's hot mouth. Sue was
wimpering and moaning as I shot another flood into her mouth, my
cock twitching and throbbing. Another pulse exited my cock into
her mouth. I could feel the warmth of my cum still in Sue's
mouth, exciting me. Karen pulled my cock from Sue's mouth,
jacking me off onto my wife's tits, while her voice dripped with
lust, "Cum on her tits...yeah...all over her tits...make her your
wet little slut..." Sue grabbed Karen's head and pulled her
down for a kiss, cum dribbling from the one corner of her mouth.
As they kissed, more cum leaked past their lips, as Karen rubbed my
cock over my wife's chest and tits. As they parted, I heard them
both swallow, Karen pulling my wife up from the bed to wipe the cum
from her face with my softening cock, which Karen then sucked into
her mouth. I collapsed on the bed and watched as they both licked
each other off, and started touching and caressing each other.
Later, I made love to each of these wonderful women, seperately,
and together. When we were all finally sated, we cuddled and
kissed, falling asleep together, content and smiling. From that
night forward, Karen was always invited for a birthday or an
anniversary party.
Patty refused to fuck her son again that day, as often as he
pestered her for another chance to slide his seemingly always hard
cock into her pussy. Refusing him wasn't easy. She spent most of
the evening finger fucking, locked in her room and feverishly rubbing
her wet pussy, all to thoughts of the joy she'd experienced with her
son's huge prick.
The next morning, Walter came to the breakfast table completely
naked, with an enormous throbbing hard-on that was already leaking
tasty looking cum juice. He made a valiant effort to fuck his mother
again, squeezing and fondling her body as she served him breakfast,
making her look at his magnificent cock. Again, Patty turned him
down.
Again, she had to spend the next several hours finger fucking.
She knew it was worth the effort. Her torrid fuck and suck session
the day before had been a one-time degenerate episode that could
never be repeated. What kind of mother spread her legs and opened
her pussy for her very own child?
Early that afternoon, Patty dressed and went shopping. The
first thing she heard when she let herself back into the house was
the frantic moaning and screaming upstairs. Patty just stood there,
unable to believe her ears, instantly feeling her pussy growing wet,
hot and sticky under her panties. Then she rembered what her son had
said the day before. He'd decided to keep his promise. He'd brought
home some young girl to fuck.
"Oh, fuck me, Walter!" The girl was obviously in the throes of
ecstasy. She sounded very young. "Unngh! Oh, fuck me with your big
cock, fuck me hard! Make me cum, Walter!"
Patty put the groceries on the kitchen counter. She was
trembling. She went upstairs, her mind already filing with obscene
images, of her hung son slamming his dripping prick into some lucky
little slut's gooey cunt.
The voices grew louder. Her son's bedroom door was open. Patty
told herself not to look, told herself that the sight of her son
fucking another girl would again put her incestuous lust for him over
the edge. Patty couldn't help herself. She stood in the open door,
staring in.
The girl was young, blonde and slinky. She was on top of
Walter, who lay on his back, smiling up at her, his hands folder
behind his head. The girl had a very quick, nimble ass, and she was
now gyrating it in a frenzy, frantically pistoning her wet little
pussy up and down Walter's cock.
"Gonna cum," the girl panted. She clutched Walter's shoulders,
shuddering as she slammed her hairy little fuck hole onto the base of
his prick. "Fuck me, Walter. Love your prick, Walter! Fuck me,
fuck me...."
"Get out," Patty hissed.
"Oh, shit!" the girl said.
The girl leapt off the bed, making Walter's cock slide out of
her pussy with an obscene popping sound. Patty advanced on her
menacingly. Thirty seconds later, the anonymous little slut was
gone, having set a potential world record in wiggling into her
clothes and dashing down the stairs.
She was alone in the house with her son again. Patty stood at
the foot of the bed, breathing hard, staring at her son's enormous
cock.
"What was the meaning of that?"
"I was horny," Walter shrugged, with a grin. "I told you I
might bring some chick over, Mom. I mean, if you won't fuck me
anymore, why shouldn't I?"
"You're disgusting," Patty hissed. "A girl that age, fucking
her like that right in your room. With the door wide open. You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Can't you ever think about anything
but your big cock?"
"Nope. Matter of fact, I'm thinking about it right now. Why
don't you let me fuck your tight pussy again, Momma? Shit, I'd shoot
my cum up your pussy than that chick's any day."
"You're disgusting."
"Come on, Mom."
He got off the bed, naked, his enormous fuck organ wagging
obscenely before him as he advanced on his chaste, secretly sex-
starved mother. Patty just stood there. She knew she could have
left, or yelled at him again. But watching Walter's gigantic cock
boring into the young girl's pussy had made her so, so horny. Her
cunt was throbbing again, beating as it oozed juice into her panties.
Patty needed a good fucking very, very badly.
"Take your hands off of me," she said feebly.
But she didn't mean it, and they both knew it. Walter led her
to the bed. He put her on her back, letting his mother lie there as
he stripped off her clothes. Her large, stiff-nippled tit melons
wobbled tantalizingly as he pulled off her bra, and Walter paused to
nurse on his mother's tits, to slurp her red nipples deeply between
his lips.
Off came her shoes, her skirt, her wet, cunt juice-smelling
bikini panties. Then the fuck-hungry mother was completely naked.
Walter joined her on the bed, crawling up between her legs.
"Cock 'em up, Mom."
"No, Walter. You know it's a sin. You don't really want to
fuck Mommy again, do you?"
"I said cock 'em up."
"Oh, Walter...."
Shamefully, hornily, the mother then did as her son asked. She
raised her knees high over her shoulders, spreading them, completely
opening her wet, throbbing, curly-haired pussy hole for the invasion
of his cock. Walter grinned, mounting his mother. He fit the spongy
tip of his prick between the pouting petals of her very tight cunt.
"Man, I've really got a hot load now," he panted. "I was just
about to shoot off when you walked in. I'm gonna cum so fucking hard
I'll probably knock you off the bed!"
Patty didn't answer. She was too busy looking down, excitedly
watching her son's immense cock-lance boring into her pussy. The
stiff prick stretched her pussy lusciously, making the walls clasp
and grip exquisitely around the invading thickness of his cock.
For nearly a full day she'd fantasized about this, about again
feeling her boy's prick slamming back into the pussy that had birthed
him. Now it was deep inside her again, boring deep inside her cunt.
Shamefully the naked mother stared wigging and humping, fucking her
horny, itchy pussy onto the satisfying stiffness of Walter's cock.
"Yes, Walter, it feels so good now," she panted. "It's time to
fuck Mommy again, honey. Unnggh! Fuck your mother, lover, fuck your
mother's horny cunt!"
She cocked her long legs up higher, draping her ankles over his
shoulders, completely opening her gooey pussy hole for the skewering
shaft of his cock. Her hung son started fucking. He braced his
knees on the bed, looming over his mom, supporting his weight on
straight arms. Rhythmically he fucked her tightly grasping pussy,
spearing his big cock in and out of her cunt.
"Fuck me, fuck my pussy!" Patty gasped. She humped to meet his
strokes, her enormous tits bouncing and shivering, undulating every
time her son fucked her deep wit his cock. "Unnngh! Oh, shit,
Walter, you've really got a bit one! Give Mommy a good fucking now!
Harder, honey, harder! Fuck Mommy's cunt till I can't even walk!"
Walter moaned, experiencing the luscious tightness of his
mother's pussy. It seemed impossible that she had ever given birth;
her cunt was tighter, and sucked his cock more sweetly, than that of
the girl he'd been humping only minutes before.
Now his cock was all the way inside her syrupy fuck channel,
buried to the balls. Patty felt completely overwhelmed by the size
of his fuck shaft. It stuffed her belly, reaching into the depths of
her womb. Her horny son started working his ass rapidly on top of
her, spearing his big prick in and out of the clinging sheath of her
pussy.
"Do you like the way I fuck you, Mom?" he panted. "Do you want
me to fuck you harder, Mom? Do you like the way I fuck your tight,
juicy little cunt?"
"Yes, baby," Patty squealed. She started bucking her hips in a
frenzy, eager for harder, deeper thrusting of the wonderfully big
cock. "Fuck your mother, baby. Mommy's cunt's so juicy! Unngggh!
Harder, honey, please do it harder! Oh, fuck, oh, shit, Mommy needs
a good cum so much!"
Walter sprawled flat on his naked mother, crushing her giant
tits under his chest. Then he started fucking her pussy as fast as
he could. In and out his huge cock sawed, spearing into her womb.
Patty humped and shuddered beneath him, grimacing and twisting her
head from side to side, overwhelmed by the ecstasy of being fucked
with her own son's prick.
"Mommy's going to cum now!" she gasped, almost shouting out the
words. "Harder, Walter! Unnggh! Fuck your mother, fuck your horny
mother! I'm cumming! I'm cumming!"
Her pussy spasmed violently in orgasm, spewing juice onto
Walter's hammering cock, sucking the aching stiffness of his huge,
pounding prick. Walter kept fucking as hard as possible,
relentlessly drilling his organ into the depths of her pussy hole.
The cum lasted for nearly a minute straight. When it was over,
Walter was still ramming his cock into her belly as hard as he could.
He hadn't cum yet, had kept himself from filling his mother's belly
with his hot, spewing seed.
Which meant, Patty quickly realized, that she could suck it out
of his big prick instead.
"T-t-take it out, Walter," Patty panted, deeply ashamed of what
she longed to do next. "Please, stop fucking Mommy's pussy."
"Gotta cum," Walter grunted.
"I know. I....I want to suck it now. Please, Walter. Mommy
wants to suck your cock so bad."
Walter stopped humping, pausing to smile knowingly down at his
mom. Then he slid his throbbing prick out of her pussy and rose from
the bed. He stood up, his cock pulsing as he waited for his mom to
get on her knees in front of him. Patty did it. It made her feel
like even more of a slut to kneel like this in front of her son, to
be on her knees looking up at him as she popped his cock into her
mouth and started sucking to draw out its load of spunk.
"Give me some good cocksucking, Mom...."
Patty stared hungrily at the huge cock throbbing in front of her
face. She gripped it in her fist, sliding her hand down to the base
to hold his cock in position. Then she popped the cock knob into her
mouth, and then she started sucking it.
It tasted especially good now, from fucking two wet, creamy
pussies in a row. Contentedly Patty gurgled as she nursed on the big
prick, thrusting her tongue into the cum hole to lap up the oozing
jizz. The cock knob was already very fat and puffy, and the cum
cream oozed out every instant. Patty's pussy got itchy again as she
thought of how much cock juice was jacked in her son's balls, of how
heavily he would soon be showering her tonsils with cream.
"Man, you like putting my cock in your mouth, don't you, Mom?"
Patty didn't answer. She was too busy sucking cock. Loudly and
wetly she slurped on the tasty prick, hearing her own gurgling,
smacking sounds of cocksucking pleasure filling the bedroom. The
prick grew even stiffer, beating on the roof of her mouth. Patty
thrust her left hand between her thighs, beginning to rub her wet
pussy. Shamelessly she finger fucked and sucked hard cock at the
same time.
Her mouth was stretched to bursting, contorted obscenely as she
struggled to accommodate the blood-beating thickness of her young
son's cock. Patty bobbed her head, her blonde tresses bouncing on
her shoulders, urgently fucking her mouth with his cock. She
tightened her fingers around the base of his cock, and then she
started beating his prick meat much harder than before, urgently
whipping her right hand up and down the pulsing stalk of his prick.
"Gonna shoot it," Walter gasped.
He clutched her head with both hands, lunging forward, cramming
another half-inch of his cock between her lips.
"Suck it, Mom, suck it good! Unngh! You're a great cocksucker,
Mom! Oh, fuck, cumming now!"
The giant prick started spewing, spraying rich gobs of cum juice
down the cock-loving mother's throat. Patty nursed feverishly on her
boy's giant cock, loving the taste of his cream. Again and again,
the sappy white stuff sprayed out of his cock tip, spurting on her
tonsils, running down her throat. Patty clung shamelessly to the
huge, squirting cock, jacking and sucking it, feeling her belly
filing up with cream.
At last the sticky white cock juice stopped blasting out of his
hard-on. Patty popped the big, wet cock out of her mouth, panting as
she stared intently at the cock knob. She felt completely depraved
now, unable to suppress her constant craving to fuck and suck with
her own son. If she'd gone this far with him, she might as well go
the rest of the way. It had been a long, long time since she'd felt
a prick anywhere near as huge as her son's boring into her tender
little shitter.
"You're....you're a dirty boy, Walter," Patty panted, still
jacking his fuck pole slow and hard. "You're a dirty boy for wanting
to fuck your mother like this. Don't you feel dirty for letting
Mommy suck your cock?"
"No."
"I'll....I'll bet you fantasize about fucking Mommy's tight
little asshole too, don't you? That would be just like you. Do you
fantasize about fucking my hot little asshole when you jack off,
honey? Is that where you'd like to shove this big cock of yours
next?"
Walter just grinned in response, his prick throbbing harder than
ever. Patty rose unsteadily to her feet. The idea of asshole
fucking was morally repugnant to her, but that meant nothing to the
puckered, pink hole that was now already throbbing lewdly in and out.
It just happened to be the case that Patty had been born with an
unusually sensitive, itchy little asshole. Whenever her cunt got
wet, her asshole usually felt hot and tingly too.
"You'd better get some Vaseline from the bathroom, Walter. I
guess you're never going to get over your sick desire to fuck your
mother unless I let you fuck my asshole too."
Walter disappeared into the bathroom. Patty grabbed a pillow,
thrusting it under her belly to elevate her hips. She felt
completely ashamed of herself, knowing how badly she needed this
torrid session of assfucking with her son. Shamefully she gripped
her rounded little white ass globes, spreading them wide, revealing
her pink, puckered shit orifice to her only son.
Walter returned to the bedroom, finding his mother sprawled on
her stomach, holding her ass cheeks open. He grinned, again joining
her on the bed. Patty heard him moving behind her, uncapping the
Vaseline jar. She whimpered as her boy started pasting the lube
liberally all over her little shitter.
"Stick your fingers in, Walter. Get Mommy's little asshole nice
and juicy."
Walter did as his mother asked, straightening his fingers,
thrusting them into the gripping interior of his mother's shit
tunnel. Patty groaned, fucking her tight, itchy asshole onto his
hand. Then she heard a new sound behind her as her son basted his
huge cock liberally with Vaseline.
"That's enough, Walter. Time to fuck Mommy's asshole now,
honey. Hurry, honey, give Mommy's asshole a good, hard ass fucking!"
Walter mounted his naked mother, aiming his swollen cock tip at
her rubbery shit hole. Patty gasped with intense pleasure as she
felt the cock cleaving into her bowels, instantly stretching her
burning asshole to the bursting point around the invading thickness
of his prick.
It had been so, so long since her last asshole reaming. Patty's
asshole was already sucking and spasming needfully in response to her
son's cock, sucking and gripping Walter's prick to welcome it into
her body. Patty bit her lip, suppressing the slight pain she felt as
her asshole stretched to accommodate his cock. Then she started
humping again, wiggling at the same time, trying to help her hung son
stuff every inch of his fuck pole into her narrow, gripping ass.
"Fuck your mother, fuck Mommy's little asshole!" she pleaded.
Patty released her buns, no longer needing to hole them open.
She thrust her hand under her belly and started finger fucking,
rubbing her aching clitty as hard as she could.
"Mommy needs assfucking, Walter!" she panted. "Deeper, baby,
really ram it in now! Oh, fuck, oh, shit, fuck Mommy's asshole as
deep as you can!"
Walter grunted as he heaved on top of her, forcing his immense
cock deeper and deeper into the Vaseline-slickened heat of her
asshole. Then it was all the way inside her, buried to the balls,
his huge prick pulsating as it soaked in the indescribable tightness
of her shit tunnel.
Patty started humping harder, moaning and crying as she
shamefully fucked her stretched, tingling asshole onto his cock.
Walter pulled out slowly, then rammed his prick back into her bowels.
Then he settled into a hard, fast rhythm, slamming his prick in and
out of his mother's horny little shitter.
"Fuck my asshole, fuck my horny little asshole!" Patty pleaded.
She finger fucked her pussy in a frenzy, simultaneously thrusting her
asshole onto his cock. "Unngggh! Mommy's got such a horny little
asshole, honey! It needs fucking super bad! Oh, shit, please do it
harder! Oh, darling, fuck Mommy's asshole as hard as you can!"
