#using women as sex slaves is not resistance

[aestariiwilderness]

If you do not know history -- you are doomed to be gullible about it. Jews. From the word "Judaea". Jews have called Israel home for thousands of years. It's on Roman documents, carved in stone, written in the Bible. It's literally emblazoned in their DNA. That Jews were native to this area was never questioned until Hamas needed a sympathetic narrative for young, foolish, wholly unschooled Americans to swallow hook, line, and sinker. Not that this should matter in the slightest in the face of the utter atrocities of October 7th and the avowed genocidal intent of Hamas -- there is no justifying that by any narrative! -- but the Jews ARE native to Israel. This is their land -- they came back to it in 1948, after being dispersed and hunted and driven out of it by the actual "colonizers" for centuries, with their own culture and language and name, as a unique people group. Something unprecedented and precious in the history of the world that no other people group has managed. They even bought their own land back -- swampy and supposedly "worthless" as it was then -- legitimately from the people who were camping out in it at the time.

The Jews are not the "colonizers" here.

a reminder that your advocacy for ending the occupation of Palestine should also extend to advocating for Indigenous and First Nations peoples' liberation in your own country. The anti-colonial struggle is a global one. Show up for Indigenous people everywhere you can because we are under occupation almost everywhere. Not to mention the Zionist occupation is supported almost exclusively by the colonial world powers. Your advocacy for the liberation for Palestine must go hand in hand with advocacy for First Nations liberation and Land Back.

[konigsblog]

OCTOBER 1ST — DOCTOR!KÖNIG. Being drugged and used relentlessly by someone you thought you could trust. (NON-CON)

2024 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. (DAY 1)

König had everything planned out, ever since he laid his silver eyes on your face — his newest patient. He was fixated, completely and utterly obsessed with you.

He had spent hours in front of a computer studying nonstop so that he could earn himself a degree in medicine and have the perfect and perverted opportunity to take advantage of and intoxicate oblivious and beautiful women inside of the privacy of his office, to force vulnerable and drugged patients to become his personal sex slaves under the guise that he was just doing his job, taking proper care of his patients in his own special, unique way that would forever morph and change their brain chemistry. A sick individual looking for any chance to feel a woman's touch, to feel their blood soak and coat his hung, painful cock.

He put on the façade of a caring and gentle doctor. His touch was soft and his words were reassuring and full of concern. Nobody would dare accuse König of rape. You had no reason to feel afraid of him. He would rut into your soft and slick folds ruthlessly, with one large gloved hand cupped over your mouth, silencing your mumbled, incoherent, and drowsy pleas. Your eyes became half-lidded, hazy and bleary, with a lone tear slowly wandering your cheeks at the growing, throbbing, and pulsating sensation that only worsened between your legs.

“Wie kann ich dir widerstehen, Kleines? So ahnungslos, du hast nichts geahnt.” [How can I resist you, little one? So clueless, you had no idea.] König growled out quietly, his touch feeling much more sinister than it ever had.

He gazed down at you through the thin lenses of his glasses, his large and hefty cock splitting you open agonisingly slowly with his creamy tip prodding against your gummy cervix. König knew he had full control and final authority over you, especially in your vulnerable and drugged state, where you clung to him, falling in and out of consciousness, forced to rely on him. The desperation in your kicks and slaps tugged at his heartstrings, yet, not enough to convince him to stop. His pace never faltered — only intensified.

He found joy and entertainment in the power he had, especially knowing that he could easily hold you down and ruin you if he truly wanted to. You wouldn't remember a thing. Your speech was slurred and broken. The intensity of the drug was overpowering, leaving you unable to protect yourself — not that you'd be able to resist König, anyway. Your attempts at fighting back were fruitless, impossible to fight back against the sickening, harsh pervert hunched over your form and bruising your hole.

König didn't once fear the repercussions for his criminal and taboo acts. After all, who would believe you, a miserable and drugged patient, over König, a respected doctor, and with his powerful reputation?

His tone was condensing and playful from what you could manage to remember through unconsciousness. It felt as if he was toying with you, fuckin’ with your head, mocking you for being so trusting of him. You could feel everything; the way he was splitting you open, spearing you on his large, swollen length. You could feel him leaving your skin filthy, staining you with his dirty, grubby touch as his hung balls smacked against your rear repetitively, his pubes grazing against your smooth, supple skin.

[tamamita]

how is isis different from hamas?

Gonna make it easy and comprehensible:

ISIS or DA'ISH is a transnational terror organization consisting of Iraqi Baathists, former Syrian rebels or moderates, recruited fighters from all over the world, former US captives in Iraq, and oppressed and disenfranchised Sunnis. Wahhabi in nature, ISIS subscribes to the literalist tradition of Islam, based on a strict adherence to Tawhid (Islamic monotheism), rejecting the concept of intercession and saint venerations, seeing them as an act of idolatry. Their religious verdicts are based on the literal interpretation of the Qur'an and Sunnah, rejecting metaphorical exegesis. They aim to establish a global caliphate, seeking to eliminate anyone who opposses it regardless of religious or ideological differences. They see their cause as a hastening of various Islamic end time prophecies in their interpretation of Islamic eschatology. Like many Salafis, they reject Taqlid, which is to conform to one of the four schools of thought in Sunni Islam. On top of that, they reject religious innovations (Bid'ah), which is the idea that anything introduced to the religion without any religious basis is heresy. Whether it be practical or theological, they deem any Muslim who engage in Bid'ah to be an apostate or heretic. They are notorious for their intolerance of non-Muslims and application of Takfirism (excommunication) on Muslims, whether Sunni or Shi'a. Christians had to pay the Jizya (poll tax) in their territories, while in other cases, they were murdered, expelled and had their churches destroyed or converted. They have no tolerance for Shi'a Muslims and will kill them on the spot (see: Speicher Massacre), and have often targeted them with IEDs or suicide bombers. Non-Muslims, like the Ezidis or Ahlul Haqq, were often subjected to execution whereas their women and children were either married away, converted or used as sex slaves. DAESH is not interested in national liberation, seeing it as a blasphemous innovation. DAESH does not consider Hamas to be Muslims due to struggle for national liberation which is supported by Iran and various Shi'i proxies.

Hamas is a political and military resistance group that consists of Palestinians. After the failures of the Oslo accord, Hamas broke away from PLO and formed their own political party. They either subscribe to the Shafi'i school of thought or some form of Ikhwani Salafism (Salafism as envisioned by the Muslim Brotherhood). They're a semi-governmental power in Gaza and are responsible for upholding the social and civil institutions, such as hospitals, schools and etc. Hamas' specific aim is localized and seeks to destroy the Zionist entity in order to form a one-state solution under an Islamic emirate or Islamic democracy. Their only enemy is Israel and any of its allies. As of the Hamas charter of 2017, they do not have an intolerance for non-Muslims or people of different religious and ideological comportments, as seen by them holding ties with both Shi'a and Socialist militias, such as Hezbollah and the PFLP/DFLP. Hamas is concerned with the national liberation of Palestine and the Palestinians. Being an entirely localized resistance group, they do not engage in global jihadism like ISIS nor do they carry out attacks internationally.

[hadesoftheladies]

friendly reminder that men together perfectly fit the definition of a terrorist group

"Terrorism, in its broadest sense, is the use of intentional violence and fear to achieve political or ideological aims. The term is used in this regard primarily to refer to intentional violence during peacetime or in the context of war against non-combatants (mostly civilians and neutral military personnel)." 

men are not a neutral group, not politically, not positionally or economically--they actively participate in violence as intimidation against innocent women and children (and even other men) to advance and maintain patriarchy. misogyny is an ideology and a practice. it is a belief system with a long, old history of books, sermons, articles, and propaganda art pieces. it has its philosophers, its academics, and its politicians. you do not have to look far to be buried alive by examples.

men torture women for being women. men create stereotypes and archetypes in books and movies to convince men and children of their otherness. their inhumaness. "see?" the male politician say, behind a pulpit, at a conference, in the boardrooms, "she doesn't feel pain. she is made to be penetrated. she exists to supply offspring. she is made to be owned. it is an economic necessity that women and girls are made available to the man for sex. it is a human right."

"see?" the male artist/propagandist says. "the woman is hysterical, emotional, crazy, romantic. a woman is soft and must be soft. a woman is fuckable and must be fuckable. a woman is sex and must be used for it. her beauty is our intellectual property. as men we must claim it, display it, define it--and we can. we have."

"see?" the religious man says from his pedestal. "the woman is a whore. easily tricked and deceived. untrustworthy. she cannot be an authority. only a mother. only a servant. a woman who denies her meekness is diseased and to be burned. it is not wrong to own slaves. it is not wrong to own wives. god is in our image."

"see?" the academic man says during his lecture. "history is man's invention. the suffering of women is an evolutionary fact, and is not truly suffering, for it is natural. it is her destiny. the male body is excellence. the male body is default humanity. what is his body, what he needs, is what she needs, for she is a weaker version of him."

and our brothers listen, and our fathers learned. and it showed up in our homes. the propaganda showed up on our dinner tables, in car drives. each new century, each new generation of men, pick up the movement and carry on the march. it was burning women at the stake, now it is using their faces to torture them with deepfake porn. it evolves, but not on its own. not mysteriously or "naturally" but because people, men, keep fighting to maintain the status quo.

it is active. it is a deliberate and strategic movement. it is violent. it is hatred. it is PURPOSEFUL. it is there to convince any man of conscience that what patriarchy does, what it stands for, is not morally wrong. it needs to be done. it's the natural order of things. women are half-way people, and so they deserve half-way rights. women are chattel, and so they should be well kept. they are not being unreasonable. it is the world. it is the truth. it's not politics, it's common sense.

don't fall for propaganda. take their hate seriously. because they mean to ensure the subjugation of women. they believe in it and will do the worst things possible to maintain the regime. it IS a regime. it IS REAL. do not gaslight yourselves or let others gaslight you. this is not politically neutral, it is not culturally benign, it is not destiny, it is not "healthy/normal" human behavior. it is a regime that has to repurpose itself and its propaganda to stay afloat. it must keep recruiting.

please don't fall for the "women can be just as bad/not all men" propaganda. men as a group are not a neutral political party. RESIST.

[munstysmind]

WARNING/S: non-con, rape, loss of virginity, rough sex, rough vaginal sex, rough oral sex, rough anal sex, unprotected sex, multiple men, blood, assault, abuse, slavery, trauma, threats of forced prostitution, mentions of kidnapping/abduction, mentions of death, mentions or murder, mentions of injuries, mentions of suicide. If I’ve missed anything, please let me know.

DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT

THIS IS A DARK FIC, DO NOT READ IF THIS TYPE OF CONTENT TRIGGERS OR OFFENDS YOU.

You and you alone are responsible for what you choose to consume online.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE USED IN ANY CAPACITY

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Thank you to @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure for being my ideas gremlin, and @themaradwrites for beta-ing. This wouldn’t have been written without your help.

MAIN MASTERLIST

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CH. 1 - THEIR REWARD

{54 BC}

Her heart pounds in her chest as she slowly walks down the hall towards the man she despises more than anything in this world.

Dominus Julius Fabius. Her owner. Her master.

She wishes she could stick him in the neck with a dagger and watch him bleed to death, just like all the men he condemns when he forces them into the arena.

He’s pure evil.

The kind of evil Orcus uses to make an example of. The God of punishment and the Underworld is going to have fun with her master when he passes into the afterlife.

She’s lost count of how long it’s been. Five years? Probably more, if she’s being honest with herself. She doesn’t even know who she is anymore.

Except her name.

Amina.

To everyone around her, she’s a thing. An object meant to do as she’s told. No exceptions.

She runs her finger along the cold iron bolted around her neck, her slave collar.

Thirty coins. That’s what he paid for her. She didn’t know you could put a price on someone’s life but that’s what hers was worth, thirty whole coins.

“There you are girl” he growls as he grabs her wrist tightly and drags her towards a door at the end of the hall “I’m in a right mind to give you a lashing for making me wait”

“I’m sorry, they… they wanted to make sure everything was perfect” she mumbles, keeping her eyes on the floor to help hide her tears as she recalls the looks of pity on the faces of the women who got her ready.

