Temptation

“The persona”

What does the devil look like? Is it the classic image of the horned red devil, the bearer of light Lucifer, the intersex demon Baphomet, the prince of hell Baal, or is it impersonal yet everywhere, the general delusion reigning on earth of which Hinduism speaks: Maya?

There is currently a big push to portray Satanists as a harmless, atheistic group, inviting all to participate in benign fellowship venerating freedom, science, fearlessness, power and pleasure. Increasingly, Satanic after school clubs are formed and social justice issues tackled. Like any pyramidal structure, such as a secret society or religious faction, the membership often serves as a front to obfuscate the darkness and lies from the leadership at the top. Many signal through language and symbols to belong, desiring power or fame, willing to do anything, already lost in temptation, avoiding their own unresolved trauma, using the privilege of the satanic club as a substitute for self esteem while engaging in increasingly “naughty” exhibitionism, couched as rebellion against the system, encouraged, upheld and platformed with support from the club.

In my childhood, I was entirely unaware that anything like satanism existed. As a sex slave, I was surrounded by vicious sadists who used any opportunity to humiliate me to the core, exploited as an object of trade, blackmail, or anything else.

During the summer of 1972, when I was nine years old, I was flown to the US to my new owner who was visibly happy to spend time with me, even as he was assessing the many ways in which I could serve the network and earn him a ton of money. During this triage and training inside his homes, receiving kind attention, education and reflections of certain aspects of my personality and talents of which I had previously been entirely unaware, I was able to emotionally develop thanks to his insights. He was a father figure, albeit an incestuous one who blithely drugged me with little white pills to obtain desired results. Even so, as he taught me the ways and habits of the elite, eating and shopping together, looking at art, I felt special, unable to suspect his ulterior motives. Together with the comfort of his homes and the beauty of his land, it was as though earth really could be paradise.

We traveled on a Hinkley sailing yacht on the cerulean Atlantic along the North East coast to one of the islands to visit a friend, younger than my owner, maybe in his forties, with wavy hair, a kind, reserved face and large blue eyes. I sensed that the younger of the two was the more powerful. Known publicly as a scion of one of the most powerful families in the world, my American owner was apparently not quite as illustrious inside the network, and needed to get permission to create the persona he wanted me to become.

While my owner always spoke French with me, the two conversed in English, his friend with a markedly proper British accent. It possibly never occurred to the American that I might know English, but I did, simply from watching subtitled American shows on television. As always, I would not reveal more than absolutely necessary; that was safer. At one point my owner mentioned to his friend that I was the example to prove that children are perfectly suited for sex with adults. I liked it so much, according to him. I got so turned on. I was such a wild thing.

I was used to hide any reaction to what that I might overhear in the network, and I don’t remember showing anything, but I felt slighted. After having been used as a sex slave since age six, and after being sexually trained by himself in a program that included being drugged, how could he believe his own words? He spoke of me as an object, and I felt the sting of humiliation. I am currently well aware that he was using an increasingly common argument to justify pedophilia; first introduce a child, who has no choice, to an adult schedule of sexualization, then use the child’s traumatic freeze state in which the body can experience pleasure and the resulting fawning survivalist response as proof that the child liked and thus wanted, even chose to have the sexual experience.

I felt the friend’s eyes on me, and as I looked back, it appeared, without any words being spoken, as though he was fully aware that I was offended. Generally, inside the network, my being caught at having such a thought could mean death. But instead of fear, it was rather as though I were connecting with an ally.

We had docked by the house and there was no one besides the three of us. The friend invited me for a chat, just he and I. We sat in salon chairs opposite each other, and I felt incredibly peaceful.

“I am Jewish,” he shared. “And to me, family is most important.”

The atmosphere was light and calm. He spoke in English, thus confirming that he knew that I had understood my owner. I am amazed to this day that I did not experience the slightest fear; I felt grateful that he would speak of himself, it was not what network men usually did.

“You are so intelligent. And intelligence is the quality I most appreciate.”

I noticed that he said “I appreciate” rather than “we” and thought it was a subtle reference to my owner who had not noticed my reaction, who had been left out of this conversation and out of this room.

“And you are very beautiful.”

Again, I treasured the way he measured his words, that he stated a fact without betraying any base thought or desire. I knew that I was never the prettiest girl, that I had become more sensual and beautiful through the concupiscent gaze of my owner.

“If you would be part of our family, you will always be highly respected.”

He had just laid bare the essence of my personality. Though I had never gotten any respect at home or in the network, secretly I always knew that I deserved it and secretly I had turned all the humiliations right back around on the perpetrators, knowing their base actions showed their own lack of self-respect. Even if many parts had formed to deal with the abuse. Even while outwardly going through the motions to fulfill their needs. No perpetrator had ever noticed that I had felt insulted. Here, my deepest secret was not only recognized, it was reflected back as a virtue and presented as a promise on a silver platter. I had never before felt this understood and appreciated. It was as if I had come home.

