Fiction Erotica :: The Model + The Hungarian Adventurer + Mathilde. Anais Nin

Goddess (Artwork) 

Amera Ziganii Rao © Digital Darkroom Art

Thank you to outside source for original

Fiction Erotica :: The Model + The Hungarian Adventurer + Mathilde. Anais Nin 

The Model. Anais Nin. An Excerpt.

One illustrator asked me if I would pose on Sunday, that he was in a great rush to finish a poster. I consented. When I arrived he was already at work. It was morning and the building seemed deserted.

His studio was on the thirteenth floor.

He had half the poster done.

I got undressed quickly and put on the evening dress he had given me to wear. He did not seem to pay any attention to me. We worked in peace for a long while. I grew tired. He noticed it and gave me a rest.

I walked about the studio looking at the other pictures. They were mostly portraits of actresses. I asked him who they were. He answered me with details about their sexual tastes:

"Oh, this one, this one demands romanticism. It's the only way you can get near her. She makes it difficult. She is European and she likes an intricate courtship. Halfway through I gave it up. It was too strenuous. She was very beautiful though, and there is something wonderful about getting a woman like that in bed. She had beautiful eyes, an entranced air, like some Hindu mystic. It makes you wonder how they will behave in bed.

I have known other sexual angels. It is wonderful to see the change in them. These clear eyes that you can see through, these bodies that take such beautiful harmonious poses, these delicate hands....how they change when desire takes hold of them. The sexual angels! They are wonderful because it is such a surprise, such a change. You, for instance, with your appearance of never having been touched, I can see you biting and scratching....I am sure your very voice changes - I have seen such changes.

There are women's voices that sound like poetic, unearthly echoes. Then they change. The eyes change. I believe that all these legends about people changing into animals at night - like the stories of the werewolf for instance - were invented by men who saw women transform at night from idealized, worshipful creatures into animals and thought that they were possessed. But I know it is something much simpler than that. You are a virgin aren't you?"

"No, I am married" I said.

"Married or not, you are a virgin. I can tell. I am never deceived. If you are married, your husband has not made you a woman yet. Don't you regret that? Don't you feel you are wasting time, that real living begins with sensation, with being a woman....?"

This corresponded so exactly to what I had been feeling, to my desire to enter experience, that I was silent. I hated to admit this to a stranger.

I was conscious of being alone with the illustrator in an empty studio building. I was sad that Stephen had not understood my desire to become a woman. I was not frightened but fatalistic, desiring only to find someone I might fall in love with.

"I know what you are thinking," he said, "but for me it would not have any meaning unless the woman wanted me. I never could make love to a woman if she did not want me. When I first saw you, I felt how wonderful it would be to initiate you. There is something about you that makes me feel you will have many love affairs. I would like to be the first one. But not unless you wanted it.

I smiled. "That is exactly what I was thinking. It can only be if I want it, and I do not want it."

"You must not give that first surrender so much importance. I think that was created by the people who wanted to preserve their daughters for marriage, the idea that the first man who takes a woman will have complete power over her. I think that is a superstition. It was created to help preserve women from promiscuity. It is actually untrue.

If a man can make himself be loved, if he can rouse a woman, then she will be attracted to him. But the mere act of breaking through her virginity is not enough to accomplish this. Any man can do this and leave the woman unaroused. Did you know that many Spaniards take their wives this way and give them many children without completely initiating them sexually just to be sure of their faithfulness?

The Spaniard believes in keeping pleasure for his mistress. In fact, he sees a woman enjoy sensuality, he immediately suspects her of being faithless, even of being a whore.

The illustrator’s words haunted me for days. Then I was faced with a new problem. Summer had come and the painters were leaving for the country, for the beach, for far-off places in all directions. I did not have the money to follow them, and I was not sure how much work I could get.

One morning, I posed for an illustrator named Ronald. Afterwards he set the phonograph going and asked me to dance. While we were dancing he said, “Why don’t you come to the country for a while? It will do you good, you will get plenty of work, and I will pay for your trip. There are very few good models there. I am sure you will be kept busy”.

So I went. I took a little room in a farmhouse. Then I went to see Ronald, who lived down the road in a shed, into which he had built a huge window. The first thing he did was to blow his cigarette smoke into my mouth. I coughed.
“Oh,” he said, “you don’t know how to inhale.”

“I’m not at all interested,” I said, getting up. “What kind of pose do you want?”
“Oh,” he said laughing, “We don’t work so hard here. You will have to learn to enjoy yourself a little. Now, take the smoke from my mouth and inhale it....”
“I don’t like to inhale.”

He laughed again. He tried to kiss me. I moved away.
“Oh, oh,” he said, “you are not going to be a very pleasant companion for me. I paid for your trip, you know, and I’m lonely down here. I expected you to be very pleasant company. Where is your suitcase?

“I took a room down the road.”
“But you were invited to stay with me,” he said.
“I understood you wanted me to pose for you.”
“For the moment it is not a model I need.”

I started to leave. He said, “You know, there is an understanding here about models who do not know how to enjoy themselves. If you take this attitude nobody will give you any work.”

I did not believe him. The next morning I began to knock on the doors of all the artists I could find. But Ronald had already paid them a visit. So I was received without cordiality, like a person who had played a trick on another. I did not have the money to return home, nor the money to pay for my room. I knew nobody. The country was beautiful, mountainous, but I could not enjoy it.

The next day I took a long walk and came upon a log cabin by the side of the river. I saw a man painting there, out of doors, I spoke to him. I told him my story. He did not know Ronald, but he was very angry. He said he would try to help me. I told him all I wanted was to earn enough to return to New York.

So I began to pose for him. His name was Reynolds. He was a man of thirty or so, with black hair, very soft black eyes and a brilliant smile – a recluse. He never went to the village, except for food, nor frequented the restaurants or bars. He had a lax walk, easy gestures. He had been on the sea, always on tramp steamers, working as a sailor so that he could see foreign countries. He was always restless.

He painted from memory what he had seen in his travels. Now he sat at the foot of a tree and never looked around him but painted a wild piece of South American jungle.

Once when he and his friends were in the jungle, Reynolds told me, they had smelled such a strong animal odour they thought they would suddenly see a panther, but out of the bushes had sprung with incredible velocity a woman, a naked savage woman, who looked at them with the frightened eyes of an animal, then ran off, leaving this strong animal scent behind her, threw herself into the river and swam away before they could catch their breath.

A friend of Reynolds had captured a woman like this. When she had washed off the red paint with which she was covered, she was very beautiful. She was gentle when well treated, succumbed to gifts of beads and ornaments.

Her strong smell repelled Reynolds until his friend had offered to let him have a night with her. He had found her black hair as hard and bristly as a beard. The animal smell made him feel he was lying with a panther. And she was so much stronger than he that after a while, he was acting almost like a woman, and she was the one who was molding him to suit her fancies. She was indefatigable and slow to arouse. She could bear caresses that exhausted him and he fell asleep in her arms.

Then he found her climbing over him and pouring a little liquid over his penis, something that at first made him smart and then aroused him furiously. He was frightened. His penis seemed to have filled with fire, or with red peppers. He rubbed himself against her flesh, more to ease the burning than out of desire.

He was angry. She was smiling and laughing softly. He began taking her with a rage, driven by a fear that what she had done to him would arouse him for the last time, that it was some sort of enchantment to get the maximum of desire from him, until he died.