Walter did as his mother asked, ramming his cock up her shit
chute as hard as he could. The enormous fuck organ had swelled even
stiffer, and Patty sensed that her hung son would soon be basting her
bowel tract with another load of cum.
The orgasm burst suddenly deep inside her, making her pussy gush
onto her fingers, and her asshole spasmadically grip and milk around
Walter's hammering cock. Patty shrieked with shameful pleasure,
humping and bucking and thrusting as hard as she could.
"Fuck my asshole, fuck Mommy's horny asshole!" she cried. "My
asshole's cumming now, Walter! Fuck it, fuck it good!
Cuummmiiinnngggg!"
Walter collapsed on top of her, ramming his cock to the hilt in
her tenderly sucking bowels. Then his load of cock juice spewed out
of his balls. It lashed out of his cock tip, spraying into his
mother's asshole, deluging her shitter with an ocean of cream.
Hornily the naked mother flexed her shitting muscles around the huge,
erupting cock, helping him draining his balls completely in her ass.
* * * * * * * *
She had to do something about Walter's craving to fuck her.
Patty paced her bedroom several hours later, trying to ignore the wet
ache in her pussy, wondering what she could do to end her shocking,
incestuous liaison with her son.
She'd make him see a counselor. Yes, that was right. A
counselor could help him deal with his uncontrollable sex drive.
Patty went to her bureau, finding her address book and thumbing
through the pages. She still didn't think that her own lust had
anything to do with the fact that she'd let her son fuck her. She
blamed it all on him.
Margaret Kelly. She was a therapist of some sort. Patty had
heard about her because Margaret Kelly sometimes worked with young
people referred by Walter's school. Margaret was supposed to be a
mother too, with a growing son of her own. Having a record of school
referrals was as much endorsement as Patty needed. She'd make sure
that Walter saw Margaret Kelly as soon as possible, to discuss his
shocking desire to suck and fuck his very own mother.
Smartest thing I've seen on /. in a while
all nigger shit
Your surprise has made me wet my pants
Now I have to change my huggie pull-ups
thank you
Well its not porn really, but the copy of "Boys Life" in the Priest/Ministers desk drawer is not for reading.
Just FYI...
Post.
(For those who don't know The Turner Diaries is a pretty wild book. It was the main inspiration for Tim McVeigh in Oklahoma [besides the FBI murdering innocent people])
.30 meter, a .91 meter, an "inc. ' was 2.5 centimeters, and a "pound" .4s kilogram-approximately.)
Chapter II
September 18, 1991: These last two days have really been a
comedy of errors, and today the comedy nearly became a tragedy.
When the others were finally able to wake me tip yesterday, we put
our heads together to figure what to do. The first thing, we all
agreed, was to arm ourselves and then to find a better hideout.
Our unit-that is, the four of us-leased this apartment under a false
name nearly six months ago, just to have it available when we
needed it. (We just beat the new law which requires a landlord to
furnish the police with the social security number of every new
tenant, just like when a person opens a bank account.) Because
we've stayed away from the apartment until now, I'm sure the
political police haven't connected any of us with this address.
But it's too small for all of us to live here for any length of time,
and it doesn't offer enough privacy from the neighbors. We were
too anxious to save money when we picked this place.
Money is our main problem now. We thought to stock this place
with food, medicine, tools, spare clothing, maps-even a bicycle-but
we forgot about cash. Two days ago, when the word came that they
were starting the arrests again, we had no chance to withdraw
money from the bank; it was too early in the morning. Now our
accounts are surely frozen.
So we have only the cash that was in our pockets at the time: a
little over $70 altogether (Note to the reader: The "dollar" was the
basic monetary unit in the United States in the Old Era. In 1991,
two dollars would buy a half-kilo loaf of bread or about a quarter
of a kilo of sugar.)
And no transportation except for the bicycle. According to plan,
we had all abandoned our cars, since the police would be looking
for them. Even if we had kept a car, we would have a problem
trying to get fuel for it. Since our gasoline ration cards are
magnetically coded with our social security numbers, when we
stuck them into the computer at a filling station they would show
blocked quotas-and instantaneously tell the Feds monitoring the
central computer where we were.
Yesterday George, who is our contact with Unit 9, took the
bicycle and pedaled over to talk to them about the situation.
They're a little better off than we are, but not much. The six of
them have about $400, but they're crowded into a hole in the wall
which is even less satisfactory than ours, according to George.
They do have four automobiles and a fair-sized store of fuel,
though. Carl Smith, who is with them, made some very convincing
counterfeit license plates for everyone with a car in his unit. We
should have done the same, but it's too late now.
They offered George one car and $50 cash, which he gratefully
accepted. They didn't want to let go of any of their gasoline,
though, other than the tankful in the car they gave us.
That still left us with no money to rent another place, no} enough
gas to make the round trip to our weapons cache in Pennsylvania
and back. We didn't even have enough money to buy a week's
groceries when our food stock ran out, and that would be in about
another four days.
The network will be established in ten days, but until then we are
on our own. Furthermore, when our unit joins the network it is
expected to have already solved its supply problems and be ready
to go into action in concert with the other units.
If we had more money we could solve all our problems, including
the fuel problem. Gasoline is always available on the black market,
of course-at $10 a gallon, nearly twice what it costs at a filling
station.
We stewed over our situation until this afternoon. Then, desperate
not to waste any more time, we finally decided to go out and take
some money. Henry and I were stuck with the chore, since we
couldn't afford for George to get arrested. He's the only one who
knows the network code.
We had Katherine do a pretty good makeup job on us first. She's
into amateur theater and has the equipment and know-how to really
change a person's appearance.
My inclination was just to walk into the first liquor store we came
to, knock the manager on the head with a brick, and scoop up the
money from the cash register.
Henry wouldn't go along with that, though. He said we couldn't
use means which contradicted our ends. If we begin preying on the
public to support ourselves, we will be viewed as a gang of
common criminals, regardless of how lofty our aims are. Worse,
we will eventually begin to think of ourselves the same way.
Henry looks at everything in terms of our ideology. If something
doesn't fit, he'll have nothing to do with it.
In a way this may seem impractical, but I think maybe he's right.
Only by making our beliefs into a living faith which guides us
from day to day can we maintain the moral strength to overcome
the obstacles and hardships which lie ahead.
Anyway, he convinced me that if we are going to rob liquor
stores we have to do it in a socially conscious way. If we are going
to cave in people's heads with bricks, they must be people who
deserve it.
By comparing the liquor store listings in the Yellow Pages of the
telephone directory with a list of supporting members of the
Northern Virginia Human Relations Council which had been
filched for us by the girl we sent over there to do volunteer work
for them, we finally settled on Berman's Liquors and Wines, Saul
I. Berman, proprietor.
There were no bricks handy, so we equipped ourselves with
blackjacks consisting of good-sized bars of Ivory soap inside long,
strong ski socks. Henry also tucked a sheath knife into his belt.
We parked about a block and a half from Berman's Liquors,
around the corner. When we went in there were no customers in
the store. A Black was at the cash register, tending the store.
Henry asked him for a bottle of vodka on a high shelf behind the
counter. When he turned around I let him have it at the base of the
skull with my "Ivory special." He dropped silently to the floor and
remained motionless.
Henry calmly emptied the cash register and a cigar box under the
counter which held the larger bills. We walked out and headed for
the car We had gotten a little over $800. It had been surprisingly
easy.
Three stores down Henry suddenly stopped and pointed out the
sign on the door: "Berman's Deli." Without a moment's hesitation
he pushed open the door and walked in. Spurred on by a sudden,
reckless impulse I followed him instead of trying to stop him.
Berman himself was behind the counter, at the back. Henry lured
him out by asking the price of an item near the front of the store
which Berman couldn't see clearly from behind the counter.
As he passed me, I let him have it in the back of the head as hard
as I could. I felt the bar of soap shatter from the force of the blow.
Berman went down yelling at the top of his lungs. Then he started
crawling rapidly toward the back of the store, screaming loudly
enough to wake the dead. I was completely unnerved by the racket
and stood frozen.
Not Henry though. He leaped onto Berman's back, seized him by
the hair, and cut his throat from ear to ear in one, swift motion.
The silence lasted about one second. Then a fat, grotesque-looking
woman of about 60-probably Berman's wife -came
charging out of the back room waving a meat cleaver and emitting
an ear-piercing shriek.
Henry let fly at her with a large jar of kosher pickles and scored a
direct hit. She went down in a spray of pickles and broken glass.
Henry then cleaned out the cash register, looked for another cigar
box under the counter, found it, and scooped the bills out.
I snapped out of my trance and followed Henry out the front door
as the fat woman started shrieking again. Henry had to hold me by
the arm to keep me from running down the sidewalk.
It didn't take us but about 15 seconds to walk back to the car, but
it seemed more like 15 minutes. I was terrified. It was more than
an hour before I had stopped shaking and gotten enough of a grip
on myself to talk without stuttering. Some terrorist!
Altogether we got $1426-enough to buy groceries for the four of
us for more than two months. But one thing was decided then and
there: Henry will have to be the one to rob any more liquor stores.
I don't have the nerves for it-although I had thought I was doing all
right until Berman started yelling.
September 19: Looking back over what I've written, it's hard to
believe these things have really happened. Until the Gun Raids two
years ago, my life was about as normal as anyone's can be in these
times.
Even after I was arrested and lost my position at the laboratory, I
was still able to live pretty much like everyone else by doing
consulting work and special jobs for a couple of the electronics
firms in this area. The only thing out of the ordinary about my
lifestyle was my work for the Organization.
Now everything is chaotic and uncertain. When I think about the
future I become depressed. It's impossible to know what will
happen, but it's certain that I'll never be able to go back to the
quiet, orderly kind of life I had before.
Looks like what I'm writing is the beginning of a diary. Perhaps it
will help me to write down what's happened and what my thoughts
are each day. Maybe it will add some focus to things, some order,
and make it easier for me to keep a grip on myself and become
reconciled to this new way of life.
It's funny how all the excitement I felt the first night here is gone.
All I feel now is apprehension. Maybe the change of scenery
tomorrow will improve my outlook. Henry and I will be driving to
Pennsylvania for our guns, while George and Katherine try to find
us a more suitable place to live.
Today we made the preparations for our trip. Originally, the plan
called for us to use public transportation to the little town of
Bellefonte and then hike the last six miles into the woods to our
cache. Now that we have a car, however, we'll use that instead.
We figured we only need about five gallons of gasoline, in
addition to that already in the tank, to make the round trip. To be
on the safe side, we bought two five-gallon cans of gas from the
taxi-fleet operator in Alexandria who always bootlegs some of his
allotment.
As rationing has increased during the last few years, so has petty
corruption of every sort. I guess a lot of the large-scale graft in the
government which Watergate revealed a few years back has finally
filtered down to the man in the street. When people began realizing
that the big-shot politicians were crooked, they were more inclined
to try to cheat the System a little themselves. All the new rationing
red tape has just exacerbated the tendency-as has the growing
percentage of non-Whites in every level of the bureaucracy.
The Organization has been one of the main critics of this
corruption, but I can now see that it gives us an important
advantage. If everybody obeyed the law and did everything by the
book, it would be nearly impossible for an underground group to
exist.
Not only would we not be able to buy gasoline, but a thousand
other bureaucratic obstacles with which the System increasingly
hems the lives of our fellow citizens would be insurmountable for
us. As it is, a bribe to a local official here or a few dollars under the
counter to a clerk or secretary there will allow us to get around
many of the government regulations which would otherwise trip us
up.
The closer public morality in America approaches that of a
banana republic, the easier it will be for us to operate. Of course,
with everyone having his hand out for a bribe, we'll need plenty of
money.
Looking at it philosophically, one can't avoid the conclusion that
it is corruption, not tyranny, which leads to the overthrow of
governments. A strong and vigorous government, no matter how
oppressive, usually need not fear revolution. But a corrupt,
inefficient, decadent government-even a benevolent one-is always
ripe for revolution. The System we are fighting is both corrupt and
oppressive, and we should thank God for the corruption.
The silence about us in the newspapers is worrisome. The
Berman thing the other day wasn't connected to us, of course, and
it was given only a paragraph in today's Post. Robberies of that
sort-even where there is killing involved-are so common these
days that they merit no more attention than a traffic accident.
But the fact that the government launched a massive roundup of
known Organization members last Wednesday and that nearly all
of us, more than 2,000 persons, have managed to slip through their
fingers and drop out of sight-why isn't that in the papers? The news
media are collaborating closely with the political police, of course,
but what is their strategy against us?
There was one small Associated Press article on a back page of
yesterday's paper mentioning the arrest of nine "racists" in Chicago
and four in Los Angeles on Wednesday. The article said that all 13
who were arrested were members of the same organization-evidently
ours-but no further details were given. Curious!
Are they keeping quiet about the failure of the roundup so as not
to embarrass the government? That's not like them.
Probably, they're a little paranoid about the ease with which we
evaded the roundup. They may have fears that some substantial
portion of the public is in sympathy with us and is aiding us, and
they don't want to say anything that will give encouragement to our
sympathizers.
We must be careful that this false appearance of "business as
usual" doesn't mislead us into relaxing our vigilance. We can be
sure that the political police are in a crash program to find us. It
will be a relief when the network is established and we can once
again receive regular reports from our informants as to just what
the rascals are up to.
Meanwhile, our security rests primarily in our changed
appearances and identities. We've all changed our hair styles and
either dyed or bleached our hair. I've begun wearing new glasses
with heavy frames instead of my old frameless ones, and Katherine
has switched from her contact lenses to glasses. Henry has
undergone the most radical transformation, by shaving off his
beard and mustache. And we all have pretty convincing fake
driver's licenses, although they won't stand up if they are ever
checked against state records.
Whenever any of us has to do something like the robberies last
week, Katherine can do a quick-change job and temporarily give
him a third identity. For that she has wigs and plastic gimmicks
which fit into the nostrils and inside the mouth and change the
whole structure of a person's face-and even his voice. They're not
comfortable, but they can be tolerated for a couple of hours at a
time, just as I can do without my glasses for a while if necessary.
Tomorrow will be a long, hard day.
Chapter III
September21, 1991. Every muscle in my body aches. Yesterday
we spent 10 hours hiking, digging, and carrying loads of weapons
through the woods. This evening we moved all our supplies from
the old apartment to our new hideout.
It was a little before noon yesterday when we reached the turnoff
near Bellefonte and left the highway. We drove as close to our
cache as we could, but the old mining road we had used three years
earlier was blocked and impassable more than a mile short of the
point where we intended to park. The bank above the road
had collapsed, and it would have taken a bulldozer to clear the
way. (Note to the reader: Throughout his diaries Turner used so-called
"English units" of measurement, which were still in
common use in North America during the last years of the Old Era.
For the reader not familiar with these units, a "mile" was
1.6 kilometers, a "gallon" was 3.8 liters, a "foot" was
"yard" was
was the weight of
The consequence was that we lad nearly a two-mile hike each
way instead of less than half a mile. And it took three round trips
to get everything to the car. We brought shovels, a rope, and a
couple of large canvas mail sacks (courtesy of the U.S. Postal
Service), but, as it turned out, these tools were woefully
inadequate for the task.
Hiking from the car to the cache with our shovels on our
shoulders was actually refreshing, after the long drive up from
Washington. The day was pleasantly cool, the autumn woods were
beautiful, and the old dirt road, though heavily overgrown,
provided easy walking most of the way.
Even digging down to the top of the oil drum (actually a 50-gallon
chemical drum with a removable lid) in which we had
sealed our weapons wasn't too bad. The ground was fairly soft, and
it took us less than an hour to excavate a five-foot-deep pit and tie
our rope to the handles which had been welded to the lid of the
drum.
Then our trouble began. The two of us tugged on the rope as hard
as we could, but the drum wouldn't budge an inch. It was as if it
had been set in concrete.
Although the full drum weighed nearly 400 pounds, two of us had
been able to lower it into the pit without undue difficulty three
years ago. At that time, of course, there had been several inches of
clearance all around it. Now the earth had settled and was packed
tightly against the metal.
We gave up trying to get the drum out of the hole and decided to
open it where it was. To do that we had to dig for nearly another
hour, enlarging the hole and clearing a few inches all around the
top of the drum so we could get our hands on the locking band
which secured the lid. Even so, l had to go into the hole headfirst,
with Henry holding my legs.
