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Wednesday, September 24, 2008

The Baddest Bitch In Town: Part I

A Perfect Kali-Incarnate flexes her social muscles.

-I need you to get your pathetic fucking ass over there into that corner and sit down. And you stay there! If I look over at any time and you're not sitting there, I will come and find you and I will beat your fucking ass to a pulp! Do you understand me, asshole?
-Yes, Ma’am.
-Good. Now get the fuck away from me and let me mingle. There are a quite a few good-looking guys here tonight, and I want to meet them all.
-Yes, Ma’am.
_Yes, Ma’am, she mocked cruelly. Get out of my sight, pig. Just remember to stay put over there.

It is hard for many people to believe that the man in the conversation just recorded is an exceptionally handsome former actor and model, a man who has always been accustomed to having any girl he wants. Everywhere he goes, he gets hit on constantly. The woman that has just degraded him with such abject malevolence is a fat, gorgeous bombshell of a woman named Misty. Not exactly your run-of-the-mill Hollywood starlet. The scene unfolding before us is provocative indeed, as we will quickly begin to wonder what keeps such a desirable man, with so many prospects, groveling at the feet of a massive bitch that mainstream culture would generally consider a BBW curiosity at best. Well, that’s part of the point. Public perception and the real world of sexual violence and domination don’t always walk hand-in-hand.

To begin with, we should point out that Misty is no ordinary Fat Chick. She is, in fact, a perfect Kali-Incarnate. She is a rare creature indeed, as Kali comes in perfect incarnation almost exclusively to women of color. We know then that Misty is a most special kind of woman. What qualities does a white woman need in order to be possessed by Kali? It always depends on the situation. But whatever she’s got, it is most certainly something that is key to the destruction of Kali’s target. Perhaps Kali has been seeking dominance over this man for reasons of her own, and knowing that Misty is possessed of the necessary qualities for ‘landing’ him, she is come in this particular form. But here, this scenario is unlikely. Her victim here has never been known to be attracted to big girls before, and has certainly never shown any signs of interest in domination. Perhaps we shall learn more simply by letting the story unfold.

Misty is decked out in a skin-tight black cocktail dress that is obscenely short, especially for a semi-formal occasion such as the one they’re attending. She wears matching black vinyl go-go boots with scandalously high stiletto heels, and trims her look with accessories of red. The Devil’s color scheme. Her gargantuan breasts threaten to explode from the confines of that little nothing of a dress at any moment, and her spectacular cleavage is doing a number on the whole room, ladies included. Her fat, sexy body wrapped so tightly in that black spandex, her big legs wreaking havoc with each powerful step she takes, Misty’s incredible total package dominates the scene with an ease and arrogance that is laughable.

As she scans the room for her prey, she naturally gets the most vile looks from the other women, women who know exactly how badly they’re being outclassed, and who also know they couldn’t do anything about it if they tried. One makes a comment to her friends who break into a fit of snobbish giggling. Misty turns and moves toward them with purpose. She addresses the loud-mouthed bitch.

-How would you like me to rip your fucking head off your shoulders and let your pussy-assed friends here drink the blood? Don’t you think it would make a lovely little exhibition? Here, in front of all your fans?

Her expression says she means it.

-Or, if you prefer, we can take it outside and I’ll plant your fucking ass upside down in the garden. How about that?

The catty bitches disperse immediately.

Misty makes the rounds, flirting with the men and intimidating their women. Every so often, she looks over to make sure that hunky boy is where he belongs in his corner. No problem. He’s cowering there, scared shitless of doing anything that Misty might perceive as insubordination. It doesn’t take her long to find her target; a wealthy doctor, average looks, a very attractive wife. That’s the perfect combination. She can do this any way she wants. She could walk right up to him, step between him and his wife, and simply walk him out the door if she wanted to. Instead, she decides to take it slow, to tease him and torture him until he’s begging her to allow him to be a good little puppy and follow her home. She’ll get to torture the wife this way, too. It starts easily enough; dark, sinister, sexual glances across the hors d’ oeuvres table. He’s already ensnared from the first satanic smile. His eyes desecrate her fat, glorious body and she laughs to herself, thinking how ridiculously easy this is. She begins to wish there were more of a challenge to it. Misty flaunts her mind-fucking legs, turning ever so sensually this way and that. Within minutes he’s practically drooling, complete with shit-eating grin and nervousness beyond description as he gets the picture, worries about the wife. For her part, Misty just keeps ratcheting up the heat. Suck on a strawberry, burn through with the Devil’s eyes. Work him into a frenzy effortlessly.

Now it gets pathetic, in a hilarious sort of way. Ole Doctor tries to make his move. Excuses himself from wifey. Bathroom break, check in with his old friend (whom he hates) Dr. Lanier. Talk and talk and say nothing and eyes following this monster of a woman, the most glorious thing he’s ever laid eyes upon. She stalks him, teasing mercilessly, flashes of cleavage, hikes of skirt, undulations of exquisite ass. It doesn’t take long. He catches up with her at the bar. Dumb chit-chat he starts. Not for Misty.

-Give me 60 seconds, she says, and you’ll be divorced by Wednesday.

Oh shit. It’s for real. She pushes her phenomenal fat thigh up into his crotch and breathes hot whiskey into his brain.

-How do you want to do this? He asks.

-For starters, introduce me to your wife, Misty answers.

-Excuse me?

-Hard of hearing, Doc?

She leans into him, inviting a kiss.

-I can’t do that.

-Mmm. That’s a shame. Could’ve been very nice. Oh well.

She begins to walk away.

-No, wait!

Misty smiles knowingly.

-Yes…

-Why would you want to meet my wife?

-Well, I think it’s only right that she should know who you’re fucking tonight. And why.

-Why?

-Yeah. Why? Why are you fucking me tonight?

He looks at her, incredulous, trying to put something together.

-Who are you?

-You know who I am.

-Oh God.

-Say it.

-Shit!

-Go ahead.

-You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever seen.

-That’s it?

-What else is there?

Misty laughs at his candor. Throaty, bourbon-laced rasp.

-Mmmm. Nothing like an honest man. So you’re into arrogant fat girls, eh?

-Can’t say I’ve ever even met one.

-You should know, Doc, that I am VERT demanding. A supreme bitch, really.

-I need you.

-More than you need her?

-A hundred fold.

-OK. Then introduce us, and let’s get this thing over with.

-I can’t.

-Shall I just go tell her myself, then, or do you want to go home with her?

The good doctor needed to walk away. Right here, right now. But he made the cardinal mistake. He kept looking at her. Flaunting that magnificent body, that bombshell sexuality.

-Feel my ass, she said. Go ahead, she won’t see.

The good doctor reaches behind her, trying desperately to be discreet. His hands make contact with the most incredible flesh ever to grace the physical plane of earth. He trembles; nervous, near-destitute. It becomes a violent shaking. He can’t control his body. He knows he is lost, but doesn’t yet know how to surrender. He guesses the introduction is his next move.

-What’s your name? He asks.


Proper little wifey is making small talk with acquaintances, and has already taken on an attitude from what she considers her husband’s extreme rudeness in failing to be attendant to her. She is accustomed to having her fragile little ego fed at these socialite shindigs by the good doctor’s continual fawning over her. Tonight, he’s been A.W.O.L. and it’s got her pissed off. Now she sees him coming with this fat fucking harlot in tow, and she goes steely. Eyes of Ice. Deep blue.

-Darling, he begins, I’d like you to meet a patient of mine. This is Misty. She’s—

-He’s lying, dear, Misty interjects. We’ve never met until tonight.

Both women give doctor the evil eye.

-You want to try it again, sweetie? Misty asks.

-Well, darling, he stammers, the truth is that…well, the truth is that I’m going to need to spend a little time with Misty this evening.

Deafening silence.

-Because I…because I…

-Will you say it? Asks Misty.