She lay back laughing, her white teeth showing, the animal odour of her now affecting him erotically like the smell of musk. She moved with such vigour that he felt she would tear his penis away from him. But now he wanted to subjugate her. He caressed her at the same time.

She was surprised by this. No one seemed to have done that to her before. When he was tired of taking her, after two orgasms, he continued to rub her clitoris, and she enjoyed this, begging for more, opening her legs wide. Then suddenly she turned over, crouched on the bed and swung her ass upward at an incredible angle. She expected him to take her again, but he continued to caress her.

After this it was always his hand that she sought. She rubbed against it like a huge cat. During the day, if she met him she would rub her sex against his hand surreptitiously.

ANAIS NIN

Slut Queen (Artwork) 

Amera Ziganii Rao © Digital Darkroom Art

Thank you to outside source for original

The Hungarian Adventurer. Anais Nin 

There was a Hungarian adventurer who had astonishing beauty,
infallible charm, grace, the powers of a trained actor, culture,
knowledge of many tongues, aristocratic manners. Beneath all
this was a genius for intrigue, for slipping out of difficulties, for
moving smoothly in and out of countries.

He traveled in grandiose style, with fifteen trunks of the
finest clothes, with two great Danes. His air of authority had
earned him the nickname the Baron. The Baron was seen in the
most luxurious hotels, at watering places and horse races, on
world tours, excursions to Egypt, trips through the desert, into
Africa.

Everywhere he became the center of attraction for women.
Like the most versatile of actors, he passed from one role to an-
other to please the taste of each of them. He was the most elegant dancer,
the most vivacious dinner partner, the most decadent of entertainers in tête-à-têtes;
he could sail a boat, ride, drive. He knew each city as though he had lived there all his life.
He knew everyone in society. He was indispensable.

When he needed money he married a rich woman, plun-
dered her and left for another country. Most of the time the
women did not rebel or complain to the police. The few weeks or
months they had enjoyed him as a husband left a sensation that
was stronger than the shock of losing their money. For a mo-
ment they had known what it was to live with strong wings, to
fly above the heads of mediocrity.

He took them so high, whirled them so fast in his series of
enchantments, that his departure still had something of the
flight. It seemed almost natural—no partner could follow his
great eagle sweeps.

The free, uncapturable adventurer, jumping thus from one
golden branch to another, almost fell into a trap, a trap of
human love, when one night he met the Brazilian dancer Anita
at a Peruvian theatre. Her elongated eyes did not close as other
women's eyes did, but like the eyes of tigers, pumas and leop-
ards, the two lids meeting lazily and slowly; and they seemed
slightly sewn together towards the nose, making them narrow,
with a lascivious, oblique glance falling from them like the
glance of a woman who does not want to see what is being done
to her body. All this gave her an air of being made love to,
which aroused the Baron as soon as he met her.

When he went backstage to see her, she was dressing
among a profusion of flowers; and for the delight of her ad-
mirers who sat around her, she was rouging her sex with her
lipstick without permitting them to make a single gesture to-
wards her.

When the Baron came in she merely lifted her head and
smiled at him. She had one foot on a little table, her elaborate
Brazilian dress was lifted, and with her jeweled hands she took
up rouging her sex again, laughing at the excitement of the men
around her.

Her sex was like a giant hothouse flower, larger than any
the Baron had seen, and the hair around it abundant and curled,
glossy black. It was these lips that she rouged as if they were a
mouth, very elaborately so that they became like blood-red
camellias, opened by force, showing the closed interior bud, a
paler, fine-skinned core of the flower.

The Baron could not persuade her to have supper with him.
Her appearance onstage was only the prelude to her work at the theatre.
Now followed the performance for which she was famed all through
South America, when the boxes in the theatre,
deep, dark and half-curtained, filled with society men from all over the world.
Women were not brought to this high-class burlesque.

She had dressed herself all over again in the full-petticoated
costume she wore onstage for her Brazilian songs, but she wore
no shawl. Her dress was strapless, and her rich, abundant
breasts, compressed by the tight-waisted costume, bulged up-
wards, offering themselves almost in their entirety to the eye.

In this costume, while the rest of the show continued, she
made her round of the boxes. There, on request, she knelt before
a man, unbuttoned his pants, took his penis in her jeweled
hands, and with a neatness of touch, an expertness, a subtlety
few women had ever developed, sucked at it until he was satisfied.
Her two hands were as active as her mouth.

The titillation almost deprived each man of his senses. The
elasticity of her hands; the variety of rhythms; the change from
a hand grip of the entire penis to the lightest touch of the tip of
it, from firm kneading of all the parts to the lightest teasing of
the hair around it—all this by an exceptionally beautiful and
voluptuous woman while the attention of the public was turned
towards the stage. Seeing the penis go into her magnificent
mouth between her flashing teeth, while her breasts heaved,
gave men a pleasure for which they paid generously.

Her presence on the stage prepared them for her appear-
ance in the boxes. She provoked them with her mouth, her eyes,
her breasts. And to have their satisfaction, along with music and
lights and singing in a dark, half-curtained box above the audi-
ence, was an exceptionally piquant form of amusement.

The Baron almost fell in love with Anita and stayed with
her for a longer time than with any woman. She fell in love with
him and bore him two children.

But after a few years he was off again. The habit was too
strong; the habit of freedom and change.

He traveled to Rome and took a suite at the Grand Hotel.
The suite happened to be next to that of the Spanish Ambassa-
dor, who was staying there with his wife and two small daugh-
ters. The Baron charmed them, too. The Ambassador's wife
admired him. They became so friendly and he was so delightful
with the children, who did not know how to amuse themselves
in this hotel, that soon it became a habit of the two little girls,
upon getting up in the morning, to go and visit the Baron and
awaken him with laughter and teasing, which they were not
permitted to lavish upon their more solemn father and mother.

One little girl was about ten, the other twelve. They were
both beautiful, with huge velvet-black eyes, long silky hair and
golden skin. They wore short white dresses and short white
socks. Shrieking, the two little girls would run into the Baron's
room and playfully throw themselves over his big bed. He would
tease them, fondle them.

Now the Baron, like many men, always awakened with a
peculiarly sensitive condition of the penis. In fact, he was in a
most vulnerable state. He had no time to rise and calm the
condition by urinating. Before he could do this the two little
girls had run across the shining floor and thrown themselves
over him, and over his prominent penis, which the big pale blue
quilt somewhat concealed.

The little girls did not mind how their skirts flew upward
and their slender dancer's legs got tangled and fell over his penis
lying straight in the quilt. Laughing, they turned over on him,
sat on him, treated him like a horse, sat astride him and pushed
down on him, urging him to swing the bed by a motion of his
body. With all this, they would kiss him, pull at his hair, and
have childish conversations. The Baron's delight in being so
treated would grow into excruciating suspense.

One of the girls was lying on her stomach, and all he had to
do was to move a little against her to reach his pleasure. So he
did this playfully, as if he meant to finally push her off the bed.
He said, "I am sure you will fall off if I push this way."