Although the outside of the drum had been painted with asphalt to
prevent corrosion, the locking lever itself was thoroughly rusted,
and I broke the only screwdriver we had trying to pry it loose.
Finally, after much pounding, I was able to pry the lever out from
the drum with the end of a shovel. With the locking band loosened,
however, the lid remained as tightly in place as ever, apparently
stuck to the drum by the asphalt coating we had applied.
Working upside down in the narrow hole was difficult and
exhausting. We had no tool satisfactory for wedging under the lip
of the lid and prying it up. Finally, almost in desperation, I once
again tied the rope to one of the handles on the lid. Henry and I
gave a hard tug, and the lid popped off!
Then it was just a matter of my going headfirst into the hole
again, supporting myself with one arm on the edge of the drum,
and passing the carefully wrapped bundles of weapons up past my
body so that Henry could reach them. Some of the larger bundles-and
that included six sealed tins of ammunition
were both too heavy and too bulky for this method and had to be
hauled up by rope.
Needless to say, by the time we had the drum empty I was
completely pooped. My arms ached, my legs were unsteady, and
my clothing was drenched with perspiration. But we still had to
carry more than 300 pounds of munitions half a mile through dense
woods, uphill to the road, and then more than a mile back to the
car.
With proper pack frames to distribute the loads on our backs we
might have carried everything out in one trip. It could have been
done easily in two trips. But with only the awkward mail sacks,
which we had to carry in our arms, it took three excruciatingly
painful trips.
We had to stop every hundred yards or so and put our loads down
for a minute, and the last two trips were made in total darkness.
Anticipating a daylight operation, we hadn't even brought a
flashlight. If we don't do a better job of planning our operations in
the future, we have some rough times ahead!
On the way back to Washington we stopped at a small roadside
cafe near Hagerstown for sandwiches and coffee. There were about
a dozen people in the place, and the 11 o'clock news was just
beginning on the TV set behind the counter when we walked in. It
was a news broadcast I'll never forget.
The big story of the day was what the Organization had been up
to in Chicago. The System, it seems, had killed one of our people,
and in turn we had killed three of theirs and then engaged in a
spectacular - and successful - gunfight with the authorities. Nearly
the whole newscast was occupied in recounting these events.
We already knew from the papers that nine of our members had
been arrested in Chicago last week, and apparently they had had a
rough time in the Cook County Jail, where one of them had died. It
was impossible to be sure exactly what had happened from what
the TV announcer said, but if the System had behaved true to form
the authorities had stuck our people individually into cells full of
Blacks and then shut their eyes and ears to what ensued.
That has long been the System's extra-legal way of punishing our
people when they can't pin anything on them that will "stick" in the
courts. It's a more ghastly and dreadful punishment than anything
which ever took place in a medieval torture chamber or in the
cellars of the KGB. And they can get away with it because the
news media usually won't even admit that it happens. After all, if
you're trying to convince the public that the races are really equal,
how can you admit that it's worse to be locked in a cell full of
Black criminals than in a cell full of White ones?
Anyway, the day after our man-the newscaster said his name was
Carl Hodges, someone I've not heard of before-was killed, the
Chicago Organization fulfilled a promise they'd made more than a
year ago, in the event one of our people was ever seriously hurt in
a Chicago jail. They ambushed the Cook County sheriff outside his
home and blew his head off with a shotgun. They left a note pinned
to his body which read: "This is for Carl Hodges."
That was last Saturday night. On Sunday the System was up in
arms. The sheriff of Cook County had been a political bigwig, a
front-rank shabbos goy, and they were really raising hell.
Although they broadcast the news only to the Chicago area on
Sunday, they trotted out several pillars of the community there to
denounce the assassination and the Organization in special TV
appearances. One of the spokesmen was a "responsible
conservative," and another was the head of the Chicago Jewish
community. All of them described the Organization as a "gang of
racist bigots" and called on "all right-thinking Chicagoans" to
cooperate with the political police in apprehending the "racists"
who had killed the sheriff.
Well, early this morning the responsible conservative lost both his
legs and suffered severe internal injuries when a bomb wired to the
ignition of his car exploded. The Jewish spokesman was even less
fortunate. Someone walked up to him while he was waiting for an
elevator in the lobby of his office building, pulled a hatchet from
under his coat, cleaved the good Jew's head from crown to
shoulder blades, then disappeared in the rush-hour crowd. The
Organization immediately claimed responsibility for both acts.
After that, it really hit the fan. The governor of Illinois ordered
National Guard troops into Chicago to help local police and FBI
agents hunt for Organization members. Thousands of persons were
being stopped on Chicago streets today and asked to prove their
identity. The System's paranoia is really showing.
This afternoon three men were cornered in a small apartment
building in Cicero. The whole block was surrounded by troops,
while the trapped men shot it out with the police. TV crews were
all over the place, anxious not to miss the kill.
One of the men in the apartment apparently had a sniper's rifle,
because two Black cops more than a block away were picked off
before it was realized that Blacks were being singled out as targets
and uniformed White cops were not being shot at. This White
immunity apparently was not extended to the plainclothes political
police, however, because an FBI agent was killed by a burst of
sub-machine-gun fire from the apartment when he momentarily
exposed himself to hurl a teargas grenade through a window.
We watched breathlessly as this action was shown on the TV
screen, but the real climax came for us when the apartment was
stormed and found empty. A quick room-by-room search of the
building also failed to turn up the gunmen.
Disappointment at this outcome was evident in the TV newsman's
voice, but a man sitting at the other end of the counter from us
whistled and clapped when it was announced that the "racists" had
apparently slipped away. The waitress smiled at this, and it seemed
clear to us that, while there certainly was no unanimous approval
for the Organization's actions in Chicago, neither was there
unanimous disapproval.
Almost as if the System anticipated this reaction to the
afternoon's events, the news scene switched to Washington, where
the attorney general of the United States had called a special news
conference. The attorney general announced to the nation that the
Federal government was throwing all its police agencies into the
effort to root out the Organization. He described us as "depraved,
racist criminals" who were motivated solely by hatred and who
wanted to "undo all the progress toward true equality" which had
been made by the System in recent years.
All citizens were warned to be alert and to assist the government
in breaking up the "racist conspiracy." Anyone observing any
suspicious action, especially on the part of a stranger, was to report
it immediately to the nearest FBI office or Human Relations
Council.
And then he said something very indiscreet, which really betrayed
how worried the System is. He stated that any citizen found to be
concealing information about us or offering us any comfort or
assistance "would be dealt with severely." Those were his very
words-the sort of thing one might expect to hear in the Soviet
Union, but which would ring harshly on most American ears,
despite the best propaganda efforts of the media to justify it.
All the risks taken by our people in Chicago were more than
rewarded by provoking the attorney general into such a
psychological blunder. This incident also proves the value of
keeping the System off balance with surprise attacks. If the System
had kept its cool and thought more carefully about a response to
our Chicago actions, it not only would have avoided a blunder
which will bring us hundreds of new recruits, but it would
probably have figured a way to win much wider public support for
its fight against us.
The news program concluded with an announcement that an
hour-long "special" on the "racist conspiracy" would be broadcast
Tuesday night (i.e., tonight). We've just finished watching that
"special," and it was a real hatchet job, full of errors and outright
invention and not very convincing, we all felt. But one thing is
certain: the media blackout is over. Chicago has given the
Organization instant celebrity status, and we must certainly be the
number-one topic of conversation everywhere in the nation.
As last night's TV news ended, Henry and I choked down the last
of our meal and stumbled outside. I was filled with emotions:
excitement, elation over the success of our people in Chicago,
nervousness about being one of the targets of a nationwide
manhunt, and chagrin that none of our units in the Washington area
had shown the initiative of our Chicago units.
I was itching to do something, and the first thing that occurred to
me was to try to make some sort of contact with the fellow in the
cafe who had seemed sympathetic to us. I wanted to take some
leaflets from our car and put one under the windshield wiper of
every vehicle in the parking lot.
Henry, who always keeps a cool head, emphatically vetoed the
idea. As we sat in the car he explained that it was sheer folly to risk
calling any attention whatever to ourselves until we had completed
our present mission of safely delivering our load of weapons to our
unit. Furthermore, he reminded me, it would be a breach of
Organization discipline for a member of an underground unit to
engage in any direct recruiting activity, however minimal. That
function has been relegated to the "legal" units.
The underground units consist of members who are known to the
authorities and have been marked for arrest. Their function is to
destroy the System through direct action.
The "legal" units consist of members not presently known to the
System. (Indeed, it would be impossible to prove that most of them
are members. In this we have taken a page from the communists'
book.) Their role is to provide us with intelligence, funding, legal
defense, and other support.
Whenever an "illegal" spots a potential recruit, he is supposed to
turn the information over to a "legal," who will approach the
prospect and sound him out. The "legals" are also supposed to
handle all the low-risk propaganda activity, such as leafleting.
Strictly speaking, we should not even have had any Organization
leaflets with us.
We waited until the man who had applauded the escape of our
members in Chicago came out and got in a pickup truck. We drove
by him and noted his license number as we pulled out of the lot.
When the network is established, the information will go to the
proper person for a follow-up.
When we arrived back at the apartment, George and Katherine
were as excited as Henry and 1. They had also seen the TV
newscast. Despite the exertions of the day, I could no more sleep
than they, and we all piled back in the car, George and Katherine
sharing the back seat with part of our greasy cargo, and went to an
all-night drive-in. We could stay in the car and talk safely there
without arousing suspicion, and that's what we did-until the early-morning
hours.
One thing we decided was that we would move immediately to
new quarters George and Katherine located yesterday. The old
apartment just wasn't satisfactory. The walls were so thin that we
had to whisper to one another to avoid being overheard by our
neighbors. And I'm sure that our irregular hours had already caused
the neighbors to speculate on just what we do for a living. With the
System warning everyone to report suspicious-looking strangers, it
had become downright dangerous to us to remain in a place with so
little privacy.
The new place is much better in every way except the rent. We
have a whole building to ourselves. It is actually a cement-block
commercial building which once housed a small machine shop in a
single, garage-like room downstairs, with offices and a storeroom
upstairs.
The place has been condemned, because it lies on the right-of-way
for a new access road to the highway which has been in the
planning stages for the last four years. Like all government
projects these days, this one is also bogged down-probably
permanently. Although hundreds of thousands of men are being
paid to build new highways, none are actually being built. In the
last five years most of the roads in the country have deteriorated
badly, and, although one always sees repair crews standing around,
nothing ever seems to get fixed.
The government hasn't even gotten around to actually purchasing
the land it has condemned for the new highway, leaving the
property owners holding the bag. Legally, the owner of this
building isn't supposed to rent it, but he evidently has an
arrangement with someone in city hall. The advantage for us is that
there is no official record of the occupancy of the building- no
social security numbers for the police, no county building
inspectors or fire marshals coming around to check. George just
has to take $600-in cash-to the owner once a month.
George thinks the owner, a wrinkled old Armenian with a heavy
accent, is convinced we intend to use the place for manufacturing
illegal drugs or storing stolen goods and doesn't want to know the
details. I suppose that's good, because it means he won't be
snooping around.
The place really looks like hell on the outside. It's surrounded on
three sides by a sagging, rusty chain-link fence. The grounds are
littered with discarded water heaters, stripped-down engine blocks,
and rusting junk of every description. The concrete parking area in
front is broken and black with old crankcase oil.
There is a huge sign across the front of the building which has
come loose at one end. It says: "Welding and Machining, J.T.
Smith & Sons." Half the window panes on the ground floor are
missing, but all the ground-floor windows are boarded up on the
inside anyway.
The neighborhood is a thoroughly grubby light manufacturing
area. Next door to us is a small trucking company garage and
warehouse. Trucks are coming and going at all hours of the night,
which means the cops will not have their suspicions aroused if they
see us driving in this area at odd hours.
So, having decided to make the move, we did it today. Since there
was no electricity, water, or gas in the new place, it was my job to
solve the heating, lighting, and plumbing problems while the
others moved our things.
Restoring the water was easy, as soon as I had located the water
meter and gotten the lid off. After turning the water on I dragged
some heavy junk over the meter lid so no one from the water
company would be likely to find it, in case anyone ever came
looking.
The electric problem was a good deal more difficult. There were
still lines up from the building to a power pole, but the current had
been shut off at the meter, which was on an outside wall. I had to
carefully knock a hole through the wall behind the meter, from the
inside, and then wire jumpers across the terminals. That took me
the better part of the day.
The rest of my day was occupied in carefully covering all the
chinks in the boards over the downstairs windows and in tacking
heavy cardboard over the upstairs windows, so no ray of light can
be seen from the building at night.
We still have no heat and no kitchen facilities beyond the hot-plate
we brought over from the other place. But at least the john
works now, and our living quarters are tolerably clean, if rather
bare. We can continue sleeping on the floor in our sleeping bags
for a while, and we'll buy a couple of electric heaters and some
other amenities in the next few days.
Hail Satan!
The Year is One!
The Dark Lord Cometh!
I have a pickle. It looks like a penis.
Wait.
It is a penis.
My mistake!
(For those who don't know The Turner Diaries is a pretty wild book. It was the main inspiration for Tim McVeigh in Oklahoma [besides the FBI murdering innocent people])
.357
A.M.
New Baltimore
April 100
Chapter 1
September 16, 1991. Today it finally began! After all these years
of talking-and nothing but talking-we have finally taken our first
action. We are at war with the System, and it is no longer a war of
words.
I cannot sleep, so I will try writing down some of the thoughts
which are flying through my head.
It is not safe to talk here. The walls are quite thin, and the
neighbors might wonder at a late-night conference. Besides,
George and Katherine are already asleep. Only Henry and I are still
awake, and he's just staring at the ceiling.
I am really uptight. l am so jittery I can barely sit still. And I'm
exhausted. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, when George
phoned to warn that the arrests had begun, and it's after midnight
now. I've been keyed up and on the move all day.
But at the same time I'm exhilarated. We have finally acted! How
long we will be able to continue defying the System, no one
knows. Maybe it will all end tomorrow, but we must not think
about that. Now that we have begun, we must continue with the
plan we have been developing so carefully ever since the Gun
Raids two years ago.
What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave
talk by patriots, "The government will never take my guns away,"
and then nothing but meek submission when it happened.
On the other hand, maybe we should be heartened by the fact that
there were still so many of us who had guns then, nearly 18 months
after the Cohen Act had outlawed all private ownership of firearms
in the United States. It was only because so many of us defied the
law and hid our weapons instead of turning them in that the
government wasn't able to act more harshly against us after the
Gun Raids.
I'll never forget that terrible day: November 9, 1989. They
knocked on my door at five in the morning. I was completely
unsuspecting as I got up to see who it was.
I opened the door, and four Negroes came pushing into the
apartment before I could stop them. One was carrying a baseball
bat, and two had long kitchen knives thrust into their belts. The one
with the bat shoved me back into a corner and stood guard over me
with his bat raised in a threatening position while the other three
began ransacking my apartment.
My first thought was that they were robbers. Robberies of this
sort had become all too common since the Cohen Act, with groups
of Blacks forcing their way into White homes to rob and rape,
knowing that even if their victims had guns they probably would
not dare use them.
Then the one who was guarding me flashed some kind of card
and informed me that he and his accomplices were "special
deputies" for the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council.
They were searching for firearms, he said.
I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be happening. Then I saw that
they were wearing strips of green cloth tied around their left arms.
As they dumped the contents of drawers on the floor and pulled
luggage from the closet, they were ignoring things that robbers
wouldn't have passed up: my brand-new electric razor, a valuable
gold pocket watch, a milk bottle full of dimes. They were looking
for firearms!
Right after the Cohen Act was passed, all of us in the
Organization had cached our guns and ammunition where they
weren't likely to be found. Those in my unit had carefully greased
our weapons, sealed them in an oil drum, and spent all of one
tedious weekend burying the drum in an eight-foot-deep pit 200
miles away in the woods of western Pennsylvania.
But I had kept one gun out of the cache. I had hidden my
magnum revolver and 50 rounds of ammunition inside the door
frame between the kitchen and the living room. By pulling out two
loosened nails and removing one board from the door frame I
could get to my revolver in about two minutes flat if I ever needed
it. I had timed myself.
But a police search would never uncover it. And these
inexperienced Blacks couldn't find it in a million years.
