Wherein a horse remains unsatisfied.

The estate smells markedly sweet today.

My imprisoned proselytizer has given up the ghost. He leapt from one of the parapets yestermonth after somehow slipping his shackles, dashing his brains upon the cobblestones. Though the sight brought a memorable climax to my weekly bacchanalia, I had lost a catamite well before his time. There was much mileage left in him, so I rightly had his guardsman bound and thrashed as punishment, then further violated as part of that morning’s breakfast festivities.

Though many of my past subjects had been sufficiently broken, I realized I would continue to lose healthy specimens simply to unwillingness and unnecessary resistance. I elected, therefore, to hire a number of chemical researchers to further my usable supply of plying pheromones and aethers, as my current stock was but glorified distillations of Attar. The apothecaries were commanded to give no quarter and outstrip one another with their inventiveness. Despite my demands and repeated thrashings, I suffered mounting disappointments. Their concoctions were insufficient to excite even a choirboy, let alone a proper-sworn sexual abstinent. I pressed them for stronger brews. Weeks passed.

While out for a daily constitutional, I passed one of my bunkers so recently converted into an aether laboratory. Aside from the pleasing smell, I noted that two horses kept downwind of the bunker were engaged in remarkably spirited coitus. Pondering whether either or both should be brought to the mansion for an afternoon’s worth of merrymaking, I was puzzled to note that one of the horses was quite dead, and had been for some time. The fact that its upper half was tangled in, and very nearly decapitated by the barbed wire fence did nothing to dissuade its paramour. The creature continued to root with gusto, and I was very close indeed before I realized the still-living of the pair had torn off his own hooves with his volatile thrusting.

These singular proclivities were by no means limited to the ungulates. Any of my hounds that wandered into the area were seized with a Dionysian hand, marvelous to behold. Even the basest insects were not spared the delights of these fumes, and I found a number of bees and wasps lodged fast in fence-posts, their hindquarters inseparable from the wood. My stableboys, curiously, would not venture near the area, and resisted with more than their usual vigor if coaxed within. My mind awash with excitement, I commanded a legion of captives to the apothecarium.

The initial test batch consisted of a number of these Mor-mons as I’ve heard them called. They all assured me of their tireless devotion to this Jehovah fellow, and I was pleased by their similarity to my former proselytizer. No finer devotees of abstinence would I need. I cast a carafe of the spirit into their pit, and observed as a triumphant orgiophant.

The first orgasmic bayings brought onlookers from the whole of my estate. The sight was legendary. Raw screams swiftly followed the gleeful moans as the pheromones took their effect. The whores found themselves quickly rent asunder by any available member. The remaining coquettes clung shrieking to one another in their cages, begging for quietus, while the still-unsatisfied Mor-mons tore and thrusted through the bars. Equal fates met the remainder, and I could not have been more pleased.

Regrettably, a pitiful bother presented itself the next morning. Though entirely willing to perform any base act, the subjects would dismember themselves or alternately chew off various appendages attempting to reach their required couplers if restrained. A captive chained alone in his cage was found with both arms pulled off at the shoulders, his back broken, and his still-erect member jammed forcefully into a ruined eye socket.

I shall keep a number of carafes on reserve. The apothecaries and alchemists shall be lent to the horses.

Wherein regalia is pilfered.

The iron-whore fled before he could be properly destroyed, and somehow managed to make off with no less than thirty-five of my sheep. That evening, a rather raucous mob informed my night-watchmen that the automaton had departed the village through one of the local churches. As such, I’ve been paid more attention than usual by the men of the cloth.

I was forced to restrain one of the neighborhood religious proselytizers yestermorn. Questionable that he would think to knock on my door, unusual that he wouldn’t notice the pit-traps. While I wouldn’t expect children to espy them, one would think an adult would know better.

Still, I know when men will be unable to keep their tongues, and fortune had just that morning favored me with a new set of rectal dilators. I so much more enjoy a plea to a higher power when screamed through a raw throat.