"I won't fall off," said the little girl, holding on to him
through the covers while he moved as if he would force her to
roll over the side of the bed. Laughing, he pushed her body up,
but she lay close to him, her little legs, her little panties, every-
thing, rubbing against him in her effort not to slide off, and he
continued his antics while they laughed. Then the second girl,
wishing to even the strength of the game, sat astride him in
front of the other one, and now he could move even more wildly
with the weight of both on him. His penis, hidden in the thick
quilt, rose over and over again between the little legs, and it was
like this that he came, with a strength he had rarely known,
surrendering the battle, which the girls had won in a manner
they never suspected.

Another time when they came to play with him he put his
hands under the quilt. Then he raised the quilt with his fore-finger
and dared them to catch it.
So with great eagerness, they
began to chase the finger, which disappeared and reappeared in
different parts of the bed, catching it firmly in their hands. After
a moment it was not the finger but the penis they caught over
and over again, and seeking to extricate it, he made them grasp
it more strongly than ever. He would disappear under the covers
completely, and taking his penis in his hand suddenly thrust it
upward for them to catch.

He pretended to be an animal, sought to catch and bite
them, sometimes quite near where he wanted to, and they took
great delight in this. With the "animal" they also played hide-
and-seek. The "animal" was to spring at them from some hidden
corner. He hid in the closet on the floor and covered himself
with clothes. One of the little girls opened the closet. He could
see under her dress; he caught her and bit her playfully on the
thighs.

So heated were the games, so great were the confusion of
the battle and the abandon of the little girls at play, that very
often his hand went everywhere he wanted it to go.

Eventually the Baron moved on again, but his high trapeze leaps
from fortune to fortune deteriorated when his sexual quest
became stronger than his quest for money and power. It seemed
as though the strength of his desire for women was no longer
under control. He was eager to rid himself of his wives, so as to
pursue his search for sensation throughout the world.

One day he heard that the Brazilian dancer he had loved
had died of an overdose of opium. Their two daughters were
grown to the ages of fifteen and sixteen and wanted their father
to take care of them. He sent for them. He was then living in
New York with a wife by whom he had had a son. The woman
was not happy at the thought of his daughters' arrival. She was
jealous for her son, who was only fourteen. After all his expedi-
tions, the Baron now wanted a home and a rest from difficulties
and pretenses. He had a woman he rather liked and three chil-
dren. The idea of meeting his daughters again interested him. He
received them with great demonstrations of affection. One was
beautiful, the other, less so but piquant. They had been brought
up to witness their mother's life and were not restrained or
prudish.

The beauty of their father impressed them. He, on the other
hand, was reminded of his games with the two little girls in
Rome, only his daughters were a little older, and it added a great
attraction to the situation.

They were given a large bed for themselves, and later, when they
were still talking of their voyage and of meeting their
father again, he came into the room to bid them goodnight. He
stretched out at their side and kissed them. They returned his
kisses. But as he kissed them, he slipped his hands along their
bodies, which he could feel through their nightgowns.

The caresses pleased them. He said, "How beautiful you
are, both of you. I am so proud of you. I cannot let you sleep
alone. It is such a long time since I have seen you."

Holding them in a fatherly way, with their heads on his
chest, caressing them protectively, he let them fall asleep, one on
each side of him. Their young bodies, with their small breasts
barely formed, affected him so that he did not sleep. He fondled
one and then the other, with catlike movements, so as not to
disturb them, but after a moment his desire was so violent that
he awakened one and began to force himself on her. The other
did not escape either. They resisted and wept a little, but they
had seen so much of this during their life with their mother that
they did not rebel.

But this was not to be an ordinary case of incest, for the
Baron's sexual fury was increasing and had become an obses-
sion. Being satisfied did not free him, calm him. It was like an
irritant. From his daughters he would go to his wife and take
her.

He was afraid his daughters would abandon him, run away,
so he spied on them and practically imprisoned them.

His wife discovered this and made violent scenes. But the
Baron was like a madman now. He no longer cared about his
dressing, his elegance, his adventures, his fortune. He stayed at
home and thought only of the moment when he could take his
daughters together. He had taught them all the caresses imagin-
able. They learned to kiss each other in his presence until he was
excited enough to possess them.

But his obsession, his excesses, began to weigh on them.
His wife deserted him.

One night when he had taken leave of his daughters, he
wandered through the apartment, still a prey to desire, to erotic
fevers and fantasies. He had exhausted the girls. They had fallen
asleep. And now his desire was tormenting him again. He was
blinded by it. He opened the door to his son's room. His son was
calmly sleeping, lying on his back, with his mouth slightly open,
The Baron watched him, fascinated. His hard penis continued to
torment him. He fetched a stool and placed it near the bed. He
kneeled on it and he put his penis to his son's mouth.
The son awakened choking and struck at him. The girls also awakened.

Their rebellion against their father's folly mounted, and
they abandoned the now frenzied, aging Baron.

Mathilde 

Mathilde was a hat maker in Paris and barely twenty when she
was seduced by the Baron. Although the affair did not last more
than two weeks, somehow in that short time she became, by
contagion, imbued with his philosophy of life and his seven-
leagued way of solving problems. She was intrigued by some-
thing the Baron had told her casually one night: that Parisian
women were highly prized in South America because of their
expertness in matters of love, their vivaciousness and wit, which
was quite a contrast to many of the South American wives, who
still cherished a tradition of self-effacement and obedience,
which diluted their personalities and was due, possibly, to men's
reluctance to make mistresses out of their wives.

Like the Baron, Mathilde developed a formula for acting
out life as a series of roles—that is, by saying to herself in the
morning while brushing her blond hair, "Today I want to
become this or that person," and then proceeding to be that
person.

One day she decided she would like to be an elegant repre-
sentative of a well-known Parisian modiste and go to Peru. All
she had to do was to act the role. So she dressed with care,
presented herself with extraordinary assurance at the house of
the modiste, was engaged to be her representative and given a
boat ticket to Lima.

Aboard ship, she behaved like a French missionary of ele-
gance. Her innate talent for recognizing good wines, good per-
fumes, good dressmaking, marked her as a lady of refinement.
Her palate was that of a gourmet.

Mathilde had piquant charms to enhance this role. She
laughed perpetually, no matter what happened to her. When a
valise was mislaid, she laughed. When her toe was stepped on,
she laughed.

It was her laugh that attracted the Spanish Line representa-
tive, Dalvedo, who invited her to sit at the captain's table.
Dalvedo looked suave in his evening suit, carried himself like a
captain, and had many anecdotes to share. The next night he
took her to a dance. He was fully aware that the trip was not
long enough for the usual courtship. So he immediately began to
court the little mole on Mathilde's chin. At midnight he asked if
she liked cactus figs. She had never tasted them. He said that he
had some in his cabin.

But Mathilde wanted to heighten her value by resistance,
and she was on her guard when they entered the cabin. She had
easily rebuffed the audacious hands of the men she brushed
against when marketing, the sly buttock pats by the husbands
of her clients, the pinching of her nipples by male friends who
invited her to the movies. None of this stirred her. She had a
vague but tenacious idea of what could stir her. She wanted to
be courted with mysterious language. This had been determined
by her first adventure, as a girl of sixteen.

A writer, who was a celebrity in Paris, had entered her shop
one day. He was not looking for a hat. He asked if she sold
luminous flowers that he had heard about, flowers which shone
in the dark. He wanted them, he said, for a woman who shone in
the dark. He could swear that when he took her to the theatre
and she sat back in the dark loges in her evening dress, her skin
was as luminous as the finest of sea shells, with a pale pink glow
to it. And he wanted these flowers for her to wear in her hair.