After the three who were conducting the search had looked in all
the obvious places, they began slitting open my mattress and the
sofa cushions. I protested vigorously at this and briefly considered
trying to put up a fight.
About that time there was a commotion out in the hallway.
Another group of searchers had found a rifle hidden under a bed in
the apartment of the young couple down the hall. They had both
been handcuffed and were being forcibly escorted toward the
stairs. Both were clad only in their underwear, and the young
woman was complaining loudly about the fact that her baby was
being left alone in the apartment.
Another man walked into my apartment. He was a Caucasian,
though with an unusually dark complexion. He also wore a green
armband, and he carried an attach_ case and a clipboard.
The Blacks greeted him deferentially and reported the negative
result of their search: "No guns here, Mr. Tepper."
Tepper ran his finger down the list of names and apartment
numbers on his clipboard until he came to mine. He frowned. "This
is a bad one," he said. "He has a racist record. Been cited by the
Council twice. And he owned eight firearms which were never
turned in."
Tepper opened his attach_ case and took out a small, black object
about the size of a pack of cigarettes which was attached by a long
cord to an electronic instrument in the case. He began moving the
black object in long sweeps back and forth over the walls, while
the attach_ case emitted a dull, rumbling noise. The rumble rose in
pitch as the gadget approached the light switch, but Tepper
convinced himself that the change was caused by the metal
junction box and conduit buried in the wall. He continued his
methodical sweep.
As he swept over the left side of the kitchen door frame the
rumble jumped to a piercing shriek. Tepper grunted excitedly, and
one of the Negroes went out and came back a few seconds later
with a sledge hammer and a pry bar. It took the Negro substantially
less than two minutes after that to find my gun.
I was handcuffed without further ado and led outside. Altogether,
four of us were arrested in my apartment building. In addition to
the couple down the hall, there was an elderly man from the fourth
floor. They hadn't found a firearm in his apartment, but they had
found four shotgun shells on his closet shelf. Ammunition was also
illegal.
Mr Tepper and some of his "deputies" had more searches to carry
out, but three large Blacks with baseball bats and knives were left
to guard us in front of the apartment building.
The four of us were forced to sit on the cold sidewalk, in various
states of undress, for more than an hour until a police van finally
came for us.
As other residents of the apartment building left for work, they
eyed us curiously. We were all shivering, and the young woman
from down the hall was weeping uncontrollably.
One man stopped to ask what it was all about. One of our guards
brusquely explained that we were all under arrest for possessing
illegal weapons. The man stared at us and shook his head
disapprovingly.
Then the Black pointed to me and said: "And that one's a racist."
Still shaking his head, the man moved on.
Herb Jones, who used to belong to the Organization and was one
of the most outspoken of the "they'll-never-get-my-gun" people
before the Cohen Act, walked by quickly with his eyes averted.
His apartment had been searched too, but Herb was clean. He had
been practically the first man in town to turn his guns over to the
police after the passage of the Cohen Act made him liable to ten
years imprisonment in a Federal penitentiary if he kept them.
That was the penalty the four of us on the sidewalk were facing. It
didn't work out that way, though. The reason it didn't is that the
raids which were carried out all over the country that day netted a
lot more fish than the System had counted on: more than 800,000
persons were arrested.
At first the news media tried hard to work up enough public
sentiment against us so that the arrests would stick. The fact that
there weren't enough jail cells in the country to hold us all could be
remedied by herding us into barbed-wire enclosures outdoors until
new prison facilities could be readied, the newspapers suggested.
In freezing weather!
I still remember the Washington Post headline the next day:
"Fascist-Racist Conspiracy Smashed, Illegal Weapons Seized." But
not even the brainwashed American public could fully accept the
idea that nearly a million of their fellow citizens had been engaged
in a secret, armed conspiracy.
As more and more details of the raids leaked out, public
restlessness grew. One of the details which bothered people was
that the raiders had, for the most part, exempted Black
neighborhoods from the searches. The explanation given at first for
this was that since "racists" were the ones primarily suspected of
harboring firearms, there was relatively little need to search Black
homes.
The peculiar logic of this explanation broke down when it turned
out that a number of persons who could hardly be considered either
"racists" or "fascists" had been caught up in the raids. Among them
were two prominent liberal newspaper columnists who had earlier
been in the forefront of the antigun crusade, four Negro
Congressmen (they lived in White neighborhoods), and an
embarrassingly large number of government officials.
The list of persons to be raided, it turned out, had been compiled
primarily from firearms sales records which all gun dealers had
been required to keep. If a person had turned a gun in to the police
after the Cohen Act was passed, his name was marked off the list.
If he hadn't it stayed on, and he was raided on November 9-unless
he lived in a Black neighborhood.
In addition, certain categories of people were raided whether they
had ever purchased a firearm from a dealer or not. All the members
of the Organization were raided.
The government's list of suspects was so large that a number of
"responsible" civilian groups were deputized to assist in the raids. l
guess the planners in the System thought that most of the people on
their list had either sold their guns privately before the Cohen Act,
or had disposed of them in some other way. Probably they were
expecting only about a quarter as many people to be arrested as
actually were.
Anyway, the whole thing soon became so embarrassing and so
unwieldy that most of the arrestees were turned loose again within
a week. The group I was with-some 600 of us-was held for three
days in a high school gymnasium in Alexandria before being
released. During those three days we were fed only four times, and
we got virtually no sleep.
But the police did get mug shots, fingerprints, and personal data
from everyone. When we were released we were told that we were
still technically under arrest and could expect to be picked up again
for prosecution at any time.
The media kept yelling for prosecutions for awhile, but the issue
was gradually allowed to die. Actually, the System had bungled the
affair rather badly.
For a few days we were all more frightened and glad to be free
than anything else. A lot of people in the Organization dropped out
right then and there. They didn't want to take any more chances.
Others stayed in but used the Gun Raids as an excuse for
inactivity. Now that the patriotic element in the population had
been disarmed, they argued, we were all at the mercy of the
System and had to be much more careful. They wanted us to cease
all public recruiting activities and "go underground."
As it turned out, what they really had in mind was for the
Organization to restrict itself henceforth to "safe" activities, such
activities to consist principally in complaining-better yet,
whispering-to one another about how bad things were.
The more militant members, on the other hand, were for digging
up our weapons caches and unleashing a program of terror against
the System immediately, carrying out executions of Federal judges,
newspaper editors, legislators, and other System figures. The time
was ripe for such action, they felt, because in the wake of the Gun
Raids we could win public sympathy for such a campaign against
tyranny.
It is hard to say now whether the militants were right. Personally,
I think they were wrong-although I counted myself as one of them
at the time. We could certainly have killed a number of the
creatures responsible for America's ills, but I believe we would
have lost in the long run.
For one thing, the Organization just wasn't well disciplined
enough for waging terror against the System. There were too many
cowards and blabbermouths among us. Informers, fools,
weaklings, and irresponsible jerks would have been our undoing.
For a second thing, I am sure now that we were overoptimistic in
our judgment of the mood of the public. What we mistook as
general resentment against the System's abrogation of civil rights
during the Gun Raids was more a passing wave of uneasiness
resulting from all the commotion involved in the mass arrests.
As soon as the public had been reassured by the media that they
were in no danger, that the government was cracking down only on
the "racists, fascists, and other anti-social elements" who had kept
illegal weapons, most relaxed again and went back to their TV and
funny papers.
As we began to realize this, we were more discouraged than ever.
We had based all our plans-in fact, the whole rationale of the
Organization-on the assumption that Americans were inherently
opposed to tyranny, and that when the System became oppressive
enough they could be led to overthrow it. We had badly
underestimated the degree to which materialism had corrupted our
fellow citizens, as well as the extent to which their feelings could
be manipulated by the mass media.
As long as the government is able to keep the economy somehow
gasping and wheezing along, the people can be conditioned to
accept any outrage. Despite the continuing inflation and the
gradually declining standard of living, most Americans are still
able to keep their bellies full today, and we must simply face the
fact that that's the only thing which counts with most of them.
Discouraged and uncertain as we were, though, we began laying
new plans for the future. First, we decided to maintain our program
of public recruiting. In fact, we intensified it and deliberately made
our propaganda as provocative as possible. The purpose was not
only to attract new members with a militant disposition, but at the
same time to purge the Organization of the fainthearts and
hobbyists-the "talkers."
We also tightened up on discipline. Anyone who missed a
scheduled meeting twice in a row was expelled. Anyone who
failed to carry out a work assignment was expelled. Anyone who
violated our rule against loose talk about Organizational matters
was expelled.
We had made up our minds to have an Organization that would
be ready the next time the System provided an opportunity to
strike. The shame of our failure to act, indeed, our inability to act,
in 1989 tormented us and drove us without mercy. It was probably
the single most important factor in steeling our wills to whip the
Organization into fighting trim, despite all obstacles.
Another thing that helped-at least, with me-was the constant
threat of rearrest and prosecution. Even if I had wanted to give it
all up and join the TV-and-funnies crowd, I couldn't. I could make
no plans for a "normal," civilian future, never knowing when I
might be prosecuted under the Cohen Act. (The Constitutional
guarantee of a speedy trial, of course, has been "reinterpreted" by
the courts until it means no more than our Constitutional guarantee
of the right to keep and bear arms.)
So I, and I know this also applies to George and Katherine and
Henry, threw myself without reservation into work for the
Organization and made only plans for the future of the
Organization. My private life had ceased to matter.
Whether the Organization actually is ready, I guess we'll find out
soon enough. So far, so good, though. Our plan for avoiding
another mass roundup, like 1989, seems to have worked.
Early last year we began putting a number of new members,
unknown to the political police, into police agencies and various
quasi-official organizations, such as the human relations councils.
They served as our early-warning network and otherwise kept us
generally informed of the System's plans against us.
We were surprised at the ease with which we were able to set up
and operate this network. We never would have gotten away with
it back in the days of J. Edgar Hoover.
It is ironic that while the Organization has always warned the
public against the dangers of racial integration of our police, this
has now turned out to be a blessing in disguise for us. The "equal
opportunity" boys have really done a wonderful wrecking job on
the FBI and other investigative agencies, and their efficiency is
way down as a result. Still, we'd better not get over-confident or
careless.
Omigod! It's 4:00 AM. Got to get some sleep!
It was the 19th Century that brought a whitewashing to Satanism, in the feeble
attempts of "white" magicians trying to perform "black" magic. This was a very
paradoxical period for Satanism, with writers such as Baudelaire and Huysmans
who, despite their apparent obsession with evil, seemed nice enough fellows. The
Devil developed his Luciferian personality for the public to see, and gradually
evolved into a sort of drawing-room gentleman. This was the era of "experts" on
the black arts, such as Eliphas Levi and countless trance-mediums who, with
their carefully bound spirits and demons, have also succeeded in binding the
minds of many who call themselves parapsychologists to this day!
As far as Satanism is concerned, the closest outward signs of this were the
neo-Pagan rites conducted by MacGregor Mathers' Hermetic Order of the Golden
Dawn, and Aleister Crowley's later Order of the Silver Star (A... A... -
Argentinum Astrum) and Order of Oriental Templars (O.T.O.)*, which paranoiacally
denied any association with Satanism, despite Crowley's self-imposed image of
the beast of revelation. Aside from some rather charming poetry and a smattering
of magical bric-a-brac, when not climbing mountains Crowley spent most of his
time as a poseur par excellence and worked overtime to be wicked. Like his
contemporary, Rev.(?) Mantague Summers, Crowley obviously spent a large part of
his life with his tongue jammed firmly into his cheek, but his followers, today,
are somehow able to read esoteric meaning into his every word.
Perennially concurrent with these societies were the sex clubs using Satanism as
a rationale - that persists today, for which tabloid newspaper writers may give
thanks.
If it appears that the black mass developed from a literary invention of the
church, to a depraved commercial actuality, to a psychodrama for dilettantes and
iconoclasts, to an ace in the hole for popular media . . . then where does it
fit into the true nature of Satanism - and who was practicing Satanic magic in
those years beyond 1666?
The answer to this riddle lies in another. Is the person generally considered to
be a Satanist really practicing Satanism in its true sense, or rather from the
point of view taken by the opinion makers of heavenly persuasion? It has often
been said, and rightly so, that all of the books about the Devil have been
written by the agents of God. It is, therefore, quite easy to understand how a
certain breed of devil worshippers was created through the inventions of
theologians. This erstwhile "evil" character is not necessarily practicing true
Satanism. Nor is he a living embodiment of the element of untrammeled pride or
majesty of self which gave the post-Pagan world the churchman's definition of
evil. He is instead the by-product of later and more elaborate propaganda.
The pseudo-Satanist has always managed to appear throughout modern history, with
his black masses of varying degrees of blasphemy; but the real Satanist is not
quite so easily recognized as such.
It would be an over-simplification to say that every successful man and woman on
earth is, without knowing it, a practicing Satanist; but the thirst for earthly
success and its ensuing realization are certainly grounds for Saint Peter
turning thumbs down. If the rich man's entry into heaven seems as difficult as
the camel's attempt to go through the eye of a needle; if the love of money is
the root of all evil; then we must at least assume the post powerful men on
earth to be the most Satanic. This applies to financiers, industrialists, popes,
poets, dictators, and all assorted opinion-makers and field marshals of the
world's activities.
Occasionally, through "leakages", one of the enigmatic men or women of earth
will be found to have "dabbled" in the black arts. These, of course, are brought
to light as in the "mystery men" of history. Names like Rasputin, Zaharoff,
Cagliostro, Rosenberg and their ilk are links - clues, so to speak, of the true
legacy of Satan . . . a legacy which transcends ethnic, racial, and econimic
differences and temporal ideologies, as well. The Satanist has always ruled the
earth . . . and always will, by whatever name he is called.
One thing stands sure: the standards, philosophy and practices set forth on
these pages are those employed by the most self-realized and powerful humans on
earth. In the secret thoughts of each man and woman, still motivated byt sound
and unclouded minds, resides the potential of the Satanist, as always has been.
The sign of the horns shall appear to many, now, rather than the few; and the
magician will stand forth that he may be recognized. (EARTH)
THE BOOK OF BELIAL
THE MASTERY OF THE EARTH The greatest appeal of magic is not in its application,
but in its esoteric meanderings. The element of mystery which so heavily
enshrouds the practice of the black arts has been fostered, deliberately or out
of ignorance, by those who often claim the highest expertise in such matters. If
the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, then established
occultists would do well as maze-makers. The basic principles of ceremonial
magic have been relegated for so long to infinitely classified bits of
scholastic mysticism, that the would-be wizard becomes the victim of the very
art of misdirection which he, himself, should be employing! An analogy may be
drawn of the student of applied psychology who, though knowing all of the
answers, cannot make friends.
What good is a study of falsehoods, unless everyone believes in falsehoods?
Many, of course, DO believe in falsehoods, but still ACT according to natural
law. It is upon this premise that Satanic magic is based. This is a primer - a
basic text on materialistic magic. It is a Satanic McGuffrey's Reader.
Belial means "without a master", and symbolizes true independence,
self-sufficiency, and personal accomplishment. Belial represents the earth
element, and herein will be found magic with both feet on the ground - real,
hard-core, magical procedure - not mystical platitudes devoid of objective
reason. Probe no longer. Here is bedrock!
THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF SATANIC MAGIC
(Definition and Purpose) THE definition of magic, as used in this book, is:
"The change in situations or events in accordance with one's will, which would,
using normally accepted methods, be unchangable." This admittedly leaves a large
area for personal interpretation. It will be said, by some, that these
instructions and procedures are nothing more than applied psychology, or
scientific fact, called by "magical" terminology - until they arrive at a
passage in the text that is "based on no known scientific finding". It is for
this reason that no attempt has been made to limit the explanations set forth to
a set nomenclature. Magic is never totally scientifically explainable, but
science has always been, at one time or another, considered magic.
There is no difference between "White" and "Black" magic, except in the smug
hypocrisy, guilt-ridden righteousness, and self-deceit of the "White" magician
himself. In the classical religious tradition, "White" magic is performed for
altruistic, benevolent, and "good" purposes; while "Black" magic is used for
self-aggrandizement, personal power, and "evil" purposes. No one on earth ever
pursued occult studies, metaphysics, yoga, or any other "white light" concept,
without ego gratification and personal power as a goal. It just so happens that
some people enjoy wearing hair shirts, and others prefer velvet or silk. What is
pleasure to one, is pain to another, and the same applies to "good" and "evil".
