Three books of warped & mysterious female supremacy over the male resulting in sexual and domestic servitude constitute this month’s Editor’s Choice selection…
And for truly a fraction of their original retail price!
AND THE THEME FOR OCTOBER…?
Men who find themselves helpless in the face of occult and supernatural feminine power.
And helpless in ALL ways!
Our first adventure in the world of erotic mind control and occult domination is “Revisiting a Woman of Haiti”, Rafael Menton’s extended and revised edition of his interracial classic of possession and servitude as a smug London professor of the sciences has his logic and his very manhood decimated by a visiting female mesmerist from the voodoo isle of Haiti…
HIS WILL WAS AS NOTHING TO HER…
A snippet of the text contained in: “Revisiting a Woman of Haiti”:
Under a dazzling autumn sun on a fateful Saturday morning, the last of the friends, family, and other well-wishers offering “Bon voyages left the ship for the Southampton quayside and the S.S. Menelaus left to navigate its way to New York.
A destination that would see us transfer to a different and far smaller vessel for the trip down the eastern seaboard and across to the former Hispaniola itself.
And when I say “Us”, I refer to myself, the monstrous and growingly terrifying Nahomie, together with Fabienne Toussaint herself.
I am no closer to understanding the origins of her strange and demonic mesmeric power and even further away from discovering a means with which to combat it.
For, believe me, had there been the slightest sniff of a chance I could do so, I would have availed myself of the opportunity with enthusiasm.
And to hell with the consequences of failure.
Yet here I was, dressed in clothing that marked me of the domestic class, unpacking the cases of the Haitian woman who insisted she owned me.
And in a cabin markedly more luxurious than my Steerage accommodations.
Supervised by the spiteful and unbending Nahomie, whose joy in my unwanted subjugation was at least a match for that of her mistress.
My own case is unpacked and awaits my attention when I return to my cramped and shared accommodations in the bowels of the ship.
That I am no longer an English gentleman of the academic class is obvious to all who see me in company with a black woman and her maid to whom I cannot help but behave so deferentially and the looks of contempt I receive cut me to the bone.
From the passengers of whatever class to the crew, no matter the position of service they themselves occupy.
The looks were thrown my way range from surprise to disgust, and even anger that I could be so weak as to act in such a shaming and deferential way towards a woman of Fabienne Toussaint’s standing.
They know nothing and, even if they did, their understanding, along with the contempt and the pain their opinion of my behaviour fetches me, would not affect my dire situation one whit.
I am to be, Fabienne Toussaint has assured me, her manservant and her bondsman.
In other words:
Her chattel and her… slave.
And yet, this is not the worst of my mental afflictions.
That ongoing torture became plain this morning as I waited for the carriage of my… mistress ….to carry me from my rooms in Bayswater to Waterloo Station and the early train to Southampton…
HE HAD ESCAPED THEM ONCE… BUT NEVER AGAIN…
With “Ancient Sorceries Revisited”, Sandrine Bessancort brings us an erotic and doom-laden homage to the fiction of the great horror and mystery writers of the nineteenth and early twentieth century.
Read on as a timid and unwitting English civil servant breaks his return journey to England to visit a sleepy and strangely compelling French village.
A village which seems eerily familiar and soon exerts a most disturbing hold over him.
And especially the large and overpowering landlady of the hotel in which he stays and her feline and even more commanding young daughter…
A snippet from “Ancient Sorceries Revisited:
There are, it would appear, certain wholly unremarkable persons, with none of the characteristics that invite adventure, who yet undergo an experience so strange that the world catches its breath and then…
Looks the other way!
The world, of course, asks for some plausible basis to which it can attach credence—something it can, at least, pretend to explain.
And adventurous types it can understand: such people carry about with them an adequate explanation of their exciting lives, and their characters obviously drive them into the circumstances which produce the adventures we so envy and would, in the main, be unhappy to experience.
We and the world expects nothing else from them and pronounce ourselves satisfied. But dull, ordinary folk have no right to out-of-the-way experiences, and the world having been led to expect otherwise, is disappointed with them, not to say shocked, when such people have the temerity to experience an “adventure”.
Complacent judgment has been rudely disturbed.
“Such a thing happened to that man!” we cry.” Before asking: “A commonplace person like that?”
It is too absurd!
There must be something wrong!
Arthur Vezin was just such a man and just such a breathtaking adventure came his way so many years distant from this description of the erotic and horrific avenue down which – despite his natural circumspection – he was led and where, for all we know, he still remains.