She knows they know what her Master’s plans are, and she suspects the reason they took so long was to keep her from her fate for as long as they possibly could.

“I don’t care. Those fighters in there won me a lot of denarii today. You’re going to let them do whatever they want to you. All. Night” her master tells her, getting so close to her she can feel his warm, vile breath across her face.

“I… I’ve never…” she stammers, her eyes going wide as she realises what he’s saying.

“I know. I know you’ve never laid with a man before, they checked you when I brought you. That’s why I chose you” he says, a smirk spreading across his face. “Maybe I should put you in the Lupanar and whore you out after they’ve broken you in. Gods know you’d make me a fortune”

It takes everything in her not to turn and run as fast as she can as she swallows down the bile rising in her throat.

It would be pointless though, there’s guards everywhere. She wouldn’t make it to the end of the hall before they caught her. She’d be guaranteed a lashing too, a public one at that. Just like Vesta.

“I mean it girl. You’re theirs tonight. I don’t care if it hurts… in fact, I want it to. A lot” he whispers, pulling out a small dagger and cutting one of the shoulders of her dress, exposing her breast.

He runs the dagger tip over her nipple, pressing it into the sensitive bud until it breaks the skin, making her let out a small whimper of pain.

“If you resist, or put up a fight, you’ll be punished, and it’ll be much worse than what they’re going to do” he growls before pushing her into the room.

She can’t help but flinch as the large wooden door is slammed in her face, the echo of the metal latch being closed ringing in her ears.

She just stands there, staring at it as she takes shuddery breaths.

She knows what’s about to happen. What she’s about to go through. And there’s nothing she can do about it.

She’s trapped.

Locked in a room with three blood covered fighters.

Their reward for winning their master 5000 coin.

She’s their prize.

“Turn around” a deep voice commands, making her jump.

She closes her eyes, praying to the Gods that she wakes up from this nightmare as she slowly turns around.

She sees the man the voice belongs to and her breath catches in her throat as she fights back tears.

He’s the one who killed her brother.

Champion gladiator August.

“Name” he growls, slowly approaching her with a look similar to the lions in the arena before they attack.

“Am… Amina” she stammers, stumbling back against the door as he towers over her.

She can smell death on him. The twang of iron, of blood. Was it her brothers?

Her stomach churns at the thought and she wants to be sick.

“Amina” he repeats “honest, faithful. Beautiful name for a beautiful woman”

Under any other circumstance she might have smiled and thanked him for his compliment, just like she was taught, but not this time. She just can’t.

“I like to know their names before I take what I want” he tells her with a smirk.

He remembers them, every name. All the women he’s taken this way. Amina’s the latest entry on his ever growing list.

He grabs her dress and tears it off her body, letting the fabric crumple to the floor.

She instinctively tries to cover herself, but he stops her, prying her hands away from her body before grasping her breasts and squeezing.

A grin spreads across his face as he continues to grope her, pinching and rolling her nipples tightly between his fingers, making her whimper in pain.

The noise makes him let out a low growl from deep in his chest and his eyes go dark, almost black.

Before she can fully register what’s happening, he grabs her by the back of her neck and yanks her towards the small table on the other side of the room, forcing her onto her back.

He takes her legs behind the knees and pushes them open, exposing her to not only him, but the other two men in the room who are now standing behind him and looking over his shoulder.

Her stomach churns as she stares at the ceiling, her face burning with embarrassment as she tries to think of anything to distract her from the way he’s inspecting her.

She bites back a whimper as he touches her, his fingers playing with her most intimate area before spreading it open.

He lets out a satisfied hum, a smirk spreading across his face when he sees she’s intact, just like their Master promised.

“I’ve never had a pure one before” he says, to no one in particular as he pinches the small bundle of nerves above her opening, making her gasp loudly.

“They’re my favourite. Oh, the noises they make” one of the other men says excitedly, much to August’s annoyance.

“She’s mine, Lloyd” he growls, glaring at the man before turning his attention back to her, really looking at her for the first time since she entered the room.

And as much as she tries to look away, to look anywhere but the face of the man that’s about to brutalise her, she can't. Her green, terror filled eyes just stare at him, transfixed.

He’s seen her eyes, and that look, before. He knows he has. There’s something so familiar about them and it takes him a minute to place it. The man he killed in the arena a mere hours before. Her brother.

“You’ve got his eyes” he tells her before turning his gaze back between her legs.

She’s so caught up in the flood of emotions at what he just said that she doesn’t notice his finger pushing into her until it’s too late.

She lets out a loud yelp at the sudden pain between her legs, her body instinctively trying to close her legs and move away from the beast of a man in front of her.

He lets out an angry growl and yanks her up by her arm, turning her around and bending her over the table with so much force all the air leaves her lungs when her chest makes contact with the wooden surface.

“Don’t move” he growls, kicking her legs apart with his feet.

She grips the edge of the table, so tightly her fingers hurt, as tears well in her eyes. She prays the talk of his stamina is wrong, that it will be over quickly.

But it won’t.

When he’s done with her, there’s two more waiting.

And they have her all night…

The sound of his armour dropping onto the ground behind her makes her heart pound.

It’s happening.

Right now.

She squeezes her eyes shut, trying her best to relax when she feels him prod at her again, but it doesn’t matter.

He snaps his hips forward and tears into her with force, pulling a scream of pain from her that makes him grin.

In all the beatings she’s gotten over the years, she’s never felt pain like this.

It’s like a searing hot poker being forced into her over and over as she’s split in two.

The tears in her eyes escape and spill onto the table as he thrusts into her, over and over and over again. It feels like the more she cries, the harder his thrusts become.

“Best one I’ve had yet” he grunts as he lays over her, pressing her against the table with his full body weight, and starts grinding into her, moaning loudly in her ear.

He’s enjoying this, getting pleasure out of hurting her. How can he not? He’s a sadistic bastard!

Little does she know she’s not the first woman he’s forced himself into. It’s the whole reason he’s stuck fighting in that gods forsaken arena in the first place. And unless he dies there, she won’t be the last.

“You’re mine now, gonna take you like this whenever I want” he pants, making her let out a loud sob at the thought of him doing this to her over and over.

It all becomes too much and her stomach churns as bile rises in her throat, burning it as she chokes and coughs it up.

His moans start becoming louder as he ruts into her hard, his hips slamming her body into the table over and over and over.

“Oh Gods!” he roars, moaning loudly as his hips stutter then still before he thrusts into her as hard as he can, filling her with a strange warmth.

He says something to her, but she doesn’t hear a word of it, unable to hear anything except the loud ringing in her ears.

She lets out a loud whimper as he pulls out of her before kneeling and pushing her legs wider, smirking at the blood mixed with his spend dripping out of her.

He catches some with his fingers and pushes them inside her, forcing it back into her as she lies on the table, her entire body shaking and twitching from shock as she takes shallow, gasping breaths.

“My turn” the second of the men says, all but pushing August out of the way before grasping her by her hair and pulling her to her feet, making her cry out.

He pushes her to her knees, making quick work of removing his armour as she glances behind him at August drinking wine from a goblet and sees the size of him for the first time, enough to make Priapus himself blush.

She looks back at the second man, terror spreading through her yet again as she comes face to face with his member.

She can’t tell if he’s bigger, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to defile her the same way August did without a care for her.

He hooks his finger into her mouth and forces it open before pushing himself in until she starts to gag.

He holds onto the sides of her head and starts thrusting, hitting the back of her throat with each snap of his hips.

A smirk spreads across his face as he moves one of his hands to the back of her head and forces her down onto him, deep throating her.

He holds her there, moaning at the feeling of the muscles in her throat squeezing him as she chokes.

“We can’t kill her, Lloyd” August warns as she starts scratching at his legs, trying desperately to get air.

He lets out a growl as he pulls himself out of her mouth and slaps her hard across the face before grabbing it and pulling her to her feet.

“You’re going to pay for that” he hisses, manhandling her onto the small bed in the corner of the room.

He climbs on after her, roughly pulling her hips up and slamming into her from behind.

“Gods, I’ve not taken a woman this good in years” he moans, throwing his head back and gripping her hips tightly as he thrusts hard, spurred on by her cries.

“I wonder if her other hole’s just as good?” August says with a smirk, leaning against the table he just had her bent over.

“Let’s find out” Lloyd replies, spitting on her ass. He pulls out and lines himself up with her tiny puckered hole before pushing himself into her, moaning loudly at the muscles squeezing him tightly in an attempt to force him out.

She lets out a shriek of pain, her body going rigid as she tries, and fails, to get away from the man violating her in a way she didn’t think was possible.

He lets out an evil laugh and pushes her face into the bed as he starts thrusting, going out of his way to hurt her as much as he can.

The noises leaving him as he uses her body for his pleasure are burned into her mind as she prays to the Gods to take her and put an end to the indescribable pain coursing through her body.

He looks down at where he’s thrusting in and out of her and smirks proudly at the sight of blood.

“It’s even better” he grunts to August, gripping her hips so tightly his nails break her skin.

“I’ll have to try it next” August says, slowly stroking himself as he watches Lloyd pound into the woman at their mercy over and over again, moaning to himself at the sound of her cries.

Lloyd lifts her hips higher, thrusting as hard as he can into her at the new angle, turning her cries into screams with every snap of his hip.

He lets out a long moan, throwing his head back as he cums hard, filling her with the same strange warmth August did.

“Gods, I’m doing that again” he pants as he slowly pulls himself out of her bloody back passage before slapping her ass, making her yelp as she collapses into the bed.

“You’ll get your chance. It’s your turn, Nick” August says, getting the attention of the third man standing on the other side of the room.

Until now, he’s not paid much attention to the events happening in the small room, trying to drown out her cries and think of anything other than what he wants to do to her.

It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong, but he doesn’t care. He wants her. And it’s his turn to take her.

He slowly walks towards her, removing his armour as he does before gently turning her over and climbing into the bed.

“No more… please” she begs quietly as he spreads her legs with his knees and settles between them.

Asking for mercy is useless, she knows that. All she is to them is an object to seek pleasure from, to defile.

The only thing she can do is close her eyes and brace herself for the pain as he slowly pushes in, a long moan leaving him as he fills her.

But when he starts to move, the pain doesn't come.

She opens her eyes and stares at him, confused, and scared, by what she's feeling.

Why doesn’t it hurt?

Why is it so different?

Why does it feel… nice?

“Gods” she gasps, her eyes fluttering shut as he starts to speed up, letting out a moan that drowns out the one that slips past her lips.

She has no idea what he’s doing differently to August and Lloyd but she prays he keeps doing it because it feels good, amazing even.

Her mind races as she tries to understand what’s happening. Why does she feel bad, so embarrassed and ashamed, when what’s happening right now feels so good?

He moves his hips faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as he gropes one of her breasts before pinching her nipple hard, pulling another moan from her.

He slowly glides his hand up her chest to around her neck, squeezing the sides. The sudden restriction of air makes her panic and start clawing at his hands, making him squeeze even more.

Her eyes roll back as a weird pressure builds between her legs, making whatever he’s doing to her feel even better.

It suddenly breaks, making her moan loudly as a pleasant burning sensation washes over her, before everything goes black…

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[atopvisenyashill]

"Daenerys has done a lot of wrongs" and said are killing slavers

thanks for this one actually because you gave me an excuse to talk about that for a bit.

now first of all - i find it very frustrating that when people say “this was wrong” everyone defaults to “why do you care about slavers” when usually, when i’m talking about things dany has done wrong, i’m talking about mirri maz durr, sacking astapor, sexually abusing irri, and taking a profit off slavery. mirri wasn’t a slaver, she was a slave, and she was blood sacrificed by dany. sacking a city, regardless of who is in that city, is always messy and bad - ask Cleos the Butcher and the people he rules over how they feel about the Sack. Ask the people of King's Landing how they feel about their houses being set on fire every few decades. Ask Missandei how she really feels watching the woman she put all her faith in take a cut off the selling of slaves. Hell, Dany knows that Irri does not want to have sex with her and is doing it because she feels "obligated" because she's a slave and Dany still uses her as a bed warmer and then bars her from expressing an interest in Rakharo because she doesn't believe Irri is ~worthy~ of Rakharo (worthy to fuck but not to love and don't I fucking know about attitudes like that coming from white straight girls lmao).

