Humiliation

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 31 of 38 · 20 per page

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Antonin commanded me to sit on the edge of a bed and when I was in this posture he bade the superintendent uncover my breast and raise my skirt to above my waist; he himself spread my legs as far apart as possible, he seats himself before this prospect, one of my companions comes and takes up the same pose on top of me in such a way that it is the altar of generation instead of my visage which is offered to Antonin; with these charms raised to the level of his mouth he readies himself for pleasure. A third girl, kneeling before him, begins to excite him with her hands, and a fourth, completely naked, with her fingers indicates where he must strike my body. Gradually, this girl begins to arouse me and what she does to me Antonin does as well, with both his hands, to two other girls on his left and right. One cannot imagine the language, the obscene speeches by which that debauchee stimulates himself; at last he is in the state he desires, he is led to me, but everyone follows him, moves with him, endeavors to inflame him yet further while he takes his pleasure; his naked hind parts are exposed, Omphale takes possession of them and neglects nothing in order to irritate him: rubbings, kisses, pollutions, she employs them all; completely afire, Antonin leaps toward me.... "I wish to stuff her this time," he says, beside himself.... These moral deviations determine the physical. Antonin, who has the habit of uttering terrible cries during the final instants of drunkenness, emits dreadful ones; everyone surrounds, everyone serves him, everyone labors to enrich his ecstasy, and the libertine attains it in the midst of the most bizarre episodes of luxury and depravation. These groupings were frequent; for when a monk indulged in whatever form of pleasure, all the girls regularly surrounded him in order to fire all his parts' sensations, that voluptuousness might, if one may be forgiven the expression, more surely penetrate into him through every pore. Antonin left, breakfast was brought in; my companions forced me to eat, I did so to please them. We had not quite finished when the superior entered: seeing us still at table, he dispensed us from ceremonies which were to have been identical with those we had just executed for Antonin. "We must give a thought to dressing her," said he, looking at me; and then he opened a wardrobe and threw upon my bed several garments of the color appropriate to my class, and several bundles of linen as well. "Try that on," he said, "and give me what belongs to you."

• From Going Clear (2013)

  When Hawkins started to respond, Miscavige cut him short. “ The only thing I want to hear from you is your crimes,” Miscavige said, meaning that Hawkins was to confess his subversive intentions. Then, without warning, Miscavige jumped on the table and launched himself at Hawkins, knocking him against a cubicle wall and battering him in the face. The two men fell to the floor, and their legs became entangled. “Let go of my legs!” Miscavige shouted. Miscavige extricated himself and left the room, leaving Hawkins on the floor, shocked, bruised, disheveled, humiliated, and staring at the forty people who did nothing to support him. “Get up! Get up!” they told him. “Don’t make him wrong.” Even if he had had access to a phone, Hawkins wouldn’t have called the police. If a Sea Org member were to seek outside help, he would be punished, either by being declared a Suppressive Person or by being sent off to do manual labor for months or years. Far more important, Hawkins believed, was the fact that his spiritual immortality was on the line. Scientology had made him aware of his eternal nature as he moved from life to life, erasing his fear of mortality. Without that, he would be doomed to dying over and over again, “ in ignorance and darkness,” he said, “never knowing my true nature as a spirit.” Miscavige, he concluded, “holds the power of eternal life and death over you.” The church provided an affidavit of a former Sea Org member, Yael Lustgarten, who stated that she was present at the meeting and that the attack by Miscavige never happened. She claims that Hawkins made a mess of his presentation—“ He smelled of body odor, he was unshaven, his voice tone was very low and he could hardly be heard”—and he was merely instructed to shape up. On the other hand, Amy Scobee said she witnessed the attack—it was her cubicle the two men fell into—and after the altercation, she recalled, “ I gathered all the buttons from Jeff’s shirt and the change from his pockets and gave them back to him.” Tommy Davis later testified that he had conducted an investigation of the charges of abuse at the base. He said that all of the abuse had been committed by Rinder, Rathbun, and De Vocht—none by Miscavige. TOM DE VOCHT GREW UP in a little central Florida town called Fort Meade. When he was ten years old, in 1974, his cousin, Dicky Thompson, a keyboardist in the Steve Miller Band, came to visit, riding a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. That year the band had a number one song, “The Joker,” and Thompson rode into town with a glow of fame around him. “ He had a weird stare,” De Vocht remembered. “He invited my sister to meet Steve Miller and John Travolta.” Within a year, most of De Vocht’s family had joined the Church of Scientology.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  My humiliation was high as she pried my legs open. The SOEC kit was on a metal table that she’d wheeled next to the bed. I watched her unpack it, laying each item out on a tray. There were several small boxes, microscope slides and plastic bags, and two large white envelopes, which she slipped my clothes into. I started shaking when she took out a small blue comb, a nail pick and cotton swabs. That’s when I averted my eyes to the ceiling, squeezing them shut so tight I saw gold stars on the inside of my eyelids. Please no, God. Please no. I wondered if the words sexual assault made women feel less victimized. I hated it. I hated all the words people were using. The cop who had brought me in whispered the word raped to the nurse. But to me it had been sexual assault. They were off brands of the real deal. The kit took two hours. When she was finished, I was told to sit up. She handed me two white pills in a little paper cup. “For the discomfort,” she said. Discomfort. I repeated the word in my head as I dropped the pills on my tongue and took the paper cup of water she was now extending. I was too shocked to be offended. A female officer came in when the nurse was finished to talk to me about what happened. I gave her a description of the man: heavyset, mid-thirties, taller than me, but shorter than the officer, a skull cap pulled over his hair, which might have been brown. No tattoos that I could see … no scars. When the nurse was finished, she asked if there was anyone they could call. I said, No. An officer would give me a ride home. I stopped short when I saw the man at the nurses’ station. The jogger—the one who’d helped me—was wearing a white doctor’s coat over his sweatpants and t-shirt, and flipping through what I presumed was my chart. It’s not like he didn’t already know what happened to me, but I still didn’t want him to read it on my chart. “Ms. Richards,” he said. “I’m Doctor Asterholder. I was there when—” “I remember,” I said, cutting him off. He nodded. “I’m not on duty today,” he confessed. “I came in to check on you.” To check on me? I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A woman? A soiled woman? Sorrow? A face to pin pity on? “I understand you need a ride home. The police can take you,” he glanced at the uniformed officer who was standing off to the side. “But I’d like to drive you if that’s okay.”

