Saturday, 10 March 2012



Our hero soon began to feel that he was contracting his first college crush. The great, strong, badly-dressed, badly-appointed whip master R. B. Kitaj, who seemed almost at the same time utterly reckless of, and nervously alive to, the opinion of all around him, with his bursts of womanly tenderness and Berserker rage, alternating like storms and sunshine of a July day on a high moorland, his keen sense of humour and appreciation of all the good things of life, the use and enjoyment of which he was so steadily denying himself from high principle, had from the first seized powerfully on all Hockney's sympathies, and was daily gaining more hold upon him.

Blessed is the man who has the gift of making sex slaves; for it is one of Eros’s best gifts. It involves many things, but above all, the power of going out of oneself, and seeing and appreciating whatever is ignoble and base in another man or woman.

But even to him who has the gift, it is often a great puzzle to find out whether a man is really a sex slave or not. The following is recommended as a test in the case of any submissive about whom you are not quite sure; especially if s/he should happen to have more of this world's goods, either in the shape of talents, rank or money, or what not, than you.

Fancy the man stripped stark naked of every thing in the world, including every last stitch of clothing, without even a name to him, and dropped down in the middle of Holborn or Piccadilly, Would you go up to him then and there, and lead him out from amongst the cabs and omnibuses, and take him to your own home and demand of him that he suck your cock? If you wouldn't do this you have no right to call him by the sacred name of sex slave. If you would, the odds are that he would submit totally to your will in all things sexual, and you may count yourself a whip master.

Hockney was rapidly falling into a bondage and discipline relationship with Kitaj. He was not bound hand and foot, gagged and carried away as a complete captive yet, but he was already getting deep in the toils.

One evening he found himself as usual at Kitaj's door about eight o'clock. The oak was open, but he got no answer when he knocked at the inner door. Nevertheless he entered, having quite got over all shyness or ceremony by this time. The room was empty, but two tumblers and the black bottle stood on the table, and the kettle was hissing away on the hob. "Ah," thought Hockney, "he expects me, I see;" so he turned his back to the fire and made himself at home. A quarter of an hour passed, and still Kitaj did not return. "Never knew him out so long before at this time of night," thought Hockney. "Perhaps he's at some party. I hope so. It would do him a good deal of good; and I know he might go out if he liked. Next term, see if I won't make him more sociable. Why won't he be more sociable? No, after all sociable isn't the word; he's a very dominant fellow at bottom. What in the world is it that he wants?"

And so Hockney balanced himself on the two hind legs of one of the Windsor chairs, and betook himself to pondering what it was exactly which ought to be added to Kitaj to make him an unexceptional object of hero-worship; when the man himself came suddenly into the room, slamming his oak behind him, and casting his cap fiercely on to the sofa before he noticed our hero.

Hockney jumped up at once. "My dear fellow, what's the matter?" he said; "I'm sorry I came in; shall I go?"

"No - don't go - sit down," said Kitaj abruptly; and then began to smoke fast without saying another word.

Hockney waited a few minutes watching for him, and then broke silence again: "I am sure something is the matter, Kitaj; you look dreadfully put out. what is it?"

"What is it?" said Kitaj bitterly; "Oh, nothing at all - nothing at all; it’s just that I should like to chain you up stark naked in the common room and horse whip you in front of as many of the RCA students as possible?”

“But that would be terribly embarrassing for me!” Hockney observed.

"Exactly!” was Kitaj’s rejoinder. “That’s precisely why I want to do it.”

“Couldn’t I just suck your cock in front of the entire student body?” Hockney pleaded.

“That wouldn’t be nearly humiliating enough!” Kitaj snapped.

And so after much arguing back and forth, Hockney eventually agreed to be horse whipped in the common room. Which is how Kitaj came to put a dog collar around Hockney’s neck and had him crawl on all fours to the Republican College of Art, leading him by a chain. Together they headed down to the basement where the common room was located. Hockney was made to strip naked in front of dozens of his fellow students who were socialising there. Then he was chained to the ceiling via some hooks that Kitaj had installed a few days earlier. All the students in the basement fell silent and watched in awe as Kitaj shoved a gag into Hockney's mouth..

The sharp, violent sound of Kitaj's whip against Hockney’s cock echoed through the room, immediately followed by his muffled screams and heavy panting. Hockney writhed in pain for a few moments before quiet was restored in the dim concrete basement. The only other noticeable noise was the quiet chime of the chains holding his hands up toward the ceiling. Hockney knew there was no escape so he gave up on wasting energy trying to free himself. Instead, he focused on bracing himself for the pain.

Another sharp crack, this time to his lower back. His hips jerked forward, but he didn't have much room to move. Hockney’s feet were tied spread eagle fashion to hooks Kitaj had put into the floor and with his hands stretched above his head he had very little mobility. He shut his eyes tightly as if to wish the pain away, but to no avail. Kitaj was in complete control, walking slow circles around him plotting his next move. Hockney looked at Kitaj doe-eyed pleading his case to be unchained and shown mercy, but they both knew they'd be in that sweltering basement for some time.