Mathilde did not have them. But as soon as the man left
she went to look at herself in the mirror. This was the kind of
feeling she wanted to inspire. Could she? Her glow was not of
that nature. She was much more like fire than light. Her eyes
were ardent, violet in color. Her hair was dyed blond but it
shed a copper shadow around her. Her skin was copper-toned,
too, firm and not at all transparent. Her body filled her dresses
tightly, richly. She did not wear a corset, but her body had the
shape of the women who did. She arched so as to throw the
breasts forward and the buttocks high.

The man had come back. But this time he was not asking
for anything to buy. He stood looking at her, his long finely
carved face smiling, his elegant gestures making a ritual out of
lighting a cigarette, and said, "This time I came back just to see
you."

Mathilde's heart beat so swiftly that she felt as if this were
the moment she had expected for years. She almost stood up on
her toes to hear the rest of his words. She felt as if she were the
luminous woman sitting back in the dark box receiving the
unusual flowers. But what the polished gray-haired writer said in
his aristocratic voice was, "As soon as I saw you, I was stiff in
my pants."

The crudity of the words was like an insult. She reddened
and struck at him.
This scene was repeated on several occasions. Mathilde
found that when she appeared, men were usually speechless,
deprived of all inclination for romantic courtship. Such words as
these fell from them each time at the mere sight of her. Her
effect was so direct that all they could express was their physical
disturbance. Instead of accepting this as a tribute, she resented it.

Now she was in the cabin of the smooth Spaniard, Dalvedo.
Dalvedo was peeling some cactus figs for her, and talking.
Mathilde was regaining confidence. She sat on the arm of a chair
in her red velvet evening dress.

But the peeling of the figs was interrupted. Dalvedo rose
and said, "You have the most seductive little mole on your
chin." She thought that he would try to kiss her. But he didn't.
He unbuttoned himself quickly, took his penis out and, with the
gesture of an apache to a woman of the streets, said, "Kneel."

And Mathilde again struck, then moved towards the door.

"Don't go," he begged, "you drive me crazy. Look at the
state you put me in. I was like this all evening when I danced
with you. You can't leave me now."

He tried to embrace her. As she struggled to elude him, he
came all over her dress. She had to cover herself with her
evening cape to regain her cabin.

As soon as Mathilde arrived in Lima, however, she attained
her dream. Men approached her with flowery words, disguising
their intent with great charm and adornments. This prelude to
the sexual act satisfied her. She liked a little incense. In Lima she
received much of it, it was a part of the ritual. She was raised on
a pedestal of poetry so that her falling into the final embrace
might seem more of a miracle. She sold many more of her nights
than hats.

Lima at that time was strongly influenced by its large
Chinese population. Opium-smoking was prevalent. Rich young
men traveled in bands from bordello to bordello, or they spent
their nights in the opium dens, where prostitutes were available,
or they rented absolutely bare rooms in the prostitute quarters,
where they could take drugs in groups, and the prostitutes
visited them there.

The young men liked to visit Mathilde. She turned her shop
into a boudoir, full of chaise longues, lace and satin, curtains, and
pillows. Martinez, a Peruvian aristocrat, initiated her to opium.
He brought his friends there to smoke. At times they spent two
or three days lost to the world, to their families. The curtains were
kept closed. The atmosphere was dark, slumberous.
They shared Mathilde among them. The opium made them more
voluptuous than sensual. They could spend hours caressing her
legs. One of them would take one of her breasts, another would
sink his kisses into the soft flesh of her neck, pressing her with
the lips only, because the opium heightened every sensation.
A kiss could throw shivers throughout her body.

Mathilde would lie naked on the floor. All the movements
were slow. The three or four young men lay back among the
pillows. Lazily one finger would seek her sex, enter it, lie there
between the lips of the vulva, not moving. Another hand would
seek it out too, content itself with circles around the sex, seek
another orifice.

One man would offer his penis to her mouth. She would
suckle at it very slowly, every touch magnified by the drug.

Then for hours they might lie still, dreaming.

Erotic images would form again. Martinez saw the body of
a woman, distended, headless, a woman with the breasts of a
Balinese woman, the belly of an African woman, the high but-
tocks of a Negress; all this confounded itself into an image of a
mobile flesh, a flesh that seemed to be made of elastic. The taut
breasts would swell towards his mouth, and his hand would
extend towards them, but then other parts of the body would
stretch, become prominent, hang over his own body. The legs
would part in an inhuman, impossible way, as if they were
severed from the woman, to leave the sex exposed, open, as if
one had taken a tulip in the hand and opened it completely by
force.

This sex was also mobile, moving like rubber, as if invisible
hands stretched it, curious hands that wanted to dismember the
body to get at the interior of it. Then the ass would be turned
fully towards him and begin to lose its shape, as if drawn apart.
Every movement tended to open the body completely until it
would tear. Martinez was taken with a fury because other hands
were handling this body. He would half sit up and seek Ma-
thilde's breast, and if he found a hand on it, or a mouth suckling
it, he would seek her belly, as if it were still the image that
haunted his opium dream, and then fall lower upon her body so
that he could kiss her between parted legs.

Mathilde's pleasure in caressing the men was so immense,
and their hands passed over her body and fondled her so com-
pletely, so continuously, that she rarely had an orgasm. She
would only become aware of this fact after the men had left.
She awakened from her opium dreams with her body still restless.

She would lie filing her nails and covering them with lac-
quer, doing her refined toilette for future occasions, brushing
her blond hair. Sitting in the sun, using little cotton wads of
peroxide, she dyed her pubic hair to match.

Left to herself, memories of the hands over her body
haunted her. Now she felt one under her arm, sliding down to
her waist. She remembered Martinez, his way of opening the sex
like a bud, the flicks of his quick tongue covering the distance
from the pubic hair to the buttocks, ending on the dimple at the
end of her spine. How he loved this dimple, which led his fingers
and his tongue to follow the downwards curve and vanish
between the two full mounts of flesh.

Thinking of Martinez, Mathilde would feel passionate. And
she could not wait for his return. She looked down at her legs.
From living so much indoors they had become white, very allur-
ing, like the chalk-white complexion of the Chinese women, the
morbid hothouse paleness that men, and particularly the dark-
skinned Peruvians, loved. She looked at her belly, without fault,
without a single line that should not be there. The pubic hair
shone red-gold now in the sun.

"How do I look to him?" she asked herself. She got up and
brought a long mirror towards the window. She stood it on the
floor against a chair. Then she sat down in front of it on the rug
and, facing it, slowly opened her legs. The sight was enchanting.
The skin was flawless, the vulva, roseate and full. She thought it
was like the gum plant leaf with its secret milk that the pressure
of the finger could bring out, the odorous moisture that came
like the moisture of the sea shells. So was Venus born of the sea
with this little kernel of salty honey in her, which only caresses
could bring out of the hidden recesses of her body.