Every practitioner of witchcraft is convinced that he or she is doing the
"right" thing.
Magic falls into two categories, ritual or ceremonial, and non-ritual or
manipulative. Ritual magic consists of the performance of a formal ceremony,
taking place, at least in part, within the confines of an area set aside for
such purposes and at a specific time. Its main function is to isolate the
otherwise dissipated adrenal and other emotionally induced energy, and convert
it into a dynamically transmittable force. It is purely an emotional, rather
than intellectual, act. Any and all intellectual activity must take place before
the ceremony, not during it. This type of magic is sometimes known as "GREATER
MAGIC".
Non-ritual or manipulative magic, sometimes called "LESSER MAGIC", consists of
the wile and guile obtained through various devices and contrived situations,
which when utilized, can create "change, in accordance with one's will". In
olden times this would be called "fascination", "glamour", or the "evil eye".
Most of the victims of the witch trials were not witches. Often the victims were
eccentric old women who were either senile or did not conform to society. Others
were exceptionally attractive women who turned the heads of the men in power,
and were not responsive to their advances. The real witches were rarely
executed, or even brought to trial, as they were proficient in the art of
enchantment and could charm the men and save their own lives. Most of the real
witches were sleeping with the inquisitors. This is the origin of the word
"glamour". The antiquated meaning of glamour is witchcraft. The most important
asset to the modern witch is her ability to be alluring, or to utilize glamour.
The word "fascination" has a similarly occult origin. Fascination was the term
applied to the evil eye. To fix a person's gaze, in other words, fascinate, was
to curse them with the evil eye. Therefore, if a woman had the ability to
fascinate men, she was regarded as a witch.
Learning to effectively utilize the command to LOOK, is an integral part of a
witch's or warlock's training. To manipulate a person, you must first be able to
attract and hold his attention. The three methods by which the command to look
can be accomplished are the utilization of sex, sentiment, or wonder, or any
combination of these. A witch must, honestly, decide into which category she
most naturally falls. The first category, that of sex, is self-evident. If a
woman is attractive or sexually appealing, she should do everything in her power
to make herself as enticing as possible, thereby using sex as her most powerful
tool. Once she has gained the man's attention, by using her sex appeal, she is
free to manipulate him to her will. The second category is sentiment. Usually
older woman fit into this category. This would include the "cookie lady" type
witch, who might live in a little cottage, and be thought of by people as being
a bit eccentric. Children are usually enchanted by the fantasy that this type of
witch can provide for them, and young adults seek her out for her sage-like
advice. Through their innocence, children can recognize her magical power. By
conforming to an image of the sweet little old lady next door, she can employ
the art of misdirection to accomplish her goals. The third category is the
wonder theme. This category would apply to the woman who is strange or awesome
in her appearance. By making her strange appearance work for her, she can
manipulate people simply becuase they are fearful of the consequences should
they not do as she asks.
Many women fit into more than one of these categories. For example, the young
girl who has an appearance of freshness and innocence, but at the same time is
very sexy, combines sex appeal with sinister overtones, uses sex and wonder.
After evaluating her assets, each witch must decide into which category or
combination of categories she fits, and then utilize these assets in their
proper form.
To be a successful warlock, a man must similarly fit himself into the proper
category. The handsome or sexually appealing man would, naturally, fit into the
first category - sex. The second, or sentiment category would apply to the older
man who has, perhaps, an elfin or forest wizard appearance. The sweet old
grandpa (often a dirty old man!) would also be in the sentiment category. The
third type would be the man who presents a sinister or diabolic appearance. Each
of these men would apply his particular brand of the command to look, in much
the same way as the women previously described.
Visual imagery utilized for emotional reaction is certainly the most important
device incorporated in the practice of lesser magic. Anyone who is foolish
enough to say "looks don't mean a thing" is indeed deluded. Good looks are
unnecessary, but "looks" certainly are needed!
Odor is another important manipulative factor in lesser magic. Remember, animals
fear and distrust anyone or anything that doesn't smell! And even though we may,
as human animals, deny many of the judgments based on this sense consciously, we
still are motivated by our sense of smell just as surely as any all-fours
animal. If you are a man, and wish to enchant a woman, allow the natural
secretions of your body to pervade the atmosphere immediately around you, and
work in animalistic contrast to the vestments of social politeness that you wear
upon your back. If you, as a woman, wish to bewitch a man, do not fear that you
might "offend" simply because the oils and fragrances of your flesh have not
been scrubbed away, or that place between your thighs is not dry and sterile.
These natural odors are the sexual stimulants which nature, in her magical
wisdom, has provided.
The sentiment stimulants are those odors that will appeal to pleasant memories
and nostalgia. The enchanting of a man, through his stomach, is first
established by the smell of cooking! A "sentiment" type of witch will find this
one of the most useful of all charms. It is not so facetious to dwell upon the
technique of the man who wished to charm the young lady who had been displaced
from her home of childhood joys, which happened to be a fishing village. Wise to
the ways of lesser magic, he neatly tucked a mackerel into his trousers pocket,
and reaped the rewards that great fondness may often bring. THE THREE TYPES OF
SATANIC RITUAL THERE are three types of ceremony incorporated in the
practice of Satanic magic. Each of these correspond to a basic human emotion.
The first of these we shall call a sex ritual.
A sex ritual is what is commonly known as a love charm or spell. The purpose in
performing such a ritual is to create desire on the part of the person whom you
desire, or to summon a sex partner to fulfill your desires. If you have no
specific person or type of person in mind strong enough to cause direct sexual
feeling culminating in orgasm, you will not succeed in performing as successfull
working. The reason for this is that even if the ritual was successful, by
accident, what good would it serve if you could not take advantage of your
eventual opportunity because of lack of stimulation or desire? It is easy to
confuse enchantment for your ulterior motives, with spell-casting to satisfy
your sexual desires.
Enchantment for self-aggrandizement, when accompanied by ceremonial magic, falls
into the category of either the compassion or the destruction ritual, or
possibly both. If you want or need something so badly you are sad or feel much
anguish without it, without causing hurt on another's part, then this would
incorporate a compassion ritual to increase your power. If you wish to enchant
or entrap a deserving victim for your own purposes, you would employ a
destruction ritual. These formulas are to be adhered to, as applying the wrong
type of ritual towards a desired result can lead to trouble of a complicated
nature.
A good example of this is the girl who finds herself plagued by a relentless
suitor. If she has done little to encourage him, then she should recognize him
for the psychic vampire he is, and let him play his masochistic role. If,
however, she has enchanted him frivolously, giving him every encouragement and
then finds herself a steady object of sexual desire, much to her dismay, she has
no one to blame but herself. Such exercises are only ego boosts, borne of an
indoctrination of ego denial which makes these little bewitchments necessary.
The Satanist has enough ego strength to use enchantments for her own sexual
gratification, or to gain power or success of a specific nature.
The second type of ritual is of a compassionate nature. The compassion, or
sentiment, ritual is performed for the purpose of helping others, or helping
oneself. Health, domestic happiness, business activities, material success, and
scholastic prowess are but a few of the situations covered in a compassion
ritual. It might be said that this form of ceremony could fall into the realm of
genuine charity, bearing in mind that "charity begins at home".
The third motivating force is that of destruction. This is a ceremony used for
anger, annoyance, disdain, contempt, or just plain hate. It is known as a hex,
curse, or destroying agent.
One of the greatest of all fallacies about the practice of ritual magic is the
notion that one must believe in the powers of magic before one can be harmed or
destroyed by them. Nothing could be farther from the truth, as the most
receptive victims of curses have always been the greatest scoffers. The reason
is frighteningly simple. The uncivilized tribesman is the first to run to his
nearest witch-doctor or shaman when he feels a curse has been placed upon him by
an enemy. The threat and presence of harm is with him consciously, and belief in
the power of the curse is so strong that he will take every precaution against
it. Thus, through the application of sympathetic magic, he will counteract any
harm that might come his way. This man is watching his step, and not taking any
chances.
On the other hand, the "enlightened" man, who doesn't place any stock in such
"superstition", relegates his instinctive fear of the curse to his unconscious,
thereby nourishing it into a phenominally destructive force that will multiply
with each succeeding misfortune. Of course, every time a new setback occurs, the
non-believer will automatically deny any connection with the curse, especially
to himself. The emphatic conscious denial of the potential of the curse is the
very ingredient that will create its success, through setting-up of accident
prone situations. In many instances, the victim will deny any magical
significance to his fate, even unto his dying gasp - although the magician is
perfectly satisfied, so long as his desired results occur. It must be remembered
that it matters not whether anyone attaches any significance to your working, so
long as the results of the working are in accordance with your will. The
super-logician will always explain the connection of the magical ritual to the
end result as "coincidence".
Whether magic is performed for constructive or destructive purposes, the success
of the operation is dependent on the receptivity of the person who is to receive
the blessing or curse, as the case may be. In the case of a sex or compassion
ritual, it helps if the recipient has faith and believes in magic, but the
victim of a hex or curse is much more prone to destruction if he DOES NOT
believe in it! So long as man knows the meaning of fear, he will need the ways
and means to defend himself against his fears. No one knows everything, and as
long as there is wonder, there will always be an apprehension of the unknown,
where there are potentially dangerous forces. It is this natural fear of the
unknown, a first cousin to the fascination towards the unknown, that impels the
man of logic towards his very explanations. Obviously, the man of science is
motivated to discovery by his very sense of wonder. And yet, how sad that this
man who calls himself logical is often the last to recognize the essence of
ritual magic.
If religious faith can make bleeding wounds appear on the body in approximation
to the wounds supposedly inflicted on Christ, it is called stigmata. These
wounds appear as a result of compassion driven to an emotionally violent
extreme. Why, then, should there be any doubt as to the destructive extremes of
fear and terror. The so-called demons have the power to destroy in a flesh
rending manner, theoretically, as much as a handful of nails, long rusted away,
can create blood-dripping ecstasy in a person convinced he is hooked upon the
cross of Calvary.
Therefore, never attempt to convince the skeptic upon whom you wish to place a
curse. Allow him to scoff. To enlighten him would lessen your chance of success.
Listen with benign assurance as he laughs at your magic, knowing his days are
filled with turmoil all the while. If he is despicable enough, by Satan's grace,
he might even die - laughing!
A WORD OF WARNING!
TO THOSE WHO WOULD PRACTICE THESE ARTS -
Concerning Sex or Lust: Take full advantage of spells and charms that work; if
you be a man, plunge your erect member into her with lascivious delight; if you
be a woman, open wide your loins in lewd anticipation. Concerning Compassion:
Be resolved that you'll have no regrets at the expense of the help that you have
given others, should their new-found blessings place an obstacle in your path.
Be grateful for things that come to you through the use of magic. Concerning
Destruction: Be certain you DO NOT care if the intended victim lives or dies,
before you throw your curse, and having caused their destruction, revel, rather
than feel remorse.
HEED WELL THESE RULES - OR IN EACH CASE YOU WILL SEE A REVERSAL OF YOUR DESIRES
WHICH WILL HARM, RATHER THAN HELP, YOU! THE RITUAL, OR "INTELLECTUAL
DECOMPRESSION", CHAMBER A MAGICAL ceremony may be performed by oneself or in
a group, but the advantages of each should be made clear.
A group ritual is certainly much more of a reinforcement of faith, and an
instillation of power, than is a private ceremony. The massing together of
persons who are dedicated to a common philosophy is bound to insure a renewal of
confidence in the power of magic. The pageantry of religion consistently becomes
a solitary situation it reaches into that realm of self-denail which runs
concurrent with anti-social behavior.
It is for this reason that the Satanist should attempt to seek out others with
whom to engage in these ceremonies.
In the case of a curse or destruction ritual, it sometimes helps the magician if
his desires are intensified by other members of the group. There is nothing in
this type of ceremony which would lead to embarrassment on the part of those
conducting a ritual of this sort, since anger and the symbolic destruction of
the intended victim are the essential ingredients.
On the other hand, a compassion ritual, with its unashamed shedding of tears, or
a sex ritual, with its masturbatory and orgasmic overtones, would most likely
succeed best if privately performed.
There is no place for self-consciousness in the ritual chamber, unless that very
self-consciousness is an integral part of the role being played, and can be used
to good advantage - i.e.: the shame felt by a prudent woman serving as an altar,
who, through her embarrassment, feels sexual stimulation.
Even in a totally personalized ritual, however, the standardized preliminary
invocations and devices should be employed before the intimate fantasies and
acting out occur. The formal part of the ritual can be performed in the same
room or chamber as the personalized working - or, the formal ceremony in one
place, the personal in another. The beginning and end of the ritual must be
conducted within the confines of the ritual chamber containing the symbolic
devices (altar, chalice, etc.).
The formalized beginning and end of the ceremony acts as a dogmatic,
anti-intellectual device, the purpose of which is to disassociate the activities
and frame of reference of the outside world from that of the ritual chamber,
where the whole will must be employed. This facet of the ceremony is most
important to the intellectual, as he especially requires the "decompression
chamber" effect of the chants, bells, candles, and other trappings, before he
can put his pure and willful desires to work for himself, in the projection and
utilization of his imagery.
The "intellectual decompression chamber" of the Satanic temple might be
considered a training school for temporary ignorance, as are ALL religious
services! The difference is that the Satanist KNOWS he is practicing a form of
contrived ignorance in order to expand his will, whereas another religionist
doesn't - or if he does know, he practices that form of self-deceit which
forbids such recognition. His ego is already too shaky from his religious
inculcation to allow himself to admit to such a thing as self-imposed ignorance!
THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC A. Desire
THE first ingredient in the performance of a ritual is desire, otherwise
known as motivation, temptation, or emotional persuasion. If you do not truly
desire any end result, you should not attempt to perform a working.
There is no such thing as a "practice" working, and the only way that a magician
could do "tricks" such as moving inanimate objects, would be to have a strong
emotional need to do so. It is true that if the magician wishes to gain power
through impressing others with his feats of magic, he must produce tangible
proof of his ability. The Satanic concept of magic, however, fails to find
gratification in the proving of magical prowess.
The Satanist performs his ritual to insure the outcome of his desires, and he
would not waste his time nor force of will on something so inconclusive as
folling a pencil off a table, etc. through the application of magic. The amount
of energy needed to levitate a teacup (genuinely) would be of sufficient force
to place an idea in a group of people's heads half-way across the earth, in
turn, motivating them in accordance with your will. The Satanist knows that even
if you succeeded in lifting the teacup from the table, it would be assumed that
trickery was used anyway. Therefore, if the Satanist wants to float objects in
mid-air, he uses wires, mirrors, or other devices, and saves his force for
self-aggrandizement. All "gifted" mediums and white-light mystics practice pure
and applied stage magic, with their blindfolds and sealed envelopes, and any
fairly competent stage magician, carnival worker, or lodge-hall entertainer can
duplicate the same effect - although lacking, perhaps, the sanctimonious
"spiritual" overtones.
A little child learns that if he wishes for something hard enough, it will come
true. This is meaningful. Wishing indicates desire, whereas prayer is
accompanied by apprehension. Scripture has twisted desire into lust,
covetousness, and greed. Be as a child, and do not stifle desire, lest you lose
touch with the first ingredient in the performance of magic. Be led into
temptation, and take that which tempts, whenever you can! THE INGREDIENTS USED
IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC MAGIC B. Timing
IN every successful situation, one of the most important ingredients is the
proper timing. In the performance of a magical ritual, timing can mean success
or failure to an even greater extent. The best time to cast your spell or charm,
hex or curse, is when your target is at his most receptive state. Receptivity to
the will of the magician is assured when the recipient is as passive as
possible. No matter how strong-willed one is, he is naturally passive while he
is asleep; therefore, the best time to throw your magical energy towards your
target is when he or she sleeps.
There are certain periods of the sleep cycle that are better than others for
susceptibility to outside influences. When a person is normally fatigued from a
day's activities, he will "sleep like a log" until his mind and body are rested.
This period of profound sleep usually lasts about four to six hours, after which
the period of "dream sleep" occurs which lasts two or three hours, or until
awakening. It is during this "dream sleep" that the mind is most receptive to
outside or unconscious influence.
Let us assume the magician wishes to cast a spell on a person who would usually
retire at 11 o'clock in the evening, and rise at 7 o'clock in the morning. The
most effective time to perform a ritual would be about 5 o'clock in the morning,
or two hours before the recipient awakens.