• From Manhunt (2022)

  The house’s three potential testosterone time bombs. That muggy night, heat lightning flashing over the highway and the transformer towers in the cut that ran through the woods, they’d gathered in the living room to sit on mismatched furniture—a cracked and peeling leather armchair, a sagging sectional, a wool-upholstered green couch dredged up from the 1960s—and Beth watched Emily pick at her cuticles while stealing looks at V and Tara from the corners of her wet green eyes. It had started days ago, those looks, even among the hugs and tears and clouds of weed smoke. It was the look Beth would see five years later on the faces of some of Seabrook’s women during Teach’s broadcast, cold and hard and cis—although white Emily said she thought maybe she was two-spirit—a look that said You know, and I know, that somewhere under those blunt bangs and that mismatched foundation you’re still every bit the man you’ve always been, and you’ll never be anything else. Now, waiting to be told that she was off farm shift, that she’d made Meg feel unsafe or that someone felt her attitude was inappropriate, it was that look she remembered, not Aster’s circular monologue about accountability and “abusive” tones of voice and how their partner Chase—who Beth remembered mostly as a skinny smear of purple hair and projected neuroses—was starting to feel unsafe, that Tara’s night terrors were scaring them and wouldn’t it just be better for everyone if they admitted they were taking a huge risk housing “potential vectors,” so maybe it was best if those vectors went to the half-finished quarantine camp in Needham until things settled down and there was a vaccine? V had shouted until her voice cracked like fired glaze, but Beth only drew back down into herself, looking from one closed face to the next with the mounting satisfaction of knowing everyone had finally decided not to pretend anymore. They hated her. She disgusted them. She was a roach scuttling across peeled linoleum. Shit smeared on the sole of a sandal. Finally, finally, they were telling her that every kiss and scene and forced and halting word of their affection had been a performance to convince themselves and each other they could love a big, dumb, ugly brick. “Fine,” she’d said the next time V paused for breath. “Fuck it. We’ll go.”

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  The blows fell quickly, in rapid succession, with terrific force upon my back, arms, and neck; I had to grit my teeth not to scream aloud. Now she struck me in the face, warm blood ran down, but she laughed, and continued her blows. “It is only now I understand you,” she exclaimed. “It really is a joy to have some one so completely in one’s power, and a man at that, who loves you—you do love me?—No—Oh! I’ll tear you to shreds yet, and with each blow my pleasure will grow. Now, twist like a worm, scream, whine! You will find no mercy in me!” Finally she seemed tired. She tossed the whip aside, stretched out on the ottoman, and rang. The negresses entered. “Untie him!” As they loosened the rope, I fell to the floor like a lump of wood. The black women grinned, showing their white teeth. “Untie the rope around his feet.” They did it, but I was unable to rise. “Come over here, Gregor.” I approached the beautiful woman. Never did she seem more seductive to me than to-day in spite of all her cruelty and contempt. “One step further,” Wanda commanded. “Now kneel down, and kiss my foot.” She extended her foot beyond the hem of white satin, and I, the supersensual fool, pressed my lips upon it. “Now, you won’t lay eyes on me for an entire month, Gregor,” she said seriously. “I want to become a stranger to you, so you will more easily adjust yourself to our new relationship. In the meantime you will work in the garden, and await my orders. Now, off with you, slave!” * * * * * A month has passed with monotonous regularity, heavy work, and a melancholy hunger, hunger for her, who is inflicting all these torments on me. I am under the gardener’s orders; I help him lop the trees and prune the hedges, transplant flowers, turn over the flower beds, sweep the gravel paths; I share his coarse food and his hard cot; I rise and go to bed with the chickens. Now and then I hear that our mistress is amusing herself, surrounded by admirers. Once I heard her gay laughter even down here in the garden. I seem awfully stupid to myself. Was it the result of my present life, or was I so before? The month is drawing to a close—the day after to-morrow. What will she do with me now, or has she forgotten me, and left me to trim hedges and bind bouquets till my dying day? A written order. “The slave Gregor is herewith ordered to my personal service. Wanda Dunajew.” With a beating heart I draw aside the damask curtain on the following morning, and enter the bed-room of my divinity. It is still filled with a pleasant half darkness. “Is it you, Gregor?” she asks, while I kneel before the fire-place, building a fire. I tremble at the sound of the beloved voice.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Indeed," stammers Coeur-de-fer, "in her place I'd prefer to open the doors rather than see them ruined this way, but she won't have it, and we're not far from the capitulation.... Vigorously ... vigorously, Dubois...." And the explosive eruption of this debauchee's flames, almost as violent as a stroke of lightning, flickers and dies upon ramparts ravaged without being breached. The second had me kneel between his legs and while Dubois administered to him as she had to the other, two enterprises absorbed his entire attention: sometimes he slapped, powerfully but in a very nervous manner, either my cheeks or my breasts; sometimes his impure mouth fell to sucking mine. In an instant my face turned purple, my chest red.... I was in pain, I begged him to spare me, tears leapt from my eyes; they roused him, he accelerated his activities; he bit my tongue, and the two strawberries on my breasts were so bruised that I slipped backward, but was kept from falling. They thrust me toward him, I was everywhere more furiously harassed, and his ecstasy