Worship-houses have always provided me with the finest revelries. In the summer of 1949, due to a remarkable miscommunication, I was contracted by the First Pentecostal Fellowship of the port town of Fort Cronesberry and asked to produce a series of informatory leaflets of the finest prose to showcase their church. Money in hand, I burned the parchment I had been given, bound a catamite to the lectern in thanks, and made for the houses of ill-repute. At the sight of an unspoiled burlesque district, my heart still grows giddy to this very day. My entourage was limited to only six further hostlers, but I was undeterred.

I awoke the next morning in the exsanguination pit of the Fort Cronesberry abattoir. Five of my hostlers, bound, blindfolded, and covered in viscera, writhed nearby in a pig scalder. I received a telegram a week later informing me that the sixth, wearing naught but a bishop’s mitre, had been found deep within the freezing-works.

Wherein iron is utilized.

Oh, filth and damnation. My clockwork prostitute has forgotten his place.

The more pleasing aspects of society have called for more mechanically advanced methodologies of intercourse. Though not short of clasps, fabricated triple-crowns and docking sleeves, my harem shall never know completeness without the addition of a tireless automaton – one whose metal flesh shall not weaken and whose stamina shall persist without bound. My brains afire with possibilities, I unshackled my swiftest messenger and bade him send word to the finest steamsmiths and ironshapers to create my mechanical marekon.

Response came forthwith, and the engine-fathers were allowed full use of my southwest barn and two of my workshops. Though my specifications were exacting, I was assured the automaton could be built. I received word that the device was completed some weeks later and eagerly rushed to the barn.

The iron-whore was as a silvery god. Built of mild steel and standing fully ten feet high, my gear-driven rentboy weighed five thousand seven hundred and fourteen stone. My smiths gave his ignition crank a mighty heave and the behemoth roared to life. The curious stableboys who had gathered clasped their hands to their ears and ran screaming from the barn. The sound was glorious and as of warring angels.

I called for the whores who were so marvelously lucky as to christen the machine. The first was seized by both legs with a delicious lack of foreplay, and rammed upon the creation’s smoking, red-hot genital mast. Her screams were brief, but I grew cross when the steaming top of the automaton’s member emerged from the dome of her skull. Soothly, my smiths’ ambition was unseemly. Such impropriety would never do. The following tests produced equal results. I cursed the metal-drivers for their incompetence and ordered the construct deactivated. Though three were lost in the process, the remaining tinkers assured me the telescopic servos could be shortened at least six inches.

I was awoken this morning by a most rueful din from by barn, only to be informed that the cyclopean prostitute had broken his restraints and finished another two gearmen afore turning his attention to my sheep herd.

Gorgeous though he is, I have ordered the iron-whore cast into the sea. It’s as well. The remaining smiths have been fitted with chastity tubes and sets of winkers.

Wherein a goat is purchased.

It is with the utmost regret that I am forced to apologize to the Lord St. Stark for the tardiness of Horatio.  The boy lacked the opportunity to ever provide me with his name as he was, upon arrival, immediately fitted with a curious mouth-clasp I commissioned from my personal ironworker.  The only sound I might have associated with a name was a disastrously shrill long “A” syllable.  Come to think of it, such was the only sound he ever made.  He will be returned immediately, much the worse for wear.  The messenger child will not. His voice is much more pleasingly shrill.
The days have grown hot.  As I recall, it was a warm Moroccan afternoon in the summer of 1954.  The air was stifling, and filled with the sounds of contented goats bleating save, naturally, for the one with which we’d just finished.  My associate, the Monsignor F__________, was arguing with a local shepherd about the price of his goat while I took the opportunity to wander and consider the natural beauty while giving the blood some time to dry and flake off.
It was down an otherwise unremarkable alleyway that I espied a woman I would kindly describe as the most withered and ancient sample of humanity that I had yet seen living.  Straggling teeth jutted from her mouth like weathered tombstones and her remaining hair hung in diseased clumps.  She was a filthy temptress and was engaged in emptying an outsize bucket of fish heads into the gutter.  The sight was primally arousing.  Chloroform always leaves my hands feeling pickled.  On the subject of gerontophilia, I have always loved the reminiscent smell of a good Vieux-Boulogne.  And to think I took my youthful stamina for granted…
To my annoyance, I found my associate and the shepherd still involved in their ridiculous prattle upon my return to the docks.  I was able to negotiate any difference with a cache of pessaries I had fortuitously located in the old woman’s dwelling.

