INTERROGATING 50 SHADES...

I've run across a number of erotica writers who've said they haven't and won't be reading Fifty Shades of Grey.  In all honestly, this blows my mind. You can try to dismiss it, as many critics have, by calling it 'mommy porn'. You can deplore its writing style - lord knows, even die-hard fans don't attempt to defend the poor quality of the prose. But you can't ignore the fact that it has now sold over 20 Million copies in the US. In the UK it became the fastest selling novel of all time.

As writers, it is important for us to interrogate its success and to attempt to understand what it means for the genre, for levels of explicitness in mainstream fiction, and for the way publishers are going to inevitably behave in the light of it.

I have a theory…

To read about Remittance Girl’s theory; click here.

 

THE PROFUMO AFFAIR: SEX, LIES and SPIES!

Christine Keeler; an iconic photograph.


It was the scandal of the decade, if not of the twentieth century. The year was 1963, an austere time in England. We were still recovering from the devastation we had suffered during WWII. Rationing had only ended in the late 1950's. It was the height of the Cold War, when spying was rife and the threat of war was imminent, with the outbreak of the Cuban Missile Crisis.

And fear of spies was a reality. Britain was reeling from the revelations that Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean were Soviet spies. There was sexual intrigue involving men high in the social scale. A Minister of the Crown; an eminent Harley Street doctor. Sex and lies from those very men that we looked up to. The idea that a British politician was not only cheating on his wife with a call girl and  sharing the call girl with a Soviet diplomat, sent the public reeling.

This scandal of sex and betrayal saw the resignation of one Cabinet Minister, the retirement of a Prime Minister and I don’t think I am exaggerating, when I say that the scandal eventually caused the downfall of a government.

The 1960’s was the decade that the publisher Penguin was prosecuted for publishing D.H. Lawrence's racy novel Lady Chatterley's Lover. Penguin won the case and was able to publish 200,000 copies as people raced to get their hands on it. The old order was being challenged and a new order was just beginning. The children born just before and during the war were coming of age. The Beatles still had mop haircuts and had just released “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”, Ian Fleming's spy novels had hit the screen starring the very sexy Sean Connery as 007. The newest actors in Britain were not Hollywoodized versions of British men, but actors like Albert Finney and Michael Caine who were working class.

New magazines like “Private Eye” which poked fun at everyone and everything was established. Beyond the Fringe starring Peter Cook, Alan Bennett, Dudley Moore and Jonathan Miller hit the West End. And David Frost became a national celebrity hosting the hit TV show That Was the Week that Was (a more topical version of VH-1's Best Week Ever).

Yet for all the changes, Britain was stuck in the 1950's. This was still the era when unmarried girls who found themselves pregnant, were packed off to places where they could have their babies in secret and then give them up for adoption.

 The indefatigable Mandy Rice-Davies

And politically things were not good. Although Harold Macmillan had swept into office in 1959 with a majority in the House of Commons, there was discontent in the country. While Japan and Germany had recovered nicely from the war, the economy in Britain was stagnant. There was inflation and labour unrest. Unlike America, with its young, vibrant president, Irish-Catholic, war-hero with a beautiful young wife, and two adorable children, it seemed that politicians in office reflected a by-gone era, the era of Churchill and Lloyd-George, old school politicians.

So at the height of the cold war in the early 60s, as the established order was challenged as never before, Britons paid rapt attention to a sordid little affair which involved a cabinet minister, a showgirl and a Soviet naval attaché.  It was an era in which anything was possible and nothing was safe; a time when the established order was being challenged, subverted, and ultimately buried.

Even today, in our peculiar society, we get excited when ministers and other public figures are caught with their pants down. In 1963, the very notion was deeply, deliciously shocking.

It was still mostly a pre-pill, pre-promiscuity age, when unmarried pregnancy was a matter of deep family shame, and back street abortionists thrived. The tabloid newspapers were already brash but not yet sex-crazed, and were by and large polite to politicians. But when the storm broke, it was not simply driven by sex; there was a deep, dark context of rank treachery.

The chief players in the unfolding drama were;

John Profumo - Secretary of State for War, married to the actress Valerie Hobson.
Harold Macmillan aka Supermac - Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland
Christine Keeler - goodtime girl and model
Mandy Rice-Davies - fellow goodtime girl and model
Stephen Ward - osteopath and panderer
Lord Astor - A member of an old, respected, aristocratic family. He was the owner of Cliveden, a large country house where sexual intrigues took place.
For months, rumours had circulated about the private life of John Dennis Profumo, secretary of state for war. Educated at Harrow and Oxford, he was a quintessential high Tory who had achieved cabinet rank after serving in a number of junior posts. He and his wife moved effortlessly in the crème of society.

In the deferential spirit of the 1950s, the rumours may have been restricted to salon gossip. Now, in the new age of iconoclasm, the whispers were amplified in the media. “That Was The Week That Was” scored a telling blow with a splendid parody of the old music hall number, “She was Poor but she was Honest”. The words of the new version went: "See him in the House of Commons / Making laws to put the blame / While the object of his passion / Walks the streets to hide her shame."

The "object of his passion" was a young woman whose name is now embedded in British political folklore: the incredibly beautiful Christine Keeler.

