Desire

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.

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• From Post Office (1971)

  2 The next thing I knew, I had a young girl from Texas on my lap. I won’t go into details of how I met her. Anyway, there it was. She was 23. I was 36. She had long blonde hair and was good solid meat. I didn’t know, at the time, that she also had plenty of money. She didn’t drink but I did. We laughed a lot at first. And went to the racetrack together. She was a looker, and everytime I got back to my seat there would be some jerkoff sliding closer and closer to her. There were dozens of them. They just kept moving closer and closer. Joyce would just sit. I had to handle them all one of two ways. Either take Joyce and move off or tell the guy: “Look, buddy, this one’s taken! Now move off!” But fighting the wolves and the horses at the same time was too much for me. I kept losing. A pro goes to the track alone. I knew that. But I thought maybe I was exceptional. I found out that I wasn’t exceptional at all I could lose my money as fast as anybody. Then Joyce demanded that we get married. What the hell? I thought, I’m cooked anyhow. I drove her to Vegas for a cheap wedding, then drove her right back. I sold the car for ten dollars and the next thing I knew we were on a bus to Texas and when we landed I had seventy-five cents in my pocket. It was a very small town, the population, I believe, was under 2,000. The town had been picked by experts, in a national article, as the last town in the USA any enemy would attack with an atomic bomb. I could see why. All this time, without knowing it, I was working my way back toward the post office. That mother. Joyce had a little house in town and we laid around and screwed and ate. She fed me well, fattened me up and weakened me at the same time. She couldn’t get enough. Joyce, my wife, was a nymph. I took little walks through the town, alone, to get away from her, teethmarks all over my chest, neck and shoulders, and somewhere else that worried me more and was quite painful. She was eating me alive.

• From Under the Banner of Heaven (2003)

  Despite this harrowingly close call, Joseph remained perpetually and hopelessly smitten by the comeliest female members of his flock. Among them was a nubile resident of Kirtland named Fanny Alger, who was introduced to Joseph in 1830, after her parents became some of the earliest converts to the church. By the winter of 1833, when Fanny was sixteen, she had moved into the Smith household as a domestic servant and had grown very close to both Smiths, particularly Emma. According to a Mormon named Ann Eliza Webb Young, Fanny was “a very pretty, pleasing young girl,” and Mrs. Smith “was extremely fond of her; no own mother could be more devoted, and their affection for each other was a constant object of remark, so absorbing and genuine did it seem.” Joseph, however, was also extremely fond of young Fanny, and he took her as his plural wife in February or March 1833; she may well have been the second woman, after Emma, whom he formally married. He tried to keep the relationship secret, but Emma eventually discovered Joseph and Fanny flagrante delicto, and by the fall of 1835 had thrown the girl out of their house. Neither Emma’s tears nor her rage were enough to make Joseph monogamous, however; nor were the prevailing mores of the day. He kept falling rapturously in love with women not his wife. And because that rapture was so wholly consuming, and felt so good, it struck him as impossible that God might possibly frown on such a thing. Joseph wasn’t by nature reflective or deliberative. He conducted his life impulsively, acting according to instinct and emotion. The Lord, it seemed to him, must surely have intended man to know the love of more than one wife or He wouldn’t have made the prospect so enticing. In the Old Testament, moreover, Joseph found ample proof that this was indeed God’s intent, wherein the polygamous customs of Abraham and Jacob—the patriarchs from whom the Mormons were directly descended—were recounted without reproach or shame. Joseph continued to take plural wives throughout the 1830s in Ohio and Missouri, and he married with even greater frequency in Nauvoo in the early 1840s, but he did whatever was necessary, including bald-faced lying, to conceal his polygamous behavior—not only from censorious non-Mormons but from all but a select few of his own followers, as well. As the prophet explained to his innermost circle in 1832, “he had inquired of the Lord concerning the principle of plurality of wives, and he received for answer that the principle of taking more wives than one is a true principle, but the time had not yet come for it to be