Drool from the mouth gag tickled Hockney’s midsection as it trickled downward from his chin. Kitaj placed his hands on Hockney’s hips and gently massaged his delicate skin moving down to his thighs and back up across his abdomen to his back. Hockney quietly moaned, welcoming the change in sensation from pain to pleasure. Kitaj worked his hand down and began massaging Hockney’s erect cock. The quiet back and forth motion of Kitaj's fingers was accompanied by the swaying of Hockney’s torso and the clanking of the chains that bound him. Beads of sweat ran down Hockney’s body as his breathing became increasingly heavy. Forgetting that he was bound and at the mercy of Kitaj, his body screamed for sexual release. Hockney received just that as Kitaj worked his hand ever harder and faster along the full length of his crank shaft. Hockney gurgled from the saliva backed up in his mouth, a sure sign he fully consented to the sexual relief he was getting from Kitaj. Hockney was enjoying the sensation too much to remain consciously aware of the fact he was bound and gagged in a basement. When pain from the manacles on his wrists reminded Hockney that he was chained up, he realised that only someone who was completely twisted could enjoy the things Kitaj was doing to him. How can I be turned on by this he wondered?

"Wow," Kitaj shouted, "you're an even bigger freak as I am! You're really enjoying this!"

Embarrassment washed over Hockney, making the airless, muggy basement seem that much hotter. Hockney looked over at the assembled students who were silently watching him and wanted to apologise to them for his sexual kinks. Kitaj undid the gag that prevented Hockney from speaking.

"Look you don't have to do that..." was all Hockney could blurt out before Kitaj forced an O-gag into his mouth. Kitaj pulled up a chair and stood on it so that he could greet Hockney’s now permanently open mouth with the tip of his dick, erect and pulsing. He forced Hockney to tongue the end of his tool. Hockney immediately began to drool as he stuck his tongue as far out as it would go and massaged the head of Kitaj’s manhood with it. Kitaj didn't let Hockney take a break as he kept pulling his head forward. Hockney’s tongue became heavy and he began taking deep breaths of the stale, humid, smoke filled basement air.

Then Kitaj grabbed Hockney’s head and forced his cock deep into the back of his throat with large, violent thrusts. Hockney couldn't do anything but accept the punishment and humiliation as Kitaj’s heavy thrusts, which barely let him breath, had him yearning for that stale basement air. All Hockney could do was gasp and make pathetic gurgling noises as the saliva gathered in the back of his throat.

Kitaj took his cock out of Hockney’s mouth. It was dripping with spit and glistened in the dim lighting. He then undid Hockney’s O-gag and stood on the chair before him, cock erect and sparkling. Kitaj began stroking it. His mighty hand dwarfed his giant love muscle as he slid it back and forth. After just a few strokes, Kitaj spewed his massive load all over Hockney’s face. The jet of cum took Hockney by surprise and before he knew it his face was masked in the thick, sticky mess. The assembled students clapped. Kitaj asked if any of them wanted to lick his come off Hockney's face but no one took him up on the offer….


  1. Guess in one of the following ten-or-so parts the readership will have the chance to read about the heroes' actual artistic activities. Also, going back to your point about the problematic title, one can only say that there are various cliches of what sells and what not, aren't there...

  2. That’s good info, and thanks for the insight, Niki. It’s a poor show that so many printers wouldn’t run it. After all of the ground broken in the trials of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’, ‘Naked Lunch’ (granted, that was in the US, but the point stands), etc., it’s often assumed that the censorship and suppression of literature is a thing of the past, but whether it’s motivated by fear or ‘morals’ the end result is the same. Credit’s due to Do-Not Press, not least of all for their perseverence and funding the extra stickers (my copy came with two) which are cool and do help preserve the integrity of the work.

  3. US or elsewhere makes little-to-no difference in the boundless global community. Repressive mechanisms have always been just that, regardless of the motivation. But then there's always the likes of Do Not Press, isn't there Stux...

  4. How abt some media activism, comrade STU!

  5. I think I suggested immersing our goodselves in some kitch'n'sink media activism. How does it sound to you, STU?
    I think I found a blog that references the number of this post. But it's more likely to be just a coincidence. Your opinion will be greatly appreciated:

    : You know what…Our grandmother’s grandfather on her mother’s father’s side was the prime expert in interpreting the ancient apocrypha entitled On How To Phunkie ReadwriteRemix (ØØØØ). One better keep in mind one of the many gems from that treasure chest. Namely, do pull out from the depths of your memory the diamond: Rule #7:

    One’s ultimate goal in life must be radical alienation. Only that one can condition serious changes in the life of the community and individuals alike. Needless to say, this is made possible if the sine qua non called “indifference” is being substantiated through merciless destruction of the vital drive for bonding. Why > because the most abrasive ingredient in human relationships, enabling the visibility of the human face, is the delusion called “love,” which is only a masked authentic phenomenon called codependency. (“Nest’n’Burden” 15)

    Like phunk!!! To hell with wanna be critics of metaautism who do not know that without criticality there is no criticism.

    : Damn straight! Few are visitors of the Café Club Museum who know that the Crypts hide a testimonial to the wisdom of the organic processor on the beach of ye approximately following content:

    All autistics are autistic in more-or-less the same way. Only some of them know that they are. That metaautistic awareness makes them self-interpretative critical mechanisms whose life is characterized by a constant bliss of the oscillation between reciting from memory and creating off-invention. This, in turn, is an incessant self-baptizing act naming them Mafokids Off-Invention. (

    Like WOW…Crude as the fact may be, never did it occur to me that the mind’s exploration of its own fabric can indicate its own idiosyncratic idiom. WOW!

  6. I like how Do-Not Press incorporated the title into the cover design. The stickers for the spine were a nice touch, although it's crazy that it was necessary in the first place.

    I thought these were the artists actual activities, which makes me want to be an artist. His sideline hobby of painting quaint pictures seems to be dull and boring by comparison.

    1. I agree completely - give me the sex life I'd prefer to live without the painting, unless of course it is nude body painting. Shame on Hockney for never joining the Merton (London SW20) School of Nude Communudist Body Painting!