But let's move past all of that (you certainly seem uninterested in talking about the personhood of slaves like Missandei and Mirri after all, despite ostensibly defending them here) and dig into the crucifying of the Great Masters. In fact, let's turn to Dany's own thoughts over this, bolded part mine:

In the plaza before the Great Pyramid, the Meereenese huddled forlorn. The Great Masters had looked anything but great in the morning light. Stripped of their jewels and their fringed tokars, they were contemptible; a herd of old men with shriveled balls and spotted skin and young men with ridiculous hair. Their women were either soft and fleshy or as dry as old sticks, their face paint streaked by tears. “I want your leaders,” Dany told them. “Give them up, and the rest of you shall be spared.” “How many?” one old woman had asked, sobbing. “How many must you have to spare us?” “One hundred and sixty-three,” she answered. She had them nailed to wooden posts around the plaza, each man pointing at the next. The anger was fierce and hot inside her when she gave the command; it made her feel like an avenging dragon. But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood… Dany put the glass aside, frowning. It was just. It was. I did it for the children.

Immediately after doing it, Dany regrets it. She recognizes she did it while angry and impassioned and reckless, and that the deaths were agonizing, that she did it not for the children but because she was angry and humiliated. This scene has never been as righteously clean morally than people would believe from the moment it was on page! She recognizes she did a fucked up thing but rationalizes it away because she can't admit she made a mistake. She reflects on it later again as she's ruling Meereen:

She had not forgotten the slave children nailed up along the road from Yunkai. They had numbered one hundred sixty-three, a child every mile, nailed to mileposts with one arm outstretched to point her way. After Meereen had fallen, Dany had nailed up a like number of Great Masters. Swarms of flies had attended their slow dying, and the stench had lingered long in the plaza. Yet some days she feared that she had not gone far enough. These Meereenese were a sly and stubborn people who resisted her at every turn. They had freed their slaves, yes … only to hire them back as servants at wages so meagre that most could scarce afford to eat. Those too old or young to be of use had been cast into the streets, along with the infirm and the crippled. And still the Great Masters gathered atop their lofty pyramids to complain of how the dragon queen had filled their noble city with hordes of unwashed beggars, thieves, and whores. To rule Meereen I must win the Meereenese, however much I may despise them.

She lets the bodies of the people she wants to rule rot, the smell lingering in the plaza for weeks, reminding the people she is trying to make peace with that she can and will viciously murder their families and gloat over their corpses and they cannot stop her. Then doesn't put in any rules about wages, anything to help the sick and disabled. She blames the Great Masters for working within the system they've had for generations despite yelling at them to get a new system and doing nothing to help them move to that new system. She judges them, she hates them, and she wonders why she has the Meereneese version of the KKK springing up afterwards. She is just as ineffective as Andrew Johnson is during Reconstruction, too focused on her own feelings to look objectively at what this destroyed city actually needs from her, instead judging them from her own lofty pyramid with her own slaves and her own superior culture and mopes about how much she wants the Seven Kingdoms.

SHE is the one who decided she was going to rule this place. But instead of focusing on reconciliation, she focuses in on revenge. And that is why she sets herself up to fail.

[secretsideblog1234]

Technology is so advanced these days, I just want a man to stalk me until he finds my Facebook page and my main tumblr account to find pics/vids of me, and use them and AI to create a deepfake where “I” give blanket consent to any man bold enough to rape me. The deepfake would spell out how I believe women should basically be sex slaves and breeding stock for men, and that I’d love to give up all control of my life. How any resistance I put up should be ignored and that im only fighting back to make sure the man who owns me is strong and determined to put me in my place, even if I fight him forever. Even if it looks real. The man making this deepfake would post it online on tumblr, Reddit, bdsm sites, 4chan, and all the worst sites he could think of, along with my home address and place of work, and just wait and watch as my life was instantly ruined. obviously from a legal standpoint, consent is revocable, but if I took any man to court for raping me and they provided this video as evidence, no jury would rule in my favor (maybe a slap on the wrist for the guy at worst). And that would be in case I actually made it to court, which I doubt I would. Some man would decide to pick me up permanently and if I was reported missing, anyone would stop looking when they found the video, thinking I went and got myself owned willingly. Maybe I never get reported as missing because my family gets regular video messages from me looking happy and healthy - all of them deepfakes obviously, as I wouldn’t spend more time unbound than it would take to update the deepfake model so it ages realistically.

[whentheynameyoujoy]

Predictably, after the election results came in the internet's become yet again flooded with cries about needing to understand what made the male Trump voters do this, about needing to sit down and understand the grievances of anti-feminist young men, and as a woman I'm struggling to put into words how incredibly done with all of that I am.

We do know what made them do this. They want to roll back women's rights. Why? Because they see women's progressing equalization as a hostile act against themselves. How do we know that? Because they've been fucking telling us and acting on that belief for years.

No, they aren't misguided. No, they haven't been lied to. No, you can't set them straight by patting their hand and gazing soulfully into their eyes and listening compassionately to their whining how unfair it is they haven't been issued a sex slave. They aren't injured puppies for you to nurse back to health. They aren't innocent lost boys you can bring back into light.

They are the enemy. They're facilitating the continued oppression of women because that's exactly what they desire. And they told us. It would behove us to finally start listening.

The feminist circles have been extremely careful about framing any criticism of the patriarchal status quo as not targetted against men as a collective or a group of random individuals, and rightly so. They've emphasised reaching out and working with men, and that's 100% correct. The issue is not about men vs women, and pretending otherwise is actively harmful to men, women, and transgender people, not to mention glosses over women's own contribution to patriarchy and misogyny.

I get that.

But the other part of this and what we've been extremely resistant to accept in our efforts to prevent harm is this:

A lot of times you have no other option but to cut your losses.

This is one of those times.

Cut them.

[hoursofreading]

In a segment preceding their conversation, the host carefully defends her decision with welcoming Kamala Harris on her show. With an awareness of her mixed audience when it comes to political affiliations, Cooper reassures that the goal with the interview isn’t to influence or to lure people to the left. She recognizes that she doesn’t usually discuss politics and preemptively suggests that she wants Call Her Daddy to be considered as a place where everyone feels comfortable tuning in.

That very last statement signals something to me.

Believing that as a host of a sex-positive podcast, the platform that you’ve spent years building and the experiences you’ve shared online are apolitical signals something. And as a member of the Daddy Gang, perceiving a young woman speaking candidly about sex as apolitical, say it with me now, signals something.

Those beliefs, seemingly shared amongst Cooper and her membership, inherently point to a fear of politics, which is addressed by Michaele L. Ferguson in Choice Feminism and the Fear of Politics. Ferguson introduces choice feminism as a soothing agent to three principal critiques of feminism: feminism as too radical, feminism as exclusionary, and feminism as judgmental. Therefore, choice feminism seeks to embody a nonthreatening approach and becomes a “capacious movement that welcomes all supporters —however discordant their views — while demanding on the thinnest of political commitment.” Cooper’s expressed desire for her platform to welcome all, while engaging in discourse about agency and autonomy, which are political and yet, hoping to maintain apoliticism exemplifies the host’s fear of politics.

It baffles me that Alex Cooper hasn’t considered her platform to be political, knowing that sex, agency, autonomy and womanhood do not exist in a vacuum. They are lived personally, but additionally, politically. When societal and political discourse around women’s bodies focus on men’s entitlement to women and their wombs (I bring your attention to the following headlines: JD Vance Agrees “the Postmenopausal Female” Exists to Raise Grandchildren, Andrew Tate wanted to turn women into slaves, Romanian prosecutors allege, and finally, Gisèle Pelicot's husband is accused of inviting men to rape her. She wants you to know her name), it expeditiously becomes political. When, as a podcast host of an enormous audience, benefitting from multi-million dollar deals, you engage in conversations about sex, abortion, health care and relational dynamics to men in dating and through sexual intercourses, this is at the very least political. Hence, this reluctance for being perceived as political as Kamala Harris sits across from you is at the very least ironic.

Cooper does not want for her audience to feel like she is challenging them. However, speaking about womanhood requires challenges and bringing forth the idea of women as autonomous, in terms of their reproduction, their finances and their sexuality, as both Harris and Cooper did on the podcast, in today’s world is still a matter of political resistance. When confronting choice feminism, Ferguson offers these thoughts that echo my concerns with Cooper: “Yet judgment, exclusion, and calls for change are unavoidable parts of politics. What is ultimately being expressed in a choice feminist position is a fantasy of a world without politics: a world in which we are never called upon to defend our views to those who disagree, in which we never offend anyone because we tolerate everyone, and in which we do not attempt as a collectivity to bring about structural changes. This is a vision of a world in which we all get along not because we agree, but because we studiously avoid conflict. What good is a political consciousness if we are afraid to use it?”

[chiefatticcreator]

Ozpin and Ironwood hold a contest to see who can make the largest harem. Ozpin with his magic and Ironwood with his technology. Glynda gets caught in the middle and by the time the two men are done with her, her mind is emptier than an etch-a-sketch in an earthquake.

It was a contest of wills, of strength, of manliness that opposed the two men. It was also a contest of ideas, of philosophies, of ways to think about the world: Ozpin's more subtle and gentle approach, or Ironwood's blunt and brutal one. It was also a contest of which between magic or technology was the best.

The contest had begun in relative isolation, each of the man having his own city to make a harem out of, to transform the women of into sluts, into sex slaves. By the time both men were done, they had dozens of girls, fucked countless times, amassed grander harems than seen before in the world.

And poor Glynda Goodwitch was stuck in the middle of them. Drsignated as the referee of this contest, she had to count the women that were fucked, to travel between the two harems to compare them, while doing her best to resist the men's influence on her mind.

Days after days of seeing Ironwood fuck the Aces Ops, of using them like toys, of seeing him put collar after collar, of hearing hiq reoeated radio messages encouraging women to submit to her, had left her ridiculously horny and in need of a fuck. While Ozpin's manipulations were less overy, she could feel the insidious whispers of her mind to rejoin Ozpin's harem, his magic making her wet in his presence, the others girls with dreamy looks on their faces as they begged Ozpin to fuck them.

By the time the two men met face-to-face to compare results, Glynda could barely think about her own name, much less remember the actual numbers she had been tasked to count. So the last test of Ozpind and Ironwood would be to double-team the empty-headed bitch that couldn't even keep two numbers in mind, to make her learn her lesson and convince her to join their harem.

By the time the two men were done, Glynda was covered in thick layer of cum, holes gaped and oozing jizz, mindbroken as countless orgasms had ruined whatever mind she had left, and utterly unable to move.

Ozpin was later declared winner.

[sharkssharpteeth]

Can I please get some nsfw HCs for Caesar from Fallout New Vegas? It's near impossible to find any content for him 😭😭😭

Of course! I was delighted to do the research and such for this, but please heed the warnings, it’s a bit of a rough one 💀

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ Caesar NSFW Headcanons ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

“We have cities of our own, but nothing compared to Vegas. Finally, my Legion will have its Rome.”

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

18+ CONTENT - MDNI

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

Content Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Mentions Of Dub/Non-Con, Sexism, Slavery, Homophobia, Murder

A/N: So, this is mostly based on his mannerisms as an individual because he decided to retcon some parts of Ancient Roman history that were actually pretty major, such as no homosexuality (found in his Wikipedia article), but I also did some looking into some things during that time period that would have relevance.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

🏛️ Sexuality - He is completely and unequivocally against homosexuality, to the point that it is punishable by death within the Legion. As such, he solely has sex with females, even though he sees them as being on the same level as slaves.

🏛️ Threesome? - No, polygamy is treated in the same way that homosexuality is within the organization - only excluding the instances where it pleases him. Even with this exception, he doesn’t enjoy having multiple partners at once as it has gotten awkward in the past and causes more issues than pleasure.