supervened.... The third bade me mount upon and straddle two somewhat separated chairs and, seating himself betwixt them, excited by Dubois, lying in his arms, he had me bend until his mouth was directly below the temple of Nature; never will you imagine, Madame, what this obscene mortal took it into his head to do; willy-nilly, I was obliged to satisfy his every need.... Just Heaven! what man, no matter how depraved, can taste an instant of pleasure in such things.... I did what he wished, inundated him, and my complete submission procured this foul man an intoxication of which he was incapable without this infamy. The fourth attached strings to all parts of me to which it was possible to tie them, he held the ends in his hands and sat down seven or eight feet from my body; Dubois' touches and kisses excited him prodigiously; I was standing erect: 'twas by sharp tugs now on this string, now on some other that the savage irritated his pleasures; I swayed, I lost balance again and again, he flew into an ecstasy each time tottered; finally, he pulled all the cords at once, I fell to the floor in front of him: such was his design: and my fore-head, my breast, my cheeks received the proofs of a delirium he owed to none but this mania. That is what I suffered, Madame, but at least my honor was respected even though my modesty assuredly was not.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  The consequence was Dubourg became nothing if not more insolent; he laid upon me the blame for his weakness' mistakes, wanted to repair them with new outrages and yet more mortifying invectives; there was nothing he did not say to me, nothing he did not attempt, nothing his perfidious imagination, his adamantine character and the depravation of his manners did not lead him to undertake. My clumsiness made him impatient: I was far from wishing to participate in the thing, to lend myself to it was as much as I could do, my remorse remained lively. However, it was all for naught, submitting to him, I ceased to inflame him; in vain he passed successively from tenderness to rigor... from groveling to tyranny... from an air of decency to the profligate's excesses, in vain, I say, there was nothing for it, we were both exhausted, and happily he was unable to recover what he needed to deliver more dangerous assaults. He gave it up, made me promise to come the next day, and to be sure of me he refused absolutely to give me anything above the sum I owed Desroches. Greatly humiliated by the adventure and firmly resolved, whatever might happen to me, not to expose myself a third time, I returned to where I was lodging. I announced my intentions to Desroches, paid her, and heaped maledictions upon the criminal capable of so cruelly exploiting my misery. But my imprecations, far from drawing the wrath of God down upon him, only added to his good fortune; and a week later I learned this signal libertine had just obtained a general trusteeship from the Government, which would augment his revenues by more than five hundred thousand pounds per annum. I was absorbed in the reflections such unexpected inconsistencies of fate inevitably give rise to, when a momentary ray of hope seemed to shine in my eyes. Desroches came to tell me one day that she had finally located a house into which I could be received with pleasure provided my comportment remained of the best. "Great Heaven, Madame," I cried, transported, throwing myself into her arms, "that condition is the one I would stipulate myself Ä you may imagine how happy I am to accept it." The man I was to serve was a famous Parisian usurer who had become rich, not only by lending money upon collateral, but even by stealing from the public every time he thought he could do so in safety. He lived in the rue Quincampoix, had a third-story flat, and shared it with a creature of fifty years he called his wife and who was at least as wicked as he.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Thirty feet off the highway was a cottage to which these cavaliers, whom we soon identified as constables, ordered the driver to lead the carriage; when we were alongside it, we were told to get out, and all three of us entered the peasant's dwelling. With an effrontery unthinkable in a woman soiled with unnumbered crimes, Dubois who found herself arrested, archly demanded of these officers whether she were known to them, and with what right they comported themselves thus with a woman of her rank. "We have not the honor of your acquaintance, Madame," replied the officer in charge of the squadron; "but we are certain you have in your carriage the wretch who yesterday set fire to the principal hotel in Villefranche"; then, eyeing me closely: "she answers the description, Madame, we are not in error - ; have the kindness to surrender her to us and to inform us how a person as respectable as you appear to be could have such a woman in your keeping." "Why, 'tis very readily accounted for," replied Dubois with yet greater insolence, "and, I declare, I'll neither hide her from you nor take her side in the matter if 'tis certain she is guilty of the horrible crime you speak of. I too was staying at that hotel in Villefranche, I left in the midst of all the commotion and as I am getting into my coach, this girl runs up, begs my compassion, says she has just lost everything in the fire, and implores me to take her with me to Lyon where she hopes to be able to find a place. Far less attentive to my reason than to my heart's promptings, I acquiesced, consented to fetch her along; once in the carriage she offered herself as my servant; once again imprudence led me to agree to everything and I have been taking her to Dauphine where I have my properties and family: 'tis a lesson, assuredly, I presently recognize with utmost clarity all of pity's shortcomings; I shall not again be guilty of them. There she is, gentlemen, there she is; God forbid that I should be interested in such a monster, I abandon her to the law's severest penalties, and, I beseech you, take every step to prevent it from being known that I committed the unfortunate mistake of lending an instant's credence to a single word she uttered." I wished to defend myself, I wanted to denounce the true villain; my speeches were interpreted as calumniatory recriminations to which Dubois opposed nothing but a contemptuous smile.