-I-I

-Because I’m going to fuck his goddamn brains out, dearie, that’s what he’s trying to say. We thought you should be the first to know.

-I see, says wifey. Oliver, is this some kind of a joke?

-I’m afraid not, he says contritely.

Misty looks the elegantly slender wifey up and down.

-You see, she says, ‘Oliver’ here has finally come to the conclusion that he needs a little more ‘substance’ in his life. He’s quite right in thinking he’ll get it from me.

Misty laughed her devilish little laugh and took Oliver’s arm in a sort of grand gesture that was sure to be noticed by many in the room.

-I think you’d better take your sleazy hands off my husband, ‘dearie,’ and right now!

Misty smiles at wifey with supreme contempt. She could squish this little pencil-neck like a snail.

-I see, she laughs. Or what? You’ll huff and puff and throw a glass of Dom Perignon on me?

Come on, Oliver. Let’s go.

-Oliver! Protests Wifey.

-I’m sorry, dear. I’ll try to explain it to you later. It’s not what you think.

Misty leads him away, mouthing the words toward wifey; ‘Yes it is!’ She parades the good doctor around in front of the partygoers, clinging romantically and proudly to his arm. He is well-known by almost everyone here and the spectacle of Misty’s utterly unexpected presence has caused an uproar all around the room. People are circling around wifey now, who can only continue to watch in disbelief as her husband makes his way to the exit arm-in-arm with the God-Queen of Women.

-I just need to pick up my husband before we leave.

-Your husband?

-Of course. You don’t think that I engage in such trivialities as cleaning, cooking and the like? No, no. That’s what a good husband is for.

Over in the corner, Hunky boy has been sitting faithfully, awaiting the return of his owner. Unfortunately for him, a woman has stopped to engage him in chit-chat at just the wrong moment.

-What the fuck are you doing? Misty demands. You know better than to be talking to strangers!

-I’m sorry, Ma’am. She just stopped here and—

Craaaaack! Misty slaps the living shit out of him, knocking him off his chair. One glance at the woman and she is off and running.

–Why do you do this? Why? I try to be nice to you, to let you sit here and watch me, and this is the kind of shit I have to put up with.

Misty jerks him up by the hair and slams a massive thigh into his mid-section. Hunky boy screams out briefly and then goes silent as she has completely kicked the wind out of him. He begins to struggle, and as he does, she thrusts his head between her plump, gorgeous thighs and drops to the floor, crushing his brain in a powerful head-scissor hold. It doesn’t last long. Within a few seconds the force of her big legs on his skull causes him to throw up violently. As he pukes out some very bizarre-looking multi-colored excretions, Misty bursts into demonic laughter, especially amused at the horrified looks on the faces of the stuffed-shirts and blouses all around. For them, it is like a scene out of some unimaginable nightmare. Misty quickly finishes Hunky boy off with a flourish, giving the last few seconds a substantial tweak in psi, and causing his body to convulse wildly from the pain and the almost certain cranial damage. The crowd is standing back, keeping their distance from this beast of a woman. She agilely picks herself up, straightens her skirt, and looks down upon her husband. He’s in bad shape. He is still throwing up a little, and doesn’t seem to have recovered yet from the big knee bash that robbed him of his breath. He lies on the floor, twitching uncontrollably.

-If you’re not in the car in exactly 3 minutes, mister, I’m coming back in for you. I don’t have to remind you what that means!

With that, this giant powerhouse snatches Oliver on either side of his face, pulls him toward her and plants a luscious, wet kiss on his lips. She practically devours him as the crowd looks on, gasping. The good doctor struggles only slightly at first, quickly giving in to the most incredible kiss he’s ever had in his life. Misty doesn’t stop. Tongue, teeth, and lips in a virtuoso performance. Hot red lipstick adorns his face and he clutches at her now, desperate for what she’s got, and completely severed already from the world around him, his world.

They take their leave, arm in arm, and Dr. Oliver is all hers. Misty points out her car and tells him to drive around to it. Having obviously been through this drill numerous times in the past, Hunky Boy arrives at the car just under the gun. He is staggered, still heaving to fully recover his breath, and noticeably agitated, fearing he wasn’t going to get to the car on time. The doctor pulls his car up and Misty commands Hunky Boy through the window.

-You’re damn lucky you got out here on time, Jackass, she said. I am VERY disappointed in you tonight. You’re going to being staying home for quite a while because of this. Now I want you to follow us to Oliver’s house, park the car and await my orders. Do you think you can handle that, dumb-ass?

-Yes, Ma’am.

-Good. Now you stay right behind us and don’t you dare get lost. If you do, call my cell phone. But know that I will be seriously pissed if that happens.

-Yes, Ma’am.

-Fucker’s becoming downright insolent any more, she says to Oliver.

-He’s your husband? Asks the good doctor.

-Shut up! You will speak when you’re spoken to, and not before.

Her gruff command took him aback, but also had a strange effect on him. He didn’t stand for such talk from women, and yet he now found himself feeling aroused and fascinated. He had never before been attracted to domination, at least not consciously. But this powerful woman’s unqualified control, not only over him, but over his wife, the others at the gathering, and not least this poor good-looking fellow who was her husband, well, the whole thing had his cock throbbing in anticipation. In anticipation of he knew not what.

Stay Tuned as The Horror Continues in PART II

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Kali Among The Tribes: Life In The Spirit

-That's not right.

-Yes it is.

-It's not. There's a feel about the thing.

-The place?

-No, but--well, yeah, that too. But I meant with her. I don't know exactly how to--

-You said that before.

-About her?

-Right. I still don't see it.

-You totally missed it.

-How could I? We were both here.

-But not the whole time. I think it happened while your mind was wandering.
And I think you daydream too much. That’s some fuckin’ imagination you got on you.

-That’s got nothing to do with it.

-We’ll see. C’mon. Let’s keep going.

Farther along the corridors. It’s a short walk but seems to take forever. A kind of shadowy golden light laminates the doors and walls. From another time. Just old enough to remind one of home, of origins. Two young men of sound mind in search of experience; in search of their own depths.

-God, it was fucking glorious, I tell you. There were—there ARE—other places, man.

-You and your ‘other places.’ Are you done?

-Why did you come, then?

-I’m looking for something, too.

-How do you remember it, then?

-I’ve already told you. A vision, pointing us toward something else. Something we haven’t found yet.

-But you say you didn’t see her.

-No, I said I didn’t RECOGNIZE her! Why are you having so much trouble with this? All I’m saying is that she couldn’t have revealed herself like you say, that’s all.

-She did. And it was fucking glorious.

-(Shakes his head in frustration) C’mon. Just a little bit farther, I think.


-That’s right, you fucking ugly piece of shit monkey, take it! Take all of it, goddamn you. See? You like it, don’t you? Fucking stupid monkey likes sucking cock! Don’t you fucking gag, motherfucker! You take it deeper, c’mon, all of it.

She rams Paul Bunyan’s dick all the way into his mouth till it's tickling the back of his throat. He can’t help gagging.

-Speak up, bitch! She taunts. Let’s hear you speak now. Go on!

Muffled grunts, TV gorilla sounds. She thrusts her hips forward so hard this time that the force nearly jerks his head off and the gargantuan, big-ass strap-on dick may well have punctured his lung, judging from the way he went into seizure mode. She jerks it out with a swift whipping of her regal hips and the fucker throws up all over the place. Strung upside down and blindfolded is one hell of a hard way to puke your guts out. She slaps his puke-drenched face back and forth with the massive dildo. Beat ya senseless, motherfucker, that’s what’ll happen to ya. Slap welts and a fuckin’ harelip onya with this big hard fucker! (Where do you get a dildo this big? Gotta be for mules, for chrissakes.) Guy could be dying from throwin’ up upside down, choke to death or some shit. He’s definitely kinda spinning out here, but big girl just laughs and laughs. Points at him, taunting. Spits on him. Oh, she LOVES spitting on him. Total contempt when you spit right in his worthless fucking face. Repeatedly.

