A senior official of the Austrian Foreign Ministry ran a sadomasochistic blog. A glimpse into the dark thoughts of a top diplomat behind the shine of diplomacy and global affairs.
An Austrian ambassador is leading a double life—one that is not only morally repugnant but poses a serious threat to national security. His sexual fantasies revolve around humiliation, violence, and psychological destruction. Outwardly, he appears cosmopolitan, reliable, and discreet. But his language in the SM blog: at first glance, literary and refined—just a few lines later, profoundly dehumanizing.
What is particularly shocking is how many staff members and insiders have long known about it. There was whispering in the Cabinet, joking in Brussels, but no one took action. Even seasoned political insiders find the story disturbing. Because what becomes visible here is not only the depravity of an individual—but the willful blindness of an entire apparatus. And it’s systemic. Our investigations now point to a network of sex parties in Brussels, perverse power games within the Foreign Ministry, and a frightening failure of the system.
“Your Split Excellency”
The man who represents Austria abroad portrays himself in his texts as a sadistic observer. He refers to women as “meat,” speaks of “total submission,” and describes acts of violence in graphic and voyeuristic language. This is not from a distance, but from active participation.
“We were meat, nothing more. Women. Vessels for the seed of men.”
— Frankfurt Night
“He shoved everything into my mouth.”
— Not Your World
“Are you in Berlin? Could use another woman for the party. Interested?”
— City of Silly Girls
“Strip a young girl from the neighborhood and then have her raped in front of us.”
— Images in My Head
A Pervert at the Foreign Ministry
What kind of man writes such things? He’s not an impulsive predator. He is someone who calculates, plans, and conceals. The ambassador is controlled, but internally driven by a need for dominance, humiliation, and absolute control over women. He is a sadistic intellectual who views his sexuality as an instrument of power. And it is precisely this cold rationality that makes him dangerous.
He uses language like a scalpel. His texts show “no remorse and no detachment,” but rather pride, participation, and control. He calls violence “aesthetic,” staging “discipline,” and abuse “structure.”
A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
The blog project The Night Mare wasn’t hidden in the shadows—it was run from the very heart of the Foreign Ministry. Uploads were made from his workplace on Leopold-Figl-Gasse. Some files contain geolocation data; others are timestamped with official working hours.
One key screenshot, with the file name “img_8423.jpg,” was uploaded in September 2022—directly from the Foreign Ministry (BMEIA). More traces lead to Brussels: internal sources report regularly held sex parties with high-level diplomatic attendees.
A Leak Brings Transparency
Two of the backup links in the Wayback Machine—archiving earlier versions of the blog—are no longer available. They may have been removed by request—but the decisive point is: they’re gone. However, one link was overlooked. A forgotten archive entry that is now proving to be the ambassador’s downfall. Fass ohne Boden was able to locate it thanks to an additional data leak from 2016.
The first link, containing articles from 2016 to 2018, proves what many still deny: the ambassador authored them. Relentlessly. Revealing. And without protection. A man with security clearance who exposes the darkest parts of himself.
A Perverse System
A note: Some readers may find the Wayback Machine difficult to navigate at first. That’s why we are providing direct archive links, so that everyone can read the original texts and form their own opinion. We believe: only those who take a close look can truly understand the gravity of this case.
At the same time, we have already translated the initial exposé, “Sadomasochism in the Foreign Ministry,” into English to facilitate access for international media, observers, and diplomatic partners. Because this scandal does not concern Austria alone—it undermines trust in diplomatic integrity as a whole.
And one thing readers should not forget: the “BDSM Ambassador,” the author of the blog posts that follow, is not some anonymous ghostwriter, but an active father, a high-ranking official, and a representative of the Republic of Austria.
Source: Fass ohne Boden
Blog Post: Splinters
Date: September 12, 2017
Wayback Machine: Link
“Hey man. Shit, man. Look at that!”
Darkness and flashes. And dull blows to my stomach, again and again. I had lost sight of Anna, the girl I had come with, not long after arriving—and I didn’t see her again that night. I danced with a girl I didn’t know. Then to the bar. Another woman, we kissed briefly. Back to the bar. Darkness and flashes. Bass. Hair. Eyes. Bar. A whirlpool around me.
And then, much later, far below, in the bowels of the bunker. Warmth. And barely any light left. But the muffled bass could still be felt down here. Only a rare flash now. Warmth. A soft touch. Hair, but no more eyes. Alone. A flash. Another woman, one last time. Then alone. Deep down. No way out. Whoever I am. In the dark.
Alone—or maybe not. Warmth, touch, and darkness.
“Hey man. Shit, man. Look at that—she’s got no tits.”
“No, man. She really doesn’t. You want to go first?”
I dug my fingers into the sheets.
“Hey man. What the fuck? Look what you did to her. She looks disgusting. Throw me that roll over there, will you?”
Light. Blinding. Wherever I was.
“Taxi, can you make it on your own?”
Nod.
“Are you insane? Your damn meter isn’t even showing half of it!”
“Shut your mouth. You pay double here. Like all you whores. Now get out of my car before you mess up my seats even more.”
And then calm. Utter calm. As much as still possible. One last check, just to be sure. This is my apartment, right? Right. My door? Open? Yes? And I’m on the right side of the threshold, yes? If I slam this fucking door shut now, nothing happens to me, right? Right? Then I’m home. Safe. Alone. Door closed. And no one can reach me anymore. Safe. Right? Safe? She’s got no tits. Safe. Alone. – I kicked the door shut.
One of the nights before, I had been in Potsdam, at one of Judith’s gatherings. And a few days before that, I had said goodbye to Y., probably forever. That had been a beginning. The beginning of the descent back into my hell.
Blog Post: T—ow
Date: August 6, 2018
Wayback Machine: Link
The evening light did T—ow good. The dust seemed to have vanished from its trees, and also from the brick buildings of its railway station, which stretched out behind me, mute and empty, as they slowly disappeared from view. The wide square leading to the warehouses was deserted. Only Nadja’s old car was parked there now, and she was leaning against it. She watched me, one hand raised in a silent farewell.
Three hours of travel lay ahead. I had been the only one to board the train. The only one in this grimy, sweltering carriage. Three hours. First through scorched countryside, then through forests and half-abandoned towns. And then through darkness, only darkness. Three hours to Berlin.
Was it a goodbye—or a curse? Nadja, Nadja. Who could say. In those days, we were all guilty.
…
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The Original: Der perverse Botschafter