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  At dusk when the silvery evening mists fell she withdrew. I served her at dinner, she ate by herself, but had not a look, not a syllable for me, not even a slap in the face. I actually desire a slap from her hand. Tears fill my eyes, and I feel that she has humiliated me so deeply, that she doesn’t even find it worth while to torture or maltreat me any further. Before she goes to bed, her bell calls me. “You will sleep here to-night, I had horrible dreams last night, and am afraid of being alone. Take one of the cushions from the ottoman, and lie down on the bearskin at my feet.” Then Wanda put out the lights. The only illumination in the room was from a small lamp suspended from the ceiling. She herself got into bed. “Don’t stir, so as not to wake me.” I did as she had commanded, but could not fall asleep for a long time. I saw the beautiful woman, beautiful as a goddess, lying on her back on the dark sleeping-furs; her arms beneath her neck, with a flood of red hair over them. I heard her magnificent breast rise in deep regular breathing, and whenever she moved ever so slightly. I woke up and listened to see whether she needed me. But she did not require me. No task was required of me; I meant no more to her than a night-lamp, or a revolver which one places under one’s pillow. * * * * * Am I mad or is she? Does all this arise out of an inventive, wanton woman’s brain with the intention of surpassing my supersensual fantasies, or is this woman really one of those Neronian characters who take a diabolical pleasure in treading underfoot, like a worm, human beings, who have thoughts and feelings and a will like theirs? What have I experienced? When I knelt with the coffee-tray beside her bed, Wanda suddenly placed her hand on my shoulder and her eyes plunged deep into mine. “What beautiful eyes you have,” she said softly, “and especially now since you suffer. Are you very unhappy?” I bowed my head, and kept silent. “Severin, do you still love me,” she suddenly exclaimed passionately, “can you still love me?”

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I hated it. I hated all the words people were using. The cop who had brought me in whispered the word raped to the nurse. But to me it had been sexual assault. They were off brands of the real deal. The kit took two hours. When she was finished, I was told to sit up. She handed me two white pills in a little paper cup. “For the discomfort,” she said. Discomfort. I repeated the word in my head as I dropped the pills on my tongue and took the paper cup of water she was now extending. I was too shocked to be offended. A female officer came in when the nurse was finished to talk to me about what happened. I gave her a description of the man: heavyset, mid-thirties, taller than me, but shorter than the officer, a skull cap pulled over his hair, which might have been brown. No tattoos that I could see … no scars. When the nurse was finished, she asked if there was anyone they could call. I said, No. An officer would give me a ride home. I stopped short when I saw the man at the nurses’ station. The jogger—the one who’d helped me—was wearing a white doctor’s coat over his sweatpants and t-shirt, and flipping through what I presumed was my chart. It’s not like he didn’t already know what happened to me, but I still didn’t want him to read it on my chart. “Ms. Richards,” he said. “I’m Doctor Asterholder. I was there when—” “I remember,” I said, cutting him off. He nodded. “I’m not on duty today,” he confessed. “I came in to check on you.” To check on me? I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A woman? A soiled woman? Sorrow? A face to pin pity on? “I understand you need a ride home. The police can take you,” he glanced at the uniformed officer who was standing off to the side. “But I’d like to drive you if that’s okay.” Nothing was okay. But, I didn’t say that. Instead, I thought about the way he knew exactly what to do and what to say to keep me calm/ He was a doctor; in hindsight it all made sense. If I could choose my ride home, I choose not to ride in the back of a police cruiser. I nodded. He glanced at the cop who seemed more than happy to hand me off. A rape case on Christmas Day, who wanted to be reminded that there was evil in the world while Santa and his reindeer were still leaving contrails in the sky? Dr. Asterholder walked me out a side door and into a staff parking lot. He’d offered to pull around the front of the building to pick me up, but I’d shaken my head firmly.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  My humiliation was high as she pried my legs open. The SOEC kit was on a metal table that she’d wheeled next to the bed. I watched her unpack it, laying each item out on a tray. There were several small boxes, microscope slides and plastic bags, and two large white envelopes, which she slipped my clothes into. I started shaking when she took out a small blue comb, a nail pick and cotton swabs. That’s when I averted my eyes to the ceiling, squeezing them shut so tight I saw gold stars on the inside of my eyelids. Please no, God. Please no. I wondered if the words sexual assault made women feel less victimized. I hated it. I hated all the words people were using. The cop who had brought me in whispered the word raped to the nurse. But to me it had been sexual assault. They were off brands of the real deal. The kit took two hours. When she was finished, I was told to sit up. She handed me two white pills in a little paper cup. “For the discomfort,” she said. Discomfort. I repeated the word in my head as I dropped the pills on my tongue and took the paper cup of water she was now extending. I was too shocked to be offended. A female officer came in when the nurse was finished to talk to me about what happened. I gave her a description of the man: heavyset, mid-thirties, taller than me, but shorter than the officer, a