She turns her big ass on him and sticks it in his face. His face perceives those divine, massive orbs, smooth as silk and stronger than dirty bombs. Nose fulla puke, he can still smell the animal bouquet of her asshole. She shoves that meaningless nose deep into it. He’s still not through puking and it’s running down her leg as she grinds her beautiful fat ass into his face. Growing bored, there’s nothing left to be done but to cut him down and fuck his ass up royally. She flips a lever on the wall that releases the ropes and Pig-boy Shit-balls falls straight down on his fucking head: Really hard. Twitch, kick, spazz, flip and flop. Super funny shit and she’s laughing her ass off. Reaches down so arrogantly and pulls him up by his hair to a sitting position. Rips off the blindfold.

-You’re gonna watch this shit, motherfucker, she says. Now get your ass up.

He’s like fucking stunned from the whole trauma, and she has to help him to his feet. No problem, jerk his fucking hair up even harder. Omigod, he’s just standing there trembling, hardly able to stay upright. He’s naked, with puke all over his face and HIS cock is almost as big as Paul Bunyan’s dick. Well, not quite that big, but springboard steady, to be sure. She laughs at him again, the ultimate humiliator, She.

-Keep those hands down, now, she says. I’m gonna show you what it means to be a woman!

She rears back and sucker-punches him, all she’s got, bare knuckles, right in the middle of his face. Blood spurts, puke flies, and he goes down like a $2.00 whore.

-Awwwwww, he moans.

He shivers on the floor.

-Get up, she says, standing over him. Get up right now, or I’ll fucking kill your ass!

He tries, but that blow was massive. His nose is bleeding badly, and split lip for sure. Again, it takes some hair pulling to get him up. She gets him to his feet, still yelping, and VERY SHAKY.

-Hands down, motherfucker! She yells.

Here it comes again: Straight right fist hard to the mouth and he almost flips over backwards as he hits the floor.

-Ohhhhh! Ahhwwwwww!

His groanings punctuate the triple blood flow she got out of him with that one. Knocked out the fucker’s front teeth. Lip looks like someone cut it open with pinking shears, and the nose: broken sure. Writhing epileptic style on the floor in blood pool, puke-laced and scarcely knowing. She isn’t finished. The afternoon drags on longer.

-Get up! She keeps yelling, but no response.

So, for who knows how long, she keeps picking him up by that hair, propping him against the wall, raining punches like mortar fire, and watching him slam to the floor again and again, gurgling pathetically. Beating him to a bloody pulp with her devastating bare fists.

-I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to kill a man with my bare fists, she says. Well, fuck-boy, (slams another uncontested roundhouse into the wretched remains of his face, disfigured beyond recognition) maybe you get to find out, too, hmmmm?


It’s so cold out here. Godforsaken except for the stars. Beautiful multitudes of them, sharp and crisp as crystals, strewn to the outer limits of eye-grasp. Unseasonable, this near-frost in the brambles of the 4-corners. Spirits of slain red warriors dancing through our minds as we seek to hook one and curry a ride into dark and dazzling higher dimensional space. Not so easy, but what an arena within which to make ones' stand! The moon is full and beats like a musical heart exuding its energy in spades.

-Goddamn, aren't you freezing?

-Definitely cold.

-It's eerie out there. Too quiet.

-It's supposed to be quiet. It's the middle of nowhere, for chrissakes.

-Not even a fucking cricket.

-Probably frozen. Besides, I don't think they're out this time of year.

-Guess not. Hey! Check out this bedroom. We didn't see this one before, did we?

-I don't think so.

They turn this way and that, snooping by the moonlight that spills through the curtainless window.

-Nothing in here. Look out there, though. Man, I'm tellin' you, it's fucking creeped-out out there. If you just keep looking, you can see something. Something moving, just a little bit.

-Where?

-Different places. Just look for a second, will you?

-See, this is exactly what started the whole thing. You kept talking about seeing spirits.

-No, I didn't. I said that YOU were. And you were confusing them with this so called 'perfect woman.'

-No! That's not right!

-Whatever. Are you looking?

-I'm looking.

Do they really exist, all those shadows he sees moving? Now that it's dark, the familiar glow of the afternoon sun abandons him to the quantum vagaries of the desert night. Looking out onto the stark landscape, there's a feeling that grips you. LOTS of extra-dimensional shit going out there, even for the unbeliever.

-There! It's fucking Indians, man. I'm tellin' you, it's like spirits and shit out there!

-(Frustrated) C'mon, now you're the one not making any sense. There's nothing out there but scorpions, and it may be too cold for them, too. There's nothing in here, either. I thought you said it wasn't much farther.

-I didn't think it was. But everything is different now. Now, I don't know.

-Look, here's the hallway. C'mon, let's try to find another room.

Dimmest sliver of light some ways down. In his head the vision of Indians shifts to hot legs and ass. Moving, moving. Mmmm. Provocative.

-I think I see it, he whispers. A girl's legs and maybe her ass. Really nice.

-Fat or skinny?

-What?

-The legs.

-Ahhh, sorta medium.

-That's not it. But try not to go back to Indians.

-OK.

Closer to the light now. So faint, such a sliver, but sure. Groping, groping, feeling for wall. Then...

-Omigod, there's the door.

-Jeezus.

-C'mon. Slowly.


They push it open, and there she is. In the dim light of a small table lamp. That face; unspeakably fat and beautiful. She sees them peering through the doorway, and wicked witch-laughter, shrill and terrifying, fills the thick chill of the air. She is lying on a buffalo rug, a man's head buried between her huge, gorgeous thighs, his face shoved up tight into her ass, only a small shock of hair lying limp against her sublime white leg-flesh. She wears black thigh-high stockings, held in place by the delicious straps of her garter belt. On her feet are skyscraper high heels, and her voluptuous upper body and luscious fat arms complete a vision of omnipotence incarnate in female form. The man's body has long ago gone still. She continues to crush his skull just because it amuses her. The two lads hear the cracking sounds as those powerful legs bring their immeasurable pressure to bear.

-I told you, goddamit, I told you!

-I didn't remember. Shit! I'm sorry. Why couldn't I--?

-But I kept telling you! Fuck! Let's get outta here!

Legs flutter ineffectually. Going nowhere, and now the cold reaches the bones and marrow. It happens in dreams, too. Running, running, struggling with everything you've got, but you can't move.That wicked laughter. The strange flicker of light from that bedside table lamp. Terror grips the heart as it all begins to add up.

-Ogod, it can't be her. I can't move!

-You've got to! C'mon!

-Shit!


Morning falls on the red soil in and around what the White Man calls Monument Valley. A small dwelling in the remote desert is surrounded by legend, by tales of a Woman so powerful that she crushes men like cockroaches, of strong young male bodies broken into halves by the press of massive legs, so beautiful and so strong that no one who has ever come into their presence has lived to tell about it. All around the world, in cities large and small, the spirit of this fat goddess is alive in violent women who control their own destinies with their iron wills and killing-machine bodies. She is Kali, Eternal God-Queen of Destruction and Death. You may recognize her on sight in one of these exquisite women. If you do, you will just as quickly catch a glimpse of your own fate. But there is nothing you can do to alter it.

Monday, September 1, 2008

Study #1 for Makeda


-Bet you don’t know this one, Makeda said, addressing her protege. Then she turned, glaring balefully at the terrified young man standing at attention before her.

-On your knees, pig! Now!

Her naked subject fell at her feet on command, but he didn't get there fast enough. Makeda slapped him across the face.

-Don’t you ever disrespect me, maggot. We clear?

She slapped him again. Hard.

-You sit right there and look at my thighs. Breathe deep through your nose, and don’t stop looking straight forward at my legs until I tell you different.

Another violent crack from the palm of her hand across his reddening face.