🏛️ 24/7 - There is at least one of his chosen, a concubines, who is at his beck and call. While he doesn’t experience arousal as much now and finds it harder to get and maintain an erection (as a result of the tumor), he still will call upon one of his women to visit him in his bed chamber on occasion to keep his cock warm in her mouth.

🏛️ Playing Hard To Get? - He’s a narcissist dictator, so unless his partner has proven to be a willing participant, he isn’t keen on them resisting. He would rather them be pliable beneath him and welcome his use, though sometimes, a resisting partner only serves to rile him up further. If his partner resists on a day where he isn’t feeling merciful, they will be handed off to his Legate to deal with as he sees fit. Due to the Roman structure of his empire, women will not be thrown into the colosseum and instead are generally raped by the Legate and/or taken out before the others and publicly executed.

🏛️ Selfish Lover - When he does have intercourse with another person, it’s all about his pleasure. Once he gets what he wants out of it, his partner is sent away to clean up and get back to work

🏛️ Roman King David - Since Rome was strictly monogamous (unless you were an elite), he will send lower ranking soldiers out into the field knowing they won’t make it back if he finds their wife to be attractive.

🏛️ Prude - He hates nudity unless it’s that of the women he has claimed as his concubines. It is shamed to be bare in public and punishable by the colosseum or execution depending on who is making the offense.

🏛️ “Standards” - He refuses to have sex with anyone who is a slave and is only interested in sharing such intimacy with women who are citizens of the Legion, along with that, they must be in their twenties at the oldest.

🏛️ Humiliation - He loves humiliating his partners and exercising his power and dominance over them. A few of the things he will make his partners endure are animal play (being treated like an animal and being forced to act as such), making them endure him ejaculating, spitting, or urinating on them (generally on their face, but sometimes their chest), verbal abuse (making fun of their appearances and calling them degrading names), making them ask for permission to cum and generally denying them the privilege all together, disciplining them (including spanking, flogging, restraining them, etc.), objectification (treating them like they’re nothing more than an object for his pleasure), and forcing them to wash his feet (generally he has female slaves wash his feet, but this acts as a punishment for insubordinate concubines who haven’t yet made a major offense)

🏛️ Pain Play - As mentioned above, he enjoys spanking and flogging his partners, but he generally aims for more bony parts of the body when doing it for punishment since it will hurt more and leave more intense impressions in their skin. He also enjoys pulling his partner’s hair and roughing them up. In the past, he would regularly pin his partners down by exerting enough pressure on their shoulders to drive their fronts into the mattress and restrict airflow due to the pressure against their ribs. That doesn’t occur nearly as much now, but it’s a nice way to break the new girls in.

🏛️ Body Worship - He’s obviously not going to worship his partners due to how inferior they are to him and them being nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure and amusement, but he enjoys having his own body worshiped like the god he is. It earns his girls extra brownie points when they put the effort into it, but only when he’s in the mood to allow them the time to do so.

🏛️ Breeding Kink - Even though he’s infertile, he still sometimes gets the idea in head to fill his partner up with his cum and get them pregnant with his heirs. When he isn’t in this mindset, it’s still nice to see his seed dripping out of his partner after he’s finished with them.

🏛️ Choking - He enjoys choking his partners, but not in the way you may initially think. While he does derive pleasure from wrapping his hands around one’s throat and squeezing, he usually doesn’t stop until they stop twitching if it gets to that point. Instead, he enjoys it when his partners gag and choke on his cock

🏛️ Riding - Why should he put effort into getting his pleasure? He erected the Legion with his own two hands, and given his physical state now, it’s better for everyone when his partner rides him. They get more pleasure than he’d be willing to give them and he gets to kick back and relax while someone else does all the work.

🏛️ Voyeurism - Given his thoughts and feelings on women and his infertility, he would much rather watch two women have sex and pleasure himself to the sight. Since women are unable to penetrate one another and aren’t as high on the food chain as men, this is the only homosexuality that is exempted, though it’s only allowed when he’s watching.

🏛️ Aftercare - He cares about his chosen concubines’ well-being, but only to a certain degree. He would never help them clean up himself, but he entrusts their care to other female citizens. They are to be cleaned, clothed, fed, watered, and allowed to rest before returning to their other duties.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Navigation ♢ Kofi ♢ AO3 ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

[elianajof]

Panel Presentation: "Telephone" and "Thot Shit"

“TELEPHONE” LADY GAGA & BEYONCE

In Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” (ft. Beyonce) music video, she centers two women criminals, half of the video taking place at a women's prison and the other half following the homicide the women (played by Gaga and Beyonce) set out to commit. The first striking thing about the video is the immediate use of women’s bodies. All the women in the prison are wearing revealing outfits, even the women security guards. As Gaga walks down the cells, the fellow prisoners (all female-presenting) hoot and holler and as character is thrown into her cell, the guards promptly rip off her clothes. This is an example of the use of a woman’s body that is not centering the male gaze. While a male gaze still may derive pleasure from the revealing costumes in the video, these characters are not necessarily designed to be seen as sexy by the male spectator. In Laura Mulvey’s “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” she writes that media depictions of women in a patriarchal culture stand as a signifier for the male other - meaning that women characters are present to engage with the male fantasy (1). While most of the women in the music video are partially nude or in revealing costumes, they are not doing so in a sexual nature. Their nudity and sexuality isn’t aiming to please men but to claim their own sexual identity. Mulvey also touches on how women’s bodies in “alternative cinema” can be also a radical or political aspect that challenges the basic assumptions of mainstream media, instead of just being objects for pleasure (2). Women’s bodies are shown in “Telephone” in different ways than usual music videos – there is more of a diversity in beauty and a roughness to them – these bodies are asking to be looked at. 

In hooks’ “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators,” she writes about the “right to gaze.” Specifically, she references: “the politics of slavery, of racialized power relations, were such that the slaves were denied their right to gaze” (3). In these racialized power relations, she writes that Black people were not permitted to engage in the same freedom of watching, entertainment, or deriving pleasure from what they were seeing. This structure ultimately permeates to this day, as hooks writes that of the Black women she spoke to, none were excited to attend the movie theaters, knowing they would not be properly represented (4). How “Telephone” works in contrast with this trend is allowing spectators to look at and derive pleasure from the woman’s body. The idea of the oppositional gaze is a major part of the video because it challenges the ideas of dominant images that women must conform to. The video’s way of resisting the hegemonic gaze was to place the power into the hands of the women characters and for their bodies and strength to be shown without comparing it to that of a male character. hooks references Manthia Diawara to talk about the power of the spectator: “Every narration places the spectator in a position of agency; and race, class and sexual relations influence the way in which this subjecthood is filled by the spectator” (4) (309). Each person, specifically women, watching this music video could feel a sense of agency after experiencing women characters having power over their own bodies. 

On the topic of bodies, the music video employs a semi-diverse cast of women in the video (the majority of women in the video are still white). Specifically, a lot of the women have stark differences about them like ethnicities, age, or sexual identity. In Audre Lorde’s “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference,” she writes that emphasizing differences is usually taught to be bad or ignored, “or to view them as causes for separation and suspicion rather than as forces for change” (5). In “Telephone,” the differences between these women in prison or Beyonce and Gaga as criminals is distinctly outlined. It is unclear with what Gaga and the writers of the video were trying to accomplish with the “outsider-ness” of the characters in the video – if they were trying to make them look bad or powerful –but one could argue that these women could fit into the archetype of rebels, not caring about society’s rules for them, and that would empower the viewer. It could also be argued that these women are represented by a stereotype of women in prison: violent, erratic, and their homosexuality coming off as predatory and creepy. Mulvey references those who have stood “outside the circle of this society’s definition of acceptable women; those of us who have been forged in the crucibles of difference” (6). “Telephone” puts examples in its video of women on the “margins of society,” but their purpose of being there is unclear to the viewer. 

Questions:

Do you think that the other women in the video are meant to be powerful or other-ed, just perpetuating a stereotype? 

Do you think “Telephone” practices using the “oppositional gaze”? 

How do you think the sexual nature of woman characters in the video differs from other media depictions we have seen? 

“THOT SHIT” MEGAN THEE STALLION

At the beginning of the “Thot Shit” music video, the character of the senator is shown leaving a hate comment on one of Megan’s former music videos (“Body”). When he receives a phone call from Megan she tells him “the women that you are trying to step on are the women you depend on. They treat your diseases, they cook your meals, they haul your trash, they drive your ambulances, they guard you while you sleep. They control every part of your life. Do not fuck with them.” This quote is then the theme for the rest of the video. As the senator tries to escape, Megan and her dancers have taken over every occupation and are dancing in his face. Something interesting in this video is the idea of scopophilia that the senator is taking part in. While he is at first closing his blinds and leaving hate comments before gazing, now Megan and her dancers are forcing him to look, owning their image. Mulvey writes about scopophilia in media/cinema, especially tasteful/pleasurable looking (7). While so much of scopophilia in mainstream media is about privacy and what’s “implied,” it could be argued that Megan is subverting the narrative by using her body and her dancers’ bodies freely and without concerns of what is “forbidden.” It could be seen as an act of agency.

hooks herself may argue that “Thot Shit” is an example of Black women having that sense of agency – the Black women throughout the video have multiple careers while also having the freedom of sexuality. She writes: “Spaces of agency exist for Black people, wherein we can both interrogate the gaze of the Other but also look back, and at one another, naming what we see” (8). This quote encapsulates “Thot Shit” perfectly: a place that Black people can exist freely while also interrogating the gaze of the other. The music video is special because it is a way that Megan celebrates Black women but also the integral part that Black women play in society. They are portrayed as critical parts of a working society but also they dance in the video, owning their sexuality. The sexual nature of the women in the video ties to another example of hooks’ writings about Black women in film/media: the absence “that denies the 'body' of the Black female so as to perpetuate white supremacy and with it a phallocentric spectatorship where the woman to be looked at and desired is ‘white’” (9). hooks writes that too often Black women have been denied ownership and agency over their own bodies, but also the ability to be desired by white phallocentric audiences. By using the character of the senator, they show the inherent racism imposed against Black women - people criticize them but then still sexualize them. Something important to mention is Megan’s lyricism in this song - the word “thot” was coined in the hip-hop world as a derogatory term for a woman, similar to the word “slut,” “with added derision for being working class” (10). The reclamation of this term is outright powerful because it is using a word that has been weaponized against Black women for years and she repurposes it to be something powerful. This subversion in itself can be tied to the work of the oppositional gaze - taking something used to oppress Black women and flipping it to empower them instead. 

Rarely in popular media as big as “Thot Shit” do viewers see something with such a clear message. Megan does include a lot of Black female empowerment throughout her music and music videos, especially through sexual agency. Lorde writes, “Black women and our children know the fabric of our lives is stitched with violence and with hatred, that there is no rest. We do not deal with it only on the picket lines, or in dark midnight alleys, or in the places where we dare to verbalize our resistance. For us, increasingly, violence weaves through the daily tissues of our living … ” (11). “Thot Shit” is a form of protesting against the dehumanization and oppression of Black women in mainstream culture. Megan consistently brings Black women into the cultural conversation when they are neglected. Her empowerment is similar to that Lorde writes of:  “It is learning how to stand alone, unpopular and sometimes reviled, and how to make common cause with those others identified as outside the structures in order to define and seek a world in which we can all flourish” (12).

Questions: 

What are other ways that “Thot Shit” practices scopophilia and voyeurism in nuanced ways? 

How is the video different from other music videos you have seen before? 

How does “Thot Shit” work in conjunction with “Telephone”? 

Works cited: 

Mulvey, Laura, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” in Film Theory and Criticism, 712. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009)

Mulvey, Laura, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” 712

hooks, bell, “The Oppositional gaze: Black Female Spectators” in Feminist Film Theory, 307. (New York: New York University Press, 1999)

hooks, bell “The Oppositional gaze: Black Female Spectators.” 310

Lorde, Audre. "Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference." In Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches, 112. Berkeley, CA: Crossing Press, 2007

Lorde, Audre “Age, Race, Class and Sex: Women Redefining Difference.” (112)

Mulvey, Laura, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.”

hooks, bell, “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators.” 308 

hooks, bell, “The Oppositional Gaze: Black Female Spectators.” 310

O’Neal, Lonnae, “I had a thot but didn’t know it was a thing” The Washington Post, March 19, 2015

Mulvey, Laura, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” 119

Mulvey, Laura, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” (112)

@theuncannyprofessoro

[aspiringcockslave]

My Kinks

Hello, welcome to my blog. This is probably gonna be super inactive, and I'd rather stay anonymous. I am a switch and moreparts dom in my general life, so I made this blog as a different place to put my submissive thoughts. Apologies if this is rambly, I am very verbose.

