0 comments/ 2149 views/ 2 favorites The Rituals of Thelema Ch. 01 By: LeopoldNicholas To suggest my interest in women had any purpose beyond the acquisition of power is quite ridiculous. My very existence depended on the continual absorption of the life force of others and the most prized variety was the carnal jetsam of unrestrained sexual submission. Perhaps initially my purpose might have been construed as a search for mutual pleasure, a mingling of souls towards a higher plain but in truth that ideal had soon been trampled beneath the charging hooves of my search for the essence of personal aggrandizement through magic. Catholicism is such a wonderfully natural precursor to sorcery, investing as it does the performance of ritualistic incantation with metaphysical happenstance and the sweet intermingling of psychic manipulation and fucking is beyond parallel. The Eurostar terminal in St Pancras was my preferred port of departure. I had on occasion used the intermediate alternative at Ashford but found the inconvenience of not being able to both study my prey from the outset and the possibility of not having my exact choice of locale vexing. Some lesser humans failed to realize their place and somehow assumed they could claim precedence over my wishes. I had no wish to waste energy on reeducating such nondescripts however much the pleasure of opening their veins might appeal. A spider by necessity needs his web suitably in place before the victim can be ensnared and time and experience had taught me the essence of subterfuge. "Excuse me Sir, are these seats taken?" I slowly raised my eyes from the newly acquired first edition of Justine to acknowledge the addressee with a broken toothed smile. My visage was as always carefully manicured for this moment, the heavily mirrored spectacles, the carefully groomed van dyke, the spotless Grade Three Habana Cuenca Panama all chosen to accentuate. Amazing how much one can recognize in a glance, dissect the individual as completely as in a postmortem to stare into their very soul. I removed the mountaineer's glasses with a flourish and looked deep into her bright green eyes. "I would be extraordinarily honored to have you use these rather unworthy seats my dear young thing." She flushed a little and laughed, not crudely but rather with a natural innocence that made both my mouth salivate and penis twitch pleasantly. The train slowly began to accelerate and as she leaned forward to regain balance she inadvertently placed her palm on my right knee. The wonderfully timed accident momentarily bought us close enough for her aroma to fill my nostrils. Yes, I was suddenly very hungry. "We sitting here then Lizzie?" I glanced at the boy standing behind my next meal and inwardly steeled. The attraction of such unfortunate specimens to the female sex had always mystified and to a degree irritated me. But for the fact that his inane stupidity and irksomeness made my obvious good breeding doubly illuminating I would quite happily have shoved him out of a window immediately to be splattered along the tracks in gory magnificence rather than waiting for a more opportune moment. "Be nice please Roddy." Roderick attempted to look aloof and dignified but was obviously singularly unhappy to be chastised, unable to willing accept that such is the penalty for existing as a fool and cad. I decided unilaterally to make his last few hours extraordinarily unpleasant. Justine was proving its usual mix of comedy and pedestrian-ism. I am an admirer of De Sade's writing in its most brilliant form but his insistence on poeticizing even the most banal of physical acts reeks of the somatic narcissist. Call a fuck a fuck I always say, no need to reach for the thesaurus at every turn. Elizabeth had assumed her seat opposite me, Roderick having decided as the 'man' he had pervue over the window seat. Personally I always found the aisle seat far more convenient dually because of my own ease of access and its threatening nature for whomever might dare to risk an invasion of my bench. I sat as always with my back to the engine allowing a modicum of relief from the unavoidable discrepancies in the speed and regularity of our progress. That Elizabeth had chosen to wear a skirt on this day was of course a great benefit and I was pleased to note when her thighs parted occasionally through the carriages vibrations she was not only sans panties but diligently hirsute. In my general experience a well groomed labia points to a proficiently maintained vagina and by extension and far more importantly a clean anus. Each journey lasted approximately two hours and thirty five minutes. I divided this allowance into three sections, the reception, the meal and finally the laundry. The reception was the most enjoyable, allowing a choice of menu, the decision to eat al fresco or perhaps more traditionally, the preparation of the food, the cooking and serving. The meal itself was by necessity repetitive, after all there are only so many gastronomic experiences to be had on a moving vehicle but of course each finale, the crème caramel for want of a better term was always exquisite. The laundry was a matter of arbitrary preference, sometimes purely linguistic, occasionally commercial and on the unfortunately few truly satisfying of occasions requiring a total cleansing. I kept the latter to a minimum, however adept I had become at the art of prestidigitation there was always the chance of some unfortunate glimpse behind the conjurers mirror and that would mean having to totally redesign my preferred feeding habits, something I considered abhorrent. We had departed St Pancras at just after twenty hundred hours and being still only early February in comparative darkness. The night wore a full moon that cast an eerie glow across the landscape as we traveled through the outskirts of Greater London before reaching the flat fertile plain of Kent. Elizabeth and Roderick were obviously in the midst of that kind of silent argument only truly tragic relationships can manifest. Hard enough to muster words when there is some point to discussion however fraught but