-Don’t you know how to address a lady, asshole? You say ‘yes ma’am’ when you’re spoken to!

-Yes, Ma’am.

She turned back to the exquisite young woman in the smokin' hot lingerie who was taking in the scene with rapt attention. Her name was Senta, and she was a big exotic black girl from Amsterdam.  This blessed child of Satan had it all, a perfect, fat power-body, unbelievable sexuality, a gorgeous face, and an attitude that was pure venom. Makeda was here to take her to the next level. To show the new dog some old tricks, as it were. Makeda was past her physical prime, but that made no difference. Experience, sexuality, and beauty were in such rare combination in her that she could easily have been considered the most powerful Kali-Incarnate existent in the present. Only the rarest of new incarnates would have challenged the suggestion.

-Now I know you’re no stranger to leg worship, Makeda continued. But what you probably don’t know is that you can keep this up for a long-ass time, and if you do, some strange shit will start to happen. How long do you usually demand leg worship?

-Mmm, I don’t know. A few minutes, I guess. Until the fucking dick either obeys or disobeys.

-Exactly. But what you need to do is just let it ride. No if’s, no consequences, and a minimum of threats. Just make him stay right in front of you. Tease him as hard as you want. With the fat on your legs, like mine, your slightest movements will make your thighs shimmy, and trust me, he won’t be able to handle it for long. Then, you just let things take their course. I like to just hold the situation for as long as possible and see what kind of shit starts happening without my doing a damn thing.

-Like what?

-You never know. That’s what’s so cool about it, the element of surprise. I had an idiot once stayed perfectly composed for almost 45 minutes. Got a little teary-eyed, but no major reactions. I just kept it up, shifting position, jiggling my thigh meat, making him smell my gorgeous flesh and perfume, the scent of my wet cunt. I knew I had to be getting to him, but still he held firm. Then, all of a sudden, he lost it. Jumped to his feet screaming and crying, you know, hysterical! He ran headlong to the open door to the balcony and, girl, I mean to tell you he flung himself right over the railing! And guess what? We were 23 stories up! Fucker splattered onto the pavement below like a goddamn bug on a windshield. Unbelievable.

-No shit!?

-Oh yeah. I could tell you some stories. Look. This one’s already starting to get the shakes.

It was true. Meditating on those big, powerful legs he had begun to make transition.

-Shakes are pretty standard here, said Makeda. He’s starting to realize some heavy shit right about now. Most of all, he knows he’s mine. She addressed her subject again. You just keep your eyes locked on my thighs, shithead, and everything’ll be all right.

He obeyed, and Makeda stamped her leg again, just slightly, causing her leg-flesh to quiver enticingly. The young man bristled noticeably and let out a slight whimper. Makeda snickered at his growing subjugation. She kept it up, just standing before him as he worshipped her, adoring her meaty, gorgeous thighs. Senta had never seen anything like this. She watched in amazement as the young man became increasingly more agitated, while Makeda did basically nothing. He soon began to tremble harder and his whimpers turned to a steady pulse of soft crying.

-Come closer, Makeda said, so you can smell me better.

She laughed gently as he moved slightly forward, her unrelenting, divine scents ravaging his soul in their floral elegance. His crying became louder, and again the shaking increased in intensity.

-Looks like he’s going to explode, laughed the young apprentice.

-Mmm, I don’t think just yet, said Makeda. I think he’s still got room to ‘grow.’
Looking down between his folded legs was a pulsating cock the size of a horse’s, dying to find expression. The flesh of Makeda’s thighs was wondrous. Soft, but still shapely; fat, with the outer texture of black satin, and obviously still possessing the power to crush the poor subject’s skull to powder if she so desired. She continued to stand there, a living altar, as his silent prayers for mercy soared, in rapid fire succession, into oblivion. As each eternal minute passed, the subject grew more agitated, his crying increased in intensity, and his shivering escalated toward the point of convulsion. At one point, he attempted to lessen the torture by furtively closing his eyes. A useless ploy.

-Look, said Senta, the dip-shit just closed his eyes on you!

-I know, Makeda answered calmly. And you’d normally slap the shit out of him here, wouldn’t you?

-Absolutely! Or worse.

-No, Makeda smiled. You’d have then missed the point and value of this technique. Let’s watch what happens.

She let him keep his eyes closed, but ordered him to move his head forward slightly. He obeyed immediately, tears flowing now from his closed eyes, and blubbering like a baby. He was almost touching her now, but of course, she’d make sure he didn’t QUITE get there. He was so close he could almost feel her flesh, but the main thing was that her glorious scent was increased again by his added proximity, and that began to cause further problems. He shook even harder, the bawling kicking up another notch. This was a man in sexual and religious agony, his devoted worship leading him further and further into the purifying fire of transcendence.

-You may keep your eyes closed if you wish, Makeda said softly, but if you touch me with your pathetic little spasms, believe me, you have no idea what torture is until you do something to piss me off like that. It’s your choice, of course.

The poor bastard’s brain began to disintegrate under the strain of such a choice. In the end, his fanatical need to behold her majesty won out and he opened his eyes again. The returning sight of those thick, gorgeous legs caused him to erupt. He began to bawl hysterically now, losing all control. His body appeared to have made contact with some unseen, highly-charged electrical force-field.

-Omigod, laughed Senta, stick a fork in that motherfucker. He’s done!

Makeda remained somber, holding her mood.

-Oh no, she said. Not yet. Hold steady, you goddamn pig! She commanded him. Get yourself together, and I mean right now! You’re not going anywhere, and if you think you can shirk your responsibility to me by acting like a fucking child, you’re sadly mistaken. Now sit still and shut the fuck up.

He tried to calm himself, but without much success. He clasped his hands in prayer, then, overcome by his agitation, reached out shakily with them as if hoping to hold on to Makeda’s legs for stablity.

-Don’t even think it, she said.

He folded them in his lap again, but could not quell the seizure that had gripped him. All the while, he continued to stare right into the eye of the hurricane, where her luscious upper thighs met with her naked, fragrant, wet cunt. Try as he might, he could not calm himself.

Crraaaack!! Makeda slammed a powerful slap across his face.

-I mean it, she said. You’ve got three seconds.

She ripped another brain-scrambling slap across the opposite side of his face.

-1…2…

The force of the blows was sufficient to jar him back to his senses just enough to gain some measure of control over himself. He managed to bring it back to the steady gentle sobbing and sustained, but less violent, quivering.

-Back to your prayers, shithead, she said, and don’t think for a second that this willful behavior of yours won’t be counted against you. It will.

The scene was beginning to turn surreal as the subject remained on his knees at Makeda’s feet, sobbing, trembling and offering up occassional streams of jibberish as his mind continued on its way to ruin. Gradually, everything began moving again toward code red. He burst into a weird and frightening mixture of howls, crying, indecipherable mumblings and ramblings, puncuated by actual screams; loud and terrifying. At the same time his shaking returned to the level of severe convulsions.

-Keep focused, motherfucker! Makeda admonished him. Don’t you dare turn away from me. Look at these legs!

Now, she turned them slightly, this way and that, flaunting them even more sensually and powerfully. The subject actually began to jump up and down slightly from a kneeling position! Then Makeda shifted back and forth, causing each thigh to jostle deliciously just inches in front of his face. His face had turned alabaster white except for the slap marks on each cheek.

-NOW, he’s ready to explode, Makeda laughed.

Then, gyrating in place like a human juggernaut, wailing incoherencies like some alien schizoid, he suddenly fell almost silent and still. He knelt there for a long second before his body started to heave involuntarily. Out of nowhere, he began to throw up. It was not a violent vomiting spell, but actually almost gentle in contrast to the intensity of his convulsions just prior. He vomited down the front of his body, then heaved again, most of that landing on Makeda’s legs. The vomiting episode lasted a few minutes until the subject gagged on a couple of dry heaves, sighed loudly, and then fell into a quiet stream of gentle sobbing, still staring straight ahead at Makeda’s legs, which had rendered him virtually catatonic without ever even having touched him.