A timid, if not weak, man for whom the opposite sex held the appeal of something exotic and desirable and, in having such an effect, placed itself beyond the wherewithal of poor Vezin to take that necessary forward action that would bring him into contact with the objects of his… dreams.
The wherewithal necessary for that “contact” to be made would be supplied for this most sexually unadventurous and timid of men, it turned out, by someone and something else.
For the unlikely leading man in our tale, the spying of a well-turned ankle below hour-glass hips and the swell of a full and womanly chest above; presided over by a face of character – simple prettiness did not interest him to any extent; was unlikely to lead, as it did with most men, to attempts on his part to make acquaintance with the latest damsel to take his eye. An inability to act in accordance with the time-honoured rituals governing male-female commerce that led, subsequently, and as may be expected, to ingrained bachelorhood. As well as many solitary and wistful imaginings on the subject of the fairer sex.
Though not lacking in either virility or lustful desires, Arthur Vezin found it easy to persuade himself that nature had decided he was not a kind to partake of marriage and family and looked for compensations elsewhere; a transference of energies ensuring he applied great diligence to his career and rose – if hardly dazzlingly – within the ranks of Foreign Office bureaucracy to a position of respect and responsibility, if not power.
“An adventure?” those who knew him would scoff on those rare occasions when his name came to the fore. “Vezin? Poor, commonplace, Vezin?” The laughter greeting such a preposterous assertion being, you may be assured, a general reaction. “There is a man, mark my words, who is fore-ordained to live and die according to the scale of his own excessive caution.”
But, whatever his method of death was, or is likely to be, Vezin himself certainly did not “live according to scale”.
Not, at least, so far as this particular event in his otherwise uneventful life was concerned.
To read his account of it, which is about to related to you here from his own journal he entrusted the French and British postal-services to place in my hands, is to have the pale delicate features he describes brought to life and hear his voice grow softer and more hushed as his tale proceeds. The fact, even as he writes, that he is a man under the influence who, despite knowing the nature of his affliction can no more overcome it than he could lop off his own head, is self-evident. For even a stranger to the man when reading his journal would recognise instantly that this was a man in shackles.
And shackles, moreover, of the most irrevocable kind.
The bondage of either metal or rope providing with it, at least, the hope of deliverance from that which is visible to us; while the chains certain superior creatures can fasten about the thought processes of those poor souls placed upon this earth to service their desires – those same unfortunates whose only hope of deliverance is never to encounter one of their number – are never tangible. And neither are they susceptible to the liberating attentions of either locksmith or saw.
The events described in his journal were made all the more curious – at least to our unlikely hero – by the fact he was already more years beyond forty when it occurred than he felt happy confiding to the less than tight-lipped care of the paper which he confided to your narrator after it had arrived upon the desk of his Foreign Office colleague – and the closest Vezin had to a friend – some time on from Vezin’s non-appearance from his yearly walking trip to northern France and the villages of its borders with Belgium.
Likewise his unfamiliarity – if not in his imagination – with the fair sex was not a lack he would feel comfortable trumpeting to the world at large. Though it must be said, it was probably the desire for these wondrous beings, the same desire that saw itself thwarted by his natural timidity in such matters of human commerce, that led to his being delivered already in manacles and leg irons to the woman – little more than a child really – who…
Apologies.
The fault is mine and I beg your indulgence that I may compose myself.
I rush away with myself and beg your forgiveness for endangering an un-commonplace tale with commonplace impatience.
I must steel myself to concentrate on first matters first; lest I murder our story in its infancy after the fashion of those wives, mothers, sisters and girlfriends who kill a tale in its re-telling by interrupting to reveal its ending while it is yet in embryonic form and, thus, kill that enjoyment to which the listener is understandably justified in anticipating and its teller happy to impart.
Suffice it to say for now, that Arthur Vezin, of all men, was surely the least likely to wander into the irrevocable and supernatural situation about to be described and succumb to the perverse and heavy eroticism of whose existence he had, until then, shown himself utterly unaware and, as you may already have gleaned, been completely impervious to its dangerous allure had it been brought to his attention.
Thus we begin again:
FIRST HIS GUINEA-PIG.. THEN HIS MASTER…
The final book in this month’s triad is Sandrine D’ Honfleur’s “The Shaming of Purbeck”, her take on the Robert Louis Stevenson classic, as the young housemaid a driven scientist has chosen as his unwitting specimen in an experiment to separate good from evil becomes something entirely more… malignant.