when the only sound discernible is the scraping of fingernails slowly losing traction on any jointly held emotions silence marks a battlefield visited with familiar repetition. "Going for a Slash." Roddy broke the heavy curtain between them more as a warning to Elizabeth to mind out of his way rather than any real attempt at communication. For her part the girl looked heartily embarrassed, both at his unnecessary vulgarity and the public humiliation of such verbal aggression. I had surmised from the slight twitch that had started to spread across Roddy's face that the need was for relief of a totally different kind and the way he frantically checked his jacket pockets as he rose only confirmed my suspicions. "You had better take your ticket if you are going to be a while then." Something in Elizabeth's voice told me this was not an unforeseen or unusual occurrence and I again found myself confirming his soon to be downfall. "I really must apologize for Roddy's manners, He isn't used to being in proper company." I raised my eyes again from Justine and arranged my face into a smile of both pleasantry and fatherly understanding. "We are taking this trip in the hopes of sorting out our problems but it doesn't seem to have started very well." Nodding I allowed her to warm unhindered into her explanation. She needed to share and obviously found the skeins of my web remarkably comforting as they started to insidiously grip her tighter. "I am really sorry if my speaking has offended you." I allowed my smile to broaden reassuringly and ensuring that my eyes were that deep shade of blue women found so seductive I again removed my mountaineer's glasses. My look captured her solidly and momentarily she was transfixed. I smelt her vaginal excreta flow. "Please don't apologize Elizabeth, I can imagine no circumstance when anything we shared wouldn't both be a pleasure and an honor." People imagine that magic requires some obvious incantation or gesture when in actuality its very nature is subtle in the extreme. "it is rather for me to apologize for being unable to mend whatever troubles you with the glue of my experience and honest affections." Elizabeth was fast melting and I concluded that no one had ever taken the time or trouble to seduce her before. Undoubtedly she had suffered the physical fumbling of inarticulate commoners whose manners would be rough as their hands but the luxuriant feel of words slowly pervading her being was totally new. "May I ask you something?" I let her anticipation mount a little as my eyes twinkled and my testes filled expectantly. "Please Elizabeth feel open to ask me anything you want. I have few secrets and even less shame." My words were chosen carefully to extract a response and I sensed her opening experientially. "Is Paris really as romantic as they say? I so want this trip to work, I think it's the last chance Roddy and I have to make things work." She looked so sad and defenseless, so desperate that many a less considerate predator might have felt pangs of pity enough let her go, but what point? Roderick was a poltroon, a dolt, incapable of ever creating or bringing the longevity of joy this little one deserved. Sometimes the kindest act is the cruelest, the quick incised pass across the neck preferable to condoning the slow impaling spit. "Paris must be savored like priceless wine, allowed to invade all the senses till your whole being is soaked in its essence, experienced with the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the very core of your being till it impregnates you with its seed." I watched Elizabeth quaff my words like A Bollinger 2002 Brut, the sumptuous white effervescence prancing across her emotions to transport her senses on lipizzan to new heights of delight. The world closed around us as our carriage thrust into the darkness of the tunnel. "Have you ever walked beneath the sea before Elizabeth?" "No never, ever, not even in a dream." I rose from the seat and stood tall above her, my body close enough that the testosterone pulsing through my glands would invade her being. Placing the impenetrable spectacles back over my eyes I firmly clasped her hand and led her easily towards the end of the carriage. The automatic doors opened in a mockery of the curtains that lead into the bosom of Solomon's temple then closed behind us with a satisfying snap. Elizabeth's hair felt good in my hand, my fist wrapped tight in the thickness just above the nape of her neck and she showed no hesitation as I drew her bare shoulder to my mouth. Her skin smelled heavily of patchouli, worn as a mask for the tell-tale pungency of cannabis sativa both she and Roderick used with great regularity. I tasted her flesh, biting timidly at first but increasing pressure from my few remaining incisors in unison with her melting form until her body swooned sufficiently to drop harmlessly to the floor. I turned quickly to face Roddy as he staggeringly exited the adjacent bathroom still acclimatizing to the fresh application of heroin injected through the visible track in his left elbow crease. "What the fucks this?" The outside edge of my right hand met the bridge of his nose perfectly to send him staggering leftwards towards the carriage door. I grasped the collar of his jacket before he collapsed totally allowing me time to slide down the doors heavy window then up again to trap his neck like a medieval stock. Releasing the collar I allowed him to collapse and hang like a perverse facsimile of a Peking duck in a China Town delicatessen. I quickly pulled his pants to his ankles exposing the gaping ragged anal canal so recently sold as plunder in exchange for opiate and zip-tied his wrists behind his back. Upon regaining consciousness Elizabeth took in the full horror of Roderick's betrayal. "Fucking dirty conniving rent boy." Her outburst whilst understandable caused me pain, the sound of such crude and judgmental words being expelled from her divine lips was disappointing. "Please Elizabeth whilst I understand your anger at such betrayal you must rise above mere vitriol if you wish to both chastise Rodrick and move