Senta was stunned at this display of omnipotent power, having previously no conception of the existence of such sophisticated psychological mastery over a man. She smiled in amazement as Makeda now shifted into the mood of Kali-in-Celebration, reveling in another lop-sided triumph. She began to laugh loudly, demonically, overjoyed at her subject’s state of abject compromise. As the tears rolled down his face, she commanded him to begin licking the vomit from her legs. At the same time, she taunted him mercilessly.

-What’s the problem, you fucking maggot? Big woman too much for you? Go ahead! Tell me I’m God-Queen! Confess me as Lord and Savior, asshole!

As he began licking at her legs, the contact, finally, with her divine flesh was too much. He most likely was confessing her as Savior, but all that came out of his mouth were more and more other-worldly bursts of incoherent babbling.
He continued to lick and scream, becoming increasingly agitated and presently began vomiting again. As the scene continued, it became a grotesque and horrifying affair. Vomit splattered everywhere, especially on Makeda’s lower body, where the now crazed subject continued to wail like something inhuman, trying to lick her clean even as she laughed and taunted and shoved his face repeatedly into the puddles of his own puke. Senta stood looking on in disbelief. Even so precocious a Kali-Incarnate as she had not before born witness to this brand of dehumanizing destruction and humiliation. Makeda had turned this man into a thing before her very eyes; an unrecognizable life form so far from human it made her a little edgy. And all without doing a thing! Simply standing before him and watching him disintegrate in the very act of worshipping his goddess. Heady stuff indeed for a young woman new to the ways of Transcendental Religious Ministry. Nearly breathless herself, she knew at that moment that she still had a lot to learn.



Thursday, August 28, 2008

Kali as White Destroyer

Rampant Destruction, Remorseless Violence. God's work. Revelation in action. The God-Queen speaks through her. Goes by Diane. Fatal mistake, he didn't know her. He saw her, but he couldn't recognize her. The end was slow, torturous, brutal. Her big body overpowered him easily, utterly unchallenged. Her mastery over him was so complete it was actually comical.
She wore nothing but a pair of lacy black panties and matching black patent leather high heels, and she was a vision of voluptuous perfection. What a woman! She must have weighed around 210 lbs., most of it legs, ass and huge breasts. She told him to go into the kitchen, light a burner, and stick his hand in the flame. He complied instantly. She just stood there next to him, laughing as the flame singed his skin well down into the flesh. He wouldn't dare remove it without her permission, so he just stood there screaming. Finally, instead of telling him to remove it, she just reared back and cold-cocked the poor fucker. I mean, laid him out with a roundhouse right. She is so strong, too. Her big arms and big body behind that punch knocked the living shit out of him. He goes down on the kitchen floor, nose bleeding badly and hand smoldering. The whole place reeked of burning flesh.

Then she pulled him up into a sitting position against the kitchen wall, and holding him in place by his hair, she hammered him with repeated knee and thigh bashes into his face, each powerful blow causing more blood to flow and more screams to go up. She finished off the flurry by thrusting her whole massive lower body into him, smashing his head into the wall with her powerful hips. He slumped over sideways, his body suffering violent paroxysms as she stood over him laughing and taunting him with severe verbal abuse. Those huge legs of hers smashing repeatedly into his face had caused extensive damage; crushed his nose completely flat, broken his jaw in 2 places, and knocked out his front teeth. The hip thrust had undoubtedly caused a concussion. Blood was pouring now as he spit first one and then another tooth out onto the floor. Unfazed at the nightmarish scene she was so handily orchestrating , she kept pushing the envelope.

-Get up!, she said. Are you gonna let a girl beat the fucking shit outta you like this? Get up, goddamn you!

Of course, there was already no hope of that. At the moment, all he could do was lie there writhing in mortal agony.

-Ignore me, will you? We'll see about that! Look up here, right now. Look at my fucking tits, asshole! If you get up here I'll let you suck on them. One minute on each one. Isn't that better than getting your ass kicked some more?

He managed to turn his head shakily as his body kept squirming and look up at her. Her breasts were huge, perfect torpedoes of the most sumptuous flesh, so beautifully shaped, so plump, so inviting. Looking into the bloody mess that was his face, Diane cracked up hard again, adding insult to injury with her insatiable propensity for humiliation. Unbelievably, his desire for her somehow enabled him to override the intense damage his head had been forced to endure. His hand still smoking, he continued to yelp as the violent throbbing persisted, but despite it all he miraculously tried to pull himself up, gripping first a drawer handle, and then the oven door handle to get almost as far as his knees. Diane continued to tease him mercilessly with those enormous tits, dangling them this way and that, just out of reach of his desperate, bloody lips.

Just as he finally got his feet underneath him and as the faintest hint of a grateful smile caught the corners of his lips, she laughed at him mockingly and drove him back against the wall, holding him firmly in place with her forearm jammed hard against his throat.

-Poor baby, she chided. Did Mama lie to her little baby?

With that she went back to work with her weapons of choice, her fabulous fat legs. She drove a big, powerhouse knee into his abdomen; not once, not twice, not thrice, but four devastating blows. On the fourth, she released him and he folded up like a wallet and crashed forward headfirst into the hard tile floor, throwing up violently as he went down. Those crushing leg blows had also completely robbed him of his breath. The combination of the vomiting spasms and the inability to breath caused him to make freakish squeaky gurgling sounds that were positively inhuman. Reaching down and jerking his pants down over his ass, Diane saw that his cock was fully extended, dribbling pre-cum in the throes of his agitated excitation.
-Yummy! she exulted.

She dropped down and began to give him the most exceptionally stimulating blow job he'd ever had in his life. The polarity of feelings within him was unbearable. Writhing, gasping desperately for breath, hand burning as though it were still in the fire, head crushed, jaw broken, nose broken and still spitting out teeth; in spite of all this his cock throbbed quickly to the point of explosion, and the expert sex Vixen, Diane, recognizing the moment, abruptly stopped, adding denial of orgasm to his long list of injuries. She laughed her sexy, witchy laugh at him, and as he lay there convulsing, she reached down into a cabinet and pulled out the largest pot she could find.

As she took it out, she swung it hard at him, bouncing a severe blow off his head with the heavy pot. Then, she filled it with water and put it on the stove to boil.

-You've got about 5 minutes, she said. 5 minutes to get your fucking breath back and be up to at least a kneeling position. And if you fuck this up, I promise I will fucking kill you and be done with it! You read me, you fucking slug!?

All he could do was twitch, bleed, and puke. Diane nonchalantly fixed herself a martini and relaxed at the nearby kitchen table with a cigarette. She crossed her outrageously hot legs, and dangled her glistening high heel playfully as she enjoyed her drink and smoke. The whole time her victim had been doing what her victims always did; writhe on the floor, bleed and make the most peculiar noises. It had gotten to be a habit with Diane to see how unusual the noises she could force out of them might be. Today, she cracked up at the squeaks and gurgling. But now, he was regaining his breath. That was all she needed in order to proceed.

She put out her cigarette and walked back over to the stove. The full pot of water was just reaching a boil.

-C'mon, she said. Get your ass up. Sit up, or I'm gonna make you wish you had never been born!

He couldn't quite make it on his own volition, but Diane aided the cause by jerking him into position by his hair. Breathing sketchily now, he was still in serious agony and as he looked up at her magnificent breasts hanging over him he started to cry.

-Shut up! she said, bitch-slapping him hard across the face.

There must've been one more loose tooth in there, as her slap caused him to spit it out. Bloody kernels littering the floor. Diane turned to the stove and the water was boiling furiously now. Ultra-scalding hot. She took two pot holders, and knowing that her subject would never be able to stand at this point, she told him to hold out his hands and take the pot from her. He appeared quite wobbly as he tried to follow orders.