Christine Keeler, unlike Profumo, had had an extremely undistinguished life. Born in 1942, she left home at 16 after an unhappy childhood in the Thames Valley, and gravitated to London where she found work of a sort at Murray's cabaret club. There she met and befriended another showgirl, Marilyn "Mandy" Rice-Davies. Soon, both young women had drifted into the racy circle around Stephen Ward, a fashionable West End osteopath and socialite.

Christine’s  relationship with Stephen Ward was both torrid and rocky. They broke up several times, but he seemed to exercise an almost mesmeric influence on her, and always she drifted back. Soon both young women were celebrated players, albeit with bit parts, in Ward's sexual circus.

Not all the action was centred on Ward's Wimpole Mews flat, equipped with two-way mirrors and other aids to lubricity. Soon, Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies were circulating in more exalted milieux, including Lord Astor's country mansion of Cliveden. It was there that John Profumo first laid eyes on her. A brief but passionate affair ensued, and tongues began to wag.

Even then, it might have been brushed under the carpet in the time honoured English way, but Profumo made a fundamental error: he lied to the House of Commons. In March 1963 he told the chamber that there was "no impropriety whatever" in his relationship with Christine Keeler. Ten weeks later he appeared before MPs again to say "with deep remorse" that he had misled the House, and would resign.

What brought Profumo down even more than his deceit of the Commons, was the startling revelation that Christine Keeler had also slept with Eugene Ivanov, the naval attaché at the Soviet embassy. It was that detail which captured world attention, notably in the United States, where the FBI compiled a detailed report called Operation Bowtie.

In Britain, Profumo's downfall naturally caused a huge sensation, inflated by the establishment's crude and cruel attempts to find scapegoats for its own embarrassment. As usual, official wrath was turned on those least able to defend themselves. Stephen Ward was prosecuted for living on immoral earnings. On the last day of his trial, he killed himself with an overdose of sleeping tablets.

In his suicide note Stephen Ward wrote; “I feel the day is lost. The ritual sacrifice is demanded, and I cannot face it. I’m sorry to disappoint the vultures”.

Some people think that Stephen Ward’s death is a little too convenient. They believe that he was murdered.

Christine Keeler was also tried and imprisoned on related charges. Mandy Rice-Davies, who escaped prosecution, earned a dubious immortality when, during the Ward trial, she was told that Lord Astor disputed her version of events and replied: "He would, wouldn't he?"

Less than two months after Ward's tragic and mysterious death, an official report was produced by Lord Denning, master of the rolls. It was a hot number: hundreds queued to buy a copy when it was released at midnight. But there were few juicy bits in Denning's findings. He criticised the government for failing to deal with the affair more quickly, but concluded that national security had not been compromised. And, to the dismay of the reading public, he failed to identify the man who, naked except for a mask, had served at Ward's dinner parties. There had been rumours that the "man in a mask" was a cabinet minister but Denning, who interviewed him, denied it.

There it ended, though it never really went away. The 1989 movie, Scandal  reignited some of the controversy, and Christine Keeler raked over the embers in her autobiography, “The Truth At Last”, published early in 2001. In it, she revived some of the more startling claims made at the time - though alas she was unable to offer convincing new evidence to back them up.

John Profumo died in 2006. Christine Keeler is now age 70. After her prison term, she
 repeatedly tried to restart her life, but the scandal continued to hang over her head like a sword of Damocles. She married and divorced twice, and has two sons. Over the years, she's held various jobs as a receptionist, and as a dinner lady in a school in London, all under an assumed name.

Mandy Rice-Davies traded on the notoriety the trial brought her, comparing herself to Nelson's mistress, Lady Hamilton. She married an Israeli businessman, Rafi Shauli, and went on to open a string of successful nightclubs and restaurants in Tel Aviv. The restaurants and nightclubs, which bore her name, were called: Mandy's, “Mandy's Candies” and “Mandy's Singing Bamboo”. Mandy Rice-Davies also parlayed her minor fame into a series of unsuccessful pop singles for the Ember label in the mid-'60s, including “Close Your Eyes” and “You Got What It Takes”. I am sure that I have seen her on television too.

Few attended poor Stephen Ward’s little funeral on that day in August, but a number of leading figures such as the writers  Kenneth Tynan and John Osborne clubbed together to send a wreath of a hundred white carnations bearing the message 'To Stephen Ward, Victim of Hypocrisy'.

This post was prepared using sources including Wikipedia and Derek Brown - 1963: The Profumo Scandal And from what I recall listening to my parent’s conversations about the case. A few years later, when I was 16, I wanted to go to London to train as a fashion model. My father would not let me go, citing Stephen Ward, Mandy Rice-Davies and Christine Keeler as his reasons.

FETISH WORSHIP BILLIEROSIE

With all the excitement about my novella; “Memoirs of a Sex Save. Confessions of a Submissive Woman”, I should mention that I have another book out. “Fetish Worship”, by billierosie, is a collection of hot, intriguing erotic tales. It is published by Sizzler Editions, Amazon UK and Amazon US.