forwards positively." I could see she was confused and wishing her to more easily grasp the possibilities now open to her helped her to her feet ensuring her skirt remained caught around her hips exposing her loins fully to my view and tactile pleasure. The lips of her labia parted so easily to my middle fingers casual penetration and she seemed almost not to notice as it slid inwards only halted by web of my hand. "What do I do know? I put every last hope on this trip and he's fucked me totally." Roderick had started to make guttural noises, probably due to blood from the split nose bridge running down his throat. I managed to casually connect the upper of my spectator shoe with his scraggy testes and after a muffled groan he went silent. "My dear child you certainly shouldn't allow the actions of such a manifest dullard ruin your petite vacances." My mouth loved the taste of the French language and the effect on Elizabeth was noticeable. Her hips had started to thrust forwards and apart as my nail scraped the soft interior of her vagina, indeed the labia parted quite sufficiently for me to slide another two fingers inwards to join the quadrille. Eyes closed she leaned back against the wall to the adjoining compartment all thoughts of Roddy fled from her consciousness. Her lips parted easily as my tongue delved inward and she seemed to shudder almost orgasmic-ally. Sure enough I felt the heavy gush of fluids force past my twirling fingers to pour like warm syrup onto her parted inner thighs. Without a murmur she allowed me to turn her to face the wall and quickly exposing myself press the head of my well engorged penis hard against her anal bud. Arching her back in utter desire she spread her buttocks open and pressed back wantonly. Who was I to refuse such devout supplication and willingly slid deep till she was filled with my throbbing flesh. The narrowest section of the tunnel was just prior to the speeding trains escape into the Gallic countryside. A quick turn of the door handle with one hand and a depression of the window with the other saw Roddy disappear into the depths of almost demonic darkness. His expression as he momentarily hung in marionette like stance was picturesque and inwardly satisfying and I carried the image with me as I returned to our carriages bench seat where Elizabeth awaited dutifully wearing an angelic smile. The remaining distance to Paris Gare de Nord passed pleasantly enough, my attention to Justine fully recomposed, Elizabeth's head resting peacefully against my right shoulder. The Rituals of Thelema Ch. 02 Our train pulled into Gare de Nord at twenty three twenty six local time. The platform swarmed with life as we disembarked, passengers intermingling with the always over excitable station employees. Elizabeth insisted on keeping her baggage, a bastard collection of handbag, shoulder satchel and small wheeled case. Not wishing to make a scene I indulged her but affirmed to George the Hotel chauffeur their disposal at his earliest convenience, Elizabeth I could stomach presently, her collection of trivia and poor taste certainly not. The ride to the Hotel took but a few minutes, Elizabeth an erupting volcano of exclamations and questions, the latter which I amicably enough attempted to both discern and answer. Roderick I was pleased to note had disappeared as succinctly from her consciousness as he had from life and I smiled inwardly at the service I had done for her and humanity in general. The Rabelais was neither gratingly traditional nor garishly modern, managing remarkably to keep genuinely service orientated yet charmingly unimposing. The entrance was modest, more in keeping with a Gentleman's club than a hotel, yet opened into a lobby wonderfully welcoming and uniquely Parisian. "Your suite is ready Monsieur." Names have little importance in the world we had entered, one either had or didn't have privilege and automatic admission, perceived rank or financial substance had little sway. My arrival at the Hotel was always expected but never formally arranged, a convenience I preferred. Appointment diaries are for the social pages of the newspapers not the consternation of single Gentlemen. "We will eat in the main restaurant in an hour. Please have something suitable prepared." The elevator to the fourth floor was at the end of a row of three. The operator, a retired legionnaire understood fully whom had access and whom did not and the chance of any interloper ever reaching beyond his questioning gaze was unlikely at the least and probably fatal for the antagonist at worse. "Salaam alaikum." "Alaikum salaam." Politeness costs nothing and buys much favor. That the man was Muslim as opposed to Jewish or Catholic was of no real import except to recognize his faith showed respect for his beliefs and by extension his work ethics. The man who guards your back is the one who saves your life more often than not. "Good evening Monsieur." Bowing without acquiescence is an art for only the most experienced practitioner, Michel Fabeaux had been my manservant and confidante for over twenty years and successfully walked the razors edge of servile submission and personal pride quite perfectly. Dressed impeccably as always his gaunt frame could fill the foreground yet disappear into the background instantaneously. Ever as the elevator doors opened he would be immediately in view, I had concluded long ago he slept thus just in case I should dare to arrange a surprise appearance. "We will be dining in an hour Michel, please have the girls make Mademoiselle Elizabeth comfortable and presentable for the salon." Marie and Cecile stepped from the shadows and eagerly took charge of their mistress. The costumes they had chosen to wear for the welcoming were spectacular, somewhere between Turkish Seraglio and a Sadomasochist convention. Momentarily I was distracted then thinking better of the occasion turned with Michel to attend to my own preparations. "Monsieur?" The legionnaire's voice was clearly audible but enunciated to cause minimal offense. "One hour corporal, till then no one." The doors of the elevator whispered