“And you will be known. You will be on the cover of magazines. The press will always speak highly of you, celebrating your intelligence and your beauty. You will be surrounded by people who adore you. You will always be protected.”

He proceeded to describe my future. My American owner had referenced that I would be part of his family and that I would be famous, but it seemed unreal; none of it had landed. Sitting in this lovely salon with this godfather-type gentleman, every word he said, every promise he made entered like a prophecy. It was the first time I would hear my future life described in detail: the glamour, the apartment in Paris, the cars, the house on the French Riviera, the yacht.

“But,” he warned, “we have rules. If you wish to be part of our family, you have to obey.”

He went on to let me know I would need to obey my owner, using his first name, looking at me with a hint of compassion, once again showing his superiority as well as our profound connection.

In “The Godfather” movie everyone who speaks to the man better feel the fear about what he is capable of in case you did or thought anything out of line. In my situation, sitting with a 40-something man as a nine-year old girl who was treated like an adult, there was no fear. Rather I felt like I was in heaven. How hard could it be to obey my owner if I could be fully known and accepted for who I am by this godfather?

“Will you be part of our family?” he asked.

During a long pause I cherished the calm atmosphere. The light, muted colors of the salon and bright sunlight pouring through the windows were all part of the perfect peace that had settled like a gentle web over the room.

“Yes,” I said.

“Can you say, ‘yes, I will,’”? he asked.

“Yes, I will be part of your family,” I answered.

And so it was, that I gave my “I will” - my will - to one of the most powerful men in the satanic network, the godfather, the representative of Satan.

He took a box of chocolates from the side table and offered me one. I waited until he had also picked one to put it in my mouth, and we both sat smiling mildly at each other, delighting in the chocolates. A flash of childlike joy crossed his face. That night I slept in my own, comfortable bed in my own room. I was not sexually touched throughout the visit. I felt absolutely safe.

Based on that meeting alone, I developed a lifelong fondness for Jewish family men, an incongruous sense of belonging to the network, a kinship to actors and performers, and an addiction to chocolate.

It is said that the devil was a liar from the beginning. Never was I so tempted to believe in the lies of the devil as during that meeting. Even though I was tortured during the ensuing mind control training and it could be said that sex abuse is always humiliating, I did not feel humiliated by it anymore. The mind control had me convinced that I was a willing participant and the men were always nice, even admiring.

A little less than a year after my meeting with the godfather his promise was broken, when I was kidnapped, abused and profoundly humiliated by a famous singer/actress and her husband. Considering that this is a family of psychopaths and sadists, it is a miracle it took this long. Sitting in an empty Monaco office on the scratchy wall-to-wall carpet where I had been parked for a few hours the night of the abuse, I contemplated that if I was not even going to get respect, what was the point?

Next I was helicoptered to a large estate and put through a horrific ordeal. It was confusing; the castle looked French but I was being yelled at by handlers with a Cockney accent. I was first victimized, and next forced to perform a grisly act while told that I would always get back on top, that I would always end up the victor.

In my healing process, I recognized the estate in the United Kingdom as one belonging to the family of this godfather. Apparently, it had been calculated that the singer/actress who had abused me out of turn and then rushed to the godfather to be pardoned, was more valuable to the network. I had to contend with a quick fixing-up, a little reprogramming by a few handlers. My persona would have needed at the very least an apology from the singer/actress, forced out of her by the godfather. My persona would also have been content to see the singer suffer.

I was fooled by the devil. Evil, always parasitic, needs real qualities and goodness to attach itself, to mimic them. Even though I wizened up to the lies and broken promises rather soon, the deceit during this meeting in the beautiful salon was so compelling that I really do understand how people get sucked into evil. The network representatives of the devil will detect your weak spot - just as I was trained to do - and use that to offer you the very thing that has been most missing from your life. When the promise of the fulfillment of that legitimate emotional need is offered, you feel like you have reached heaven, and it is in this moment that you are deceived by the devil.

It is easy to simplify the choices, easy to think you are better, but the truth is that unless you have been tempted with just that one thing that is your hook, you have no idea what you would do, and you have no idea if you are being used for the network.

And those who would rather be cool than warm, the clever ones trying to belong to the family, creating the buzz, the fun of being part of the secret club, the superiority from getting things other people don’t, these are all inner parts frozen in trauma and unmet emotional need seeking to be accepted and loved who believe they are about to find it, who still believe the lies. Smoke and mirrors.