The stories in this startling collection grew out of the author's fascination with fetish. For instance, the obsession that some folk have for feet. A different object might do it for someone else, as with the woman in "La Petite Danseuse." There's a woman being gently pointed in the direction of slavery by a wise boyfriend. There are knowing Mistresses and their willing male submissives. There's a strong, gorgeous man going slowly crazy with his need to be a Mommy's boy. A woman on the receiving end of a dirty phone call takes control. You'll also find exhibitionists and voyeurs, plus the humorous result of a Halloween prank. Finally there's a retelling of an ancient Greek myth centered around a very special bull. The author says, "My understanding has deepened through writing these stories. I've talked to people who have had their lives changed for the better, when they have finally embraced their fetish." 

REVIEW OF MEMOIRS OF A SEX SLAVE

Check out this great review of my novella, from Anthony JS!


"Shocking in the best possible way. I'm a fairly recent convert to erotica in this form, and it's great to read a book that has been well-written, and has a considered storyline. In fact, the pace is somewhat like the acts described, teasing you with literary foreplay, then giving you a breather, before making you gasp at the, admittedly extremely graphic, encounters as you are swept along with Elektra's forbidden passions and desires.

Read it. It's like having a really, and i mean REALLY, dirty dream, but you're awake. Read it in public, and feel the guilty pleasure of knowing the people around you don't know why you're smiling."


It is available at Amazon UK  Amazon US and Sizzler Editions

WALTZING

For the younger generation there is nothing so entertaining as shocking their parents and grandparents. This, they always do with a flourish; if they get a reaction, that is wonderful and is definitely worth the effort. In the years of George, the Prince Regent’s rule over London’s fashionable elite, the younger generation, shocked the older generation in a bold, extravagant gesture, with a brand new dance; the Waltz.

The year was 1815, the ending of the time of the Napoleonic wars. The government, led by Lord Liverpool, negotiated a peace settlement. The king had nothing to do with the details. Poor King George III had descended into madness and George, his son, the Prince Regent was too intent on going to licentious parties and generally having a pretty wild time, to be bothered with the politics of foreign policy.

Within the rural and urban counties of England, there was a mood of social and economic malaise, yet the Prince Regent and his entourage of the young aristocracy, exuded a mood of confidence, exuberance and expectation. There was an explosion of outrageously expensive design on an unprecedented scale. New styles were embraced. And then there was this decadent new dance craze.

The Waltz was a couples dance, as opposed to the traditional group dances. The gentleman actually clasped his arm around the lady's waist, giving the dance a dubious moral status. The Waltz was a dance born in the suburbs of Vienna and in the alpine region of Austria. It was foreign, that in itself was enough for the parents of the young, English  aristocracy to view it with suspicion.

The shock of the new. Each generation thinks that they are the originators of this phenomenon, but it has been done so many times before.

Before the scandalous Waltz came along, dancing had been civilised. You danced in large groups, only occasionally touching each other. Flirting would be done with eye contact. In the Waltz, you held your partner in an embrace for a whole dance. Touching, whispering to each other; social rules were broken. A strong arm around a slender waist. Long, delicate fingers cling to a firm shoulder. Warm rounded flesh beneath fine, creamy lace, or translucent muslin. White thighs pushed apart with an insistent, probing knee. Breasts, yearning for urgent caresses, crushed against a broad chest. Waltzing was dirty dancing for the Regency teens. The impact of the Waltz would probably have had the same effect on the older generation, as any sweet grandmother today stumbling into a full on swingers party.

The waltz was criticized on moral grounds by those opposed to its closer hold and rapid turning movements. Religious leaders almost unanimously regarded it as vulgar and sinful. Continental court circles held out obstinately against the waltz, seeing depravity in every swaying, graceful move.

In July of 1816, the waltz was included in a ball given in London by the Prince Regent. A blistering editorial in The Times a few days later stated:"We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz was introduced (we believe for the first time) at the English court on Friday last ... it is quite sufficient to cast one's eyes on the voluptuous intertwining of the limbs and close compressure on the bodies in their dance, to see that it is indeed far removed from the modest reserve which has hitherto been considered distinctive of English females. So long as this obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses, we did not think it deserving of notice; but now that it is attempted to be forced on the respectable classes of society by the civil examples of their superiors, we feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion."  (Source: The Times of London, 16th July 1816)

Even as late as 1866 an article in the English magazine Belgravia stated: "We who go forth of nights and see without the slightest discomposure our sister and our wife seized on by a strange man and subjected to violent embraces and canterings round a small-sized apartment - the only apparent excuse for such treatment being that is done to the sound of music - can scarcely realize the horror which greeted the introduction of this wicked dance."

Reportedly, the first time the waltz was danced in the United States was in Boston in 1834. Lorenzo Papanti, a Boston dancing master, gave an exhibition in Mrs. Otis' Beacon Hill mansion. Social leaders were aghast at what they called "an indecorous exhibition."

I thought that the 1960’s generation made a pretty good case for shocking the older generation. It seems that they had nothing on those wilful teens of Regency England.

This blog post has been put together using sources from the Web.