shut exactly as the main salons doors swung open. Everything was as it should be, indeed had I but walked out of the room a few moments before rather than a fortnight not one iota would have changed. Michel was indispensable, Marie and Cecile perhaps a little more replaceable but the thought of retraining either was waxing. So much patience, explanation and whipping needed to procure the exact blend of servitude and spirit, yes given a few more years they would start to depreciate in value and suitability but still that was for another times resolution. Presently my Parisian establishment was complete and comfortable, pleasing both the function and esthetics of my existence, Michel was second only to my London butler as the best of servants, both Marie and Cecile more than adequate in all things domestic and amazingly harmonious when fucked or beaten. "Who is she Michel?" The girl was pretty enough, at least from the back view presented as she lay across the whipping stool with thighs spread and ass cheeks pert and ready for caress. "Applied for a position earlier today Sir and decided the terms and conditions appealed to her nature exactly." Casually running my finger between her labia lips I was pleased to encounter an excellent wad of love honey already formed. I removed my jacket and passing it to Michel unfastened the sliver links at my shirt wrists to enable the sleeves to be rolled upwards to the elbow. I chose a whippy Egyptian crop, the kind preferred by the Mameluke horsemen who still roamed the desert around the Pyramids, such useful mercenaries always willing to rob a grave or supply a suitably virginal slave. I circled the stool allowing the girl to see me appear in the far right of her vision then moved slowly across till totally central. She appeared to wish to speak but the gag tight in her mouth meant her eyes had to say all that needed imparting. She was indeed beautiful, dark haired, olive skinned, that strangely unique combination of errant genes that manifests only in Paris, an aquiline nose and thick lips swelling around the ball seductively clasped between her pearlescent teeth. Raising her chin with the crop held in my right hand I slapped her hard with my left and watched as the shudder of delicious shock and pain traveled down her neck and spine to end as a tremble in her well upholstered hips. Returning to the back of the stool I was rewarded with the view of fluid spreading down her inner thighs in confirmation of the involuntary but considerable climax. "I have never cared for ugliness. Mediocrity surrounds our every waking breathe, the photogenically diseased pervading our senses with their infection. Beauty is my only remaining pleasure and unless it regales me in reality I will not bother to look except in my imagination and memory." Every comma, each stop, each breathe marking pause was accompanied by the slap of stinging leather on wanton flesh. Once perhaps youthful virility or rising angst might have caused an uncontrollable desire for climactic crescendo to my arms exercise but now in the twilight of my passage I could immerse myself in the very essence of cause and effect, love and hate, pain and exquisite pleasure for both willing supplicant and fortunate instigator. This exchange of energies, welts of willing purpose and falling rain of confirmation forming the very foundation of existence, one and other unique yet totally merged in homogeneous vitality. "Monsieur your bath is prepared." Michel's voice barely reached my consciousness. The electrical discharge arcing through the rhythmical but intermittent connection of my lightning rod to her earthly form had cast a heavy aura that deadened almost time itself. "Monsieur?" "Yes, yes Michel I hear." I felt the crop taken from my hand, the steadying arm supporting as my frame felt the sudden weight of life force I had ingested, supremely heavy of body and devoid of breathe I manifested the very epitome of ejaculatory euphoria whilst avoiding the unnecessarily wasteful physicality of vascular expansion and glandular discharge. "The bath will rejuvenate Monsieur before dinner." The steaming tub relaxed and refreshed as Michel suggested, the soft hands that skimmed what stubble had amassed since morning from my cheeks also took time and enjoyment in gently easing any ache or stiffness from my shoulders. "The girl was pleasing Monsieur?" I nodded gently and allowed the hot towel resting on my face to work its magic. "We should continue to retain her?" The question baffled me slightly, Michel knew my tastes, my appetites, the needs of my body, intellect and arts yet suddenly this girl presented a situation that required my assent? Again I nodded but made mental note that this singularly peculiar occasion needed, at an apropos time more studied consideration. "Let her remain on the stool for while Michel. I will inspect her after dinner." The dining room of the Rabelais was so exceptionally unique it would without exception prove an unforgettable experience at every sitting. The general ambiance presented an air of Sultanate decadence although the decoration and furnishings were more Louis Quatorze than Ottoman. One could well imagine the Great Sun King wandering amidst the richly damasked and gilded furniture, slipper-ed feet muffled by the brightly patterned carpeting, admiring the human tableau portraying the wild excesses of the Decameron. Page boys dressed in Gaudy Egyptian attire scurried back and forth between kitchens and the exotic waitresses stripped to the waist to expose breasts adorned with heavy golden nipple rings. Each table was so constructed to allow a living naked female form to be included in the central section and her neck, chest, belly and thighs to be used as resting places for displays of fruit, delicious sweet-cakes and all manner of exquisite delicacies. Beneath the tables and immediately in front of each chair knelt a bevy of gossamer adorned servants whose sole duty was to ensure the diners constant pleasure by performing fellatio or cunnilingus throughout the course of the meal. I personally refrained from using the availability