-Take it, goddamn you! And if you drop it, it's over for you. I will fucking bury you in the yard if you don't do this right. Now take it by the pot holders and hang onto it, idiot!

He didn't know much at this point, but he knew Diane meant business. With all his remaining strength he held the pot of water, already sure of its purpose.

-That's it, moron, she said. Now, dump it over your head while I watch. And I mean every last drop of it!

Tears filled his eyes, blood and vomit drooled down his chin and taking one last look at those glorious tits, he followed her instructions. The scalding water washed down over his head and onto his body and there has never been screaming to equal this. He drops the empty pot to the floor and takes flight; rolling, spinning, flipping, flopping, freaking shaking, quaking and the whole time SCREAMING! Diane stood right over him, practically analyzing his agonized movements as she laughed and laughed. She laughed continually until she was in pain, and the whole time he never slowed down, gyrating around the floor like a spinning top; a severely bloody spinning top.

Diane fixed another drink and sat down with another cigarette, enjoying the spectacle of her creation. The whole time she continued to laugh and laugh at her victim's plight. His unspeakably frenzy lasted almost ten minutes before he finally came to rest heaving in desperation. Chuckling to herself, Diane tossed off the rest of her martini. She then walked over to him, laid down on top of him, dropped her massive breasts down over his mouth and nose, locked her arms behind his neck, pulled him in tight and finished the job.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Two Studies for Public Worship of The Divine Kali

Study #1.
Sometimes it just happens. Nothing you can do about it. You knew from the start you were taking your life into your own hands with such a big, dominant powerhouse as she. Admittedly, you're always at least a little nervous, worried about what happens if you fail to please, but you are well-acquainted with her rules by now, and you feel sure everything is fine.

Carrying her packages on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. She loves to shop, and you've been anticipating her every need perfectly. Just that one half-step ahead of her. The way she wants you to be. You're walking along, just slightly behind her, according to protocol, when suddenly she looks over her shoulder at you. Then again. Something is wrong, but you don't know what it is. These are nerve-wracking moments. You're not allowed to speak without being spoken to, so asking her what you can do for her comfort and pleasure is out of the question. You're beside yourself, trying to figure out what it is. After a few more steps she becomes exasperated.

-Kneel down, Pig! she commands. Right now!

You are carrying a few dresses in clothing bags. You hold them up high so they won't touch the ground as you drop to your knees instantly on the sidewalk.

-Look at my ass!

Her ass is huge; big, round, beautiful. She turns it right into your face and a storm begins to brew inside. Her mega-hot shorts riding up over the delicious convex arcs of plush, perfect flesh that separate her spectacular ass from her luscious, creamy thighs; a scene that destroys minds. She stamps her leg down causing the whole complex to gyrate playfully, toxic as some futuristic hologram of nerve-gas. The tight shorts unable to escape entrapment in her ass crack. And you feel it all slipping away.

-Smell my legs, she says.

You lean slightly forward, just inches away and your nostrils drink down the poison fury of her floral bouquet. Sweet, lilting perfume in concert with the divine scent of her flesh. Struggling, struggling to keep those dresses from touching the sidewalk.

-Sniff my ass! she says. Stick your fucking nose right up my crack!

Crowded sidewalk. Onlookers abounding. You plant your nose firmly between those exquisite ass cheeks. You feel the soft, demonic flesh attack your soul through contact with your face. Suddenly you tremble, wildly. Losing contact.

-Do it!

You inhale deeply just as she looses a huge fart into your face. You breathe deeper, deeper; don't want to lose one molecule of it. Laughter. Riotous laughter erupts all around, not least from her full, strawberry lips. Abject humiliation. She transforms you, as she has so many times before, into something sub-human. A receptacle for her body's waste. Somehow, details always seem to slip quickly into the ether. All you remember then is the unbearable longing that accompanied your throbbing, steely hard-on.






Study #2.
They keep saying I have choices. Go where I want, do what I want, think what I want. After all, I'm a free American and all. The sound of such notions is vaguely familiar. Faraway, echoing on distant shores of memory, mine perhaps, but slid down some kind of dark hole way ages back.


Surrounded by shadow. This darkness mocks me, insult upon insult. Hands grope feeble in the nothingness of discarded worlds. My legacy is but her footnote. Dreams of old were always about faces, places, colors and sublime actions. Actions of love, actions of joy, actions geared toward this-sided warfare. All dead now, as I am soon to be as well. Her Incarnate name is Salikka, but I know who she is. She is Kali come in her extraordinary black perfection. She is Original Woman. Her power is limitless. I have seen it before in visions of the real-to-come. I have seen it in the great silences induced by her presence in hideous nightmares and the other terrifying events that comprise the prophetic experience. Serving her is a duty I take with utmost seriousness. It’s just that she makes you pay such an extortionate toll for it.

This week, I am her pig. Not even her dog, you understand. She will allow me to serve her only as pig. She makes me grunt and oink. She makes me practice it, ad infinitum at her divine feet. She makes me squeal ‘Suuuuuuuueeeey!!’ She makes me eat garbage. She makes me eat her shit. She makes me eat my shit. She makes me eat dog shit. She has used me as her all-purpose receptacle this week; toilet, ashtray (she loves to smoke and drink) and garbage disposal. (My only meals) She has already told me that I have 2 months. If I am not completely insane and committed for life to some asylum, then she will have no choice but to kill me.

While Salikka was pissing into my mouth this morning, she told me I was to accompany her to a ‘lingerie softball game’ today. Mixed blessing, as I went crazy seeing her in states of glorious undress, but terrifying too, as I knew my ‘pig’ duties would be substantial. She walked me into the park on my leash, completely naked, crawling desperately on all fours to keep pace with her. Whenever she batted or made a play in the field I had to squeal at the top of my lungs, and between innings I was required to lick the sweat from her phenomenal satin-black flesh, a task which, needless to say, thrilled me no end. She was so hot at the plate! Her outrageous body, adorned in pink panties, pink cap and white top made my cock pound with excitement. She even used a matching pink bat! The way she crouched, awaiting the next pitch; with her incomparable big ass sticking out, blowing minds for miles..Yes. She was a vision of smokin’ hot perfection.

When the game was over, she went to work immediately on breaking me further. First, she hooked up with a nice-looking white boy who was hanging around for the game, hugging him, kissing him, telling me how she was going to fuck his ever-lovin’ brains out, just to drive me wild. I knew she didn’t care about him, and that always made it harder. I wished her well in love, but I found it unbearable when she used men only to punish me, to make me feel ever more inadequate.

While people were milling around, she called for me. I crawled out to her, sitting embarrassed and naked before her in the company of at least 8-10 acquaintances, most of them girls. They all giggled and commended Salikka on her little pig-slave-boy. In front of this whole group, she proceeded to make me sit up and beg—piggie-style—to lick her ass cheeks. I obeyed, sitting up with hands hung limply, and grunting and oinking for the privilege of my mistress's ass. At length, she complied with my request and I began to lick her incredible black cheeks quickly and thoroughly.

-Stop! She commanded.

I backed up. She then planted a serious wet kiss on her little white boy wanna-be, instructing me to watch unswervingly or face serious punishment. I never really knew why it hurt so bad, but it did, and I began to cry.

-Piggie-style, bitch! She yelled.

I started ‘oinking’ my crying, which cracked everyone up so badly that I quickly couldn’t be heard above the din of howling mirth.

-Stick your face up my ass, Pig! She demanded.