I am a virgin trans man interested in someday (hopefully sooner than later) serving (male) cock. I am not into femdom and I'm not into submitting to pussy, so no t4t, sorry. I don't send nudes (yet, but I would like to become comfortable with that eventually). I am 6 years on T and post-op.

I love being obedient and having no control. I can find noncon hot (in fantasy form) but it isn't my preferred form. I love being a mindless slave. I do have a few fantasies of being slowly turned into a mindless slave when once a reluctant fwb, so the two can merge.

The primary focus of my fantasy is how I service others rather than what is done to me (tho there are definitely many things I would LOVE to experience). I love muscular men and I love them reminding me how they are superior to me, and selling it as objective fact. I love worshipping muscular men. That cunts exist to serve cocks. I have some soft limits but my goal is to eventually be willing to do everything outside of my hard limits, thus the name "aspiring cock slave". My submissive dream is to someday be a complete and total slut. Anytime a man asks for sex I say yes. Anytime a man asks me to do anything at all I obey. Eventually, anytime a man wants to do anything to my body he doesn't have to ask, and I will comply and not resist. Even help. Of course, this is a process of slowly leaving my comfort zone.

That being said I do also like the idea of people that know me knowing they can use me this way and keeping me in their home as a slave for a week or two. Having me deep clean their home, having me cook their food, having me keep their cock in my mouth while they work. So, a master/slave dynamic is hot to me as well as the public use.

I mostly fantasize about this in a genderless way, of being treated as a subhuman object that gender doesn't apply, so that's compatible both in a gay ftm way and also in a transphobic "straight" way. I love being degraded so I get definitely be into transphobia, but moreso in an insulting way than a misgendering way, but that can be made hot too. While femininity doesn't turn me on in and of itself, I do like the idea of not having any control, and thus, it not being up to me what gender I present. I will say I kinda hate women's fashion from just an opinion basis so I have never found the idea of dressing like a woman particularly hot, even in a kinky forceful way. But, I try to keep my hard limits list short so it theoretically isn't up to me anyway. Also pregnancy does NOT turn me on. It grosses me out in general (i know i know, the miracle of life its beautiful, but it just weirds me out that someone's body is housing a child), so yeah. Besides, its hotter to me to be public use than domesticity.

HARD LIMITS:

No interest in actually medically detransitioning, no thank you, but if you want to misgender me feel free. I'd find it hotter if you're creative about it tho. I do have fantasies of being forced to detransition or being corrupted into it, but no fantasies i have an interest in experiencing.

Nothing involving people who didn't consent prior (thus nothing "risky" in public, outdoors is fine, but only with no risk of getting caught)

Nothing with feces. I want to eat ass someday but it better be clean.

With all this said, feel free to leave me a message or an ask or a task, or literally anything you want. If it violates my hard limits i'll ignore it, but I guess whatever if you send it. I've never sent someone a nude before, and I'm not theoretically against it, but I just have no experience yet, so its unlikely (at the moment).

[abyssmarked]

alright !! you guys asked for it, spicy neph headcanons. and yes, i am leaving trigger warnings. nothing about this creature is healthy in any mortal terms, and it’s mostly sad, rather than hot, if i’m being honest.

— she is a succubus, mostly following forgotten realms lore, she’s a literal sex demon, so. that’s already one point in itself, lol.

— for the most part, nepharia’s boundaries between sexual intimacy and hunting prey are extremely obscured, and it’s difficult for her to separate the two.

— given the fact that she was held captive for a decade in her most formative years as a sex slave, she also never really got a healthy introduction to sex in the first place. it was a tool used to abuse, to control, to strike fear. nepharia now uses it for the same purpose.

— but she also uses it for sustenance. while, well, fucking, nepharia’s body slowly siphons her prey’s life force. she can control this, to a point. a little bit is always siphoned naturally, but she can choose to consume more, and often does— the more she takes, the more euphoric she feels, and if she takes a life force in it’s entirety? well, she’s pretty much full fledged rolling on ecstasy, and so very strong.

— nepharia thrives in heavily sexual settings / scenarios, she feeds off of the lust, she’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

— with men, nepharia doesn’t really think of them as people, her broken mind has created this warped perception of them— they were her tormentors for so many years, and she’s so morally bankrupt now that she regards them with little to no empathy. and if she does find a man that she fancies ( it’s known to happen, neph can’t resist a cute face, especially if they are sweet too ), she still doesn’t regard them as more than her cute little playthings, her pets to be used whenever she so pleases ( guys, i know, but chaotic evil ).

— with women, nepharia recognizes them as her equals, for the most part. there’s way more respect between her and other women, she doesn’t immediately see them as threats. and sexually, she’s more intimate and comfortable a lot faster than she would be with a man.

— SHE’S A TOP. power and control are important for her, trying to take that dominant role will only make her aggressive ( unless of course she’s comfortable with her partner, she is known to relinquish that power for the right person ).

— she’s known to be rough and eager, drawing blood, bite barks, hickeys, scratches, vigorous riding.

— pull her horns and tail pls hjkjhgj.

— she really just wants her body to be appreciated. if you are soft with her, you will blow her mind.

[servenas-inner-fangirl]

Watching Black Sails 3x7

My watching is picking up pace again, maybe because I'm procrastinating other things with it... like doing my taxes.

Oh damn, did Max know exactly where to find her?? - Pls don't fight, pls don't fight...

Oh, okay, this is a planned meet-up. Also Anne on a horse is doing things to me. She looks so cool!

"Fuck what he needs." My thoughts exactly.

Well that went well. But also I'm confused - what was the night at the cave Anne was referring to? Because the last time we've seen them together, Jack had definitely not been arrested yet.

Also Max arguing for Jack's life (and, granted, probably her own ambitions for Nassau...) is maybe a bit ironic?

"it will tear her to pieces." I just want my lesbians to be happy, is that too much to ask?? Appearantly...

"Now you come back with nothing but him -" Well, I for once am happy he did!! But the ships would've been nice as well.

Vane seems as into Flint's military speeches as the rest of us.

"I don't know yet." Not what you want to hear from your most important ally in that kind of situation! But the queen seems to know quite a bit about military strategy herself.

Man, I wish Jack were long gone by now! Alas...

Yes, pirate queen Madi soon!!

That man does not look healthy at all. A plague in Nassau is the last thing we need right now... or is it?

Yay, Jack is not being tortured!! - Wait, Rogers is married??

Nooo, don't give Jack to the Spanish!! Bad, bad governor! (And Max is genuinely upset. .__.)

Haha, I bet I know what Featherstone is thinking right now!

I don't think the Spanish need to provoke Anne at all, when they meet up with her without Jack, she will tear into them like a rabid dog.

Yes, wlw solidarity! Or something.

"I don't know what is worse, Anne dying for Jack or surviving without him." T_T

Oh, a peace offering!

Hm, maybe I don't know what Featherstone was thinking.

Vane is still really pissed about the whole thing, huh? That really got under his skin.

Oh wow, is Billy actually being helpful?? - Yes, Silver is back!!

I love every single sentence of that conversation between Max and Eleanor. God, this show does relationships between women so well even though there aren't that many.

Eleanor playing with fire, nothing new here...

Okay, maybe I feel for Rogers a bit. Who could resist a woman like her? - And it's been a while since the show has been that explicit, right? I kinda missed it. It somehow feels different than in a lot of other shows, more interesting.

Okay, that's an interesting post-sex topic. But it kind of feels like Nassau itself is fighting back against the foreign invaders.

"You're one of them." Man, you have no idea how much. Or do you?

And I don't really believe Eleanor when she says she no longer wishes to be that way. But Rogers appearantly does.

Love Vane being all sneaky. And Featherstone's "Hand over Jack or Nassau burns. This is a dilemma to us how?" is really funny.

Roger's dream of a new Nassau is already falling apart, one Featherstone at a time.

"He's fine. - He's dying." From falsehood to truth in under 5 seconds flat. But love for the slave girl from season 1 (who's appearantly named Eme, which I had forgotten) to get some plot! I always felt like she would be a bigger part of the narrative, and then she wasn't.

That's not a very full tavern for Silver's show. But it's probably safer that way.

Oof, and he's immediately back to insulting his audience. But I love that he's basically telling the ghost story Flint wrote for himself so long ago.

Oh, of course Madi knows Eleanor, they grew up together! But Madi should be careful about what she says, Eleanor did free Eme from slavery after all, there might still be some loyalty there...

Guess we're gonna find out who is already sick of civilized life and would rather go back on the account (or is simply more terrified of Flint than England).

It is such a delight to see Silver work. The man definitely has a way with words.

UGH, Dufresne. Somebody finally kill that guy.

I think he's making a mistake underestimating Silver here. A lot has happened since they last saw each other.

YES! (They're really controlling the room well with just a handful of men.)

Ewwwww. But yeah, that'll send a message. They couldn't have planned this better. (Also the Silver of S1 would have never. - Although - he did stab a man in the first episode.)

Aww, Flint checking up on Silver! - Ugh, these two are so co-dependent. No wonder everybody is insane over them.

Everybody like: Oh shit, Flint is alive! Rogers is about to find out Eleanor named the wrong pirate as the most dangerous one.

Rogers playing 5d chess in regards of how to (not) react to this newest development, and probably still coming up short in the end. There is no way Flint isn't already two steps ahead.

Idk if Max wants to help with this. Isn't this a way to get Anne (and Jack) out of harms way? She's gotta see this.

Either way, Idelle is not wholy on board, I think. But I love how much influence the whores have in this show because everybody always underestimates them.

Ugh, she is back. Is that wise? She wasn't very nice to the girls who do remember her. Why not Idelle?

But Max doesn't want some random whore, she wants Anne. ;_;

Huh, Flint is impressed. Maybe I did underestimate Rogers. Either way, this will certainly be a meeting to remember.

Oh god, Rogers immediately twists the knife that is Thomas Hamilton. Let's hope Flint won't jump over the table and try to strangle him. (And how much does Eleanor know about that whole story? Certainly not everything.)

"Nobody's being hanged." Well, except for Jack maybe?? Since you're giving him to the Spanish??

"So what is it you're fighting for that we're not already offering?" Revenge.

Also they're just gonna pardon the burning of Charlestown? Or did they blame all of that on Vane?

"I no longer seek anything from England except her departure from my island." Flint really has the best lines.

Featherstone trying to bring some brain cells to Vane's single-minded pursuit of Anne Bonny and the cache... but maybe in vain (haha).

If this gives me just one actual interaction between Charles and Anne, instead of them merely existing in the same space, I will be happy.

Those are maybe too many men to kill even for Bonny. But maybe not for the both of them?

Oh Anne! She's gonna think Max betrayed her! This is breaking my heart.

So this was the plan? Let the money get away and leave Anne ready for anything? Not a bad plan, but still.

Oh, they had already met up before! So Anne was playing a role. That explains how she gave up rather easily.

Vane has actually though this through!! Or maybe somebody else thought it through for him. And this also means that they're forcing Flint's hand, who might otherwise not be so interested in Jack's rescue.

I approve. Surely nothing will go wrong...

[drbased]

Slavery - From Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape by Susan Brownmiller

[tw for rape, violent dehumanisation, anti-black racism, misogynoir]

The American experience of the slave South, which spanned two centuries, is a perfect study of rape in all its complexities, for the black woman's sexual integrity was deliberately crushed in order that slavery might profitably endure.