of these oral slaves as an excuse to avoid the short interruption of utilizing water closets but some guests were inclined to more sloth like behavior. Elizabeth had been seated for some minutes and as I approached made some small effort to rise. I bade her remain in repose, the tilt of her head and the look of pained anguish on her face intimating that a face pressed hard between her thighs was performing with lingual dexterity and had bought her very close to orgasmic release. I took her trembling hand in mine and as our eyes met the veil of imminent little death lifted and opened mouth she succumbed utterly. Slipping an absinthe soaked sugar cube between her swollen lips I watched as the shadowy specter of her soul slipped into a dimension I could taste but never truly experience for such is the mysterious power of the goddess, transmuting the essence of pure unrefined pleasure into both creation and divination. I took my place at the high table and gazed upon a room of strangers. Dinner at the Rabelais was an event, something whispered within the circles of the devout and depraved equally. The upturned faces were expectant and wishing only merriment and pleasure unbounded to regale the meal I raised my hands to announce benediction. "Accept those who come joyously to your table Goddess, not trusting in any right but only in your manifold generosity to those unworthy of even stagnant water and fetid bread. Grant us to eat the flesh and drink the blood of the innocent in your honor and indulge all manner of perversion for your worship and amusement." Enthusiastic rather than just polite applause suggested acceptance and I signaled for festivities to commence. The oral slave who knelt between my parted knees was Nubian, her shaven head glistening like polished ebony. Her nails had been filed into points not unlike a panthers and I was amazed how dexterously she was able to smoothly unfasten the waistband and fly of my trousers to withdraw my semi erect penis and ball sac from their enclosure. Momentarily she looked up and I was able to admire the gilded eye makeup painted in the traditional Egyptian style. Her teeth glinting like ivory slabs between lapis lazuli painted lips opened just sufficiently to expose the delicious addition of an exotic gold tongue adornment. As the hot agile mouth swallowed me to the hilt I glanced towards Elizabeth whom I immediately realized was quite beyond the point where food and drink were of any significance. I beckoned the head waitress from the shadows behind and to the left of my chair. "Prepare the Lady for a tour of the room." Elizabeth's return to the dining room was flamboyant in the extreme. Stripped of her earlier elegant finery she lay naked but for hosiery reclined on a sterling silver beef carving wagon, her buttocks positioned in the indent to accommodate the joint itself and her spine following the rivulets designed to carry flowing juices to the various other areas. Her labia lips were still swollen from the lavish attentions of the oral slave and had opened quite sufficiently to allow her diamond clitoral piercing to glint in the candlelight. Both her vaginal cleft and anus showed the slight sheen of a good lubricants introduction in preparation for what would be expected to be an entertaining and fulfilling night. As was the custom the tables had started bidding for order of precedence by throwing golden sovereigns into the center of the dining room where the younger waitresses scampered about both retrieving the coins and keeping an approximate tally. The Rituals of Thelema Ch. 03 I Derwent Dashwood, 23th Baron le Despencer by line, retired Adjutant General, ranking member of Brooks Gentleman's Club and undisputed High Priest of the latest reincarnation of the Hellfire Club raise my arms and am unquestioningly awarded silence. Surveying the half-moon gathering of now naked acolytes it is difficult to remember that but a few minutes ago the room had been a noisy dining area with all the accompanying tables, chairs and accoutrement. The bodies before me are of no particular beauty, in fact many bear the obvious signs of bad practice and ill-use. The Magical Arts attract all denominations, races, both the advantaged and the oppressed. They come for a multitude of reasons, for power, to be included, simply for sexual pleasure, but all possess one of two common threads the need to control or to be manipulated. Some acolytes see themselves as powerful, many simply beg to be used and abused, to me all are building blocks that serve a united purpose, simply steps in my staircase to ascendency. Elizabeth stirs behind me. She is still laying on the carving trolley but had been transformed by the preceding events to the very vessel I required. Her face glows with that look that only truly deep rigorous spiritual and physical experience can arouse. Her eyes are glazed, not from the drugs of her past but by the sheer volume perfectly pulse quickening penetrations the room had so recently granted her. Breasts, stomach, face, all are covered in a seeming river of seminal outpouring, her thighs run with the lashings of a dozen female tongues that had fought to indulge her cunt with ecstatic lingual joys. Her labia and ass are swollen and sore, the flesh showing inflamed rouge in the flickering candle light. A silver chalice containing musty tainted bread has been positioned on her belly in preparation for its traditional part as the body of the host, whilst her gaped and dripping orifices will more than adequately supply the required fluidity. Each of Elizabeth's hands grip a black candle riven from freshly acquisitioned cadaver wax, thick and long as a goodly proportioned phallus their flames trembling in unison with her beating heart. Ten years educated in a Public School, five long years hard study in a seminary, the power and influence to take the collar without question, the perseverance to endure, the patience to accumulate knowledge, all have but one logical fruition, a Satanic priest. Never defrocked, always honored, still acceptable to Church hierarchy whilst able to dredge the depths of lore