Mathilde wondered if she could bring it out of its mysteri-
ous core ith her fingers she opened the two little lips of the
vulva, and she began stroking it with catlike softness. Back and
forth she stroked it as Martinez did with his more nervous dark
fingers. She remembered his dark fingers on her skin, such a
contrast to her skin, and the thickness of them seeming to
promise to hurt the skin rather than arouse pleasure by their
touch. How delicately he touched it, she thought, how he held
the vulva between his fingers, as if he were touching velvet. She
held it now as he did, in her forefinger and thumb. With the
other free hand she continued the caresses. She felt the same
dissolving feeling that she felt under Martinez's fingers. From
somewhere a salty liquid was coming, covering the wings of her
sex; between these it now shone.

Then Mathilde wanted to know how she looked when
Martinez told her to turn over. She lay on her left side and
exposed her ass to the mirror. She could see her sex now from
another side. She moved as she moved for Martinez. She saw
her own hand appear over the little hill formed by the ass, which
she began to stroke. Her other hand went between her legs and
showed in the mirror from behind. This hand stroked her sex
back and forth. Then a forefinger was inserted and she began
to rub against it. Now she was taken with the desire to be taken
from both sides, and she inserted her other forefinger into
the ass hole. Now when she moved forwards she felt her finger
in the front, and when she lurched back she felt the other finger,
as she sometimes felt Martinez and a friend when they both
caressed her at once. The approach of the orgasm excited her,
she went into convulsive gestures, as if to pull away the ultimate
fruit from a branch, pulling, pulling at the branch to bring down
everything into a wild orgasm, which came while she watched
herself in the mirror, seeing the hands move, the honey shining,
the whole sex and ass shining wet between the legs.

After seeing her movements in the mirror she understood
the story told to her by a sailor—how the sailors on his ship had
made a rubber woman for themselves to while away the time
and satisfy the desires they felt during their six or seven months
at sea. The woman had been beautifully made and gave them a
perfect illusion. The sailors loved her. They took her to bed with
them. She was made so that each aperture could satisfy them.
She had the quality that an old Indian had once attributed to his
young wife: Soon after their marriage, his wife was the mistress
of every young man in the hacienda. The master called the old
Indian to inform him of the scandalous conduct of his young
wife and advised him to watch over her better. The Indian shook
his head skeptically and answered: "Well, I don't see why I
should worry my head so much. My wife is not made of soap,
she will not wear out."

So it was with the woman made of rubber. The sailors
found her untiring and yielding—truly a marvelous companion.
There were no jealousies, no fights between them, no possessive-
ness. The rubber woman was very much loved. But in spite of
her innocence, her pliant good nature, her generosity, her si-
lence, in spite of her faithfulness to her sailors, she gave them
all syphilis.

Mathilde laughed as she remembered the young Peruvian
sailor who had told her this story, how he had described lying
over her as if she were an air mattress, and how she made him
bounce off her sometimes by sheer resilience. Mathilde felt
exactly like this rubber woman when she took opium. How plea-
surable was the feeling of utter abandon! Her only occupation
was to count the money that her friends left her.

One of them, Antonio, did not seem content with the lux-
ury of her room. He was always begging her to visit him. He
was a prizefighter and looked like the man who knows how to
make women work for his living. He had at once the necessary
elegance to make women proud of him, a groomed air of the
man of leisure and a suave manner that, one felt, could turn to
violence at the necessary moment. And in his eyes he had the
look of the cat who inspires a desire to caress but loves no one,
who never feels he must respond to the impulses he arouses.

He had a mistress who matched him well, who was equal to
his strength and vigor, able to take blows lustily; a woman
who wore her femaleness with honor and who did not demand
pity from men; a real woman who knew that a vigorous fight
was a marvelous stimulant to the blood (pity only dilutes the
blood) and that the best reconciliations could come only after
combat. She knew that when Antonio was not with her he was
at the Frenchwoman's taking opium, but she did not mind that
as much as not knowing where he was at all.

Today he had just finished brushing his mustache with
satisfaction and was preparing himself for an opium feast. To
placate his mistress he started to pinch and pat her buttocks.
She was an unusual-looking woman with some African blood in
her. Her breasts were higher than any woman's he had ever
seen, placed almost parallel with the shoulder line, and they
were absolutely round and big. It was these breasts which had
first attracted him. Their being placed so provocatively, so near
the mouth, pointing upwards, somehow awakened in him a
direct response. It was as if his sex had a peculiar affinity with
these breasts, and as soon as they showed themselves in the
whorehouse where he had found her, his sex raised itself to
challenge them on equal terms.

Every time he had gone into the whorehouse, he experi-
enced the same condition. He finally took the woman out of the
house and lived with her. At first he could only make love to her
breasts. They haunted him, obsessed him. When he inserted his
penis into her mouth they seemed to be pointing hungrily to-
wards it, and he would rest it between her breasts, holding them
against the penis with his hands. The nipples were large and
would harden like a fruit pit in his mouth.

Aroused by his caresses, she was left with the lower half of
her body completely disregarded. Her legs would shake, begging
violence, the sex would open, but he gave no attention to it.
He filled his mouth with her breasts and rested his penis there; he
liked to see the sperm spraying them. The rest of her body
would writhe in space, legs and sex curling like a leaf at each
caress, beating the air, and finally she would put her own hands
there and masturbate.

This morning as he was about to leave, he repeated his
caresses. He bit into her breasts. She offered her sex to him but
he would not have it. He made her kneel before him and take his
penis into her mouth. She rubbed her breasts against him. Some-
times this made her come. Then he went out and walked lei-
surely to Mathilde's place. He found the door partially open. He
walked in with his catlike steps, which made no sound on the
carpet. He found Mathilde lying on the floor in front of a mirror.
She was on her hands and knees and looking between her legs at
the mirror.

He said, "Don't move, Mathilde. That's a pose I love."

He crouched over her like a giant cat, and his penis went
into her. He gave Mathilde what he would not give his mistress.
His weight finally made her sink down and sprawl on the rug.
He raised her ass with his two hands and fell on her again and
again. His penis seemed made of hot iron. It was long and
narrow, and he moved it in all directions, and leaped inside of
her with an agility she had never known. He quickened his
gestures even more and said hoarsely, "Come now, come now,
come, I tell you. Give it all to me, now. Give it to me. Like you
never did before. Give yourself now." At these words she began
to fling herself against him, furiously, and the orgasm came like
lightning striking them together.

The others found them still entangled on the rug. They
laughed at seeing the mirror which had witnessed the embrace.
They began to prepare their opium pipes. Mathilde was languid.
Martinez began his dream of distended, open-sexed women.
Antonio retained his erection and asked Mathilde to sit over
him, which she did.

When this opium feast was over and all but Antonio had
gone, he repeated his request that she accompany him to his
special den. Mathilde's womb still burned from his plowing and
churnings, and she yielded, for she wanted to be with him and to
repeat this embrace.

They walked in silence through the little streets of China-
town. Women from all over the world smiled at them from open
windows, stood on the doorsteps inviting them in. Some of the
rooms were exposed to the street. Only a curtain concealed the beds. One could see couples embracing. There were Syrian women wearing their native costume, Arabian women with
jewelry covering their half-naked bodies, Japanese and Chinese
women beckoning slyly, big African women squatting in circles,
chatting together. One house was filled with French whores
wearing short pink chemises and knitting and sewing as if they
were at home. They always hailed the passers-by with promises
of specialities.