It is to be emphasized that the magician must be at his peak of efficiency, as
he represents the "sending" factor when he performs his ritual. Traditionally
speaking, witches and sorcerers are night people, and understandably so. What
better schedule on which to live, for the sending of thoughts towards
unsuspecting sleepers! If only people were aware of the thoughts injected into
their minds while they slept! The dream state is the birthplace of much of the
future. Great thoughts are manifest upon awakening, and the mind that retains,
in conscious form, these thoughts, shall produce much. But he who is guided by
thoughts unrecognized is led into situations that will later be interpreted as
"fate", "God's will", or accident.
There are other times in each person's day that lend themselves to the receiving
of the will of the wizard. Those times when day-dreaming or boredom ensue, or
when time hangs heavy, are fertile periods of suggestibility.
If a woman is the target for your spell, do not forget the importance of the
menstrual cycle. If man were not dulled through his stifling evolutionary
development, he would know, as an all-fours animal knows, when the female was
most sexually inclined. Man's snout, however unsullied by cheap opiates, is not
normally equipped to ferret out such tell-tale erotic scents. Even if he were so
endowed with such olfactory powers, the object of his quest would most likely
"throw him off the scent" through the use of massive doses of perfumery to cover
and smother the "offending" effluvium, or eliminate detection completely, by the
astringent action of powerful deodorants.
Despite these discouraging factors, man is still motivated to desire or be
repelled, as the case may be, by his unconscious recognition of the change in
woman's body chemistry. This is accomplished in the form of a sensory cue, which
is olfactory in its nature. To go backwards, in what would amount to a return to
the all-fours animal, would seem to be the best exercise for the conscious
application of these powers, but to the squeamish might smack of lycanthropy.
There is, however, an easier way, and that is to simply ascertain the dates and
frequency of the menstrual cycle of the woman who is your target. It is
immediately before and after the period itself that the average woman is most
sexually approachable. Therefore, the magician will find the sleep period during
these times most effective for the instillation of thoughts or motivations of a
sexual nature.
Witches and sorceresses have a much greater range of time in which to cast their
spells toward the men of their choice. Becuase man is more consistent in his
sexual drives than woman (although there are many women with equal or even
greater lusts), day to day timing is not as important. Any man who is not
already drained of all sexual energy is a "sitting duck" for the proficient
witch. The time of the year following the spring equinox is the most fraught
with sexual vigor in a man, and he asserts himself accordingly; but the witch,
in turn, must work her magic stronger, as she will find his eyes will stray.
Should the fearful ask, "Is there no defense against such witchery?" it must be
answered thus - "Yes, there is protection. You must never sleep, never daydream,
never be without a vital thought, and never have an open mind. Then you shall be
protected from the forces of magic." THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE
OF SATANIC MAGIC C. Imagery
THE adolescent boy who takes great care in carving, on a tree, a heart
containing his and his love object's initials; the little chap who sits by the
hour drawing his conception of sleek automobiles; the tiny girl who rocks a
scuffed and ragged doll in her arms, and thinks of it as her beautiful little
baby - these capable witches and warlocks, these natural magicians, are
employing the magical ingredient known as imagery, and the success of any ritual
depends on it.
Children, not knowing or caring if they possess artistic skill or other creative
talents, pursue their goals through the use of imagery of their own manufacture,
whereas "civilized" adults are much more critical of their own creative efforts.
This is why a "primitive" magician can utilize a mud doll or crude drawing to
successful advantage in his magical ceremonies. To HIM, the image is as accurate
as needs be.
Anything which serves to intensify the emotions during a ritual will contribute
to its success. Any drawing, painting, sculpture, writing, photograph, article
of clothing, scent, sound, music, tableau, or contrived situation that can be
incorporated into the ceremony will serve the sorcerer well.
Imagery is a constant reminder, an intellect-saving device, a working substitute
for the real thing. Imagery can be manipulated, set up, modified, and created,
all according to the will of the magician, and the very blueprint that is
created by imagery becomes the formula which leads to reality.
If you wish to enjoy sexual pleasures with the one of your choice, you must
create the situation you desire on paper, canvas, by the written word, etc., in
as overstated a way as possible, as an integral part of the ceremony.
If you have material desires, you must gaze upon images of them - surround
yourself with the smells and sounds conducive to them - create a lodestone which
will attract the situation or thing that you wish!
To insure the destruction of an enemy, you must destroy them by proxy! They must
be shot, stabbed, sickened, burned, smashed, drowned, or rent in the most
vividly convincing manner! It is easy to see why the religions of the right-hand
path frown upon the creation of "graven images". The imagery used by the
sorcerer is a working mechanism for material reality, which is totally opposed
to esoteric spirituality.
A Greek gentleman of magical persuasion once wanted a woman who would satisfy
his every desire, and so obsessed with the unfound object of his dreams was he,
that he went about constructing such a wonderful creature. His work completed,
he fell so convincingly and irrevocably in love with the woman he had created
that she was no longer stone, but mortal flesh, and alive and warm; and so the
magus, Pygmalion, received the greatest of magical benedictions, and the
beautiful Galatea was his. THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC
MAGIC D. Direction
ONE of the most overlooked ingredients in the working of magic is the
accumulation and subsequent direction of force toward an effective end.
Altogether too many would-be witches and warlocks will perform a ritual, and
then go about with tremendous anxiety waiting for the first sign of a successful
working. For all intent and purpose, they might as well get down on their knees
and pray, for their very anxiety in waiting for the desired results only
nullifies any real chance of success. Furthermore, with this attitude, it is
doubtful that enough concentrated energy to even perform a proper ceremony could
be stored up in the first place.
To dwell upon or constantly complain about the situation upon which your ritual
would be based only guarantees the weakening of what should be ritualistically
directed force, by spreading it thin and diluting it. Once the desire has been
established strongly enough to employ the forces of magic, then every attempt
must be made to symbolically give vent to these wishes IN THE PERFORMANCE OF THE
RITUAL - NOT before or after!
The purpose of the ritual is to FREE the magician from thoughts that would
consume him, were he to dwell upon them constantly. Contemplation, daydreaming
and constant scheming burns up emotional energy that could be gathered together
in a dynamically usable force; not to mention the fact that normal productivity
is severely depleted by such consuming anxiety.
The witch who casts her spells between long waits by the telephone, anticipating
her would-be lover's call; the destitute warlock who invokes Satan's blessing,
then waits on pins and needles for the check to arrive; the man, saddened by the
injustices wrought upon him, who, having cursed his enemy, plods his way, long
of face, and forrowed of brow - all are common examples of misdirected emotional
energy.
Small wonder that the "white" magician fears retribution after casting an "evil"
spell! Retribution, to the guilt-ridden sender, would be assured, by their very
conscience-stricken state! THE INGREDIENTS USED IN THE PERFORMANCE OF SATANIC
MAGIC E. The Balance Factor
THE Balance Factor is an ingredient employed in the practice of ritual magic
which applies to the casting of lust and compassion rituals more than in the
throwing of a curse. This ingredient is a small, but extremely important one.
A complete knowledge and awareness of this factor is an ability few witches and
warlocks ever attain. This is, simply, knowing the proper type of individual and
situation to work your magic on for the easiest and best results. Knowing one's
own limitations is a rather odd bit of introspection, it would seem, for a
person who should be able to perform the impossible; but under many conditions
it can make the difference between success and failure.
If, in attempting to attain your goal through either greater or lesser magic,
you find yourself failing consistently, think about these things: Have you been
the victim of a misdirected, over-blown ego which has caused you to want
something or someone when the chances are virtually non-existent? Are you a
talentless, tone-deaf individual who is attempting, through magic, to receive
great acclaim for your unmusical voice? Are you a plain, glamorless witch with
oversized feet, nose, and ego, combined with an advanced case of acne, who is
casting love spells to catch a handsome young movie star? Are you a gross,
lumpy, lewd-mouthed, snaggle-toothed loafer who is desirous of a luscious young
stripper? If so, you'd better learn to use the balance factor, or else expect to
fail consistently!
I hate Jesus.
I also hate all spiritual figures for they are nothing but con-artists.
Thank you.
Propz to CLIT and penis bird guy.
IAgreeWithThisPost
There is certainly much evidence that past religions are, every day, lifting
.
more and more of their ridiculous restrictions. Even so, when an entire religion
is based on abstinence instead of indulgence (as it should be) there is little
left when it has been revised to meet the current needs of man. So, why waste
time "buying oats for a dead horse"?
The watchword of Satanism is INDULGENCE instead of "abstinence" . . . BUT - it
is not "compulsion". ON THE CHOICE OF A HUMAN SACRIFICE THE supposed
purpose in performing the ritual of sacrifice is to throw the energy provided by
the blood of the freshly slaughtered victim into the atmosphere of the magical
working, thereby intensifying the magician's chances of success.
The "white" magician assumes that since blood represents the life force, there
is no better way to appease the gods or demons than to present them with
suitable quantities of it. Combine this rationale with the fact that a dying
creature is expending an overabundance of adrenal and other biochemical
energies, and you have what appears to be an unbeatable combination.
The "white" magician, wary of the consequences involved in the killing of a
human being, naturally utilizes birds, or other "lower" creatures in his
ceremonies. It seems these sanctimonious wretches feel no guilt in the taking of
a non-human life, as opposed to a human's.
The fact of the matter is that if the "magician" is worthy of his name, he will
be uninhibited enough to release the necessary force from his own body, instead
of from an unwilling and undeserving victim!
Contrary to all established magical theory, the release of this force is NOT
effected in the actual spilling of blood, but in the death throes of the living
creature! This discharge of bioelectrical energy is the very same phenominon
which occurs during any profound heightening of the emotions, such as: sexual
orgasm, blind anger, mortal terror, consuming grief, etc. Of these emotions, the
easiest entered into of one's own violation are sexual orgasm and anger, with
grief running a close third. Remembering that the two most readily available of
these three (sexual orgasm and anger) have been burned into man's unconscios as
"sinful" by religionists, it is small wonder they are shunned by the "white"
magician, who plods along carrying the greatest of all millstones of guilt!
The inhibitive and asinine absurdity in the need to kill an innocent living
creature at the high-point of a ritual, as practiced by erstwhile "wizards", is
obviously their "lesser of the evils" when a discharge of energy is called for.
These poor conscience-stricken fools, who have been calling themselves witches
and warlocks, would sooner chop the head off a goat or chicken in an attempt to
harness its death agony, than have the "blasphemous" bravery to masturbate in
full view of the Jehovah whom they claim to deny! The only way these mystical
cowards can ritualistically release themselves is through the agony of another's
death (actually their own, by proxy) rather than the indulgent force which
produces life! The treaders of the path of white light are truly the cold and
the dead! No wonder these tittering pustules of "mystical wisdom" must stand
within protective circles to bind the "evil" forces in order to keep themselves
"safe" from attack - ONE GOOD ORGASM WOULD PROBABLY KILL THEM!
The use of a human sacrifice in a Satanic ritual does not imply that the
sacrifice is slaughtered "to appease the gods". Symbolically, the victim is
destroyed through the working of a hex or curse, which in turn leads to the
physical, mental or emotional destruction of the "sacrifice" in ways and means
not attributable to the magician.
The only time a Satanist would perform a human sacrifice would be if it were to
serve a two-fold purpose; that being to release the magician's wrath in the
throwing of a curse, and more important, to dispose of a totally obnoxious and
deserving individual.
Under NO circumstances would a Satanist sacrifice any animal or baby! For
centuries, propagandists of the right-hand path have been prattling over the
supposed sacrifices of small children and voluptuous maidens at the hands of
diabolists. It would be thought that anyone reading or hearing of these heinous
accounts would immediately question their authenticity, taking into
consideration the biased sources of the stories. On the contrary, as with all
"holy" lies which are accepted without reservation, this assumed modus operandi
of the Satanists persists to this day!
There are sound and logical reasons why the Satanists could not perform such
sacrifices. Man, the animal, is the godhead to the Satanist. The purest form of
carnal existence reposes in the bodies of animals and human children who have
not grown old enough to deny themselves their natural desires. They can perceive
things that the average adult human can never hope to. Therefore, the Satanist
holds these beings in a sacred regard, knowing he can learn much from these
natural magicians of the world.
The Satanist is aware of the universal custom of the treader of the path of
Agarthi; the killing of the god. Inasmuch as gods are always created in man's
own image - and the average man hates what he sees in himself - the inevitable
must occur: the sacrifice of the god who represents himself. The Satanist does
not hate himself, nor the gods he might choose, and has no desire to destroy
himself or anything for which he stands! It is for this reason he could never
willfully harm an animal or child.
The question arises, "Who, then, would be considered a fit and proper human
sacrifice, and how is one qualified to pass judgment on such a person?" The
answer is brutally simple. Anyone who has unjustly wronged you - one who has
"gone out of his way" to hurt you - to deliberately cause trouble and hardship
for you or those dear to you. In short, a person asking to be cursed by their
very actions.
When a person, by his reprehensible behavior, practically cries out to be
destroyed, it is truly your moral obligation to indulge them their wish. The
person who takes every opportunity to "pick on" others is often mistakenly
called "sadistic". In reality, this person is a misdirected masochist who is
working towards his own destruction. The reason a person viciously strikes out
against you is because they are afraid of you or what you represent, or are
resentful of your happiness. They are weak, insecure, and on extremely shaky
ground when you throw your curse, and they make ideal human sacrifices.
It is sometimes easy to overlook the actual wrongdoing of the victim of your
curse, when one considers how "unhappy" a person he really is. It is not so
easy, though, to retrace the damaging footsteps of your antagonist and make
right those practical situations he or she has made wrong.
The "ideal sacrifice" may be emotionally insecure, but nonetheless can, in the
machinations of his insecurity, cause severe damage to your tranquility or sound
reputation. "Mental illness", "nervous breakdown", "maladjustment", "anxiety
neuroses", "broken homes", "sibling rivalry", etc., etc., ad infinitum have too
long been convenient excuses for vicious and irresponsible actions. Anyone who
says "we must try to understand" those who make life miserable for those
undeserving of misery is aiding and abetting a social cancer! The apologists for
these rabid humans deserve any clobberings they get at the hands of their
charges!
Mad dogs are destroyed, and they need help far more than the human who
conveniently made froths at the mouth when irrational behavior is in order! It
is easy to say, "So what! - these people are insecure, so they can't hurt me."
But the fact remains - given the opportunity they would destroy you!
Therefore, you have every right to (symbolically) destroy them, and if your
curse provokes their actual annihilation, rejoice that you have been
instrumental in ridding the world of a pest! If your success or happiness
disturbs a person - you owe him nothing! He is made to be trampled under foot!
IF PEOPLE HAD TO TAKE THE CONSEQUENCES OF THEIR OWN ACTIONS, THEY WOULD THINK
TWICE! LIFE AFTER DEATH THROUGH FULFILLMENT OF THE EGO MAN is aware that
he will die, someday. Other animals, when nearing death, know they are about to
die; but it is not until death is certain that the animal senses his coming
departure from this world. And even then he does not know exactly what is
entailed in dying. It is often pointed out that animals accept death gracefully,
without fear or resistance. This is a beautiful concept, but one that only holds
true in cases where death for the animal is unavoidable.
When an animal is sick or injured he will fight for his life with every ounce of
strength he has left. It is this unshakable will to live that, if man were not
so "highly evolved", would also give him the fighting spirit he needs to stay
alive.
It is a well known fact that many people die simply because they give up and
just don't care anymore. This is understandable if the person is very ill, with
no apparent chance for recovery. But this often is not the case. Man has become
lazy. He has learned to take the easy way out. Even suicide has become less
repugnant to many people than any number of other sins. Religion is totally to
blame for this.
Death, in most religions, is touted as a great spiritual awakening - one which
is prepared for throughout life. This concept is very appealing to one who has
not had a satisfactory life; but to those who have experienced all the joys life
has to offer, there is a great dread attached to dying. This is as it should be.
It is this lust for life which will allow the vital person to live on after the
inevitable death of his fleshly shell.
History shows that men who have given their own lives in pursuit of an ideal
have been deified for their martyrdom. Religionists and political leaders have
been very crafty in laying their plans. By holding the martyr up as a shining
example to his fellow men, they eliminate the common sense reaction that willful
self-destruction goes against all animal logic. To the Satanist, martyrdom and
non-personalized heroism is to be associated not with integrity, but with
stupidity. This, of course, does not apply to the situations which involve the
safety of a loved one. But to give one's own life for something as impersonal as
a political or religious issue is the ultimate in masochism.