EXTRACT: MEMOIRS OF A SEX SLAVE: THE CONFESSIONS OF A SUBMISSIVE WOMAN

 

CHAPTER 9

She remembered, laying on the table in that sparse room, for what seemed like hours. As usual, her thoughts turned to sex and her fingers found her engorged clitoris. She wondered what it was like, just to have a tiny organ, like the nurse had. Maybe a large clitoris was something that the slave girls had in common. Certainly, the times that she had been ordered to suck on another slave’s organ she had found the clitoris quite substantial. A meaty mouthful. The nurse’s clitoris was barely the size of a pimple.

She started to breathe heavily, as her arousal deepened. She masturbated her cunt in a frenzy. She closed her eyes and watched the colours, red, blue, yellow and purple exploding like shooting stars in her  dark vision. Then the full force of her orgasm hit her with such a power that she thought she would faint. She shouted out her guttural ecstasy, jerking, almost as if she were having a seizure.

The sound of a man clearing his throat, brought her back to reality. She whimpered her apology, knowing that she had been caught out in an act of gross indecency. He stood, staring his disapproval at her. She flushed her embarrassment. She could smell her juices and she was sure that this domineering man, this Master, could as well.

He was accompanied by six, no seven younger men. He was obviously their leader, in a position of authority. Like them, he wore a white doctor’s coat. But he had a flamboyant bow tie at his neck. Black with red spots. A badge of honour. She shuddered, the Marquis de Sade’s colours again.

The nurse, the woman who had raped Elektra’s mouth, stood next to the surgeon. She glared at Elektra, as if she had committed a vile sin.

At last the Surgeon spoke. “Gentlemen, you see here before you a piece of owned flesh. A slave. We do not consider the specimen to be human; it is, in fact less than human.”

Elektra lay on her back, her fingers sticky with her juices. Her thighs were still spread, frozen in the motion captured in her orgasm. Her clitoris moved and swelled, she could feel it becoming erect, stiffening. It was as if it could scent the testosterone and pheromones  in the room.

She didn’t dare look any of the men in the eye. They were all her Masters for now. She couldn’t plead for any compassion; there was no hope that any of them would contradict the Surgeon.

“Is it the size of the clitoris that sets her, er, the creature apart from human beings?” asked one of the students.

“Exactly so,” replied the Surgeon, beaming his approval at the student. “We don’t regard it as a deformity. But the fact that it is a monstrosity, and the fact that it dominates entirely this slut’s life, puts it on a level with an animal in season. Imagine a bitch on heat, permanently on heat, thinking only of copulation and being driven by that primitive urgency, and you pretty well have the state of the whore’s mind.”

“It certainly appears to be aroused,” remarked another student.

“Just  feel the clitoris,” said the surgeon, warming to his theme. “Each one of you, test it between your finger and thumb.”

Elektra closed her eyes and heard the snapping on of pairs of surgical gloves.

“Sir, has the owner given permission for his property to be handled?” the nurse interrupted.

Elektra burned with righteous indignation. The woman had not given a thought to her Master’s permission when she had raped her.

“He has indeed,” replied the Surgeon haughtily. “In fact the owner suggested it. He is all in favour of the study of this nefarious species.”

The students jostled for places, eventually forming a queue.

“Can you smell the slut’s juices?” one of the students remarked to the group in general.

“As it perpetually produces lubricating fluids, the odour tends to be constant,” said the Surgeon.

“So, Sir, are you suggesting that this creature is really a separate species?” asked one of the students.

“Absolutely,” replied the Surgeon. “Experiments and research have reached an exciting level.”

Elektra’s eyes were blurring up with tears. So now, she wasn’t even considered a human being. The time would come, she was sure, when all sorts of tests and experiments would be conducted on her, and the other unfortunate women who were simply born with strong sexual appetites.

She felt the first tentative, sterile fingers rubbing into the petals of her clitoris and heard an exclamation.

“Sir, it is moving of its own volition. It is stiffening and swelling.”

Another set of fingers probed her. Squeezing, these fingers were clever, intending to arouse. A moan escaped her lips, her breathing increased. She forbad herself to orgasm, but by the time the third student touched her, her orgasm exploded from her. She wept her humiliation, as another wave swept over her, her back arching, she grunted and bellowed like a wild sow being mated by a hefty boar out in the fields.

“You see,” the Surgeon announced. “Pure animal lust.” The slut will orgasm more times than you can count if you let her.”

When all of them had fingered her twice, and Elektra had orgasmed five more times, the Surgeon called a halt.

“This is all very entertaining,” he said. “And there’s nothing like hands on learning, but I have further tests to conduct. Put it in the stirrups,” he ordered the nurse.

The nurse lowered the hoist, then with the assistance of one of the students, each leg was threaded into a canvas stirrup which rested under the knee. The positioning of the stirrups, pulled Elektra’s legs wide apart. The nurse then cranked a handle and pressed a button. There was a whirring noise and Elektra was raised bodily, her buttocks tilted at an angle from the examination table.

“Is that a convenient height for you Sir?” asked the nurse.

“Thank you, yes,” he replied.

He stood, facing Elektra’s splayed legs. She could feel her cunt mouth opening and closing in spasms. The nurse adjusted a bright light, to shine directly into Elektra’s hole. She heard the clank of metal and her heart raced in a panic, as she wondered what they were going to do to her. Something cold was inserted into her cunt, she moaned in her fear. The position she was in did not allow her to see the part of her body being manipulated. She prepared herself for pain and her muscles tensed. There was nothing she could do, she was held in position as securely as if she’d been bound.