Malignant and dominant.
A snippet from “The Shaming of Purbeck”:
There were three of them nursing brandies around the club’s roaring fireplace, but only one of them was speaking at that moment, holding court as the others followed his every word with expressions ranging from disbelief to repugnance, unsure as they were whether his tale was fictional or factual in nature.
The warped sexuality at the heart of the tale serves only to heighten their repugnance and distaste.
If not their disbelief.
The club itself was indistinguishable from any number of “Gentlemen’s Clubs”, from London’s Carlton House Terrace in which it resided, to its counterparts throughout the capital itself – though it was unlikely a story of the kind being told would be found in any of the environs belonging to its counterparts.
And would if it were to be found, be a tale spoken in the same hushed tones it was spoken of now; despite the fact it was mid-afternoon and the club was almost deserted but for the three of them and a single retainer required for the serving of drinks.
All of the men were in their late-sixties or headed there and were alike in both learning and temperament; the speaker himself is a man of a sombre and unsmiling countenance as well as – again, just like his listeners before the fireplace – a man who was somewhat backwards in both sentiment and imagination.
Judgemental must go without saying, as he was also a man with but the most limited experience of those more physical and metaphysical adventures likely to enliven what would otherwise be a long and drab life – though it must be said, and in spite of his own emotional aridity, that he had been known at times to help rather than punish and reprove those he found in extremis, and be sympathetic rather than allow his natural and judgemental disposition a free rein.
Such was the case now.
At sixty-nine, he was the elder of his two companions by just one year and three respectively; even if the foam of white resting upon the high forehead cresting the dome of his skull was a little more arctic than the snow-capped peaks upon the heads of those whose eyes and ears were trained upon him.
His name was Cedric Winterton and his professional life had been spent within the various and more elevated branches of academe as, at first, a teacher and, now, lecturing on the less than pulse-raising subject of higher mathematics – though, to listen to him on it, there could surely be no more exciting and worthy way to spend a lifetime than in the study of such a “perfectly beautiful” subject.
And yet, for all his personal dryness, Professor Winterton was a modest man and loyal to a fault to those who fell under the limited umbrella of his friendship.
Without family, his friends were mostly those who followed the same dry occupation and interests as himself.
He was well-known and respected for not being given to tittle-tattle or repeating of unfounded allegations.
Which made his willingness to speak in such a frank and baldly sexual way of a younger friend and one-time pupil in such a… personal …way – though he neglected to mention him by name – all the more surprising to the men listening who had known him on at least “clubbable” terms for a decade and more; their surprise made a little less complete in the presence of the man’s obvious agitation and concern and the realisation he needed to either confides his story to someone or burst – even if their opinion was that the story was indeed fictional and the normally dry professor had been so taken with it he simply had to relate its contents to others.
In this, the two listening men were wrong; but it would be only the passing of time and reportage that would reveal their error to them.
The younger friend in question of whom the listeners were in ignorance, was none other than Dr. Alistair Purbeck, M.D., D.C.L., L.L.D., F.R.S. At one-time a gifted mathematician and, now – though not perhaps for much longer – an even more gifted and respected researcher into the causes of those ailments – physical and mental – with which even the healthiest of are afflicted from time to time. A respected researcher who was not in the best of places on either score himself.
After having sworn both to secrecy in respect of what he was about to confide to them – despite the fact he named no names – and feeling vindicated in the sharing of a secret he had thus far kept to himself by the knowledge newspapers and gossip would soon make it common currency, Professor Winterton had waited for their brandy-tumblers to be refilled, ensured they could not be overheard and began the tale that would end in the public ignominy, sexual shame, and ultimate downfall of his youngest friend.
“I am not in possession of an end to my story at this time and, when I am, I do not suspect it to prove of a happy kind, but soon, perhaps later this evening, perhaps, myself and the world will know more.”
Having no belief in the truth of the outlandish subject their friend was laying before them and having given no inkling he had the least gift for storytelling, the two listeners were in quite a confusion as to whether what they were hearing was real or imagined.
The professor’s next words not helping them any.
“In the meantime, however, I shall relate to you those events with which I am familiar…”
***
Three adventures in wifely and interracial female control and psycho/sexual-domination for a fraction of their retail price.
If you have suggestions for the themes to be used going ahead with the monthly “Editor’s Choice” feel free to add a blog of your own highlighting what you would like to see by way of a compilation and I’ll do my best to oblige..
Enjoy!
Editor
FDC.