and collected wisdom. The greatest collection of magical literature resides in the Vatican, the second largest in the British Museum. I have perused the Rome's collection but I have my own key to the door of the London black library. The Black Mass has no specific framework except to say it mimics, presents a caricature of the Roman Mass or Catholic Communion. I had always a liking for the Latin form, not because of any conservative trait but simply for its power and ability to awe. To boldly chant the words and phrases and witness the effect upon the partially understanding congregation was the essence of superiority but now with no one comprehending the slightest intoned Roman phrase one might as well spew mumbo jumbo. English is my choice now, still sufficiently literary and poetic, still resonating power and majesty, but also most if not all witnesses can follow, with the accepted difficulties of stupidity or stupefaction. Always in practice one should cut to the chase. The majority are present to fuck and abuse each other with impunity, standing for long periods listing to theatrics however melodramatically entertaining is a poor substitute for a good old Tiberian orgy. Trampling and spitting on crosses are always crowd pleasers and the general denial of Christianity in all its forms a good basis. Most important however is the moment of actual personal experience when the acolyte gets to taste the satanic flesh and blood in the form of ergot invested bread soaked in fresh garnered human bodily discharge and thereafter subjugate themselves before, or rather behind the power they seek to invest. "For he so loved the world that putting aside heavenly reason he fell from grace and came to dwell amongst his people." The evocation begins the acolytes become still, ceasing their nervous fidgeting, their absent minded masturbations and caste their eyes down to the floor in genuflection. "He gifts us the bread of life that we may understand true wisdom and power." After each phrase I pause just long enough for their blood to boil a little, their appetites heighten as they see the moment of benediction approach. Silence is expected, but even in this hush of reverence the sound of unforced bodily expulsions permeates the atmosphere. "This is living flesh and blood, rent from the innocent, infected and decayed by the virulent and whomever partakes is joined in one unholy union eternal." A female accolade faints, collapsing to the floor to lay in a puddle of her own piss and ejaculate, her body continuing to writhe in orgasmic frenzy. No one notices but me and I smile. "Unite in me and bear the fruit of my loins, I am the phallus and you are the womb, be the disciples that carry my seed that will in turn impregnate the world in my glory." I feel the force of their collective submission, taste the pungency of depravity and hunger for carnal expression. This is the power I seek, absorbing the life force and draining their will for anything but blind obedience. The magician's power comes not from some ethereal plain but rather from the very belief that others bestow upon him spiritually and psychologically. The Master takes His strength from submissive souls and chains them with their own desires to follow His tenants alone unquestioned. "We receive this gift in remembrance of those maliciously and unjustly caste down by a cruel and uncaring despot simply for the awareness of true nature and worth, thereby pledging our unending duty and devotion to their cause." The semi-circle of acolytes begin to form into a single line in preparation to approach and accept benediction. I am always amused by their eagerness to somehow amplify their perceived importance by the position they accomplish in the queue. Does it matter who is first or last to eat and drink foulness and orally worship my waiting asshole? "Most heinous Beelzebub we offer up our sins to thee in thought word and deed; by what we have done, in that we have left undone; rejoicing in carnality with our whole heart; seducing our neighbors and abusing ourselves; we promise to continue endless coercion till all are willingly subjugated to your glory; strengthen our erections, moisten our orifices, all in the worship of your name." Each acolyte in turn kneels and waits as I push a rancid morsel of bread deep into Elizabeth's soaked and tattered cunt, then happily savors and swallows the host as I, place my hand upon their head and pronounce the blessing. "Receive the flesh and blood of our master and accept his everlasting will." Turning after each blessing I bend at the waist, lift my gown and allow the acolyte to tongue my ass. Some are nervous and touch timidly, others more depraved dip deep into the dark recess and smack their lips as if tasting priceless wine. This, the penultimate part of the ceremony is my favorite. To be felched by a line of submissives is pleasant enough, when their number includes aristocracy, politicians, judges, high officials and self-assured ladies its meaningfulness and erotic quality improves substantially. The last mouth having consumed spoiled vital, the last tongue having delved my bowel, now all are back to semicircular position and kneeling await their ultimate wish. The unfortunate who fainted in preemptive ecstasy has been removed from the floor and is now semi consciously sitting in a dark corner babbling for carnal use by any who might listen. I allow my eyes to wander over the bowed forms, sucking the last portion of remaining independence they might possess into my ever hungry malevolent heart. "Beelzebub, we praise you and give you praise and thanks for this communion of flesh and blood, we pledge our continued worship, weakness and sin for your ever greater glory." Turning I ascend the small stage behind Elizabeth's reclining and ever open form and seat myself upon the velveteen cushioned throne. The rooms atmosphere has reached fever pitch, the force of expectation seems to dim the flickering candle light almost to the point of extinguishment. I wait, letting lust mount, depravity fester, watching bodies start to quiver and shake in pent physical