“One of you fondle the slut’s nipples,” said the Surgeon. “That usually calms them down. The trick would never work with a normal woman, but with these sluts, their minds are always on the seduction of the male. Any attention gratifies their obscene desires. No, don’t attend to the clitoris, I don‘t want it to orgasm with the speculum inside it. It might rupture the vagina.”

There was a hustle of movement as the students jostled to be the privileged one to play with Elektra’s tits.

She heard the sound of metal cranking. Metal grinding on metal.

Fingers squeezed and massaged her nipples; the sensation was indeed soothing to her and she relaxed and breathed more easily.

But something was happening inside her. She felt the uncomfortable sensation  of her cunt walls being pushed apart. The cranking sound continued, and with it the widening of her cunt.

“The cervix is nice and ripe,” remarked the Surgeon. “And there is a good production of mucus. A healthy specimen I should say. One at a time please, all of you, come and look at the state of a healthy vagina and cervix”

One by one, the students peered into Elektra’s cunt. She had never felt so exposed, with these young men examining her.

“Now each one of you, tell me what you can feel when you touch the cervix.”

Elektra felt the probing fingers insinuating inside her. She listened to the crude remarks, which the surgeon either didn’t care about, or mind.

“Is this what you call a fat cunt?” she heard one of the students giggle.

“A dripping wet cunt.” I should say, laughed another.

“Sir, the cervix feels as if it should be bigger,” said one of the students.

“Exactly.” said the Surgeon. “We only see the part of the cervix the intrudes into the vagina. I hope all of you have noticed this.”

“Would you say that the creature has been well used?” asked one voice.

“Difficult to say,” responded the surgeon. “With these sluts, the muscled walls of the vagina tend to be very elastic. Rest them for a few weeks and for the Master, the sensation is exquisite. Like having sex with a virgin. Indeed, this creature’s vagina, despite being considerably stretched,  will have resumed its functioning size in a few hours, and the creature will be fit for use.”

So this was how normal healthy men thought of women like her, thought Elektra. They didn’t even consider her human, with feelings, feelings that were desperately hurt from their lewd conversation. They hadn’t cared, or even noticed that she had heard.

Slowly, gently, with tender care the speculum was removed from her.

“Always remember, when dealing with these creatures,” the surgeon said to his disciples. “That you are dealing with owned property. The owner will probably have paid a fortune for his animal, and even more money will have exchanged hands to have it trained to his satisfaction. He may be loaning the medical authority the animal to cover his costs. The authorities will pay a considerable fee to have the freedom to experiment on such a creature.”

Elektra could sense that the group were spellbound.

“Wh…what sort of experiments Sir?” one student stuttered.

“A student of mine has recently presented a paper on crossing the species,” the surgeon announced. “His name? Quentin Hacket-Jones. You may have heard of him.”

Elektra had. Her mind went back to her early days as a slave, in Mark’s apartment. Quentin Hacket Jones had been there and had spoken openly about animals being mated with humans. He had talked about producing offspring from such a perverted union. All in the name of science. She remembered he had brought her to a profound orgasm when he had casually fingered her. She had sucked his thick cock. He had nearly suffocated her.

“You mean Sir, it is entirely possible to cross the species?”

“Absolutely.”

“A pregnancy has yet to go full term and the laws prohibit it at present. But it is only a matter of time.”

“A woman mated with a dog, could produce a litter of pups?”

“Half human half beast. A chimera. The .Man-Beast hybrid has gone beyond the talking stage. According to a story that appeared in the Edmonton Journal in 2001: Melding man and beast may sound like the stuff of science fiction, but it’s not. Amid all the advances in genetic manipulation, the idea of

combining the DNA of animal and humans has been attempted…The first publicised  case of animal-human hybrids took place in 1996 when Jose Cibelli, a scientist at the University of Massachusetts, took DNA from his white blood cells by swabbing the inside of his cheek. He then inserted the DNA sample into a hollowed-out cow egg.”

Elektra listened to the Surgeon’ s speech.  Yes, it was only a matter of time, she thought. And despite being saddened by the thought of such an experiment being conducted on a slave, she was strangely excited by the notion.  Her clitoris swelled and pulsated as the nurse gently lowered her body back onto the table.

One of the students noticed and laughed. “Look Sir,” he pointed at her moving organ. “the creature is aroused at the thought of such an unnatural copulation.”

“Indeed,” replied his mentor. “Never forget that these creatures are entirely motivated by the clitoris and the overwhelming urge for orgasm. No depravity is closed to them. And don’t be duped into thinking that these creatures spring only from the lower classes. It is a well known fact that convent educated girls, are the most debauched. And there are examples of these whores historically. The Empress Catherine of Russia, Queen Pasiphae of Crete. Both are recorded as having indulged in acts of Bestiality. The Empress Catherine, with a horse,  Queen Pasiphae copulated with a bull, and gave birth to a flesh eating creature, half man, half bull. The Minotaur. A true chimera”

The students were vociferous in their disgust, but Elektra noticed that all of them were squirming in their discomfort of what she was sure were erections.  She could smell the musky odour of male arousal. Some of them were visibly rubbing their cocks beneath their white coats.