Life is the one great indulgence; death the one great abstinence. To a person
who is satisfied with his earthly existence, life is like a party; and no one
likes to leave a good party. By the same token, if a person is enjoying himself
here on earth he will not so readily give up this life for the promise of an
afterlife about which he knows nothing.
The Eastern mystical beliefs teach humans to discipline themselves against any
conscious will for success so they might dessolve themselves into "Universal
Cosmic Awareness" - anything to avoid good healthy self-satisfaction or honest
pride in earthly accomplishments!
It is interesting to note that the areas in which this type of belief flourishes
are those where material gains are not easily obtainable. For this reason the
predominant religious belief must be one which commends its followers for their
rejection of material things and their avoidance of the use of labels which
attaches a certain amount of importance to material gains. In this way the
people can be pacified into accepting their lot, no matter how small it may be.
Satanism uses many labels. If it were not for names, very few of us would
understand anything in life, much less attach any significance to it; - and
significance compels recognition, which is something everyone wants, especially
the Eastern mystic who tries to prove to everyone he can meditate longer or
stand more deprivation and pain than the next fellow.
The Eastern philosophies preach the dissolution of man's ego before he can
produce sins. It is unfathomable to the Satanist to conceive of an ego which
would willfully choose denial of itself.
In countries where this is used as a sop for the willingly impoverished, it is
understandable that a philosophy which teaches the denial of the ego would serve
a useful purpose - at least for those in power, to whom it would be detrimental
if their people were discontented. But for anyone who has every opportunity for
material gain, to choose this form of religious thought seems foolish, indeed!
The Eastern mystic believes strongly in reincarnation. To a person who has
virtually nothing in this life, the possibility that he may have been a king in
a past life or may be one in the next life is very attractive, and does much to
appease his need for self-respect. If there is nothing in which they can take
pride in this life, they can console themselves by thinking, "there are always
future lives." It never occurs to the believer in reincarnation that if his
father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, etc. had developed "good karmas", by
their adherence to the same beliefs and ethics as his present ones - then why is
he now living in privation, rather than like a maharajah?
Belief in reincarnation provides a beautiful fantasy world in which a person can
find the proper avenue of ego-expression, but at the same time claim to have
dissolved his ego. This is emphasized by the roles people choose for themselves
in their past or future lives.
Believers in reincarnation do not always choose an honorable character. If the
person is of a highly respectable and conservative nature, he will often choose
a colorful rogue or gangster, thereby fulfilling his alter-ego. Or, a woman who
has much social status may pick a harlot or famous courtesan for the
characterization of herself in a past life.
If people were able to divorce themselves from the stigma attached to personal
ego-fulfillment, they would not need to play self-deceitful games such as belief
in reincarnation as a means of satisfying their natural need for
ego-fulfillment.
The Satanist believes in complete gratification of his ego. Satanism, in fact,
is the only religion which advocates the intensification or encouragement of the
ego. Only if a person's own ego is sufficiently fulfilled, can he afford to be
kind and complimentary to others, without robbing himself of his self-respect.
We generally think of a braggart as a person with a large ego; in reality, his
bragging results from a need to satisfy his impoverished ego.
Religionists have kept their followers in line by suppressing their egos. By
making their followers feel inferior, the awesomeness of their god is insured.
Satanism encourages its members to develop a good strong ego because it gives
them the self-respect necessary for a vital existence in this life.
If a person has been vital throughout his life and has fought to the end for his
earthly existence, it is this ego which will refuse to die, even after the
expiration of the flesh which housed it. Young children are to be admired for
their driving enthusiasm for life. This is exemplified by the small child who
refuses to go to bed when there is something exciting going on, and when once
put to bed, will sneak down the stairs to peek through the curtain and watch. It
is this child-like vitality that will allow the Satanist to peek through the
curtain of darkness and death and remain earthbound.
Self-sacrifice is not encouraged by the Satanic religion. Therefore, unless
death comes as an indulgence because of extreme circumstances which make the
termination of life a welcome relief from the unendurable earthyl existence,
suicide is frowned upon by the Satanic religion.
Religious martyrs have taken their own lives, not because life was intolerable
for them, but to use their supreme sacrifice as a tool to further the religious
belief. We must assume, then, that suicide, if done for the sake of the church,
is condoned and even encouraged - even though their scriptures label it a sin -
because religious martyrs of the past have always been deified.
It is rather curious that the only time suicide is considered sinful by other
religions is when it comes as an indulgence. RELIGIOUS HOLIDAYS THE
highest of all holidays in the Satanic religion is the date of one's own birth.
This is in direct contradiction to the holy of holy days of other religions,
which deify a particular god who has been created in an anthropomorphic form of
their own image, thereby showing that the ego is not really buried.
The Satanist feels: "Why not really be honest and if you are going to create a
god in your image, why not create that god as yourself." Every man is a god if
he chooses to recognize himself as one. So, the Satanist celebrates his own
birthday as the most important holiday of the year. After all, aren't you
happier about the fact that you were born than you are about the birth of
someone you have never even met? Or for that matter, aside from religious
holidays, why pay higher tribute to the birthday of a president or to a date in
history than we do to the day we were brought into this greatest of all worlds?
Despite the fact that some of us may not have been wanted, or at least were not
particularly planned, we're glad, even if no one else is, that we're here! You
should give yourself a pat on the back, buy yourself whatever you want, treat
yourself like the king (or god) that you are, and generally celebrate your
birthday with as much pomp and ceremony as possible.
After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht and
Halloween (or All Hallows' Eve).
St. Walpurgis - or Walpurga, or Walburga, depending upon the time and area in
which one is referring to her - was born in Sussex about the end of the Seventh
or the beginning of the Eighth Century, and was educated at Winburn, Dorset,
where after taking the veil, she remained for twenty-five years. She then, at
the instance of her uncle, St. Boniface, and her brother, St. Wilibald, set out
along with some other nuns to found religious houses in Germany. Her first
settlement was at Bischofsheim in the diocese of Mainz, and two years later (754
A.D.) she became abbess of the Benedictine nunnery at Heidenheim, within her
brother Wilibald's diocese of Eichstadt in Bavaria, where another brother,
Winebald, had at the same time also been made head of a monastery. On the death
of Winebald in 760 she succeeded him in his charge, retaining the
superintendence of both houses until her death on February 25, 779. Her relics
were translated to Eichstadt, where she was laid in a hollow rock, from which
exuded a kind of bituminous oil, afterwards known as Walpurgis oil, regarded as
having miraculous efficacy against disease. The cave became a place of
pilgrimage, and a great church was built over the spot. She is commemorated at
various times, but principally on May 1st, her day taking the place of an
earlier Pagan festival. Amazingly enough, all of this rigmarole was found
necessary simply to condone the continuance of the most important Pagan festival
of the year - the grand climax of the spring equinox!
The Eve of May has been memorialized as the night that all of the demons,
specters, afreets, and banshees would come forth and hold their wild revels,
symbolizing the fruition of the spring equinox.
Halloween - All Hallows' Eve, or All Saints' Day - falls on October 31st or
November 1st. Originally, All Hallows' Eve was one of the great fire festivals
of Britain at the time of the Druids. In Scotland it was associated with the
time when the spirits of the dead, the demons, witches, and sorcerers were
unusually active and propitious. Paradoxically, All Hallows' Eve was also the
night when young people performed magical rituals to determine their future
marriage partners. The youth of the villages carried on with much merry-making
and sensual revelry, but the older people took great care to safeguard their
homes from the evil spirits, witches, and demons who had exceptional power that
night.
The solstices and equinoxes are also celebrated as holidays, as they herald the
first day of the seasons. The difference between a solstice and an equinox is a
semantic one defining the relationship between the sun, moon, and the fixed
stars. The solstice applies to summer and winter; the equinox refers to autumn
and spring. The summer solstice is in June, and the winter solstice is in
December. The autumn equinox is in September, and the spring equinox is in
March. Both the equinoxes and the solstices vary a day or two from year to year,
depending on the lunar cycle at the time, but usually fall on the 21st or 22nd
of the month. Five to six weeks after these days the legendary Satanic revels
are celebrated.
THE BLACK MASS NO other single device has been associated with Satanism as
much as the black mass. To say that the most blasphemous of all religious
ceremonies is nothing more than a literary invention is certainly a statement
which needs qualifying - but nothing could be truer.
The popular concept of the black mass is thus: a defrocked priest stands before
an altar consisting of a nude woman, her legs spread-eagled and vagina thrust
open, each of her outstretched fists grasping a black candle made from the fat
of unbaptized babies, and a chalice containing the urine of a prostitute (or
blood) reposing on her belly. An inverted cross hangs above the altar, and
triangular hosts of ergot-laden bread or black-stained turnip are methodically
blessed as the priest dutifully slips them in and out of the altar-lady's labia.
Then, we are told, an invocation to Satan and various demons is followed by an
array of prayers and psalms chanted backwards or interspersed with obscenities
. . all performed within the confines of a "protective" pentagram drawn on the
floow. If the Devil appears he is invariably in the form of a rather eager man
wearing the head of a black goat upon his shoulders. Then follows a potpouri of
flagellation, prayer-book burning, cunnilingus, fellatio, and general
hindquarters kissing - all done to a background of ribald recitations from the
Holy Bible, and audible expectorations on the cross! If a baby can be
slaughtered during the ritual, so much the better; for as everyone knows, this
is the favorite sport of the Satanist!
If this sounds repugnant, then the success of the reports of the black mass, in
keeping the devout in church, is easy to understand. No "decent" person could
fail to side with the inquisitors when told of these blasphemies. The
propagandists of the church did their job well, informing the public at one time
or another of the heresies and heinous acts of the Pagans, Cathars, Bogomils,
Templars and others who, because of their dualistic philosophies and sometimes
Satanic logic, had to be eradicated.
The stories of unbaptized babies being stolen by Satanists for use in the mass
were not only effective propoganda measures, but also provided a constant source
of revenue for the Church, in the form of baptism fees. No Christian mother
would, upon hearing of these diabolical kidnappings, refrain from getting her
child properly baptized, post haste.
Another facet of man's nature was apparent in the fact that the writer or artist
with lewd thoughts could exercise his most obscene predilections in the
portrayal of the activities of heretics. The censor who views all pornography so
that he will know what to warn others of is the modern equivalent of the
medieval chronicler of the obscene deeds of the Satanists (and, of course, their
modern journalistic counterparts). It is believed that the most complete library
of pornography in the world is owned by the Vatican!
The kissing of the Devil's behind during the traditional black mass is easily
recognized as the forerunner of the modern term used to describe one who will,
through appealing to another's ego, gain materially from him. As all Satanic
ceremonies were performed toward very real or material goals, the oscularum
infame (or kiss of shame) was considered a symbolic requisite towards earthly,
rather than spiritual, success.
The usual assumption is that the Satanic ceremony or service is always called a
black mass. A black mass is not the magical ceremony practiced by Satanists. The
Satanist would only employ the use of a black mass as a form of psychodrama.
Furthermore, a black mass does not necessarily imply that the performers of such
are Satanists. A black mass is essentially a parody of the religious service of
the Roman Catholic Church, but can be loosely applied to a satire on any
religious ceremony.
To the Satanist, the black mass, in its blaspheming of orthodox rites, is
nothing more than a redundancy. The services of all established religions are
actually parodies of old rituals performed by the worshippers of the earth and
the flesh. In attempts to de-sexualize and de-humanize the Pagan beliefs, later
men of spiritual faith whitewashed the honest meanings behind the rituals into
the bland euphemisms now considered to be the "true mass". Even if the Satanist
were to spend each night performing a black mass, he would no more be performing
a travesty than the devout churchgoer who unwittingly attends his own "black
mass" - his spoof on the honest and emotionally-sound rites of Pagan antiquity.
Any ceremony considered a black mass must effectively shock and outrage, as this
seems to be the measure of its success. In the Middle Ages, blaspheming the holy
church was shocking. Now, however, the Church does not present the awesome image
it did during the inquisition. The traditional black mass is no longer the
outrageous spectacle to the dilettante or renegade priest that it once was. If
the Satanist wishes to create a ritual to blaspheme an accepted institution, for
the purpose of psychodrama, he is careful to choose one that is not in vogue to
parody. Thus, he is truly stepping on a sacred cow.
A black mass, today, would consist of the blaspheming of such "sacred" topics as
Eastern mysticism, psychiatry, the psychedelic movement, ultra-liberalism, etc.
Patriotism would be championed, drugs and their gurus would be defiled,
acultural militants would be deified, and the decadence of ecclesiastical
theologies might even be given a Satanic boost.
The Satanic magus has always been the catalyst for the dichotomy necessary in
molding popular beliefs, and in this case a ceremony in the nature of a black
mass may serve a far-reaching magical purpose.
In the year 1666, some rather interesting events occurred in France. With the
death of François Mansart, the architect of the trapezoid, whose geometrics were
to become the prototype of the haunted house, the Palace of Versailles was being
constructed, in accordance with his plans. The last of the glamorous priestesses
of Satan, Jeanne-Marie Bouvier (Madame Guyon) was to be overshadowed by a shrewd
opportunist and callous business-woman named Catharine Deshayes, otherwise known
as LaVoisin. Here was an erstwhile beautician who, while dabbling in abortions
and purveying the most efficient poisons to ladies desirous of eliminating
unwanted husbands or lovers, found in the lurid accounts of the "messes noir" a
proverbial brainstorm.
It is safe to say that 1666 was the year of the first "commercial" black mass!
In the region south of St. Denis, which is now called LaGarenne, a great walled
house was purchased by LaVoisin and fitted with dispensaries, cells,
laboratories, and . . . a chapel. Soon it became de rigueur for royalty and
lesser dillettantes to attend and participate in the very type of service
mentioned earlier in this chapter. The organized fraud perpetrated in these
ceremonies has become indelibly marked in history as the "true black mass".
When LaVoisin was arrested on March 13, 1679 (in the Church of Our Blessed Lady
of Good Tidings, incidentally), the die had already been cast. The degraded
activities of LaVoisin had stifled the majesty of Satanism for many years to
come.
The Satanism-for-fun-and-games fad next appeared in England in the middle 18th
Century in the form of Sir Francis Dashwood's Order of the Medmanham Fanciscans,
popularly called The Hell-Fire Club. While eliminating the blood, gore, and
baby-fat candles of the previous century's masses, Sir Francis managed to
conduct rituals replete with good dirty fun, and certainly provided a colorful
and harmless form of psychodrama for many of the leading lights of the period.
An interesting sideline of Sir Francis, which lends a clue to the climate of the
Hell-Fire Club, was a group called the Dilettanti Club, of which he was the
founder.
Thanks!
LOL!
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Welcome
To illustrate the undebatable fact that masturbation is an entirely normal and
healthy practice: it is performed by all members of the animal kingdom. Human
children will also follow their instictive masturbatory desires, unless they
have been scolded for it by their indignant parents, who were undoubtably
berated for it by their parents, and so on down the retrocedent line.
It is unfortunate, but true, that the sexual guilts of parents will immutably be
passed on to their children. In order to save our children from the ill-fated
sexual destiny of our parents, grandparents, and possibly ourselves, the
perverted moral code of the past must be exposed for what it is: a pragmatically
organized set of rules which, if rigidly obeyed, would destroy us! Unless we
emancipate ourselves from the ridiculous sexual standards of our present
society, including the so-called sexual revolution, the neuroses caused by those
stifling regulations will persist. Adherence to the sensible and humanistic new
morality of Satanism can - and will - evolve society in which our children can
grow up healthy and without the devastating moral encumbrances of our existing
sick society. NOT ALL VAMPIRES SUCK BLOOD! SATANISM represents
responsibility to the responsible, instead of concern for psychic vampires.
Many people who walk the earth practice the fine art of making others feel
responsible and even indebted to them, without cause. Satanism observes these
leeches in their true light. Psychic vampires are individuals who drain others
of their vital energy. This type of person can be found in all avenues of
society. They fill no useful purpose in our lives, and are neither love objects
nor true friends. Yet we feel responsible to the psychic vampire without knowing
why.