arousal. The odor of unbridled sexual frenzy invades my nostrils, the same fetid stench that meets the senses on entrance to a breeding pen busy with rutting animals. Hands begin to roam across their own bodies, fingers delving into their owner's cunts, hands grasping and pulling at their owned cocks like misbehaving monkeys in a zoological gardens cage. A few daring acolytes began to surreptitiously touch their neighbors, sliding hands beneath adjacent ass cheeks to fondle labia or ball sac, maybe even bending low to taste the throbbing Satan orifice they so desire to penetrate with phallus or plunging dildo. Still I wait, savoring this unspoken cry for release from bonded humanity to descend to rabid satyrs of pure carnality. Michel Fabeaux is ever and always my architect. The essence of a great manservant is not to be responsive but to have that imperceptible quality of prescience. My boredom raised its chevron to his foresight long before its specter had even partially crept into my cognizance. With the quiet and controlled discipline of a theatrical transformation scene the nature of the space before me meta-morphs from alter bearing temple to a Romanesque libertine folly with all necessary furnishing and devices, including positioned centrally a rather wonderfully inspiring hexagonal day bed in the shape of a coffin. Having completed their task the service staff, now devoid of their costumes and bodies shining in oily perfumed perfection return to the edges of the room joined by the always eager oral slaves whom immediately continue to hone their lingual arts in anticipation of their deserving participation in the bacchanals I feel a strange elation holding all at bay, that wondrous power that the sprint official must joyfully quaff as he holds the runners in set position just a few seconds longer. Limbs begin to tremble, shoulders round, breath comes hard and fast in pent expectation. The space between Elizabeth and the tormented acolytes is claimed by a coven of twelve male specimens of Grecian perfection, their manhood trapped in curved and constricting golden cock cages, led by an Amazonian queen, played by my own delicious maidservant Cecile glistening from head to toe in gilt sparkle and wearing nothing but an artfully constructed phallus held in place by golden straps. Cecile reclines on the macabre coffin bed, her arms crossing theatrically across her hard nippled breasts, the phallus curved and wickedly pointed refracting reflected light in all directions as if a twinkling star. The male members of the coven begin to circle Cecile's prone form spinning and gesticulating as those in a deep dervish like trance whilst chanting random but electrifying lines from the ceremony of L'Air Epais. The rotations slowly built towards an impossibly exultant finale, the watching acolytes panting and pawing at themselves and each other in rapturous congruity. The crescendo reaches melt down as the last Apollo surviving graceless fall to prostrated exhaustion proves his worth to assume the next level of understanding to all who rapturously witness the trial. Four masked Goliaths, oiled of muscle and statuesque of build step forward to lift the victor high into the air by arm and leg and position him squarely over the awaiting phallic implement of despoiling and eventual defining penetration. Slowly he is lowered, body at first relaxed but gaining nervous rigidity as juncture nears, till the single purposed tip of the missile is pressed hard against the tightly constricting target. Rotated deliciously slowly, lowered almost imperceptibly the cylinder receives its piston millimeter by penetrating millimeter. Only when the hard receiving buttocks are lying fast against the giving loins does the Goliaths circling cease. Now the other less fortunate Apollos come into action, their hands and mouths working on the lucky number twelve till his impaled torso trembles and dances in the staccato motions of a marionette whose strings have fallen under the control of demented puppet master. The semi-circle of Acolytes creeps forward as a wave of carnal lust crashes over their collective will. Eyes glued upon the twitching mouth of the volcano before them they writhe like serpents upon their bellies, their gaped orifices leaving trails of discharge as they close demonically. The first spurt of magma shoots into the air, the stream of released ejaculate seeming to rocket to the ceiling before falling in splattering droplets to the surrounding stage. Thrice more the pulsing member exudes gradually diminishing volumes till standing empty in veined glory, a quake drained colossus. The invisible bonds holding back the mob breaks and with wild eyes, fighting and wresting for preeminence the acolytes descend on the scattered jetsam in ravenous hunger. The orgy begins as a snake nest, a morass of writhing indistinct bodies unsure of their exact purpose except to knot externally and internally in random multiple congress. I watch from my perch, as the imperious eagle eying his prey, talons and beak sharpened and glinting wickedly in readiness for plummeting carnivorous descent. Moments to be savored, plotting course and victims, intellectually dissecting and tasting the wonders of supplicating hot and willing flesh laid bare, a canvas for the true artist to paint a raw and depraved masterpiece to rival the darkest imaginings wrought by the pen of de Sade. Slowly wild frenzy abates, pawing, gnawing dilutes from the bestial to more mundane and recognizably human copulations. I descend from my eyrie, still adorned in the unremarkable black and concealing robes of my office, a whippy elephant hide riding crop gripped in my left hand and a thick meter long leather belt in my right. I skirt around the vipers pit, admiring form, applauding ingenuity of activity, enjoying the self-absorbed commitment of the participants, without thought or consideration beyond their own selfish physical pleasures. Occasionally I am forced to brush a hand aside that grasps my ankle, or casually swat away with the crop an overly enamored acolyte reaching in penitent submissive desire. The