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The two barons guided Goldilocks so that she was positioned on top of the first baron just so, but she gasped suddenly, saying, “This is too hard!” To this the baron replied, “That will be remedied in a short while.” Accepting this, Goldilocks allowed herself to be placed fully upon him, and immediately an intense pleasure shot through her as she was obliged, in this position, to take every bit of his hardness inside of her. The second baron positioned himself directly in front of Goldilocks’s face and summoned her to open her lips. “This is too soft,” she could not help remarking just before he stuffed himself into her mouth. “That, too, will be remedied without delay,” replied he. And within seconds of having said so, Goldilocks realized that he had spoken the truth. Goldilocks now glanced sideways at the third baron as he saturated himself with some kind of lubricant. “Oh,” she thought, “that is just right.” But she reconsidered this in the next instant, for he had positioned himself directly behind her—and it did not immediately feel “just right” where he was forcing himself into her from behind. She gasped. Thus engaged, Goldilocks felt something like a butterfly might, when the collector methodically spreads apart its wings and firmly fastens it to his exhibit. And while it is true that the barons had almost as little regard for Goldilocks as the collector has for his butterfly, she had their concentrated attention for the moment at least, and the desire they felt for her was unmistakable. As for Goldilocks, her every sense was alive with feeling; yet, pinioned as she was, she was completely immobilized and absolutely vulnerable to their will. The barons stroked and fondled every part of Goldilocks as they took her, meanwhile groaning under the strain to go slow; for they were determined to enjoy every aspect of this little windfall that had blown in their direction. With this in mind, they, in turns, went fast and slow, making full use of her eager body. Meanwhile, Goldilocks could feel her own excitement pressing up within her. She had never felt so overwhelmed and, at the same time, so desperate for more. She gasped and whimpered when the barons became more demanding, relentlessly driving into her with a force that matched her own excitement. But ere long, they would once again slow the pace, forcing themselves to hold back in an effort to prolong the experience, and at these intervals they would devote themselves to touching her face, hair, breasts, and buttocks. Often they would comment on her physical appearance, noting such things as the softness of her skin, or the roundness of her buttocks, or the eagerness of her mouth. Hearing them, Goldilocks became overcome with desire, and suddenly wanted to be used by them—even more shamefully so.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It is not many years since there lived (and belike yet liveth) at Bologna a very great and famous physician, known by manifest renown to well nigh all the world. His name was Master Alberto and such was the vivacity of his spirit that, albeit he was an old man of hard upon seventy years of age and well nigh all natural heat had departed his body, he scrupled not to expose himself to the flames of love; for that, having seen at an entertainment a very beautiful widow lady, called, as some say, Madam Malgherida[70] de' Ghisolieri, and being vastly taken with her, he received into his mature bosom, no otherwise than if he had been a young gallant, the amorous fire, insomuch that himseemed he rested not well by night, except the day foregone he had looked upon the delicate and lovesome countenance of the fair lady. Wherefore he fell to passing continually before her house, now afoot and now on horseback, as the occasion served him, insomuch that she and many other ladies got wind of the cause of his constant passings to and fro and oftentimes made merry among themselves to see a man thus ripe of years and wit in love, as if they deemed that that most pleasant passion of love took root and flourished only in the silly minds of the young and not otherwhere. [Footnote 70: Old form of Margherita.]