In contrast to rape during the Indian wars, which was largely casual and retaliatory—men getting even with men through the convenient vehicle of a woman's body—rape under the Patriarchal Institution, as it was named by the patriarchs, was built into the system. The white man wanted the Indian's land, but the coin he extracted from blacks was forced labor. This difference in purpose affected the white man's relations with, and use of, the black woman. Rape in slavery was more than a chance tool of violence. It was an institutional crime, part and parcel of the white man's subjugation of a people for economic and psychological gain.

The Patriarchal Institution took the form of white over black but it also took the form of male over female, or more specifically, of white male over black female. Unlike the Indian woman who was peripheral to the conquest of land, the black woman was critical to slavery. She was forced into dual exploitation as both laborer and reproducer. Her body, in all of its parts, belonged outright to her white master. She had no legal right of refusal, and if the mere recognition of her physical bondage was not enough, the knife, the whip and the gun were always there to be used against her. Forced sexual exploitation of the black woman under slavery was no offhand enterprise. Total control over her reproductive system meant a steady supply of slave babies, and slave children, when they reached the age of six or eight, were put to work; it did not matter whether they were full-blooded or mulatto.

An important psychologic advantage, which should not be underestimated, went hand in glove with the economic. Easy access to numerous, submissive female bodies—and individual resistance was doomed—afforded swaggering proof of masculinity to slaveholding males, while it conversely reduced and twisted the black man's concept of his role.

"Sexually as well as in every other way, Negroes were utterly subordinated," writes historian Winthrop D. Jordan of the slave South. "White men extended their dominion over the Negroes to the bed, where the sex act itself served as a ritualistic re-enactment of the daily pattern of social dominance." Jordan's words are too temperate. "Bed" is as much a euphemism as not, and "ritualistic re-enactment" implies a stately minuet of manners—a vastly in-adequate description of the brutal white takeover and occupation of the black woman's body.

"Lawdy, lawdy, them was tribbolashuns!" an eighty-seven-year- old ex-slave by the name of Martha Jackson told a recorder for the Federal Works Project in Alabama (who wrote down her words in an approximation of her dialect). "Wunner dese here womans was my Antie en she say dad she skacely call to min' he e'r whoppin' her, 'case she was er breeder woman en' brought in chillum ev'y twelve mont's jes lak a cow bringin' in a calf."

Martha Jackson's choice of imagery was grounded in the realities of slavery. Female slaves were expected to "breed"; some were retained expressly for that purpose. In the lexicon of slavery, "breeder woman," "childbearing woman," "too old to breed" and "not a breeding woman" were common descriptive terms. In-country breeding was crucial to the planter economy after the African slave trade was banned in 1807, and the slave woman's value increased in accordance with her ability to produce healthy offspring. Domestic production of slave babies for sale to other slave states became a small industry in the fertile upper South. In

fact, it was observed to be the only reliably profitable slave-related enterprise. Quite an opposite state of affairs had existed in the North before abolition, where slavery had never been profitable. In colonial Massachusetts, one observer has written, slave babies when weaned "were given away like puppies." But the state of Virginia annually exported between six thousand and twenty-thousand homegrown slaves to the deeper South, where the land, the climate and a harsher work load took precedence over fecundity. The Virginia-reared slave, like Virginia leaf tobacco, was always in great demand.

A member of the Virginia legislature used revealing language when he addressed that patrician body in 1831:

It has always (perhaps erroneously) been considered by steady and old-fashioned people, that the owner of land had a reasonable right to its annual profits; the owner of orchards, to their annual fruits; the owner of brood-mares, to their product; and the owner of female slaves to their increase . . . and I do not hesitate to say, that in its increase consists much of our wealth.

The fellow from Virginia, Mr. Gholson, was attempting to make the point that a slaveholder would not mistreat a female slave as he would not mistreat his broodmare, since the "increase" of each needed a period of nurture in order to show a profit. In return for the production of slave babies, the female knowingly bartered for more food and a reduced work load in the weeks before and after birth. But despite Mr. Gholson's protestations, a lightened work load was not an automatic quid pro quo.

Nehemiah Caulkins, a white carpenter who worked for a time on a North Carolina rice plantation, presented this picture of breeder women in an antislavery pamphlet of 1839:

One day the owner ordered the women into the barn, he then went in among them, whip in hand, and told them he meant to flog them all to death; they immediately began to cry out, "What have I done Massa? What have I done Massa?" He replied, "D—n you, I will let you know what you have done, you don't breed, I haven't had a young one from one of you for several months." They told him they could not breed while they had to work in the rice ditches. (The rice grounds are low and marshy, and have to be drained, and while digging or clearing the ditches, the women had to work in mud and water from one to two feet in depth; they were obliged to draw up and secure their frocks about their waist, to keep them out of water, in this manner they frequently had to work from daylight in the morning till it was so dark they could see no longer.) After swearing and threatening for some time, he told them to tell the overseer's wife, when they got in that way, and he would put them upon the land to work.

The Georgia journal of Fanny Kemble, whose husband owned a pair of cotton and rice plantations, records this entry:

The women who visited me yesterday evening were all in the family way, and came to entreat of me to have the sentence (what else can I call it?) modified which condemns them to assume their labor of hoeing in the field three weeks after their confinement. They knew, of course, that I cannot interfere with their appointed labor, and therefore their sole entreaty was that I would use my influence with Mr. [Butler, her husband] to obtain for them a month's respite from labor in the field after childbearing.

Fanny Kemble was unsuccessful in her intercessionary mission. Breeder women were sometimes blatantly advertised as such, for if they were "proven," they could command a higher price. The following advertisement from the Charleston, South Carolina,

Mercury became an abolitionist classic:

NEGROES FOR SALE—A Girl about twenty years of age (raised in Virginia) and her two female children, one four and the other two years old—is remarkably strong and healthy—never having had a day's sickness, with the exception of the small pox, in her life. The children are fine and healthy. She is very prolific in her generating qualities, and affords a rare opportunity to any person who wishes to raise a family of strong and healthy servants for their own use. Any person wishing to purchase will please leave their address at the Mercury office.

It mattered little to the slaveholder who did the actual impregnating, since the "increase" belonged to him by law. Paternity was seldom entered in the slaveholder's record book, and when it did appear, it was strictly for purposes of identification. The female was often arbitrarily assigned a sexual partner or "husband" and ordered to mate. Her own preferences in this most intimate of matters may or may not have been taken into account, depending on the paternalistic inclinations of her master. "I wish the three girls you purchest had been all grown," an overseer wrote to an absent master. "They wold then bin a wife a pese for Harise & King & Nathan. Harris has Jane for a wife and Nathan has Edy. But King & Nathan had sum difuculty hoo wold have Edy. I promist King that I wold in dever to git you to bey a nother woman sow he might have a wife at home."

Sexual activity for the male slave after the day's work was done was considered by the slave and master to be in the nature of a reward, but it is difficult to make such a generalization for the female. The accepted modern authority on slavery, Kenneth M. Stampp, writes, "Having to submit to the superior power of their masters, many slaves were extremely aggressive toward each other." It is consistent with the nature of oppression that within an oppressed group, men abuse women. "We don't care what they do when their tasks are over—we lose sight of them till next day," one planter wrote. "Their morals and manners are in their own keeping. The men may have, for instance, as many wives as they please, so long as they do not quarrel about such matters."

Another slave owner kept marital law and order in the following fashion, as recorded in his diary: "Flogged Joe Goodwyn and ordered him to go back to his wife. Dito Gabriel and Molly and ordered them to come together again. Separate Moses and Anny finally. And flogged Tom Kollock [for] interfering with Maggy Cambell, Sullivan's wife." The narrative of Charles Ball, Fifty Years in Chains, tells of a slave woman who was forced to live with a fellow slave whom she thoroughly detested and feared—and who never stopped reminding her that in Africa he had ten wives! That warm, sustained relationships did develop between male and female slaves in bondage is a most profound testament to what can only be called humanity, which everything in slave life conspired to destroy.

Field laborer, house servant and breeder woman were the principal economic roles of the female slave, but she was also used by her white owner for his own sexual-recreational pleasure, a hierarchical privilege that spilled over to his neighbors ("I believe it is the custom among the Patriarchs to make an interchange of civilities of this kind," wrote a correspondent in Missouri to a New York newspaper in 1859), and to his young sons eager for initiation into the mysteries of sex. The privilege, apparently, was also expected by visitors. "Will you believe it, I have not humped a single mulatto since I am here," an aide of Steuben's wrote to a friend in condemnation of the lack of hospitality at George Washington's Mount Vernon.

The sexual privilege also filtered down to lower-class white males in the planter's employ (overseers with the power of the whip and craft workers with access to the plantation) and to certain black male slaves ("drivers") who were also handed the whip and directed to play an enforcer role within the system. At the top of the hierarchy, setting the style, was the white master.

Nehemiah Caulkins testified:

This same planter had a female slave who was a member of the Methodist Church; for a slave she was intelligent and conscientious. He proposed a criminal intercourse with her. She would not comply. He left her and sent for the overseer, and told him to have her flogged. It was done. Not long after, he renewed his proposal. She again refused. She was again whipped. He then told her why she had been twice flogged, and told her he intended to whip her till she should yield. The girl, seeing that her case was hopeless, her back smarting with the scourging she had received and dreading a repetition, gave herself up to be the victim of his brutal lusts.

Solomon Northup, a shanghaied New York freedman who was forced to spend twelve years on a Louisiana plantation and later published his narrative of bondage, wrote a sympathetic description of a field slave, Patsey, who had to endure her master's "attentions."

Patsey was slim and straight. She stood erect as the human form is capable of standing. There was an air of loftiness in her movement that neither labor, nor weariness, nor punishment could destroy. Truly, Patsey was a splendid animal, and were it not that bondage had enshrouded her intellect in utter and everlasting darkness, would have been chief among ten thousand of her people. She could leap the highest fences, and a fleet hound it was indeed that could outstrip her in a race. No horse could fling her from his back. She was a skillful teamster. She turned as true a furrow as the best, and at splitting rails there was none who could excel her. . . . Such lightning-like motion was in her fingers as no other fingers ever possessed, and therefore it was that in cotton picking time, Patsey was queen of the field.

Yet Patsey wept oftener, and suffered more, than any of her companions. She had literally been excoriated. Her back bore the scars of a thousand stripes; not because she was of an unmindful and rebellious spirit, but because it had fallen to her lot to be the slave of a licentious master and a jealous mistress. She shrank before the lustful eye of one, and was in danger even of her life at the hands of the other, and between the two, she was indeed accursed. . . . but not like Joseph, dared she escape from Master Epps, leaving her garment in his hand. Patsey walked under a cloud. If she uttered a word in opposition to her master's will, the lash was resorted to at once, to bring her to subjection; if she was not watchful when about her cabin, or when walking in the yard, a billet of wood, or a broken bottle perhaps, hurled from her mistress's hand, would smite her unexpectedly in the face. The enslaved victim of lust and hate, Patsey had no comfort of her life.

Northup described one incident in the field when he and Patsey were hoeing side by side. Patsey suddenly exclaimed in a low voice, "D'ye see old Hog Jaw beckoning me to come to him?"

Glancing sideways, I discovered him in the edge of the field, motioning and grimacing, as was his habit when half-intoxicated. Aware of his lewd intentions, Patsey began to cry. I whispered her not to look up, and to continue her work as if she had not observed him. Suspecting the truth of the matter, however, he soon staggered up to me in a great rage.

"What did you say to Pats?" he demanded with an oath. I made him some evasive answer which only had the effect of increasing his violence.

"How long have you owned this plantation, say, you d—d n****r?"

Master Epps chased Northup across the field and then re- turned to Patsey. "He remained about the field an hour or more. . . . Finally Epps came toward the house, by this time nearly sober, walking demurely with his hands behind his back, and attempting to look as innocent as a child."

Patsey's story had a terrible ending. The jealous Epps became convinced that his slave had had relations with a white neighbor. He ordered her stripped, staked and beaten into listlessness. "In- deed, from that time forward she was not what she had been. . . . She no longer moved with that buoyant and elastic step—there was not that mirthful sparkle in her eyes that formerly distinguished her. The bounding vigor—the sprightly, laughter-loving spirit of her youth, was gone."