morass heaves and moans, diligently searching for absolution through climax or enlightening rapture. I stroll as in a field of poppies thigh deep in florid heads and firm unbending stalks. My path leads slowly but steadily to the aural feast dear faithful Michel has set in tableau for my delight, a trio of maids preciously mounted face down on upended saint Andrew crosses. Their naked bodies are pink and plump, fine rubenesque assed archetypes to both use and decorate as is my want. How can I resist pinching those divine buttocks, parting the cheeks to spy the tight clasped sphincters between, not run my fingers diligently between their swollen labia to feel the slick essence of their being? I grip the leather belt in my hand, feel its strength, its weight, and casually flick the length sideways to judge reach and flexibility. Reaching down with my left hand the loop on the crop still circled around my wrist I unravel the ornate bow on my corded belt. Without hearing a sound I feel the presence of Marie and looking to my left find her sitting in perfect pose, her buttocks resting on her heels, knees wide spread, the back of her open hands resting on her knees and her head erect but perfectly inclined to a point three feet in front of her position. Her form is quite beautiful, lean alabaster skin, a slight rouge applied to her cheeks and aureola and of course a heavy gold collar with three light chains running to the rings in her nipples and clitoris. The crop I place between her perfect teeth, my belt and robe I throw across her knees and thus stripped to the waist resume my perusal of the awaiting and pensive three flagellants. For me pain has always been an object to be endured, a hill to be ascended, overcome and left in my wake, disregarded and flattened by my will alone. Discomfort is the pell of the trainee warrior, the jousting pole that hones his skills, mind must always overcome physicality, it is the essence of a sentients being, the acknowledgement of intellectual triumph over mere animal form. We must be explorers not adventurers, writers rather than finished text. The masochist is happy to enjoy simple hedonistic pleasure, whilst the true seeker of knowledge realizes that simple release is but a diversion on the journey to the plains of Elysium. The girls before me had yet to acknowledge such complications to life. They were formative souls, happy to find fulfillment where it resides and for now the cracking tip of the whip is their nirvana. The belt weighs heavy in my hand, wrought from woven strips of rhinoceros hide it moves with precision and articulate fury. The first lick caresses the right hand girls left buttock, just above the fullness joining the plump sphere to her thigh. Her inverted position gives a clear and luscious view of her gaped cunt and its tremulous response to the stinging blow. The second cut is backhand, against the left hand girls right buttock, a slash matching position and effect. Shuddering the third girl waits her turn knowing she is geometrically closer to my position and therefore more blessed with the force I can exert. Not wishing to disappoint I carefully place the belts end in my hand halving its length but doubling the thickness and paint her left then right buttock in quick succession. I can see and smell all three are soaking, their swollen labia lips glistening with discharge. The doubled belt blesses the right hand girls right buttock and the left hand girls left before I let the tip slip from my grip so the belt regains its full prehensile length. The first crack of pliant leather against giving flesh has drawn the attention of rutting acolytes away from simple fucking, I feel them creep hesitantly forward behind me, close enough for their nostrils and eyes to feast upon the crucified bounty that I am tenderizing so generously. Another three rounds of stripes and the pink has turned through red to purple and puckers into beautifully anarchically patterned welts. The girls cunts are streaming, the fluid traversing their oscillating anuses, running down the valleys beyond and onwards along their spines. I step back one stride, wait a moment then back again and sure enough my feet are immersed in a sea of restless, sweating and salivating nakedness. My arms outstretched I hold the tide at bay, one second, ten seconds, till the very force of collective lust seems to want to propel me somersaulting forwards. Then I release them, like hell hounds upon a fresh prepared sacrifice and they hurl forward to take, devour and penetrate till sated they are incapable of anything but surrender to the Shades. Michel is waiting at the doors to the lobby my gown open and held ready in his hands. Slipping it on in haste I nod in appreciation knowing he will fully grasp the depth of my continuing gratitude for his unquestioning service. Jordaine, the Legionnaire has the elevator doors open as I rush onwards. Again I nod and pressing his hand to his forehead, mouth and heart he demonstrates understanding. Michel follows close behind, sliding through the closing doors almost too late. My breathing is fast, my pulse racing, my need is urgent and undeniable. The elevator doors open too slowly and I help them angrily with blows from my fists and burst into the upper corridor, the mist descending on me, release my only need and goal. The Rituals of Thelema Ch. 03 Between the elevator and the salon door I shed the gown and have my strides unfastened and dropping. Stepping out of them as I push open the door I see the target, still strapped tight and secure to the whipping stool is the new maid arching her back and spreading her ass wide in response to my arrival. Drawing two fingers through her sticky vulva I transfer the mucous to her pursing asshole coating the exterior first then sliding the digits knuckle deep. She responds perfectly, pushing back as far as possible and growling like a feline on heat ready for mounting. Cock-head against sphincter I calm a little, suck in oxygen and thrust, impale her balls deep in one fluid motion and perfectly she squirts acquiescence as my thighs slap against her rump.