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  f “wn a beautiful evening three weeks later, Stephen took Angela over Morton. They had had tea with Anna and Puddle, and Anna had been coldly polite to this friend of her daughter’s, but Puddle’s manner had been rather resentful — she deeply mistrusted Angela Crossby. But now Stephen was free to show Angela Morton, and this she did gravely, as though some- thing sacred were involved in this first introduction to her home, as though Morton itself must feel that the coming of this small, fair-haired woman was in some way momentous. Very gravely, then, they went over the house — even into Sir Philip’s old study. From the house they made their way to the stables, and still grave, Stephen told her friend about Raftery. Angela listened, assuming an interest she was very far from feeling — she was timid of horses, but she liked to hear the girl’s rather gruff voice, such an earnest young voice, it intrigued her. She was thoroughly frightened when Raftery sniffed her and then blew through his nostrils as though disapproving, and she started back with a sharp exclamation, so that Stephen slapped him on his glossy grey shoulder: ‘ Stop it, Raftery, come up!’ And Raftery, disgusted, went and blew on his oats to express his hurt feelings. They left him and wandered away through the gardens, and quite soon poor Raftery was almost forgotten, for the gardens smelt softly of night-scented stock and of other pale flowers that smell sweetest at evening, and Stephen was thinking that Angela Crossby resembled such flowers — very fragrant and pale she was, so Stephen said to her gently: ‘ You seem to belong to Morton.’ Angela smiled a slow, questioning smile: ‘ You think so, Stephen? ’ And Stephen answered: ‘I do, because Morton and I are 160 THE WELL OF LONELINESS one,’ and she scarcely understood the portent of her words, but Angela, understanding, spoke quickly: ‘Oh, I belong nowhere — you forget I’m the stranger.’ ‘I know that you’re you,’ said Stephen. They walked on in silence while the light changed and deep- ened, growing always more golden and yet more elusive. And the birds, who loved that strange light, sang singly and then all together: “ We’re happy, Stephen! ’ And turning to Angela, Stephen answered the birds: * Your being here makes me so happy.’ ‘Tf that’s true, then why are you so shy of my name? °? ‘ Angela —’ mumbled Stephen. Then Angela said: ‘ It’s just over three weeks since we met - how quickly our friendship’s happened. I suppose it was meant, I believe in Kismet. You were awfully scared that first day at The Grange; why were you so scared? ’ Stephen answered slowly: ‘ I’m frightened now — I’m fright- ened of you.’ “Yet you’re stronger than I am —’ “Yes, that’s why I’m so frightened, you make me feel strong — do you want to do that? ’