 “Now then, I have a further procedure for you to observe. The creature’s owner informs me that when it is penetrated anally, the creature experiences rectal orgasms. I intend to discover, not only if this is possible, but true.”

Elektra’s eyes widened as the nurse handed the Surgeon a pair of long, latex gloves. He held up his hands, for her to help him put them on. When it was finished they reached beyond his elbow. How far did he intend to crawl inside her? She was horrified, yet, as usual, the notion of having her rectum filled aroused her. She let out a long sigh. She supposed she must be everything that the Surgeon had said she was. Surely a normal woman would not relish the thought of having her anus stuffed in front of these decent young men?

“I want the creature on all fours,” ordered the Surgeon.

Electra turned as best as she could on the narrow table and got into the appropriate position.

“Forearms flat on the table. Arse high in the air.”

The students giggled nervously as Elektra assumed the pose.

The nurse poured a quantity of lubricant,  smearing it over the Surgeon’s glove.

“Now notice how I am forming my fingers into a duck billed shape,” he announced. “And also notice how the creature’s anus is already anticipating pleasure.”

The was a shuffle of students hurrying around to Elektra’s rear end to observe her puckering anus. She could feel the gateway to her hole opening and closing.

“Do you mean that it really does enjoy this procedure? It is disgusting. No decent woman would permit this sort of invasion.”

“You are learning quickly,” said the Surgeon. “”Now I shall proceed.”

Elektra felt the pressure against her puckered dirt hole. And she felt it relax as the fingers pushed through. He was in, pushing gently, then retreating, giving her rectum time to contemplate the invasion. Her muscles contracted, and he stopped, giving the muscles time to relax.

“Its rectum muscles have just contracted around my hand,” he announced. “Now should I press on, or stop? Quickly now.”

“You must stop Sir, until the hole is relaxed,” said one of the more astute students.

“Exactly so,” beamed his mentor. “Never, ever force the body. It is almost as if you wait for the muscles to grant permission.  Now, as I push, the sphincter has let me in and you will see that I am fully inside the creature, up to my wrist, in fact. This, I have achieved through timing and patience.”

Elektra felt wonderfully full. It was a strange sensation; the heaviness in her bowel delighted her, yet her muscles wanted to push him out of her. The passage, after all was not intended to have something travelling in this direction and she relaxed, doing her best to give his hand further access.

“Sir, is it possible to open out your hand inside the rectum?”

“It is possible, certainly, the creature’s rectum is very spacious. But remember, we are dealing with fragile membranes. There is a risk of tearing. Take it in turns to gently push your fingers into the creature’s vagina, you will experience a strange sensation.”

There was the sound of  gloves being removed. The students wanted to feel her cunt and not through latex.

One by one, the students fingers pressed into Elektra’s cunt. There was great excitement and exclamations.

“Sir! I can feel your hand pressing against my fingers. The membrane separating vagina and rectum must be very fine.”

Elektra moaned as the sensation of having her cunt filled with probing fingers, and her dirt hole stuffed with a hand overwhelmed her. She started to sway in a rocking motion.

“Exactly,” said the Surgeon. “This is an excellent opportunity for you to observe female anatomy in the flesh. Far more use to you all than pouring over text books.”

Elektra’s mouth hung open and one of the students had the idea of pushing his fingers into her mouth, for her to clean them. She lapped hungrily, as each student copied the first. These young men were her Masters and she knew she had to obey the silent order.

The Surgeon moved his body position, to negotiate the twists and turns of Elektra’s internal organs, as slowly, slowly, inch by exquisite inch, the hand pushed further into her bowel. The feeling of being so completely stuffed was incredible. The build up of pressure and fullness, associated with defecation made her muscles contract as her body tried to push out the hand groping inside her.

Her long low moan was continuous now, as the hand reached higher inside her. She sounded like a cow in labour. The hand pushed on, retreated, then pushed with a rush further in. She rocked with the motion of the Surgeon. Swaying, as her  body accepted him.

“My God,” Elektra heard one of the students say. “He’s right inside the creature; it looks amazing.”

Another student took out a small camera from his white coat pocket and photographed  the arm spearing into Elektra’s stretched anus.

Elektra drooled saliva from her open mouth. One of the students was unable to contain his arousal any longer. He groped beneath his white coat and took out his erect cock. He caught the Surgeon’s eye.

“Use it,” he commanded. That is what it is there for.”

The cock was thrust into Elektra’s mouth. She feverishly lavished attention on it. Gobbling, licking and sucking.

 Three other students  were openly masturbating.

It happened so suddenly, that it took her by surprise. Her whole bowel contracted. The Surgeon let out a bellow of pain as her muscles held his wrist in a vice like grip.

It’s squeezing the life out of me,” he shouted. “Somebody do something.”