Narratives such as Northup's, published by the Northern abolitionist press in the nineteenth century, and oral histories of former slaves that the Federal Works Projects Administration collected in the nineteen thirties cast cold light on the life-style of slavery. W h e n the female ex-slave was asked to tell of her experiences, not surprisingly she did not dwell on sex. "Them was tribbolashuns," and a combination of propriety, modesty and acute shame on the part of narrator and recorder must have conspired to close the door on any specific revelations. (Male ex-slaves, because of a freer convention among men, were permitted to discuss the sexual abuse of females.)

But horror at the sexual abuse of enslaved black women was a recurring theme among white female abolitionists. The Grimké sisters of South Carolina and Margaret Douglass and Lydia Maria Child, among others, did not let it rest. They spoke and pamphleteered relentlessly (but alas, delicately—so dictated the times) out of a strong sense of identification with their black sisters in bondage. Margaret Douglass, a Southern white woman who was convicted and jailed in Virginia for teaching black children to read, wrote from prison in 1853:

The female slave, however fair she may have become by various comminglings of her progenitors, or whatever her mental and moral acquirements may be, knows that she is a slave, and, as such, powerless beneath the whims and fancies of her master. If he casts upon her a desiring eye, she knows that she must submit; and her only thought is, that the more gracefully she yields, the stronger and longer hold she may perchance retain upon the brutal appetite of her master. Still, she feels her degradation, and so do others with whom she is connected. She has parents, brothers, sisters, a lover, perhaps, who all suffer through her and with her.

The politically keen Mrs. Douglass, writing to a white audience, then added these lines:

White mothers and daughters of the South have suffered under this custom for years; they have seen their dearest affections trampled upon, their hopes of domestic happiness destroyed. I cannot use too strong language on this subject, for I know it will meet a heartfelt response from every Southern woman. They know the facts, and their hearts bleed under its knowledge, however they may have attempted to conceal their discoveries.*

(*Kenneth Stampp unfairly uses this portion of Mrs. Douglass' letter to buttress his contention that "Southern white women apparently believed that they suffered most from the effects of miscegenation.")

Mrs. Douglass' analysis went further:

Will not the natural impulses rebel against what becomes with them a matter of force? For the female slave knows that she must submit to the caprices of her master; that there is no way of escape. And when a man, black though he may be, knows that he may be compelled, at any moment, to hand over his wife, his sister, or his daughter, to the loathed embraces of the man whose chains he wears, how can it be expected he will submit without feelings of hatred and revenge taking possession of his heart?

The slave's revenge took many forms—although white retribution was swift and certain. A traveler through the South wrote in 1856:

A Negress was hung this year in Alabama, for the murder of her child. At her trial, she confessed her guilt. She said her owner was the father of the child, and that her mistress knew it, and treated her so cruelly in consequence, that she had killed it to save it from further suffering, and also to remove a provocation to her own ill-treatment.

A visitor to Mississippi in 1836 sent a letter to a Northern friend:

The day I arrived at this place there was a man by the name of G----- murdered by a Negro man that belonged to him. [The black man was publicly lynched.] G------ owned the Negro's wife and was in the habit of sleeping with her! The Negro said he had killed him and he believed he should be rewarded in heaven for it.

The narrative of Charles Ball tells of a mulatto slave woman, Lucy, who rebelled against her forced sexual servitude to her white owner and successfully plotted with her slave lover, Frank, to kill him. Charles Ball himself played a role in their apprehension and confession. Lucy and Frank "were tried before some gentlemen of the neighborhood, who held a court for that purpose," and were hanged at a public gallows. "It was estimated by my master," Ball records, "that there were at least fifteen thousand people present at this scene, more than half of whom were blacks; all the masters, for a great distance round the country, having permitted, or compelled their people to come to this hanging."

The case of Peggy and Patrick received considerable notoriety in New Kent County, Virginia, in 1830. This pair of slaves, who were lovers, were condemned to be hanged for murdering their master. Extenuating circumstances caused the local white citizens of New Kent to submit a petition to the governor asking that punishment for the pair be reduced to "transportation."

One black witness whose testimony was solicited declared that

the deceased to whom Peggy belonged had had a disagreement with Peggy, and generally kept her confined by keeping her chained to a block and locked up in his meat house; that he [the witness] believed the reason why the deceased had treated Peggy in this way was because Peggy would not consent to intercourse with him, and that he had heard the deceased say that if Peggy did not agree to his request in that way, he would beat her almost to death, that he would barely leave the life in her, and would send her to New Orleans. The witness said that Peggy said the reason she would not yield to his request was because the deceased was her father, and she could not do a thing of that sort with her father. The witness heard the deceased say to Peggy that if she did not consent, he would make him, the witness, and Patrick hold her, to enable him to effect his object.

Since it was the slaveholdirig class that created the language and wrote the laws pertaining to slavery, it is not surprising that legally the concept of raping a slave simply did not exist. One cannot rape one's own property. The rape of one man's slave by another white man was considered a mere "trespass" in the eyes of plantation law. The rape of one man's slave by another slave had no official recognition in law at all.*

(* Some evidence exists that masters attempted to police, in their own fashion, the more blatant abuses that male slaves committed against females. An 1828 advertisement in the Elkton, Maryland, Press for runaway "Negro George Anderson, about 21 or 22 years of age," declared informatively, "A few days before he absconded he attempted to commit a rape upon a young female of his own color, the punishment for which has caused his running off.")

Moral objections to the "liberties" that the slaveholder and his overseer took as a matter of course were voiced within the oddly angled framework of miscegenation, amalgamation, mixture of the races, licentiousness, degradation and lust. Typically for the power class, the slave's coerced participation in the act was turned on her. Her passive submission—the rule of survival in slavery—was styled as concubinage, prostitution or promiscuity when it was alluded to at all. Even the Northern abolitionists shied away from defining coercive sexual abuse under slavery as criminal rape, preferring to speak emotionally, but guardedly, of illicit passion and lust. Modern historians tend to operate under the same set of blinders.

The patriarchal institution of marriage dovetailed with the patriarchal institution of slavery to prevent perception, by even the most enlightened observers, of a concept of sexual rights and bodily integrity for the female slave. In the nineteenth century, a married woman was considered by law to be the property of her husband, and any abuse to her person was considered, by law, to be an abuse to his property. If the woman was not married, the abuse was to her father's property. But slaves were not permitted to marry legally, and criminal sexual abuse of a female slave (a rape) could not be considered by law an affront to her slave "husband" or slave father, who had no rights of their own. The examples we find in abolitionist literature that express concern over the sexual abuse of female slaves are frequently couched in terms of sympathy for the abused women's husbands! As a Maryland lawyer observed at the time, "Slaves are bound by our criminal laws generally, yet we do not consider them as the objects of such laws as relate to the commerce between the sexes. A slave has never maintained an action against the violator of his bed." Of his bed.

Statutory prohibitions against interracial sex, or more accurately, against the act of sex between slaveholder and slave, were on the books of all the slave states from the time they were colonies of the king. Even in South Carolina, where the slave-trading city of Charleston earned a dubious reputation as the libertine capital of North America (a reputation later claimed by New Orleans), and where "interracial liaisons were less carefully concealed than else- where on the continent/' a grand jury in 1743 took notice of "the too common practice of criminal conversation with Negro and other slave wenches in this province," and scored this conversation—or intercourse—as "an Enormity and Evil of general Ill-Consequence."

But it was "pollution of the white race" and not concern for the rights of slaves that lay behind such pronunciamentos. The laws against "admixture" that white men wrote were not applied to white men. They were applied by white men against white women —as several divorce suits and bastardy charges of the time showed—and they were applied with a special vengeance against those black men who entered into liaisons with white women. (The implications and consequences of this sex-race quadruple standard are still with us. See Chapter 7, "A Question of Race.")

A Louisiana Supreme Court decision of 1851 after some backing and filling proceeded to define concubinage as a "mutual" liaison, although one participant was a slaveholder and the other a female slave bound to him by law and force.

The slave is undoubtedly subject to the power of his master; but that means a lawful power, such as is consistent with good morals. The laws do not subject the female slave to an involuntary and illicit connexion with her master, but would protect her against that misfortune. It is true, that the female slave is peculiarly exposed . . . to the seductions of an unprincipled master. That is a misfortune; but it is so rare in the case of concubinage that the seduction and temptation are not mutual, that exceptions to the general rule cannot be founded upon it.

It is difficult to gain a clear understanding of concubinage as it was practiced in the slave South. I do not mean to argue the point that all sexual liaisons between white masters and black slaves fall within my extended definition of rape, although such an argument is tempting. For many black women, concubinage was the best bargain that could be struck, a more or less graceful accommodation given the hopeless condition of bondage; certainly for some it was as close to emancipation as possible, short of a run for freedom with Harriet Tubman. But first, last and always, concubinage was a male-imposed condition: a bargain struck on male values exclusively, resting on a foundation of total ownership and control. Accommodation in lieu of forcible seizure could bring a variety of amenities into one's life: relative status, pretty dresses, gold earrings, and the hope—always the hope—of manumission for one's self and children. This last must have been held out to the black concubine like a carrot on a stick. Several slaveholder wills survive in which freedom for a favored slave and her children is provided, along with bequests of money and real property. Sadly, but not surprisingly, the terms of these wills were often successfully challenged in the courts by the slaveholder's lawful heirs.

Sexual exploitation of black women by white men was understood as one of the evils of slavery by the abolitionist movement, even though abolitionists were unable to bring themselves to call it rape. Specific cases of concubinage and "amalgamation" reported by travelers through the South were incorporated, with appropriate moral outrage, into American Slavery As It Is: Testimony of a Thousand Witnesses, compiled and collated by the Grimké sisters and Theodore Weld, Angelina Grimké's husband, in 1839. The Grimké testimony, and that of Margaret Douglass, formed the backbone of an i860 antislavery pamphlet edited by Lydia Maria Child. The abolitionist women, in dealing with the sexual behavior of men, were treading on dangerous ground, bound by conventions that decreed that a man's private life was beyond the pale of political scrutiny. "We forbear to lift the veil of private life any higher," wrote Angelina Grimké, whose brother had sired mulatto slave children. "Let these few hints suffice to give you some idea of what is daily passing behind that curtain which has been so carefully drawn before the scenes of domestic life in slaveholding America."

The "few hints" of which Angelina Grimké wrote and spoke were scandalous enough for the times. "The character of the white ladies of the South, as well as the ladies of color, seems to have been discussed, and the editor of the Courier was of the opinion that the reputation of his paper, and the morals of its readers, might be injuriously affected by publishing the debate," a Northern newspaper reported after a Grimké speech—neatly turning the crime of men into a matter of the "character" of women, in the age-old tradition.

In the winter of 1838-1839, while Weld and the Grimkés were compiling their documentary record of slavery in New York, the English actress Fanny Kemble was in residence on a Georgia island plantation, recording her shocked observations in a journal that remained suppressed for twenty-five years. The celebrated and strong-minded Miss Kemble had inadvisedly married a young Philadelphian, Pierce Butler, who inherited a pair of cotton and rice plantations employing more than one thousand slaves. The marriage went badly, but it proved invaluable to history, for Fanny Kemble traveled with her husband to Georgia and wrote down what she saw in the form of letters to a friend.

As Fanny Kemble made the acquaintance of slaves on her husband's plantation, it dawned on her that the complexion of some of them was decidedly light, and for a very specific reason— the plantation's overseer, John King. She described the slave woman Betty:

Of this woman's life on the plantation I subsequently learned the following circumstances. She was the wife of head man Frank . . . the head driver—second in command to the overseer. His wife [Betty]—a tidy, trim intelligent woman with a pretty figure . . . was taken from him by the overseer . . . and she had a son by him whose straight features and diluted color . . . bear witness to his Yankee descent. I do not know how long Mr. King's occupation of Frank's wife continued, or how the latter endured the wrong done to him [italics mine]. This outrage upon this man's rights [italics mine] was perfectly notorious among all the slaves; and his hopeful offspring, Renty, alludfed] to his superior birth on one occasion.