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  He was dressed as a laborer, wearing split-toed shoes with rubber soles and black-canvas tops, and dark-blue cotton trousers of the close-fitting kind called "thigh-pullers." The scrutiny I gave the youth was unusually close for a child of four. Although I did not clearly perceive it at the time, for me he represented my first revelation of a certain power, my first summons by a certain strange and secret voice. It is significant that this was first manifested to me in the form of a night-soil man: excrement is a symbol for the earth, and it was doubtlessly the malevolent love of the Earth Mother that was calling to me. I had a presentiment then that there is in this world a kind of desire like stinging pain. Looking up at that dirty youth, I was choked by desire, thinking, "I want to change into him," thinking, "I want to be him." I can remember clearly that my desire had two focal points. The first was his dark-blue "thigh-pullers," the other his occupation. The close-fitting jeans plainly outlined the lower half of his body, which moved lithely and seemed to be walking directly toward me. An inexpressible adoration for those trousers was born in me. I did not understand why. His occupation . . . At that instant, in the same way that other children, as soon as they attain the faculty of memory, want to become generals, I became possessed with the ambition to become a night-soil man. The origin of this ambition might have been partly in the dark-blue jeans, but certainly not exclusively so. In time this ambition became still stronger and, expanding within me, saw a strange development. What I mean is that toward his occupation I felt something like a yearning for a piercing sorrow, a body-wrenching sorrow. His occupation gave me the feeling of "tragedy" in the most sensuous meaning of the word. A certain feeling as it were of "self-renunciation," a certain feeling of indifference, a certain feeling of intimacy with danger, a feeling like a remarkable mixture of nothingness and vital power—all these feelings swarmed forth from his calling, bore down upon me, and took me captive, at the age of four. Probably I had a misconception of the work of a night-soil man.Probably I had been told of some different occupation and, misled by his costume, was forcibly fitting his job into the pattern of what I had heard. I cannot otherwise explain it.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  The toy likewise raised its head toward death and pools of blood and muscular flesh. Gory dueling scenes on the frontispieces of adventury-story magazines, which I borrowed in secret from the student houseboy; pictures of young samurai cutting open their bellies, or of soldiers struck by bullets, clenching their teeth and dripping blood from between hands that clutched at khaki-clad breasts ; photographs of hard-muscled sumo wrestlers, of the third rank and not yet grown too fat—at the sight of such things the toy would promptly lift its inquisitive head. (If the adjective "inquisitive" be inappropriate, it can be changed to read either "erotic" or "lustful.") Coming to understand these matters, I began to seek physical pleasure consciously, intentionally. The principles of selection and arrangement were brought into operation. When the composition of a picture in an adventure-story magazine was found defective, I would first copy it with crayons, and then correct it to my satisfaction. Then it would become the picture of a young circus performer dropping to his knees and clutching at a bullet wound in his breast; or a tight-rope walker who had fallen and split his skull open and now lay dying, half his face covered with blood. Often at school I would become so preoccupied with the fear that these bloodthirsty pictures, which I had hidden away in a drawer of the bookcase at home, might be discovered during my absence that I would not even hear the teacher's voice. I knew I should have destroyed them promptly after drawing them, but my toy was so attached to them that I found it absolutely impossible to do so. In this manner my insubordinate toy passed many futile days and months without achieving even its secondary goal—what I shall call my "bad habit"—let alone its ultimate, its primary goal. Various changes had been taking place about me. The family had divided into two and, leaving the house where I was born, had moved into separate houses, not over half a block apart on the same street. My grandparents and I were in one house, while my parents and my sister and brother were in the other. During this time my father was sent abroad on official business, toured several countries in Europe, and returned home. Before long my parents moved again. My father had finally reached the belated resolve to reclaim me back into his own household and took this opportunity to do so. I underwent a scene of parting with my grandmother —"modern melodrama" my father called it—and thus finally went to live with my parents.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  So there's nothing to do about it now. It's your destiny." He used the English word, mispronouncing it in the old-fashioned way. "Huh?" I asked. "Destiny. It's your destiny." He repeated himself in a monotone, using that indifferent, shy tone of voice characteristic of old men who are on their guard against being taken for fussy grandmothers. During previous visits at Kusano's I must have seen this sister who was playing the piano. But Kusano's family was very strait-laced, not at all like the easygoing Nukada family, and whenever any of Kusano's friends came calling, the three sisters would immediately disappear from sight, leaving only their bashful smiles behind them. As Kusano's enlistment drew nearer and nearer we visited each other with increasing frequency and were reluctant to part. The experience of hearing that piano had given me a completely wooden manner where that sister was concerned. Hearing it had been like eavesdropping on some secret of hers, and ever since I had somehow become unable to look her directly in the eye or speak to her. When she occasionally brought in the tea, I would keep my eyes lowered and see nothing but her nimble legs and feet moving lightly across the floor. I was completely carried away by the beauty of her legs, perhaps because I had not yet become accustomed to seeing city women wear the bloomer-like trousers of farm women or the slacks that had become the fashion for those perilous times. . . . And yet it would be a mistake to leave the impression that her legs aroused any sexual excitement in me. As said before, I was completely lacking in any feeling of sexual desire for the opposite sex. This is well proved by the fact that I had never had the slightest wish to see a woman's naked body. For all that, I would begin to imagine seriously that I was in love with a girl, and the spiteful fatigue of which I have spoken would begin to clog my mind; and then next I would find delight in regarding myself as a person ruled by reason and would satisfy my vainglorious desire to appear an adult by likening my frigid and changeable emotions to those of a man who has grown weary from a surfeit of women. Such mental gyrations had become automatic with me, as though I were one of those candy machines that go to work and send a caramel sliding out the moment a coin is inserted.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  He was a youth of twenty-one or -two, with coarse but regular and swarthy features. He had taken off his shirt and stood there half naked, rewinding a belly-band about his middle. The coarse cotton material was soaked with sweat and had become a light-gray color. He seemed to be intentionally dawdling over his task of winding and was constantly joining in the talk and laughter of his companions. His naked chest showed bulging muscles, fully developed and tensely knit; a deep cleft ran down between the solid muscles of his chest toward his abdomen. The thick, fetter-like sinews of his flesh narrowed down from different directions to the sides of his chest, where they interlocked in tight coils. The hot mass of his smooth torso was being severely and tightly imprisoned by each succeeding turn of the soiled cotton belly-band. His bare, sun-tanned shoulders gleamed as 'though covered with oil. And black tufts stuck out from the cracks of his armpits, catching the sunlight, curling and glittering with glints of gold. At this sight, above all at the sight of the peony tattooed on his hard chest, I was beset by sexual desire. My fervent gaze was fixed upon that rough and savage, but incomparably beautiful, body. Its owner was laughing there under the sun. When he threw back his head I could see his thick, muscular neck. A strange shudder ran through my innermost heart. I could no longer take my eyes off him. I had forgotten Sonoko's existence. I was thinking of but one thing: Of his going out onto the streets of high summer just as he was, half-naked, and getting into a fight with a rival gang. Of a sharp dagger cutting through that belly-band, piercing that torso. Of that soiled belly-band beautifully dyed with blood. Of his gory corpse being put on an improvised stretcher, made of a window shutter, and brought back here. . . . "There's just five minutes left." Sonoko's high, sad voice reached my ears. I turned to her wonderingly. At this instant something inside of me was torn in two with brutal force. It was as though a thunderbolt had fallen and cleaved asunder a living tree. I heard the structure, which I had been building piece by piece with all my might up to now, collapse miserably to the ground. I felt as though I had witnessed the instant in which my existence had been turned into some sort of fearful non-being. I closed my eyes and after an instant regained a hold on my icy-cold sense of duty. "Only five minutes? It was wrong to bring you to such a place. Are you angry? A person like you oughtn't see the vulgarity of such low people.