The houses were small, dimly lit, dusty, foggy with smoke,
filled with dusky voices, the murmurs of drunkards, of lovemak-
ing. The Chinese adorned the setting and made it more confused
with screens and curtains, lanterns, burning incense, Buddhas
of gold. It was a maze of jewels, paper flowers, silk hangings,
and rugs, with women as varied as the designs and colors,
inviting men who passed by to sleep with them.

It was in this quarter that Antonio had a room. He took
Mathilde up the shabby stairway, opened a door that was al-
most worn away, and pushed her in. There was no furniture in
it. On the floor there was a Chinese mat, and on this lay a man
in rags, a man so gaunt, so diseased-looking, that Mathilde drew
back.

"Oh, you're here," said Antonio rather irritably.

"I had nowhere to go."

"You can't stay here you know. The police are after you."

"Yes, I know."

"I suppose you're the one who stole that cocaine the other
day? I knew it must be you."

"Yes," the man talked sleepily, indifferently.

Then Mathilde saw that his body was covered with
cratches and small wounds. The man made an effort to sit up.

He held an ampoule in one hand, in the other hand, a fountain
pen and a penknife.

She watched him with horror.

He broke the top of the ampoule with his finger, shaking
the broken bits. Then, instead of inserting a hypodermic
syringe, he inserted the fountain pen and drew the liquid out.

With his penknife he made a slit in his arm that was already covered with old wounds and more recent ones, and in this slit
he inserted the fountain pen and pushed the cocaine into his
flesh.

"He's too poor to get an injection needle," said Antonio.
"And I did not give money to him because I thought I could save
him from stealing it. But that's what he has found to do."

Mathilde wanted to go. But Antonio would not let her. He
wanted her to take cocaine with him. The man was lying back
with his eyes closed. Antonio took out a needle and gave Ma-
thilde an injection.

They lay on the floor and she was taken with an over-
powering numbness. Antonio said to her, "You feel dead, don't
you?" It was as if she had been given ether. His voice seemed to
come from so far. She motioned to him that she felt as if she
were fainting. He said, "It will pass."

There began a nightmarish dream. Far away there was
the figure of the prostrate man, lying back on the mat, then the
figure of Antonio, very large and black. Antonio took the pen-
knife and bent over Mathilde. She felt his penis inside of her,
and it was soft and pleasurable, she moved in a slow, relaxed,
wavering gesture. The penis was taken out. She felt it swinging
out over the silky moisture between her legs, but she had not been
satisfied and she was making a gesture as if to retrieve it. Next
in the nightmare Antonio held the penknife open and he bent over
her parted legs, and he touched her with the tip of it, pushed it
slightly in. Mathilde felt no pain, no energy to move, she was
hypnotized by this open knife. Then she became wildly conscious
of what was happening—that it was not a nightmare. Antonio
was watching the penknife tip touching the entrance of her sex.
She screamed. The door opened. It was the police, who had come
to fetch the cocaine thief.

Mathilde was rescued from the man who had so often
slashed at the sexual opening of the whores, and who for this
reason would never touch his mistress there. He had been safe
only when he lived with her, when the provocativeness of her
breasts kept his attention diverted from the sex, the morbid
attraction to what he called "woman's little wound," which he
was so violently tempted to enlarge.

Anais Nin

Taken from Delta of Venus. Anais Nin


Anais Nin Writings

I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire....his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding.

Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.

I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

There are only two kinds of freedom in the world; the freedom of the rich and powerful, and the freedom of the artist and the monk who renounces possessions.

We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.

Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage.

If what Proust says is true, that happiness is the absence of fever, then I will never know happiness. For I am possessed by a fever for knowledge, experience, and creation.

Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together.

Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back; a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.

I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire....his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated.

Anais Nin



Domination. Anais Nin.

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.com/2011/05/domination-amera-ziganii-rao.html

Profile of Anais Nin.

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.com/p/anais-nin-profile.html

More Fiction from Anais Nin. Hilda and Rango.

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.com/2011/05/fiction-snippet-hilda-and-rango-anais.html

More Fiction from Anais Nin. The Queen.

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.com/2011/05/queen-anais-nin.html

Anais Nin Quotes.

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.com/2011/05/domination-amera-ziganii-rao.html


Other Links

The Other Side of Misogyny Pt ll. Women & Desire. Polly Young-Eisendrath

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/other-side-of-misogyny-pt-ll-women.html

Trophies of Beauty. The Achilles Heel. Amera Ziganii Rao

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/trophies-of-beauty-achilles-heel-amera.html

Jane Eyre Pt lll. Utopia. Only The Brave. Amera Ziganii Rao

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/jane-eyre-pt-lll-utopia-only-brave.html

The Beauty of The Female Beast. Amera Ziganii Rao

http://ameraziganiirao.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/beauty-of-female-beast-amera-ziganii.html

And God Created Woman. A Self Portrait. Amera Ziganii Rao Photography  

AMERA ZIGANII RAO. A PROFILE

FEMINIST AND HUMAN RIGHTS AND METAPHYSICAL PHILOSOPHER. WRITER. MENTALIST AND ARTIST

AMERA ZIGANII RAO ALCHEMY & LIBERATION & HUMANITY™

The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™

The Super Sacred Father Brother Lover™

The Return To The Source. Ascension.

The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™. When we were giants. All of us. When you did more than rape me.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Neo Feminist™, Post Tribe Social Reformer™ and Sacred Sexualist™. Human Rights Healer. Metaphysical Philosopher, Writer, Spiritual Intelligence Teacher, Hierophant (Interpreter of The Universe) and Mentalist Self Actualiser.

I can help you grow power, from nothing.

Alchemy & Liberation & Humanity™.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

The Sacred Whore High Priestess Hierophant™ and Sacred Pimp Warrior Protector, Brother Lover™ Society. The kings and queens of old. Angels and Sorcerers together in each of themselves and in the other. The Wizard life. Forever. Living and loving from The Source. Sourcery, Carlos Castaneda first said. I'll say it again. Sourcerers together. Living a life worth living. At last.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Re Writing The Human Race

Ascension therefore, is as political as spirituality can get. You have to stand up for Eve. Adam has to stand up for Eve. Publicly and completely. The Return to a new Atlantis takes nothing less than that. No one is ascending without the women. Not this time. Because this time, it’s real ascension. Not the male made version. Heaven is on earth. Heaven on earth, is honouring Eve. And honouring The Great Mother Universe that she comes from. To serve you. Honour her. Treat her as you treat yourself. As monarchy. You have to accept FEMALE power, in female. Female POWER. Honour that, you honour Eve. Dishonour that and you get nothing. Ascension cannot be achieved without total equality. It is the original state. Soul.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Witches are healers. Witches are the Love Healers and SOURCErers of The Lost World, when we were the giant warriors. We were good and so were were you. 'The World of Men'. The Tribe of Misogyny and Bourgeois™.