Bawling my eyes out, cock pounding like a jackhammer, I jammed my nose between her ass cheeks. Again, the group broke into riotous laughter, congratulating Salikka on the comprehensive quality of her conquest. I held my face there, whiffing down Salikka’s exquisite odor of sweat-soaked flesh with hints of perfume and shit swirling in the mix. After a few moments, however, the indescribable sensation of her plump, powerful ass cheeks against my face became too much for me. I lost contact with reality and began to scream. Salikka had launched me (somehow) into another place, another dimension, I felt. Though she commanded me repeatedly to shut up, I continued to scream bloody murder. Everyone continued to laugh, but Salikka had stopped. She sensed my mental state and knew it had to be dealt with. I was locked between the worlds, and had to be either sent forward, or driven back. She jerked me violently from her ass, reared back, and with her whole body weight, sucker punched me right in the middle of my face. I went down like a bag of dirt, still screaming after I hit the ground.

-Look at me, bitch! She screamed.

Lying on my back, I looked up as she commanded, only to see her gigantic ass directly above me, gesturing, weaving back and forth. With no warning, she dropped down upon my head; an enormous Dumbo-Drop that caused me to go into major convulsions instantly. She remained seated upon my face, watching my body kicking wildly for a couple of moments, and then got up. As she moved off of me, I rolled away in unprecedented pain, clutching my head in abject agony. Salikka laughed like the devil she is and waited for me to come to rest. Having done so face down, she kicked me over onto my back, stood haughtily over me, and dropped again on my beleaguered cranium. That was it. As I lay there twitching like a soon-to-be corpse, the strange thought crossed my dying mind.

Better Kali’s Pig, than King of the World.

As it turned out, Salikka didn’t kill me after all, though it was close. Needless to say, I didn't survive the two months. Shortly after the softball game her unrelenting torture broke me completely. Today I live in a maximum-security asylum for the mentally insane. My mind processes nothing but confused clouds of Salikka-memories. Nothing of the up-and-coming. For me, there is no such thing. I don't speak at all, but sometimes when I close my eyes I see those two names flashing across my brain: Salikka....Kali....Salikka....Kali.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Kali's Origins: Part I

With regard to methodology in any kind of detailed historical study, we are accustomed to the notion of proceeding chronologically. There is nothing mysterious about this. The most comprehensive way of grasping the scope of any historical phenomenon is to understand its progression from origin to ending, including any ramifications extending beyond ending into the future. With this notion of methodology I am generally in agreement, but there are certain instances in which aspects of a subject are given greater clarity by isolating them from that chronological flow in order that they may be understood more clearly within that ‘before and after’ framework later on. The study of the incarnation of the God-Queen Kali presents us with such an instance. Because her power and presence are so richly compelling and her origins so complex, it has always seemed to me that anyone with a sincere interest in becoming familiar with her should benefit from an introduction to her person in this plane as a way of having something tangible to work with in the context of the larger study to be undertaken in retracing her pre-existent manifestation in higher-dimensional space-time. Simply put, let’s get to know the most extraordinary female presence in universe history a little better before we begin sifting through the complex data that comprises her incomprehensible totality.

Kali's history stretches much farther back than her incarnation in quadratic-dimensionality. In understanding her origins, we must know something of her pre-existence in the Satanic Eternity and this involves the acquisition of awareness and transcendental mystical skills that are beyond the scope of this article. Our intention is to leave her pre-history aside for the time being, and do some hard work in discovering her origins on this plane, in the 4-dimensional world. This begins with the investigation of writings and images of Kali as they have been created down through the ages. As we will see presently, it's not such an easy task. On the historical front there is far more in the way of contradiction and randomness than there is in coherent data upon which a unified picture of Kali's earthly manifestation can be erected.

The majority of extant imagery depicting Kali comes down to us through art and literature of Hindu culture. In studying this imagery, one is immediately struck by the fact that she is presented in a variety of colors. She is black in some renderings, brown in others, and even more or less white in more than a few. She is also depicted in blues, greens, lavenders, etc. The list goes on. This fact is usually attributed to artistic license, subjective interpretations dependent upon the painter's particular conception or intent. The artistic license theory always provides an easy way out of historical curiosities, and the presence of the Divine Kali is no exception. When no further physical facts can be discovered to explain variations in cultural discourse or archaeological inconsistencies, it is almost a matter or course that we find historians falling back, to some extent at any rate, on the artistic license theory. Painters forge their artistic visions for reasons largely unknown to future generations, and the motivations behind their efforts die with them. It's a logical, and more often than not, satisfying way of dropping the subject.

As it turns out, in the case of the Divine Kali, there is good reason for arrival at this historical dead-end. This is due to the fact that Kali's incarnation is not a strictly historical matter, in the traditional sense of the term. It is actually more of a metaphysical matter, a 'metaphysical history,' if I may be so bold. Now, it must be admitted that historians generally know precious little in the realms of philosophy and metaphysics, and the manifestation of Kali in our dimension happens to require extensive understanding in both of these disciplines if it is to be properly understood. The key here is the realization that Kali's incarnation is not a singular one. It is, in fact, plural! She is come in a multitude of forms and guises, and it is this transcendental fact that continues to confound traditional research. For those beings--whether they be human, extra-terrestrial, or ephemeral--that have ascended to Cosmic Consciousness and beyond, it is common knowledge that Kali is come in an infinity of incarnations and continues to do so until the time of the Great Transformation. We have been saying that our visual conceptions of Kali come predominantly from paintings and sculpture, and, keeping the foregoing in mind, we can now ask the artistic question again with an eye toward obtaining a meaningful answer. Paintings and sculpture are created by artists, and what do we know about artists? Artists, being typically more in tune with supra-mundane happenings than the common folk, have more of what we could call an ‘insider’s view’ into reality, and it is evident to anyone willing to compare the various images of Kali that have come down to us that the disparity in these works represents something far more significant than artistic license. It represents the multifarious states of the subject herself. The truth is that the (predominantly Hindu) artists of antiquity obsessed with rendering her were already aware of Kali’s endless variety of incarnations. They were witnesses to her reign of destruction and death in a multitude of guises, just as we are witnesses to the same phenomena today. Many indeed may have lost their lives in her wake upon completion of their artworks. Kali is eternal, the forms of her incarnation, infinite. But what of her original incarnation? How did her father, Satan, choose to initiate her presence in quadratic-dimensionality, on the world stage?

To discover the answer we must avail ourselves of the earliest pieces of documentation available, and more importantly, of archaeological evidence tracing the origins of humankind itself as far back in time as possible. This entails suspending the prevailing idea that Kali was a goddess 'out of India.' To begin with, the documentation out of India is sketchy as to Kali’s origins. It is remarkably detailed as to her functions and her basic mode of being, but when we try to gain a clear sense of who she is and where she came from we quickly become lost in a maze of different names, different sources, different motivations and, naturally, different colors to go along with all these different interpretations of her genesis. It is relatively easy to see the evidence for multiple incarnations in the confusion that emerges from these early documents, and yet it is something the philosophical community does not want to come to grips with. Of course, in their opinions, it’s all myth anyway, so why do they seem reluctant to admit of Kali’s manifestation in a multitude of forms? We’ll leave that curious fact for them to figure out. At any rate, what is clear is that Kali is depicted in numerous forms and by numerous names in the Hindu literature and scriptures that deal with her presence. This can only be an indication of confusion, of a lack of consensus as to her true origin. People of the time were witness to her rampant sexual violence and murderous deeds, but owing to the continual flux in manifestation, they were unable to grasp anything of her true underlying identity. We need to follow the trail farther back in time if we are to find any reference to her by those who actually were privy to Kali’s original manifestation and who would be in no doubt whatsoever as to the facts attending such a momentous and extraordinary event. The problem? These early humans hadn't gotten the hang of writing yet. Not in comprehensive fashion, at any rate. Documentation could very well appear only in cave paintings, for all we know. What is necessary, then, is the discovery of some evidence of her activities between the dawn of humanity and the period of the Hindu writers and artists. To discover the truth regarding this lengthy phase of her incarnations and appearances will give us a clearer understanding of her original deeds and objectives. And so we find that we must prepare for a journey much farther back in time than we might first have been wont to suppose.