Elektra had no control over her the way her rectum muscles were behaving; all she knew was that she was having the most erotic experience of her life. For what seemed like a long time, but was probably only minutes, she seemed to float out of her body. The wonderful tingling sensations were all there; she felt sublime. She floated up to the ceiling and perched on top of a wall clock. She saw herself on the table, a woman abused, yet in control. The Master was no longer in control, the nurse was doing her best to calm the situation. She saw her body rocking to an ancient, primal rhythm. Her large breasts hanging and swaying.

Then just as  quickly she slammed back into her body.

 Elektra couldn’t put into words, when she told her Master much later, what had happened. All she knew was that her pelvis pushed back on him, and she fucked herself on the Surgeon’s hand. She had no control over what was happening; this was what her body demanded. She had screamed in her ecstasy, as the rhythmic spasms consumed her. Her hands left the table and she clawed at the student’s cock, digging her finger nails into his testicles ,and still her body fucked itself on the Surgeon’s hand. Her pelvis gave another hard push against him and the hand slipped even further in. It was as if her bowel had given way and sucked him in.

The Surgeon was weeping noisily at the cramping pain in his wrist, as Elektra  bucked and almost fell from the table. The student with his cock in her mouth, orgasmed, his spunk splattering over her face as she sank her sharp white teeth into his cock, her incisors dragging, tugging at his foreskin. He howled his protest. Her muscles continued to contract and release as he pulled his torn cock from her bloodied mouth. Spunk splattered in her hair and on her shoulders, from the other students.

His foreskin hung in a bloody mess of gore. Elektra looked like a priestess from a Dionysian fertility Rite. The Rites of long ago, when on a quiet Greek island, the Priestess Ariadne had ripped off the King’s genitals with her teeth, chewing them, spitting out the stringy bits, before devouring them.

She was still on all fours; saliva, spunk and blood drooling  from her mouth, her voluptuous breasts, like udders were swaying. Her auburn hair, streaked with sweat, blood and matted with spunk, hung in tangled ropes over her face.

***

Elektra remembered that there had been such a fuss afterwards. A visitor to the festival had been wounded by one of the slaves. But the student doctor had signed a disclaimer, stating that he entered the Marquis de Sade festival at his own risk. All of the visitors had to, otherwise they were not allowed entry to the chateau.

Elektra’s Master had told her that she was a credit to the spirit of the Marquis de Sade. The old pervert would have been proud of her. He also said that the student was lucky that she had only circumcised him; had she bitten harder, she would have castrated him.

 

Memoirs of a Sex Slave: the confessions of a submissive woman is available at Amazon US and Amazon.co.UK

MEMOIRS OF A SEX SLAVE: THE CONFESSIONS OF A SUBMISSIVE WOMAN.

“Memoirs of a Sex Slave; the Confessions of a Submissive Woman,” by billierosie,  is out and about and Sizzler tell me that sales are up. It is available through Sizzler, Amazon UK and Amazon US.

LES LIAISONS dangereuses

I have just finished reading the most incredible book. “Les Liaisons Dangereuses” by Choderlos De Laclos. I am usually reluctant to go overboard on superlatives -- but this book is truly amazing. It really is an absolute must for any lover of erotica; whether writer or reader.


Wealthy, devious and bored, the Vicomte de Valmont and Marquise de Merteuil have formed an alliance and begin a dangerous game of seduction and domination. Eager to preserve their reputations, Valmont as a libertine and Merteuil as a virtuous lady they act out their roles with passion and vigour. Together they plot the downfall of the naive Cécile Volanges, the love struck Chevalier Danceny and the pious Madame de Tourvel.


Published in 1782, “Les Liaisons Dangereuses”, by Choderlos De Laclos, is an erotic tale of deceit, betrayal, and seduction. It is still one of the most controversial novels in European literary history.


The Vicomte de Valmont and the Marquise de Merteuil are two wealthy, aristocratic individuals, who take pleasure in showing their power over their lovers, and who choose cruelty and deceit over the integrity of true love. Valmont, a suave, sophisticated and charming man, aims to seduce the virtuous Madame de Tourvel, the wife of a prominent judge. His goal is not to shake her foundations of religious faith, but to use that faith, and her own virtues, to ensnare her and ensure her destruction. Merteuil, on the other hand, seeks revenge against the Comte de Gercourt, and devises a plan to corrupt his soon to be young wife, Cécile Volanges.


The story unfolds in the form of letters written between the principal characters, giving it a unique literary texture. By using this style, Choderlos De Laclos is able to give the reader a shockingly intimate look at these people as they divulge their most intimate secrets and bring to fruition their sinister plans. We are witnesses to letters, not only between the Vicomte and the Marquise, but between Cécile and her lover, Chevalier Danceny; Cécile and the Marquise; Cécile and her friend at the convent, Sophie Carnay. We also read letters between the Vicomte and Danceny; the Vicomte and Madame de Tourvel. Letters are also exchanged between Madame de Tourvel and her friend Madame Volange. Also between Madame de Rosemonde and Madame de Tourvel; Madame de Rosemonde and Madame Volange.


Through these letters, a world of corruption, deceit, betrayal and immorality unfolds.


The letters between Valmont and the Marquise drive the plot, with those of other characters serving as illustrations to give the story its depth.