Wherein the Dutch attempt a voyage.

Gorgeous night last night.   I have determined that there is nothing that cannot be done as long as one possesses a milking machine, a well-constructed shotgun, and a strong, commanding voice.  On a related note, the messenger boy was located last evening.

My stableboy Edward gave up the ghost yesterday morning.  A shame to say, as he was such a nubile specimen.   I might have been too energetic with him during my morning…applications.   Such a bally nuisance, for I must replace him with all due speed.  This leaves me with the entirely enjoyable task of critiquing potential replacements.

The fates have smiled upon me, for my servants have spirited three boys between 7 and 12 and a girl – whose age I haven’t bothered to ascertain – back to the mansion.  It seems a Dutch shipwreck a mile up the coast had left this crop of fortuitous survivors.   At present, they are raising a frightful row, but I’ve no shortage of scold’s bridles.  Foremost, it is intestinal elasticity that one must first seek in a stableboy.  Bishop Phillips and I have long argued the point, for he stubbornly swears on principles of flexibility.  Chuff and gash!   Unless the brittlest of bones are a concern, malleability amounts to naught.  The fool doesn’t realize that it is circumference and not geometry that brings the finer experiences in life.

Naturally, haste is never a concern in the trials.   There is no shame in a bit of light necrophilia now and again.  One must simply choose one’s subjects carefully.  I myself was once accused of having caused some bothersome European spat simply because a particular uppity Austrian archduke refused my advances.   I can assure you that, despite his initial misgivings, he found it much more difficult to clench shut his nethers once he was…persuaded.  Oh, to have my youthful shoulders from those days…

It shall be a lovely day.  Geoffrey has informed me, as best he can while wearing the harness, that my morning armadillo has been properly broken in.

Wherein whale oil is found to be useful.

Warm out today. I received a telegram from a Monsieur C_______ regarding some ballyhoo at the burlesque house two evenings ago. Seems a gentleman was thrown through the lovely stained glass window depicting King George V beating to death a wild boar with a length of chain. Unfortunate…I rather enjoyed that window. After a bracing dram of absinthe, I found the vigor to wander down to the apothecary to pick up a resupply of spermaceti. The stableboys have been long complaining about the excessive stretching and prolapses that my new stock of implements has been causing. I read in Smeckler’s Compendium about the curative effects of this oil. Seems the oil has a very relieving effect on the elasticity of certain…orifices…

Dipsomania! I have long had a friendly wager with the Lord Thomson regarding the singular nature of this disease and my hypothesis that after the age of 16, an individual could be brought up with this condition not as any sort of base and downtrodden affliction, but one that could be considered a positive boon! The bet was originally made after entirely too many snifters of Calvados and a cool autumn night of horse buggery. The wager is nigh-on three years old, and I’m finally reaching my experimental stages. One would only need apply a strict regimen of certain daily corrective enemas of nerve and skin tonic while carefully monitoring the subject’s intake of energizing spirits. While the good Thomson claims that this notion is pure speculation and devilry, I remain steadfast in my beliefs. It is, in fact, this very claim that will make my harem a reality.

I must away to find the one escaped messenger boy from yesterday. I’ve no doubt he’s in the house. Though the rooms are cavernous and the echoes vast, I cannot help but believe he is somewhere on the fourth floor. Were he on the third, he would occasionally have to cross the Grand Hall, and none of the tripwires have sounded their alarms.