The African Connection.
It is now widely accepted that the human race originated in Africa, almost certainly in Ethiopia. It is my belief that Kali was incarnated sometime later from those who became the eventual master race out of this powerful evolutionary movement. There is irrefutable evidence available as well to show that such a giant step in evolutionary development was in part a result of assistance by alien intelligence, from extra-dimensinal 'mid-wives,' as it were, that played a major role in the 'birthing' of a new species of homonid in whom simple consciousness expanded into self-consciousness, the hallmark of the human animal. This is completely in concert with what has been revealed to us directly through our own extra-dimensional enlightenment and myriad contact with the true Satanic messengers that serve as attendants to Kali, ministering to her mundane needs within and through her multitude of transcendental manifestations. These revelations also coincide with the most compelling descriptions of Kali that appear in the Hindu writings, that of the giant, fierce, unstoppable Black Man-Eater, bent on domination, destruction, and death. The following citations are of particular interest.

Kālī is the feminine of kāla "black, dark coloured" (per Panini 4.1.42). It appears as the name of a form of Durga in Mahabharata 4.195, and as the name of an evil female spirit in Harivamsa 11552.

Knowing then that her very name seems to indicate the possibility at least of her arrival on the Indian scene out of Africa, we are given incentive to take our investigation to a higher level in our efforts to reveal the true Kali in her extra-dimensional and extra-terrestrial origins. Her divine majesty, the God-Queen, perhaps incarnate on earth as far back as 75,000 years ago! If this is true, it would appear that the world must have already been in vital need of transformation at that time. Kali appears for no other reason. In the next post, we will look further into this provocative and fascinating theory.



The room, if that’s what it is, is darkened, shadowy, definitely an empty space. You are awakening as if from a dream, or better, you are awakening within a dream. There’s nothing here. A cube. Absolutely empty. No windows, no doors. A cell. The darkness is twilight darkness. You can see clearly, but there is no source from which any light whatsoever could emanate. Wherever you are, you’re afraid, and the natural inclination is to get the hell out of here. You begin feeling along the walls, spring a secret passage like in the movies. This is no movie. Checking the floor. Trap door! No. Just need to wake up, you reason. Slap yourself, pinch yourself, throw yourself into the walls.
-Wake up, goddamn you!
Now you’re screaming at yourself. And then, she is there. She laughs at you, feeding instantly upon the terror that grips you. She is huge. Perfect Kali-Incarnate. The most exquisite black flesh; soft, smooth, glistening in the faint light of this place. She wears the skimpiest of coverings, and towering high heels. You see your death already in those luscious, fat thighs; so powerful, so shapely, so impossibly compelling.
You instinctively drop to your knees before her in fear and reverence. Your worship of Kali already underway in only seconds. With one stunning glance.

Strange locale, no escape, emotions splintering into some unseen intricate web of dire conflict, face-to-face with your fondest dream turned hellish nightmare. Her smile is deadly, so beautiful, so intimidating, so fucking sexy. It speaks of your helplessness, and of her limitless power to destroy you. She turns now, this way and that, teasing you mercilessly with those exquisite legs and ass, each movement giving birth to seismic flesh-dances, her glorious, satin black substance coming alive, quivering deliciously in the service of overpowering torture as she beckons you to touch, only to refuse you at the last second. You burst into tears from the demolition of your being that is already being accomplished in such systematic fashion. This angers her, the last thing you need right now.
-Insolence! She cries.
She jerks you up from the floor by your hair and pulls you into a mind-fucking headlock. Her fat, powerful arms begin to crush your puny little skull. Such force as you have never imagined! And the indescribably mesmerizing scent of her body, the most delicious, feminine scent you have ever known. It hurts. It really hurts, and yet you have the dead certainty that she is only yet playing with you, that she could mash your head into powder if it suited her purpose to do so. Your body goes into shock from the pressure and pain. A series of full-blown seizures, electrifying you into full extension, limbs steely-stiff, reaching, grasping. Then, all goes limp. You slump against the side of her body, feeling her luxuriant leg-flesh pressing against you. Almost a real breath. Not quite. Another ripping paroxysm. You think you are screaming but it’s hard to tell in here. In the death-grip of her headlock, your face is buried beneath her breast. Breathing sketchy and the voltage about to separate flesh from bone. Then you drop again; pendulous, flaccid. This excruciating polarized attack goes on. It feels like Power Stations being emptied into your Being, then suddenly shut down. Your cock is a steel girder, spilling its reservoir freely. Vast trails of pre-cum in random patterns on the floor. Punishing you beyond dreamscapes with nothing but fat, succulent arms, and the strength of a mansion full of gods.

At some point, she’s had her amusement and lets you fall rag-doll to the floor. You twitch and flutter, carrying her divine scent within your brain, sensing the presence of other worlds. Suddenly nearby. Everything is
On off
On off
On off
On off….
You are in black
Then you come back
A little

Is she above you now? Standing over you?
A vast, mighty explosion rips through your ribcage.

Kinetic pressure that pops your eyes out of their sockets helps you to see it. She came down. A devastating Atomic Butt Drop, full weight, solar plexus. Senses race back into you momentarily and you see her there atop your puny body. Huge legs straddling either side of you and the most brackish, sinister laughter—Satan’s laughter—echoing through and around and inside/outside your skull. Then experience breaks into its component shards, and a geyser of vomit rockets from within your crumpled body, up the esophagus, tearing through the throat, and your mouth is a puke-derrick, spouting your internal oil festively into the high-up of this cage and all breath along-with. This plump, gorgeous black vision of the God-Queen Kali watches you, looking down at your wretched/retching face with fiendish delight until the fetid fountain draws down somewhat.



Moving as quickly as some psychic force, she spins around upon you and snatches your head between black giant thighs. Kali is god. She controls you. Miraculously, you can feel again. But feeling what? The press of thighs perfected by universal powers. Lush, huge, (your head is buried, your nose between the ass cheeks of god!) sateen, perfumed/bouquet as of the gardens of paradise, big/long/shapely/thick/soft/hard/sensual/powerful/ Incomprehensibly beautiful legs. Kali the God-Queen laughs again through this divine incarnation…and begins to squeeze!

Flailing.
Wailing.
Flipping.
Flopping.
Writhing.
Convulsing.
Paro Paro
Paro Paro
Paroxysm.
Death on a stick.
The python grip of monstrous legs signals the finish.
Quick & Clean
Your hands push hard against Himalayan thighs, desperately clutching. You can no longer hear it, but you feel her laughter mocking you in your utter ineptitude. Those legs totally immovable. Too strong. Too powerful. Too gorgeous. She increases the pressure. Your skull cracking. You can hear it! No escape, so you try to revel in what will be your death. You give yourself over to the feel, the smell, the majesty of those big legs and the sensual crush of their omnipotence. The demolition of your body breeds lightning in your soul and your excitation rises to peak. She squeezes harder! You are at the beginning of a journey. You feel it. Concussion. Skull cracking deeper. Brain under duress. Cock pounding double time to your furious heartbeat. She cranks it up some more, and in so doing, looks back proudly to admire her handiwork; a skyscraper shaped like a penis. Laughs again. Satan inside. Reaches back to play with it. Legs tighten. You throw up blood this time, mixed with bile and brown-greens. Throw up violently, rifling it out onto the floor. She takes one pull on your desperate cock and you explode all over the tiny room. Gushing in wicked spurts, engendered by Evil itself.

The divine Kali-Incarnate. Perfect destruction. Perfect execution of the divine will. She rides the laughter-energy now. She tightens her grip. Considerably. Your skull gives way, collapses, and your bladder and bowels are released. You are left there, god-knows-where, in puddles of your own body fluids and excrement. Over as quickly as it began. Kali-Incarnate. God-Queen of Death and Ultimate Transcendence. You are released from Samsara onto the plane of Absolute Being.

Kali be praised!