skull cap pulled over his hair, which might have been brown. No tattoos that I could see … no scars. When the nurse was finished, she asked if there was anyone they could call. I said, No. An officer would give me a ride home. I stopped short when I saw the man at the nurses’ station. The jogger—the one who’d helped me—was wearing a white doctor’s coat over his sweatpants and t-shirt, and flipping through what I presumed was my chart. It’s not like he didn’t already know what happened to me, but I still didn’t want him to read it on my chart. “Ms. Richards,” he said. “I’m Doctor Asterholder. I was there when—” “I remember,” I said, cutting him off. He nodded. “I’m not on duty today,” he confessed. “I came in to check on you.” To check on me? I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. A woman? A soiled woman? Sorrow? A face to pin pity on? “I understand you need a ride home. The police can take you,” he glanced at the uniformed officer who was standing off to the side. “But I’d like to drive you if that’s okay.” Nothing was okay.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  The canons were signed first, by the emperor; the second place was left blank for the pope, but was never filled; then follow the names of Paul of Constantinople, Peter of Alexandria, Anastasius of Jerusalem, George of Antioch (strangely after that of the patriarch of Jerusalem), and others, in all 211 bishops and episcopal representatives, all Greeks and Orientals, of whom 43 had been present at the sixth oecumenical council. The emperor sent the acts of the Trullan Council to Sergius of Rome, and requested him to sign them. The pope refused because they contained some chapters contrary to ecclesiastical usage in Rome. The emperor dispatched the chief officer of his body guard with orders to bring the pope to Constantinople. But the armies of the exarch of Ravenna and of the Pentapolis rushed to the protection of the pope, who quieted the soldiers; the imperial officer had to hide himself in the pope’s bed, and then left Rome in disgrace.643 Soon afterwards Justinian II. was dethroned and sent into exile. When he regained the crown with the aid of a barbarian army (705), he sent two metropolitans to Pope John VII. with the request to call a council of the Roman church, which should sanction as many of the canons as were acceptable. The pope, a timid man, simply returned the copy. Subsequent negotiations led to no decisive result. The seventh oecumenical Council (787) readopted the 102 canons, and erroneously ascribed them to the sixth oecumenical Council. The Roman church never committed herself to these canons except as far as they agreed with ancient Latin usage. Some of them were inspired by an anti- Roman tendency. The first canon repeats the anathema on Pope Honorius. The thirty-sixth canon, in accordance with the second and fourth oecumenical Councils, puts the patriarch of Constantinople on an equality of rights with the bishop of Rome, and concedes to the latter only a primacy of honor, not a supremacy of jurisdiction. Clerical marriage of the lower orders is sanctioned in canons 3 and 13, and it is clearly hinted that the Roman church, by her law of clerical celibacy, dishonors wedlock, which was instituted by God and sanctioned by the presence of Christ at Cana. But second marriage is forbidden to the clergy, also marriage with a widow (canon 3), and marriage after ordination (canon 6). Bishops are required to discontinue their marriage relation (canon 12). Justinian had previously forbidden the marriage of bishops by a civil law. Fasting on the Sabbath in Lent is forbidden (canon 55) in express opposition to the custom in Rome. The second canon fixes the number of valid apostolical canons at eighty-five against fifty of the Latin church. The decree of the Council of Jerusalem against eating blood and things strangled (Acts 15) is declared to be of perpetual force, while in the West it was considered merely as a temporary provision for the apostolic age, and for congregations composed of Jewish and Gentile converts.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  The stars sparkle round about, the Italian sergeant has a face like Apollo Belvedere, and the German painter sings a lovely German song. “Now that all the shadows gather And endless stars grow light, Deep yearning on me falls And softly fills the night.” “Through the sea of dreams Sailing without cease, Sailing goes my soul In thine to find release.” And I am thinking of the beautiful woman who is sleeping in regal comfort among her soft furs. * * * * * Florence! Crowds, cries, importunate porters and cab-drivers. Wanda chooses a carriage, and dismisses the porters. “What have I a servant for,” she says, “Gregor—here is the ticket—get the luggage.” She wraps herself in her furs and sits quietly in the carriage while I drag the heavy trunks hither, one after another. I break down for a moment under the last one; a good-natured carabiniere with an intelligent face comes to my assistance. She laughs. “It must be heavy,” said she, “all my furs are in it.” I get up on the driver’s seat, wiping drops of perspiration from my brow. She gives the name of the hotel, and the driver urges on his horse. In a few minutes we halt at the brilliantly illuminated entrance. “Have you any rooms?” she asks the portier. “Yes, madame.” “Two for me, one for my servant, all with stoves.” “Two first-class rooms for you, madame, both with stoves,” replied the waiter who had hastily come up, “and one without heat for your servant.” She looked at them, and then abruptly said: “they are satisfactory, have fires built at once; my servant can sleep in the unheated room.” I merely looked at her. “Bring up the trunks, Gregor,” she commands, paying no attention to my looks. “In the meantime I’ll be dressing, and then will go down to the dining-room, and you can eat something for supper.” As she goes into the adjoining room, I drag the trunks upstairs and help the waiter build a fire in her bed-room. He tries to question me in bad French about my employer. With a brief glance I see the blazing fire, the fragrant white poster-bed, and the rugs which cover the floor. Tired and hungry I then descend the stairs, and ask for something to eat. A good-natured waiter, who used to be in the Austrian army and takes all sorts of pains to entertain me in German, shows me the dining-room and waits on me. I have just had the first fresh drink in thirty-six hours and the first bite of warm food on my fork, when she enters. I rise. “What do you mean by taking me into a dining-room in which my servant is eating,” she snaps at the waiter, flaring with anger. She turns around and leaves.