Gives us all a bad name. And poisons all hearts.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

Feminist Lolita Intellectuals™. You lucky man. A place at the table, a place at the Executive Table. That's all. The rest is easy.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2013

THE EVOLUTION OF HUMAN RIGHTS: APPLIED CONSCIOUSNESS™, NEO FEMINISM™, METAPHYSICAL PHILOSOPHY & SACRED SEXUALISM™. POST TRIBE SOCIAL REFORM™. POWER IS THE NEW LOVE. FREEDOM + HOPELESSNESS + SEX. NIHILISM FOR A SUCCESSFUL LIFE™ THE LOST KNOWLEDGE™ THE WIZARDRY OF BEING™ POLITICAL SPIRITUALITY™ TRUE NEW LOVE. BEYOND THE REVOLUTION™

SOCIAL REFORM. THE FIGHT FOR FREEDOM AND LOVE. SHAMANISM. PHILOSOPHY. TRUE (UNIVERSAL) LOVE. NEO FEMINISM™. ANTI MISOGYNY. THE ARTIST'S WAY. WIZARDRY. TRUE INTELLECTUALISM™. WISDOM. GONZO SPIRITUALITY. NIHILISM. SEX. SOUL. GOD, THE MOTHER, THE UNIVERSE™. SPIRITUAL EXISTENTIALISM™. THE VOID OF CREATION™. ALCHEMY & LIBERATION & HUMANITY™. HELL. SUFFERING. GROWTH. ASCENSION. LOVE. LIFE. DEATH. WARLORDS OF LIGHT™ TRUE LOVE & TRUE SEX. THE POST TRIBE SOCIETY™

The Company.

Writer, Speaker and Enlightener, Amera Ziganii Rao, is now putting together a comprehensive and unique programme of Alchemy & Liberation & Humanity™. A programme of learning that is specifically about one particular kind of woman. And one particular kind of man. The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and the Sacred Whore High Priest™, and the true society that they come from and the one they, in particular, she can and has to return to and that anyone can join her and him in. This is about Paradise on Earth.

This is about The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and the Sacred Whore High Priest™, and the Alchemy and Liberation and Humanity that is for all as a result of their healing and in particular, hers. This is about the kind of woman who is at the bottom of the pile in a Patriarchal Toilet Tribe from Hell Society™, the norm, the conventional world and the world of the Tribe. This is about the kind of man who is next in line from the bottom. The sensitive man and the female chattel. The High Priestess and High Priest of a profane society, that has long forgotten who they are.

This is about being at the bottom of the pile, for the forgotten and strangled shamans, and for her, the story of escape. Abused by her family, her friends, her men, her whole society, by the very nature of who she is and who they are and what has happened on this Earth. It is about women of love, of Spirit and of sex. It is about men of love, of Spirit and of sex. It is about the Cinderellas of this world. It is about the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™. Who she is and how, loving her is the secret to Paradise on Earth and how we have been living a lie for 8000+ years. A lie of male (non High Priest) religion with a male ‘God’ and with Patriarchs and Patriarchal types and Matriarchs and Matriarchal types ruling over us and making our lives hell, all in the name of family, the tribe and the way things are and should remain. Hate, fascism and profanity. A sick society that vilifies, more than anyone else, the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™, just because it was told to. A sick society that calls her Eve. A sick society that has forgotten who we all are, let alone the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and the Sacred Whore High Priest™. This is about us remembering and knowing who WE are.

This is a programme of healing for the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™, and the Sacred Whore High Priest™, to take them and particularly, her, from monstrous levels of low self esteem and lack of self knowledge, back to herself and it is a programme for all those who truly want to love her, and indeed, him. This is a programme for the greatest carers on Earth, who are vilified, destroyed, ridiculed, ignored, abused, used, misused and hated for being everything that those who would steal from us are not. This is a programme to turn Cinderellas into The Sacred Whore High Priestesses and for anyone who wants to love her or live by the values of the The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™. And this is a programme to turn sensitive men into Sacred Whore High Priests™ and for anyone who wants to love him and live by the values of the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and High Priest Society. Love, humanity, Spirit and sex. This is a programme to reverse 8000+ years of witch burning, women hating and healer ridicule. This is about the The Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and all those who would love her and live by her values.

This is about the chance for Paradise on Earth. This is a programme for the most beautiful, kind hearted, wounded women and men on this planet. A programme of how to implement a system of how to beat life, how to survive life and how to resurrect from the grief that is a true life. Alchemy and Liberation and Humanity of the lower mind into the higher mind, the soul and the inner heart and therefore one's true, confident, ‘happy’, successful, creative, sexual, sensual, individual, intelligent, emotionally healed, capable of loving and being loved self. How to turn grief into creation and survive and thrive, despite all the shit, all the pain and all the hurt. How to live in a world of madness, hollowness and cruelty and how to be a winner. How to stand up for oneself and to take back the power that has been stolen from anyone with heart, Spirit and sex. The art and science of Alchemy.

This is a programme, based on my scholarly and non scholarly work over 15 years (so far), if not for my whole life, and my extensive and intense, visceral experiences of self transformation from resignation, cynicism and despair to a state of relative bliss, and above all, the right to be. The programme and the courses and my speaking and indeed my forthcoming book, will cover the method of change. The psychological, sociological, spiritual, cultural, political, emotional and physical and even anthropological methods of change. Why we are here. Who the Sacred Whore High Priestess™ is and why she is here. And who the Sacred Whore High Priest™ is. Why we are here. Who we are and what we are and why we are. The beauty and glory of the truth. The meaning of life, no less. This will be on offer in the future.

My first book of consciousness, my first book of the spiritual politics of humanity, of authentic power and of self love and strength. A comprehensive series of online courses, live events and audio and visual material. Books, live events, CDs and DVDs. And one on one personal empowerment consultations. The Amera Ziganii Rao Method of Change™. The right to be and the way to have the right to be. And indeed, how to maintain the will to live without love. How to BE unconditional, self sufficient, self caring, self love. The right to be and the will to be and the unparalleled success that comes with that. The Lost Knowledge™. HOW to live. And how to heal others, the profane and the sick and the soulless. The others. My Business and that of any Sacred Whore High Priestess™ and Sacred Whore High Priest™, is Human Rights, The Right to a Sexual Society, Self Actualisation and Freedom.

My Business is To Overthrow Fascism, in the Home and in the Country. My business is also mastering destiny. Overthrowing the ultimate 'fascism'. Our journey on Earth and The Return To The Source. Our healing, our ascension and our redemption. Fate. The daily crucifixions of a true life, the challenges and the fury of being healers and people of love on a planet like Earth.

Submitting to the journey to liberate and evolve oneself, through following one's heart, however much heartbreak and devastation it leads to on the long long long journey to freedom and then the longer journey to happiness. 'Long Road to Freedom', as Nelson Mandela says. My business is always taking risks, never giving up and making the endless sacrifices it takes to become whole. Enlightenment, Nirvana and then Parinirvana and beyond. My business is pain. My business is bliss.

My business is seeing the truly glory of Spirit on Earth. The Sacred Whore High Priestess Society™ and all that it is. Spirit, humanity, sex and love again at last. And the end of our legacy as either servants or witches or unpaid carers or indeed, ignored mistresses, other women, other men even, and the weirdos that are at the bottom of society. This is our world and it is time to take it back and I can show you how. And that makes my life, truly, worth living.

I want you to feel the way I do. Alive, with the right to be and the belligerence to exist in this profane and male ‘God’ led world of male supremacy, female supremacy, domestic, casual fascism, tribe rules from hell, with beautiful and kind, love intelligence laden, female and male Cinderella warriors at the bottom, caring for everyone else and getting nothing but hatred, ridicule and isolation for it. The meek are already inheriting the Earth and I can show you how.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

I am THE High Priestess Monarch of the ancient past and I forgive you for becoming enslaved and taken over by the machines of the alien reptile force that invaded and took over Earth 8000 years ago. They taught you to hate me and my kind and you believed them. They told you I and my kind were dictators and that you were slaves, when all we had done was love you, honour you as companions and above all, we had let you just live.