If it were written today, we would probably be talking about psychological terrorism, as we see the Marquise de Merteuil and the Vicomte de Valmont, sadistically control and dominate those around them through sexual intrigue. The two are locked in psychological combat to see who can actually better the other in stalking, capturing and destroying the psyche of others. Taking absolute pleasure in ripping any virtue from the hearts of their prey, Merteuil and Valmont wave their accomplishments in front of each other like the spoils of war. The less the chance of surrender, the more relentless is the pursuit. 


But where is Choderlos De Laclos, the author in all of this? Written as a series of letters between these main characters, the author seems to imply that these are real people. The identity of various individuals and places, as well as the year the events take place in are obscured. Or is this just a device to convince the reader of the letters’ authenticity? Since its publication in 1782 the book has always been marketed as a novel. What exactly is it? Is there a novel, or a primary, historical source simmering beneath the surface of the letters?


“We feel in duty bound to warn our readers, that despite the title and the editor’s comments in his preface. We cannot guarantee the authenticity of these letters. We even have strong reasons to suspect that this is a work of pure fiction.” (publishers’ foreword)


What do the publishers mean that they cannot guarantee the book’s authenticity? Don’t they know whether or not the letters are real letters or a novel? The warning, is dripping with doubt. If the publisher is not sure, how is the reader to know the truth? The proof that the publisher offers that the book is a novel is, in fact, more likely to make one think that the letters are authentic.


In  contrast to the publisher’s note, the editor’s preface insists on the letters’ veracity. The letters are genuine. The editor defines his role as one of selecting the most significant correspondence, arranging them, and adding “a few brief and sparsely scattered notes, which, for the most part, have no other object than that of indicating the sources of quotations, or of explaining the abridgements I have permitted myself to make” (editor’s preface)


As with the publisher’s foreword, the editor’s preface has the opposite effect of its explicit intent. Rather than convincing the reader that the editor’s role was minimal, we are made aware of just how much goes into the act of editing; and as we will see the editor steps in at the climax of the novel.


So who is this editor? No name is given either of him or the shadowy editor above him who has the final say on so many important issues. And who is the publisher? In fact, So who is this editor? No name is given either of him or the shadowy editor above him who has the final say on so many important issues. And who is the publisher? In fact, Choderlos De Laclos wrote all of the publisher’s notes and the editor’s preface and the explanatory notes. The contradictions between them force the reader to doubt the ficitonality of the work and to consider its possible authenticity.


“If “Les Liaisons dangereuses” wears the smile of the Mona Lisa, that smile was put there by Laclos. The ambiguity begins even before events start to unfold. The ‘Editor’s Preface’ states that the correspondence we are about to read is authentic and makes the standard eighteenth century case for moral usefulness. Yet the ‘Publisher’s Foreword’ denies both claims: what we are about to read is a novel which is unlikely to produce any moral effect whatsoever. Both were written by Laclos, and both are heavily ironic. By the time the first letter reaches us, the author has locked himself inside his stoutly defended novel and never reappears. How then, should we read “Les Liaison’s dangereuses?”
(From David Coward’s introduction to Oxford World’s Classics edition.)


Should we read it within its historical context. Look at it in terms of the corrupt society of the last days of the “ancien regime”? The French revolution is but nine years away and the terror of the guillotine. If we read it from the stance of its historical context, we can assess it through the concepts of specific literary and philosophical traditions. Should we give it a Freudian reading? Is it a case for Marxists and Feminists?


“A range of answers is now available but they have not, either singly or collectively, quite succeeded in wiping that enigmatic smile from Laclos’ face.

“To begin with, the possibility that Laclos was not a novelist at all but the ‘editor’ of a genuine correspondence has never quite been laid to rest. Models for his characters have been suggested, never convincingly, but hope is now fading that a secret family archive in Savoy will one day disgorge the original letters.”
From David Coward’s introduction.


Les Liaison dangereuses is the height of metafictionality, making the reader aware of how artifice is used to give authenticity to fiction, how fiction is employed to find truth in lies. Laclos borrowed the epistolary method from Richardson and Defoe, but he improved upon it, giving the letters distinct voice, style and quality. The letters seem to be written by different people, yet Laclos draws our attention again and again to how this was accomplished. The genius of the work is that we are fooled, in spite of all the warnings, as we are always fooled by well-written fiction.


Earlier, I asked the question ‘how should we read “Les Liaisons dangereuses”? One minute I think that it is fiction; fiction at its most supreme. The next minute I think the converse; the letters have a ring of truth. But isn’t that what great writing is supposed to do? We are left wondering.


We have always been fascinated by celebrities behaving badly. In “Les Liaisons dangereuses” we see not only the bad behaviour, but the way in which people with less power are used and discarded as collateral damage without so much as a thought. Our curiosity about the lives of the rich and famous is mirrored in modern society today, by popular obsession with the decadence of royalty and film stars.


These days we don’t have Laclos, we have OK and Hello magazines to keep us informed of the decadency of high society.


Christopher Hampton adapted “Les Liaisons dangereuses for the stage”. He leaves the audience with a terse reminder. In the closing moments of the play, the shadow of the guillotine falls across the stage. It is the end of the ancien regime.


My thanks to my sweet friend Jan Vander Laenen for opening my eyes and my mind to this great novel.