If you think you may be the victim of such a person, there are a few simple
rules which will help you form a decision. Is there a person you often call or
visit, even though you really don't want to, because you know you will feel
guilty if you don't? Or, do you find yourself constantly doing favors for one
who doesn't come forward and ask, but hints? Often the psychic vampire will use
reverse psychology, saying: "Oh, I couldn't ask you to do that" - and you, in
turn, insist upon doing it. The psychic vampire never demands anything of you.
That would be far too presumptuous. They simply let their wishes be known in
subtle ways which will prevent them from being considered pests. They "wouldn't
think of imposing" and are always content and willingly accept their lot,
without the slightest complaint - outwardly!
Their sins are not of commission, but of omission. It's what they don't say, not
what they do say, that makes you feel you must account to them. They are much
too crafty to make overt demands upon you, because they know you would resent
it, and would have a tangible and legitimate reason for denying them.
A large percentage of these people have special "attributes" which make their
dependence upon you more feasible and much more effective. Many psychic vampires
are invalids (or pretend to be) or are "mentally or emotionally disturbed."
Others might feign ignorance or incompetence so you will, out of pity - or more
often, exasperation - do things for them.
The traditional way to banish a demon or elemental is to recognize it for what
it is, and exorcise it. Recognition of these modern-day demons and their methods
is the only antidote for their devastating hold over you.
Most people accept these passively vicious individuals at face value only
because their insidious maneuvers have never been pointed out to them. They
merely accept these "poor souls" as being less fortunate than themselves, and
feel they must help them however they can. It is this misdirected sense of
responsibility (or unfounded sense of guilt) which nourishes well the
"altruisms" upon which these parasites feast!
The psychic vampire is allowed to exist because he cleverly chooses
conscientious, responsible people for his victims - people with great dedication
to their "moral obligations."
In some cases we are vampirized by groups of people, as well as individuals.
Every fund raising organization, be it a charitable foundation, community
council, religious or fraternal association, etc., carefully selects a person
who is adept at making others feel guilty for its chairman or coordinator. It is
the job of this chairman to intimidate us into opening first our hearts, and
then our wallets, to the recipient of their "good will" - never mentioning that,
in many cases, their time is not unselfishly donated, but that they are drawing
a fat salary for their "noble deeds." They are masters at playing upon the
sympathy and consideration of responsible people. How often we see little
children who have been sent forth by these self-righteous Fagins to painlessly
extract donations from the kindly. Who can resist the innocent charm of a child?
There are, of course, people who are not happy unless they are giving, but many
of us do not fit into this category. Unfortunately, we are often put upon to do
things we do not genuinely feel should be required of us. A conscientious person
finds it very difficult to decide between voluntary and imposed charity. He
wants to do what is right and just, and finds it perplexing trying to decide
exactly who he should help and what degree of aid should rightfully be expected
of him.
Each person must decide for himself what his obligations are to his respective
friends, family, and community. Before donating his time and money to those
outside his immediate family and close circle of friends, he must decide what he
can afford, without depriving those closest to him. When taking these things
into consideration he must be certain to include himself among those who mean
most to him. He must carefully evaluate the validity of the request and the
personality or motives of the person asking it of him.
It is extremely difficult for a person to learn to say "no" when all his life he
has said "yes." But unless he wants to be constantly taken advantage of, he must
learn to say "no" when circumstances justify doing so. If you allow them,
psychic vampires will gradually infiltrate your everyday life until you have no
privacy left - and your constant feeling of concern for them will deplete you of
all ambition.
A psychic vampire will always select a person who is relatively content and
satisfied with his life - a person who is happily married, pleased with his job,
and generally well-adjusted to the world around him - to feed upon. The very
fact that the psychic vampire chooses to victimize a happy person shows that he
is lacking all the things his victim has; he will do everything he can to stir
up trouble and disharmony between his victim and those people he holds dear.
Therefore, be wary of anyone who seems to have no real friends and no appearant
interest in life (except you). He will usually tell you he is very selective in
his choice of friends, or doesn't make friends easily because of the high
standards he sets for his companions. (To acquire and keep friends, one must be
willing to give of himself - something of which the psychic vampire is
incapable.) But he will hasten to add that you fulfill every requirement and are
truly an outstanding exception among men - you are one of the very few worthy of
his friendship.
Lest you confuse desperate love (which is a very selfish thing) with psychic
vampirism, the vast difference between the two must be clarified. The only way
to determine if you are being vampirized is to weigh what you give the person
compared to what they give you in return.
You may, at times, become annoyed with the obligations put upon you by a loved
one, a close friend, or even an employer. But before you label them psychic
vampires, you must ask yourself, "What am I getting in return?" If your spouse
or lover insists that you call them frequently, but you also require them to
account to you for their time spent away from you, you must realize this is a
give and take situation. Or, if a friend is in the habit of calling upon you for
help at inopportune moments, but you similarly depend upon them to give your
immediate needs priority, you must regard it as a fair exchange. If your
employer asks you to do a little more than is normally expected of you in your
particular position, but will overlook occasional tardiness or will give you
time off when you need it, you certainly have no cause for complaint and need
not feel he is taking advantage of you.
You are, however, being vampirized if you are incessantly called upon or
expected to do favors for someone who, when you need a favor, always happens to
have other "pressing obligations."
Many psychic vampires will give you material things for the express purpose of
making you feel you owe them something in return, thereby binding you to them.
The difference between your giving, and theirs, is that your return payment must
come in a non-material form. They want you to feel obligated to them, and would
be very disappointed and even resentful if you attempted to repay them with
materal objects. In essence, you have "sold your soul" to them, and they'll
constantly remind you of your duty to them, by not reminding you.
Being purely Satanic, the only way to deal with a psychic vampire is to "play
dumb" and act as though they are genuinely altruistic and really expect nothing
in return. Teach them a lesson by graciously taking what they give you, thanking
them loudly enough for all to hear, and walking away! In this way you come out
the victor. What can they say? And when you are inevitably expected to repay
their "generosity," (this is the hard part!) you say "NO" - but again,
graciously! When they feel you falling from their clutches two things will
happen. First, they will act "crushed," hoping your old feeling of duty and
sympathy will return, and when (and if) it doesn't, they will show their true
colors and will become angry and vindictive.
Once you have moved them to this point, YOU can play the role of the injured
party. After all, you've done nothing wrong - you just happened to have had
"pressing obligations" when they needed you, and since nothing was expected in
return for their gifts, there should be no hard feelings.
Generally, the psychic vampire will realize his methods have been discovered and
will not press the issue. He will not continue to waste his time with you, but
will move on to his next unsuspecting victim.
There are times, however, when the psychic vampire will not release his hold so
easily, and will do everything possible to torment you. They have plenty of time
for this because, when once rejected, they wil neglect all else (what little
else they have, that is) to devote their every waking moment to planning the
revenge to which they feel they are entitled. For this reason, it is best to
avoid a relationship with this kind of person in the first place. Their
"adulation" and dependence upon you may, at first, be very flattering, and their
material gifts very attractive, but you will eventually find yourself paying for
them many times over.
Don't waste your time with people who will ultimately destroy you, but
concentrate instead on those who will appreciate your responsibility to them,
and, likewise, feel responsible to you.
And if you are a psychic vampire - take heed! Beware of the Satanist - he is
ready and willing to gleefully drive the proverbial stake through your heart!
INDULGENCE . . . NOT COMPULSION
THE HIGHEST PLATEAU OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT IS THE AWARENESS OF THE FLESH!
SATANISM encourages its followers to indulge in their natural desires. Only by
doing so can you be a completely satisfied person with no frustrations which can
be harmful to yourself and others around you. Therefore, the most simplified
description of the Satanic belief is:
INDULGENCE INSTEAD OF ABSTINENCE People often mistake compulsion for indulgence,
but there is a world of difference between the two. A compulsion is never
created by indulging, but by not being able to indulge. By making something
taboo, it only serves to intensify the desire. Everyone likes to do the things
they have been told not to. "Forbidden fruits are sweetest."
Webster's Encyclopedic Dictionary defines indulgence thusly: "To give oneself up
to; not to restrain or oppose; to give free course to; to gratify by compliance;
to yeild to." The dictionary definition of compulsion is: "The act of compelling
or driving by a force, physical or moral; constraint of the will; (compulsory,
obligatory)." In other words, indulgence implies choice, whereas compulsion
indicates the lack of choice.
When a person has no proper release for his desires they rapidly build up and
become compulsions. If everyone had a particular time and place for the purpose
of periodically indulging in their personal desires, without fear of
embarrassment or reproach, they would be sufficiently released to lead
unfrustrated lives in the everyday world. They would be free to plunge headlong
into whatever undertaking they might choose instead of going about their duties
half-heartedly, their creative urges frustrated by denying their natural
desires. This would apply in the majority of cases, but there will always be
those who work better under pressure.
Generally, those who need to endure a certain amount of hardship to produce to
their full capabilities are in basically artistic vocations. (More will be said
later about fulfillment through self-denial.) This does not mean to imply that
all artists fit into this category. On the contrary, many artists are unable to
produce unless their basic animal needs have been satisfied.
For the most part, it is not the artist or individualist, but the average
middle-class working man or woman who is lacking the proper release for their
desires. It is ironic that the responsible, respectable person - the one who
pays society's bills - should be the one given the least in return. It is he who
must be ever conscious of his "moral obligations", and who is condemned for
normally indulging in his natural desires.
The Satanic religion considers this a gross injustice. He who upholds his
responsibilities should be most entitled to the pleasures of his choice, without
censure from the society he serves.
Finally a religion (Satanism) has been formed which commends and rewards those
who support the society in which they live, instead of denouncing them for their
human needs.
From every set of principles (be it religious, political, or philosophical),
some good can be extracted. Amidst the madness of the Hitlerian concept, one
point stands out as a shining example of this - "strength through joy!". Hitler
was no fool when he offered the German people happiness, on a personal level, to
insure their loyalty to him, and peak efficiency from them.
It has been clearly established that the majority of all illnesses are of a
psychosomatic nature, and that psychosomatic illnesses are a direct result of
frustration. It has been said that "the good die young". The good, by Christian
standards, do die young. It is the frustration of our natural instincts which
leads to the deterioration of our minds and bodies.
It has become very fashionable to concentrate on the betterment of the mind and
spirit, and to consider giving pleasure to one's body (the very shell without
which the mind and spirit could not exist) to be coarse, crude, unrefined. AS OF
LATE, MOST PEOPLE WHO DEEM THEMSELVES EMANCIPATED HAVE LEFT NORMALCY ONLY TO
"TRANSCEND" INTO IDIOCY! By way of bending their behinds around to meet their
navels, subsisting on wild and exotic diets like brown rice and tea, they feel
they will arive at a great state of spiritual development.
"Hogwash!" says the Satanist. He would rather eat a good hearty meal, exercise
his imagination, and transcend by means of physical and emotional fulfillment.
It seems, to the Satanist, that after being harnessed with unreasonable
religious demands for so many centuries, one would welcome the chance to be
human for once!
If anyone thinks that by denying his natural desires he can avoid mediocrity, he
should examine the Eastern mystical beliefs which have been in great
intellectual favor in recent years. Christianity is "old-hat", so those who wish
to escape its fetters have turned to so-called enlightened religions, such as
Buddhism. Although Christianity is certainly deserving of the criticism it has
received, perhaps it has been taking more than its share of the blame. The
followers of the mystical beliefs are every bit as guilty of the little
humanisms as the "misguided" Christians. Both religions are based on trite
philosophies, but the mystical religionists profess to be enlightened and
emancipated from the guilt-ridden dogma which is typified by Christianity.
However, the Eastern mystic is even more preoccupied than the Christian with
avoiding animalistic actions that remind him he is not a "saint", but merely a
man - only another form of animal, sometimes better, more often worse, than
those who walk on all fours; and who, becuase of his "divine spiritual and
intellectual development", has become the most vicious animal of all!
The Satanist asks, "What is wrong with being human, and having human limitations
as well as assets?" By denying his desires the mystic has come no closer to
overcoming compulsion than his kindred soul, the Christian. The Eastern mystical
beliefs have taught people to contemplate their navels, stand on their heads,
stare at blank walls, avoid the use of labels in life, and discipline themselves
against any desire for materialistic pleasure. Nevertheless, I am sure you have
seen just as many so-called desciplined yogis with the inablility to control a
smoking habit as anyone else; or just as many supposedly emancipated Buddhists
become just as excited as a "less aware" person when they are confronted with a
member of the opposite - or in some cases, the same - sex. Yet when asked to
explain the reason for their hypocrisy, these people retreat into the
ambiguousness which characterizes their faith - no one can pin them down if
there are no straight answers that can be given!
The simple fact of the matter is that the very thing which has led this type of
person to a faith which preaches abstinence, is indulgence. Their compulsive
masochism is the reason for choosing a religion which not only advocates
self-denial, but praises them for it; and gives them a sacrosanct avenue of
expression for their masochistic needs. The more abuse they can stand, the
holier they become.
Masochism, to most people, represents a rejection of indulgence. Satanism points
out many meanings behind the meanings, and considers masochism to be an
indulgence if any attempt to sway or change the person from his masochistic
traits is met with resentment and/or failure. The Satanist does not condemn
these people for giving vent to their masochistic desires, but he does feel the
utmost contempt towards those who cannot be honest enough (at least with
themselves) to face and accept their masochism as a natural part of their
personality make-up.
Having to use religion as an excuse for their masochism is bad enough, but these
people actually have the effrontery to feel superior to those who are not
bound-up in self-deceitful expression of their fetishes! These people would be
the first to condemn a man who found his weekly release with a person who would
beat him soundly, thereby releasing himself from the very thing which could, if
unreleased, make him - as they are - a compulsive church-goer or religious
fanatic. By finding adequate release for his masochistic desires, he no longer
needs to debase and deny himself in his every waking moment, as do these
compulsive masochists.
Satanists are encouraged to indulge in the seven deadly sins, as they need hurt
no one; they were only invented by the Christian Church to insure guilt on the
part of its followers. The Christian Church knows that it is impossible for
anyone to avoid committing these sins, as they are all things which we, being
human, most naturally do. After inevitably committing these sins financial
offerings to the church in order to "pay off" God are employed as a sop to the
parishioner's conscience!
Satan has never needed a book of rules, because vital natural forces have kept
man "sinful" and intent on preserving himself and his feelings. Nevertheless,
demoralizing attempts have been made on his body and being for his "soul's"
sake, which only illustrate how misconceived and misused the labels of
"indulgence" versus "compulsion" have become.
Sexual activity certainly is condoned and encouraged by Satanism, but obviously
the fact that it is the only religion which honestly takes this stand, is the
reason it has been traditionally given so much literary space.
Naturally, if most people belong to the religions which repress them sexually,
anything written on this provocative subject is going to make for titillating
reading.
If all attempts to sell something (be it a product or an idea) have failed - sex
will always sell it. The reason for this is that even though people now
consciously accept sex as a normal and necessary function, their subconscious is
still bound by the taboo which religion has placed upon it. So, again, what is
denied is more intensely desired. It is this bugaboo regarding sex which causes
the literature devoted to the Satanic views on the subject to overshadow all
else written about Satanism.
The true Satanist is not mastered by sex any more than he is mastered by any of
his other desires. As with all other pleasurable things, the Satanist is master
of, rather than mastered by sex. He is not the perverted fiend who is just
waiting for the opportunity to deflower every young virgin, nor is he the
skulking degenerate who furtively hangs around in the "dirty" bookstores,
slavering over the "nasty" pictures. If pornography fills his needs for the
moment, he unashamedly buys some "choice items" and guiltlessly peruses them at
his leisure.
"We have to accept the fact that man has become disgruntled at being constantly
repressed, but we must do everything we can to at least temper the sinful
desires of man, lest they run rampant in this new age," say the religionists of
the right-hand path to the questioning Satanist. "Why continue to think of these
desires as shameful and something to be repressed, if you now admit they are
natural?" returns the Satanist. Could it be that the white-light religionists
are a bit "sour-grapes" about the fact that they didn't think of a religion,
before the Satanists, which would be enjoyable to follow; and if the truth were
known, would they too not like to have a bit more pleasure out of life, but for
fear of losing face, cannot admit it? Could it also be that they are afraid
people will, after hearing about Satanism, tell themselves "This is for me - why
should I continue with a religion which condemns me for everything I do, even
though there is nothing actually wrong with it?" The Satanist thinks this is
more than likely true.