We were the holy communers, the ones who gave birth to human beings, the leaders of society, the creators of society, the vehicles of Divinity on Earth and the channels of wisdom. The ones who looked after everything and the ones who built everything and ran everything, because we could. And because we loved it. We are and were the force of creation. And you loved us and you lived.

But they told you that you ‘deserved’ power too and that we were the ones standing in your way. And you believed them. The oldest ‘divide and rule’ strategy of hate in history and it worked. They used it and you bought it, hook, line and sinker. You had to give up sex, love, magic and your own spiritual gifts and you burnt, destroyed and violated me for 8000 years.

The world calls that male supremacy. And indeed, family supremacy, Matriarchal supremacy and supremacy of the material world and all who believe in it. Men and women like you. When all that you are are slaves to a reptile force to generate hate energy for them to live and thrive and vampire the human race. The puppets of a hate force, that chose to destroy women and men like me, for hate to grow, so they could live. You bought it and it worked. The greatest fraud in the history of the world.

I am THE High Priestess Monarch of the ancient past and I forgive you for becoming enslaved and taken over by the machines of the alien reptile force that invaded and took over Earth 8000 years ago. They taught you to hate me and my kind and you believed them. They taught you that my mind was evil. My mind, my sex, my body and my ways of life.

The humanity, the glory of sexuality and the glory of creation and creativity and the glory of Divinity in each and every one of us. Our souls. They taught you that human beings are separate from Divinity, that sex was wrong and that women who have minds of their own are uppity slaves. They vilified us but much much worse than that, they destroyed your relationship with all that is unseen, all that we honour and love.

They taught you to hate what is really God. By teaching you to hate us, you hated all that is good in yourselves. They taught you to hate the light. They taught you to kill us. The daughters of The Universe. The High Priestesses of God. The Spiritual Mothers. The Sacred Whore High Priestess Avatars of The Universe™. The Sacred Army of Love on Earth.

The Shamans, the Mystics and the Communers. The Hierophants.

They called me Eve and blamed me for the downfall of the human race and created the awesome profanity that is religion. Of men, by men and from men. Of reptiles, by reptiles and from reptiles. Christianity, Islam and Judaism and every other philosophy around the world was poisoned. There are no female spiritual leaders left. It is all profanity. They chose you to represent them because they wanted to divide us and they did. They told you to hate me. And you believed them. Now I am back and I forgive you.

I forgive you because I can. Because I came here to save your soul. And because I finally know who I am. I am THE High Priestess Monarch of the ancient past. I came here to return your soul to The Source. God, The Mother, The Universe. To return you to what is really God. Because I love you. And because She loves you and your kind, whatever you have done.

Whatever you have done to me and whatever you have done to Her. And most of all, whatever you have done to yourself. We forgive you. This is your redemption. Your freedom and your ascension. We are here to save your soul.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

You bought the Sacred Whore like a piece of meat and you called that a wife. Your trophy wives. Your dancing girls. Your chattel and serving girls. Your piece of beauty. You bought us like you would cattle. Then you called it wives. Now you call it prostitution. The High Priestesses of the real God. You bought us to buy God, The Mother, The Universe and you caged us, separated us from our Divine gifts and skills in the Temple and drove us mad and then lost interest in us, because we had no gifts left, no excitement, no hunter in ourselves and no hope or joy left. Then you just called us mad and discarded us. You called us evil and you call love obedience, even though it had already killed us. You moved into our Temples and you played with the divination tools and thought you communed. The destruction of Atlantis was your gift.

You stole us from God, The Mother, The Universe and you tried to usurp us. You vilified us, enslaved us and you still envy us today. You call it intuition. You might want to think about this when you hate us out of your jealousy. The mystic gene means physical tortuous pain and taking on the empathy of the human race. All their pains, evils and dark thoughts. We see and feel everything. We make crucial sacrifices to be near Spirit and the unseen and we go without for years. To be shaman is not glamour. I make it glamour. To be shaman is a specific Samurai existence, ascetic and harsh. We commune to be guides. And you take that and you shame yourselves because you just want the meat. You didn’t just want the meat. You wanted our beauty of spirit, our personalities and our love and kindness. And you destroyed them, because you caged us and called us wife.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

The High Priestess Sacred Whores, the High Priests and the true protectors. Those who do not have the gift like either the High Priests or especially like the highest of all, the High Priestess Sacred Whores but who honour, protect and facilitate them to the world. Who honour the Shaman Sacred Whores of this world most of all, and who know who they are and who they are not. Who know the difference, who do not envy and who protect and love the representatives of Spirit, GOD, THE MOTHER, THE UNIVERSE, on Earth. Who honour their wisdom and who honour the latent Shaman in themselves too and who honour the communing ability of the High Priestess Sacred Whores. The non violators. Our only friends. The New Society exists. It is called Enlightenment. It is called Love. It is The Holy Grail.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012

The master race. It's all a lie. You are brought up to be a despot king and it is only your sister who ever tells you that you have become a pratt. The master race is all a lie. There are no kings in an equal world. Your father was misinformed. What he brought you up to be was a killer. Pure and simple. A misogynist. A modern misogynist. A polite killer.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

I enter the magical hours of pure feeling, pure thought, pure imagination and I think and I write and I 'mysticise' the Universe. I escape at will, the truth of my humanless, Samurai solitude, and I pursue the truth of love in myself and in everyone else. I am philosopher. I am shaman. I am alone. I frontier the Soul to be spirit on Earth.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Amera Ziganii Rao is a former hard news journalist who is now turning professional with her art forms and indeed, her healing forms, after a long journey of inner searching, self teaching and exploring many layers and areas of both craft and wisdom. She is now working on her first book of philosophy and esoteric thought, and social, cultural and spiritual commentary. She is also showing her first photography collections. And last but most definitely not least, she is building a business to share her Sacred Whore High Priestess Society consciousness and empowering explorations to reach as many people as possible across the world. She is in her forties and lives in London.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

In the meantime, please enjoy this website. I have included many of the subjects I am covering, areas of experience and insight that I will be exploring to the fullest in my book, the courses and all the other work that is to come as a dramatist, novelist and essayist. I also of course, include many of the wise people on this planet, who have come long before me; authors, screen dramatists, playwrights, film makers, artists, and other enlighteners and grand carriers of the wisdom I have found the most helpful on my journey, to find peace and become enlightened. The seemingly impossible journey, in the face of oneself and one’s circumstances. People who have contributed massively to my healing on this mad journey called life, in this insane existence called The Universe. People who have helped to make me as good a carrier of wisdom as I in turn, can be. Thank you.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2011

Copyright and intellectual property rights are serious issues. And legally protected. Please do not reproduce my work anywhere without due credit and obviously, never for financial gain. 'Big Sister' is watching you! Other than that, please continue to enjoy my original work and the work of (credited) others, for free, while I work on using my material in further professional formats. Thank you for your interest and support.

Amera Ziganii Rao © 2012


Amera Ziganii Rao © Digital Darkroom Art

Thank you to outside source for originals