Betty was not the only slave on the Butler plantation whom the white overseer, King, forced into sexual service, Fanny Kemble discovered.

Before reaching the house I was stopped by one of our multitudinous Jennies with a request for some meat, and that I would help her with some clothes for Ben and Daphne, of whom she had the sole charge; these are two extremely pretty and interesting looking mulatto children, whose resemblance to Mr. King had induced me to ask Mr. Butler, when I first saw them, if he did not think they must be his children. He said they were certainly like him, but Mr. King did not acknowledge the relationship. I asked Jenny who their mother was. "Minda." "Who their father?" "Mr. King." . . . "Who told you so?" "Minda, who ought to know." "Mr. King denies it." "That's because he never has looked upon them, nor done a thing for them." "Well, but he acknowledged Renty as his son, why should he deny these?" "Because old master was here then when Renty was born, and he made Betty tell all about it, and Mr. King had to own it; but nobody knows anything about this, and so he denies it."

The Butler plantation operated under absentee ownership for most of the year and the white overseer, King, was left in charge as a virtual dictator. The power of his station, and its sexual privi- leges, extended to those directly below him in the chain of command, the black drivers, who themselves were slaves. Owners, overseers, drivers, neighboring white men—all could force the black woman against her will, and she was held morally responsible for the injury done to her. Fanny Kemble herself started from this premise, but rejected it in time.

Quizzing more of her husband's slaves about the paternity of their offspring and hearing the names King and Walker (a white mill hand) and Morris (a black driver) repeated by many of them, she recorded:

Almost beyond my patience with this string of detestable details, I exclaimed—foolishly enough, heaven knows— "Ah! but don't you know—did nobody ever tell or teach any of you that it is a sin to live with men who are not your husbands?" Alas, Elizabeth, what could the poor creature answer but what she did, seizing me at the same time vehemently by the wrist: "Oh yes, missis, we know—we know all about dat well enough; but we do anything to get our poor flesh some rest from de whip; when he made me follow him into de bush, what use me tell him no? He have strength to make me." I have written down the woman's words; I wish I could write down the voice and look of abject misery with which they were spoken. Now you will observe that the story was not told to me as a complaint; it was a thing long past and over, of which she only spoke in the natural course of accounting for her children to me. I makeno comment; what need, or can I add, to such stories? But how is such a state of things to endure? and again, how is it to end?

Kemble privately circulated a handwritten copy of her journal among her friends and it quickly gained an underground reputation as the most explosive insider's antislavery testament. Lydia Maria Child urged her to publish portions of it, at least, as ammunition for the abolitionist cause but Pierce Butler flatly refused permission. As a slaveholder he thought the journal was unseemly, which it was. As a husband he could withhold consent, by law, to any publication of his wife's, which he did. The journal, Kemble's antislavery views, and her equally daring belief in equality in marriage, figured prominently in Butler's eventual suit for divorce. Butler won custody of their two children and the visitation-rights agreement stipulated that Kemble must do nothing to embarrass him. In 1863, earning her own living again on the English stage,

Fanny Kemble finally published her Georgia journal. By that time the War Between the States was well under way and Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel, based in part on the Weld-Grimke pamphlet, had stolen much of her thunder.

The appointed roles of concubine and breeder woman forcibly progressed to outright prostitution in the last decades of slavery. Traders dispensed with pretense and openly sold their prettiest and "near-white" female chattel for sexual use on the New Orleans market. The cavalier term was "fancy girl." The place was the French Exchange in the grand rotunda of the St. Louis Hotel, and the favored hour was noon. This gaudy fillip to the slave trade was no more than a logical extension of institutional rape, the final indignity.

"Every slaveholder is the legalized keeper of a house of ill-fame," the ex-slave and orator Frederick Douglass thundered to an abolitionist meeting in Rochester, New York, in 1850. Douglass' understanding of the dynamics of slavery far surpassed that of any other single person. That night in Rochester he instructed his audience in the dynamics of sexual oppression.

I hold myself ready to prove that more than a million of women, in the Southern States of this Union, are, by laws of the land, and through no fault of their own, consigned to a life of revolting prostitution; that, by those laws, in many of the States, if a woman, in defence of her own innocence, shall lift her hand against the brutal aggressor, she may be lawfully put to death. I hold myself ready to prove, by the laws of slave states, that three million of the people of those States are utterly incapacitated to form marriage contracts. I am also prepared to prove that slave breeding is relied upon by Virginia as one of her chief sources of wealth. It has long been known that the best blood of Virginia may now be found in the slave markets of New Orleans. It is also known that slave women, who are nearly white, are sold in those markets, at prices which proclaim, trumpet-tongued, the accursed purposes to which they are to be devoted. Youth and elegance, beauty and innocence, are exposed for sale upon the auction block; while villainous monsters stand around, with pockets lined with gold, gazing with lustful eyes upon their prospective victims.

New Orleans was "fully tenfold the largest market for 'fancy girls,'" Frederic Bancroft wrote in his unmatched study, Slave Trading in the Old South. " The prospect of great profit induced their conspicuous display." Beautiful New Orleans! Ambitious slavers chained their prettiest catches to the coffle and headed for the balmy Gulf port. Racing season and Mardi Gras were especially remunerative times. The Hotel St. Louis on Chartres Street was a beehive of activity. Bilingual auctioneers tickled the libido of the sporting men in simultaneous French and English, for a 2 percent

commission. The slave women stood near the auctioneer's hammer and smiled, bedecked in bonnets and ribbons. Sales of two thousand dollars and up were not unusual. Private rooms off the main rotunda of the Exchange were always available for the gentleman who wished to inspect his prospective purchase. Inspection at the French Exchange was a serious matter. "To gamblers, traders, saloonkeepers, turfmen and debauchees, owning a 'fancy girl' was a luxurious ideal."

The master-slave relationship is the most popular fantasy perversion in the literature of pornography. The image of a scantily clothed slave girl, always nubile, always beautiful, always docile, who sinks to her knees gracefully and dutifully before her master, who stands with or without boots, with or without whip, is commonly accepted as a scene of titillating sexuality. From the slave harems of the Oriental potentate, celebrated in poetry and dance, to the breathless descriptions of light-skinned fancy women, de rigueur in a particular genre of pulp historical fiction, the glorification of forced sex under slavery, institutional rape, has been a part of our cultural heritage, feeding the egos of men while subverting the egos of women—and doing irreparable damage to healthy sexuality in the process. The very words "slave girl" impart to many a vision of voluptuous sensuality redolent of perfumed gardens and soft music strummed on a lyre. Such is the legacy of male-controlled sexuality, under which we struggle.

ADDENDUM: THE CLIOMETRICIANS

By running two sets of statistics into a computer and by making a few unsupported, outlandish statements, "cliometricians" Robert Fogel and Stanley Engerman argue in Time on the Cross, their statistical view of slave history, that the sexual abuse of black women by white men was not a common occurrence. Dismissing all known reports collected by the abolitionists, they write:

Even if all these reports were true, they constituted at most a few hundred cases. By themselves, such a small number of observations out of a population of millions could just as easily be used as proof of the infrequency of the sexual exploitation of black women as of its frequency. The real question is whether such cases were common events that were rarely reported, or whether they were rare events that were frequently reported.

This is a "real question" only for someone who does not want to accept how infrequently cases of sexual assault are reported even in this day and age, let alone in the time when Angelina Grimke wrote, "We forbear to lift the veil of private life any higher."

Fogel and Engerman heap scorn on Fanny Kemble for having a distorted vision of slavery based on her "upper-class English" bias. In fact, Kemble's origins were not upper class. She was the daughter of a family of celebrated but impecunious actors who relied on her income—hence her gamble on a marriage to Pierce Butler. Ignoring the reasons why her Journal remained suppressed for twenty-five years, they try to slough it off as "a polemic aimed at rallying British support to the northern cause." It is not a polemic, as the dictionary defines the word, nor was it aimed at the British at the time of its inception. These errors of fact and interpretation could have been cleared up if Fogel and Engerman had read the Journal in its entirety, had read the Butler divorce papers, or had read one of the several biographies of Kemble.

Claiming they deal in facts, not conjecture, the authors, by presenting the results of two tangential computer runs, argue that white men did not as a rule molest black women, coyly adding that in their opinion interracial exploitation "would undermine the air of mystery and distinction on which so much of the authority of large planters rested." The first standard they employ is an analysis of the number of mulattoes reported in the i860 census. Thirty-nine percent of the freedmen in Southern cities were reported as mulatto that year. Among urban slaves the proportion was 20 percent and among rural slaves, who constituted 95 percent of the slave population, the percentage of reported mulattoes was 9.9. Since the overwhelming majority of slaves lived in rural areas, the authors required no sleight of hand to arrive at a figure of 10.4 percent for the census proportion of mulattoes in the entire Southern slave population. From this they conclude, "Far from proving that the exploitation of black women was ubiquitous, the available data on mulattoes strongly militates against that contention."

Several things are wrong here. The progeny of an interracial union can "come up dark" or "come up light," so in itself the color of the offspring is no sure-fire test. Secondly, how were these i860 census reports obtained? In their supplemental methodology volume Fogel and Engerman tell us that the census was taken by "thousands of enumerators" who were "drawn from the category of literate middle- and upper-class whites," and who used the criterion of skin color. We may assume that the freedmen reported their heritage to the enumerators in person, but do the authors suggest that the slaves did the same, or that the industrious enumerators entered the grounds of each and every plantation and counted heads and judged color from shack to shack?

It is reasonable to assume that the owners did all the reporting for their slaves, particularly in the rural areas, and it is reasonable to assume that plantation owners would be most reluctant to admit to the government that they were siring mulatto children, especially since miscegenation was technically against the law. Plantation owners, I am certain, saw what they wanted to see, and reported what they wanted to report to their class allies, those middle- and upper-class white enumerators. Any census statistic on the proportion of mulattoes on a plantation would be a most unreliable figure. In addition, why do Fogel and Engerman assume that a rape, even in a "non-contraceptive society," as they put it, is necessarily going to result in pregnancy and birth? Periods of fertility being what they are, a rapist plays Russian roulette with more than twenty chambers, yet the authors would have us believe he impregnates every time.

This fallacy in thinking also affects the import of their second set of computed facts. From a limited number of plantation records, the authors of Time on the Cross draw up a distribution chart indicating the age of slave mothers at the time they gave birth to their first child. (Unfortunately the cliometricians do not tell us how large a sample was available to them.) Thirty-six percent of all first births took place between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, and an additional 4 percent took place among girls below the age of fifteen. "Some readers might be inclined to stress that 40 percent of all first births took place before the mothers were 20," the authors generously admit—in the fine print of their methodology volume. In their major volume they write only that "the average age at first birth was 22.5, the median age was 20.8."

The median age is the more significant of these two figures, since it shows that there were as many first births below the age of 20.8 as there were above. The average age in the Fogel-Engerman computation is beefed up by each first birth that planter records claim occurred at age thirty-five and over; it does not mean that "most" slave women gave birth to their first child at twenty-two.

From this limited presentation Fogel and Engerman extrapolate, "Only abstinence would explain the relative shortage of births in the late-teen ages," and "the high fertility rate of slave women was not the consequence of the wanton impregnation of very young unmarried women by either white or black men." They hopefully conclude, "The high average age of mothers at first birth also suggests that slave parents closely guarded their daughters from sexual contact with men."

Leaving aside the entire question of the accuracy of slave ages, which does not seem to bother the authors, or the incidence of spontaneous miscarriage and folk-remedy abortions for the very young (information certainly not available), what is most troubling about these first-birth statistics is that nowhere are they matched up against the average age of menarche, the time of the first menstrual period. As it happens, the age at which menstruation begins has been perceptibly declining. In 1960 it fell between twelve and thirteen; however, in 1860 first menstruation usually occurred between the ages of sixteen and seventeen. Not only that, there is evidence in modern medicine and anthropology that fertility in the first few years after the onset of menstruation is comparatively low.

Fogel and Engerman's statistics tell us nothing about the sexual exploitation of black women in slavery. Statistical analysis is a valuable tool when it deals with reported crime. Unreported crime, however, remains beyond the magic of computers.