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  With its melodramatic flair, her story is vintage S-M. Although she obviously gravitates toward the masochistic end of the continuum, Margo is far from helpless. Not only does she tease her audience with detached assurance, she also effectively targets and draws out the sadism of her aloof customer. Consider too how she sets up her boyfriend. Why would she tell him of her slip if not to provoke him? Her confession is strategic. By stirring up his anger, she forces him to punish her by replaying the whole scenario. She ends up the eager “victim” of two angry men, yet she has transformed their hostility—and undoubtedly her own as well—into a secret source of dark passion. Her CET is clearly concerned with mastering and choreographing her own humiliation with consummate skill. Margo provides us with only a few small clues about why she has become so brash and shrewd at creating what looks like abuse. She hints at being sexually used by at least one important man in her life, mentions her determination to be as unlike her passive mother as possible, and confesses that learning to be sexually “out there” didn’t come easily. But most telling of all is her concluding comment: “Ever since I learned about my hidden sex power I’ve felt confident and safe.” The concept of finding pleasure and safety in humiliation is contrary to the direct validation most of us look for in sex and thus, for many, is impossible to comprehend. But Margo is far from unique. Those who find ways to satisfy their masochistic desires—perhaps by hiring a prostitute to humiliate or degrade them (it’s one of the most common requests men make), convincing a lover to act out an S-M scene, or constructing a private fantasy—almost invariably report a rush of affirmation. Through sleight of hand—more accurately, sleight of mind—the skillful choreography of painful scenarios makes their sting sweet. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS ABOUT CETSPeople are fascinated by the idea of an ultra-personal scenario underlying each individual’s eroticism. Whenever I lecture about CETs I always leave plenty of time for the insightful questions and comments that invariably arise. Audiences especially want to know more about how CETs work in everyday life. This sampling of questions and answers touches on fundamental issues. I think I understand the idea of a CET, but no matter how hard I try I can’t figure mine out. Does everyone have one? I believe each person’s eroticism is shaped, to some degree, by recurring themes. But don’t be concerned if you can’t identify yours. Keep in mind that CETs typically operate, if not completely unconsciously, then at the edges of awareness. And there are other reasons that you might be having trouble. Many CETs are extremely subtle and easily missed. As a woman, you may have learned to focus on your partner’s needs and preferences rather than on yours.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Donna Shannon was a veterinarian who had risen to OT VII before signing her billion-year contract. She was surprised to find that about half the people undergoing training were veteran Sea Org members who were being disciplined, including Davis. He seemed like a nice guy, so she was puzzled that he was subjected to the worst hazing. “He complained about being out scrubbing the Dumpster with a toothbrush till late at night,” she recalled, “then he’d be up at six to do our laundry.” Sometimes Davis would be paraded in front of the other Sea Org members as his Ethics Officer shouted, “This guy is not a big shot! He’s lying to you!” Only later did Shannon learn that Davis was Anne Archer’s son. (As it happens, Archer was also at the Clearwater base, taking advanced courses. A teenage Sea Org member—Daniel Montalvo, the same one who guarded Cruise during his auditing sessions—was assigned to keep her in the dark and make sure that she never encountered her son.) Shannon and Davis worked together, maintaining the grounds. “I was supposedly supervising him,” Shannon said. “I was told to make him work really hard.” That didn’t seem to be a problem for Davis. At one point, Shannon said, he borrowed about a hundred dollars from her because he didn’t have money for food. One day, Shannon and Davis were taking the bus to a work project. Shannon asked why he was in the EPF. “I got busted,” Davis told her. “I fucked up on Tom Cruise’s lines”— meaning that he had botched a project Cruise was involved in. “So what are your plans now?” she asked. “I just want to do my stuff and get back on post,” Davis replied. Shannon said that suddenly “it was like a veil went over his eyes, and he goes, ‘I already said too much.’ ” Several months later, Davis paid her back the money. 4 Tommy Davis When Davis finished the EPF, he replaced Rinder as chief spokesperson for the church, because Rinder was confined to the Hole. One of his first assignments was to deal with John Sweeney, an aggressive reporter for the BBC, who was doing a story on Scientology and had been working with Rinder until then. Davis made the mistake of admitting to Sweeney that he reported to Miscavige every day, spoiling the illusion of the leader as being unavailable and above the fray. Miscavige pulled Rinder out of the Hole and ordered him to help Davis deal with the BBC, although he added, “You’re Tommy Davis’s servant.” Sweeney immediately sensed that Rinder had been demoted. Rinder was “gaunt, hollow-eyed, strange with a hint of niceness.” Tommy was now “the top dog, gleaming teeth, snappily suited, charming but creepily so.”

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  Claudius, bishop of Turin (814–839), was a native of Spain, but spent three years as chaplain at the court of Louis the Pious and was sent by him to the diocese of Turin. He wrote practical commentaries on nearly all the books of the Bible, at the request of the emperor, for the education of the clergy. They were mostly extracted from the writings of Augustin, Jerome, and other Latin fathers. Only fragments remain. He was a great admirer of Augustin, but destitute of his wisdom and moderation.567 He found the Italian churches full of pictures and picture-worshipers. He was told that the people did not mean to worship the images, but the saints. He replied that the heathen on the same ground defend the worship of their idols, and may become Christians by merely changing the name. He traced image-worship and saint-worship to a Pelagian tendency, and met it with the Augustinian view of the sovereignty of divine grace. Paul, he says, overthrows human merits, in which the monks now most glory, and exalts the grace of God. We are saved by grace, not by works. We must worship the Creator, not the creature. "Whoever seeks from any creature in heaven or on earth the salvation which he should seek from God alone, is an idolater." The departed saints themselves do not wish to be worshipped by us, and cannot help us. While we live, we may aid each other by prayers, but not after death. He attacked also the superstitious use of the sign of the cross, going beyond Charlemagne and Agobard. He met the defence by carrying it to absurd conclusions. If we worship the cross, he says, because Christ suffered on it, we might also worship every virgin because he was born of a virgin, every manger because he was laid in a manger, every ship because he taught from a ship, yea, every ass because he rode on an ass into Jerusalem. We should bear the cross, not adore it. He banished the pictures, crosses and crucifixes from the churches, as the only way to kill superstition. He also strongly opposed the pilgrimages. He had no appreciation of religious symbolism, and went in his Puritanic zeal to a fanatical extreme. Claudius was not disturbed in his seat; but, as he says himself, he found no sympathy with the people, and became "an object of scorn to his neighbors," who pointed at him as "a frightful spectre." He was censured by Pope Paschalis I. (817–824), and opposed by his old friend, the Abbot Theodemir of the diocese of Nismes, to whom he had dedicated his lost commentary on Leviticus (823), by Dungal (of Scotland or Ireland, about 827), and by Bishop Jonas of Orleans (840), who unjustly charged him with the Adoptionist and even the Arian heresy. Some writers have endeavored, without proof, to trace a connection between him and the Waldenses in Piedmont, who are of much later date.568

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  *Lead-in (Morin):* Maggie entered therapy for loss of a married man and discovered she was “hooked on longing”—fantasies of fulfillment beat reality. **Voice — Maggie / Morin narration:** “What do you expect me to do now?” she demanded in exasperation. “I don’t even know which men turn me on anymore. I thought therapy was supposed to make me less confused. I’ve never been so unsure!” Maggie had stumbled into the gray zone and didn’t want to be there. She was amazed by a curious phenomenon she named the “dual response.” “When I see the kind of man who has always attracted me,” she explained, “immediately I’m as fascinated as ever. I can spot these guys across a room. But now the moment they grab my attention, something inside me snaps and I feel myself turn off and I think, ‘Yuck! What a jerk!’” Maggie ultimately discovered that by selecting ambivalent men to pursue she had distracted herself from the fact that she was as ambivalent about intimacy as her lovers. “At least I used to enjoy the chase,” she said. “Now all I see is the same old story with the same shitty ending: poor little Maggie chasing after crumbs. I’ve had it! It’s too damn humiliating.” Maggie’s most important decision was to solidify a policy of self-respect. Her manifesto became: I don’t want to be with anybody who doesn’t want to be with me. “I don’t care if I ever fall in love again,” she insisted. “If he doesn’t love me back, I’m not interested.” For months she dated only sporadically, gingerly sampling different kinds of men and conducting experiments that had been impossible when she was focused on pursuit.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  With its melodramatic flair, her story is vintage S-M. Although she obviously gravitates toward the masochistic end of the continuum, Margo is far from helpless. Not only does she tease her audience with detached assurance, she also effectively targets and draws out the sadism of her aloof customer. Consider too how she sets up her boyfriend. Why would she tell him of her slip if not to provoke him? Her confession is strategic. By stirring up his anger, she forces him to punish her by replaying the whole scenario. She ends up the eager “victim” of two angry men, yet she has transformed their hostility—and undoubtedly her own as well—into a secret source of dark passion. Her CET is clearly concerned with mastering and choreographing her own humiliation with consummate skill. Margo provides us with only a few small clues about why she has become so brash and shrewd at creating what looks like abuse. She hints at being sexually used by at least one important man in her life, mentions her determination to be as unlike her passive mother as possible, and confesses that learning to be sexually “out there” didn’t come easily. But most telling of all is her concluding comment: “Ever since I learned about my hidden sex power I’ve felt confident and safe.” The concept of finding pleasure and safety in humiliation is contrary to the direct validation most of us look for in sex and thus, for many, is impossible to comprehend. But Margo is far from unique. Those who find ways to satisfy their masochistic desires—perhaps by hiring a prostitute to humiliate or degrade them (it’s one of the most common requests men make), convincing a lover to act out an S-M scene, or constructing a private fantasy—almost invariably report a rush of affirmation. Through sleight of hand—more accurately, sleight of mind—the skillful choreography of painful scenarios makes their sting sweet. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS ABOUT CETSPeople are fascinated by the idea of an ultra-personal scenario underlying each individual’s eroticism. Whenever I lecture about CETs I always leave plenty of time for the insightful questions and comments that invariably arise. Audiences especially want to know more about how CETs work in everyday life. This sampling of questions and answers touches on fundamental issues. I think I understand the idea of a CET, but no matter how hard I try I can’t figure mine out. Does everyone have one? I believe each person’s eroticism is shaped, to some degree, by recurring themes. But don’t be concerned if you can’t identify yours. Keep in mind that CETs typically operate, if not completely unconsciously, then at the edges of awareness. And there are other reasons that you might be having trouble. Many CETs are extremely subtle and easily missed. As a woman, you may have learned to focus on your partner’s needs and preferences rather than on yours.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  And yet, he admitted elsewhere that his vision was so bad in the postwar years that he could scarcely see his typewriter to write. He wore glasses and early versions of contact lenses. Through the use of Dianetic processing, he says, his eyes began to change. Many noticed that Hubbard had a habit of squinting, which has the effect of pressing astigmatic eyeballs into a rounder shape, which might momentarily improve his vision. He theorized that “astigmatism, a distortion of image, is only an anxiety to alter the image.” One day, for instance, he was reading an American Medical Association report and couldn’t make it out at all. He thought he might have to resort to using a magnifying glass. Then he realized that the reason he couldn’t read it was that he wasn’t willing to confront what it said. “I threw it aside, picked up a novel and the print was perfect.” Hubbard would sometimes chastise members of his crew about their dependence on eyeglasses, which he said were an admission of “overts” —transgressions against the group. One night as the fleet was sailing in the Caribbean, he looked at the young woman serving him dinner, Tracy Ekstrand, whose glasses were sliding down her nose in the tropical heat. “You’re doing yourself an aesthetic disservice,” he pronounced. She was mortified and stopped wearing glasses that night. Although she was still able to move from room to room and serve meals, her vision remained quite blurred. Some weeks later, as Hubbard was retiring for the night, he looked at her again. He held up his pack of cigarettes a foot in front of her face and asked if she could read the bold capital letters: “KOOL.” Flustered by the personal attention from the Commodore, Ekstrand mumbled the name of the cigarettes. “There’s been a shift!” he declared triumphantly, then went to bed. Ekstrand was shaken. “I remained outside his door for some minutes, dumbfounded and unsure how to react,” she recalled. “This time there was no question. He was wrong. He was imagining improvement and success with Scientology where there had been none.” All of Hubbard’s senses were painfully acute. Each day, every room he inhabited had to be dusted to the point that it would pass a white-glove test. He was fanatically clean but also hypersensitive to soap, so that his clothes had to be rinsed up to fifteen times, and even then he would complain that he could smell the detergent. His chef had to switch from cooking on stainless steel to Corningware because Hubbard complained of the taste of metal in his food. These stories were traded among his disciples as more evidence of his superhuman powers of discernment. ACCORDING TO SEVERAL Sea Org members, while he was in Las Palmas, Hubbard fell in love with another woman—Yvonne Gillham, the ship’s public relations officer.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  He began a tirade about the shortcomings of the infomercial. When Hawkins started to respond, Miscavige cut him short. “The only thing I want to hear from you is your crimes,” Miscavige said, meaning that Hawkins was to confess his subversive intentions. Then, without warning, Miscavige jumped on the table and launched himself at Hawkins, knocking him against a cubicle wall and battering him in the face. The two men fell to the floor, and their legs became entangled. “Let go of my legs!” Miscavige shouted. Miscavige extricated himself and left the room, leaving Hawkins on the floor, shocked, bruised, disheveled, humiliated, and staring at the forty people who did nothing to support him. “Get up! Get up!” they told him. “Don’t make him wrong.” Even if he had had access to a phone, Hawkins wouldn’t have called the police. If a Sea Org member were to seek outside help, he would be punished, either by being declared a Suppressive Person or by being sent off to do manual labor for months or years. Far more important, Hawkins believed, was the fact that his spiritual immortality was on the line. Scientology had made him aware of his eternal nature as he moved from life to life, erasing his fear of mortality. Without that, he would be doomed to dying over and over again, “in ignorance and darkness,” he said, “never knowing my true nature as a spirit.” Miscavige, he concluded, “holds the power of eternal life and death over you.” The church provided an affidavit of a former Sea Org member, Yael Lustgarten, who stated that she was present at the meeting and that the attack by Miscavige never happened. She claims that Hawkins made a mess of his presentation—“He smelled of body odor, he was unshaven, his voice tone was very low and he could hardly be heard”—and he was merely instructed to shape up. On the other hand, Amy Scobee said she witnessed the attack—it was her cubicle the two men fell into—and after the altercation, she recalled, “I gathered all the buttons from Jeff’s shirt and the change from his pockets and gave them back to him.” Tommy Davis later testified that he had conducted an investigation of the charges of abuse at the base. He said that all of the abuse had been committed by Rinder, Rathbun, and De Vocht—none by Miscavige. TOM DE VOCHT GREW UP in a little central Florida town called Fort Meade. When he was ten years old, in 1974, his cousin, Dicky Thompson, a keyboardist in the Steve Miller Band, came to visit, riding a Harley- Davidson motorcycle.