• From The Ice Storm (1994)

  She told him she wanted to be in his bed, between his sheets. Sandy actually began to shake. —We have to go to the guest room, he said. We can’t stay in here. What if Mike ...? We should go in there and close the door. We can’t stay here. My parents— —Don’t worry about them. They’re at that party. They’re getting drunk. Falling all over each other and making jokes about McGovern and stuff. He looked like he was going to cry. Then he did. Wendy didn’t feel exasperated, but she didn’t feel sympathetic either. His tears were just embarrassing. He wasn’t proud of them either. He tried to disguise their tracks; he was going to claim it was because he was tired, or because he had some special eye disorder, or because of his very strong glasses that even now he wore with a clip-on attachment. He didn’t even know what the problem was. She asked him and he didn’t know. —It’s just, it’s just— So Wendy took little Sandy Williams by the hand—his hands trembled and hers did, too—and led him around the corner into the guest room. She left the door just barely ajar, so that it would seem neither open nor closed on purpose, and together they settled themselves, as if they were going to be a photo portrait of young love, on the plaid comforter in the guest room. —A drink? Wendy said. Because the vodka was still there. It was right there on the table. Sandy was shocked by the request. —You’ve never tasted this stuff? It’s not like smoking pot, that’s for sure. It’s not as cool. But it’ll do the trick, Charles. A single glass remained from the afternoon. As she filled it, Wendy took a sort of pride in her work. She remembered the thrill of her own initiation, in which her brother had played an important part. The best thing about initiation was how it was sort of like destitution. It was destitution with trust. Sandy looked frail and willing and strong and old and vulnerable all at once. His glasses slid down his nose, on a glistening sheen, and stopped at the little bulb at the end of it. The vodka filled the bottom of the glass like liquid winter. She held up the glass and Sandy held up the bottle and they clanked them together as they had seen adults do. She tossed it back in one painful swallow. Sandy tried a tiny, little sip from the bottle, and when it had touched his palate he gagged. He coughed once and choked down the rest of the swallow. Wendy told him to try again. He wanted to do as well as Mikey, he was bound to move up in this matter of growing up, so Sandy filled the glass and threw back a whole shot.

• From Post Office (1971)

  My hands began to hurt and I walked over to the water fountain, put them under water. It didn’t help. I found the supervisor and asked him for a travel slip to the nurse’s office. It was the same one who used to come to my door and ask me, “Now what’s the matter, Mr. Chinaski?” When I walked in, she said the same thing again. “You remember me, eh?” I asked. “Oh yes, I know you’ve had some real sick nights.” “Yeh,” I said. “Do you still have women up at your apartment?” she asked. “Yeh. Do you still have men up at yours?” “All right, Mr. Chinaski, now what’s your problem?” “I burned my hands.” “Come over here. How did you burn your hands?” “Does it matter? They’re burned.” She was dabbing my hands with something. One of her breasts brushed me. “How did it happen, Henry?” “Cigar. I was standing next to a truck of third-class. Ash must have gotten in there. Flames came up.” The breast was up against me again. “Hold your hands still, please!” Then she laid her whole flank against me as she spread some ointment on my hands. I was sitting on a stool. “What’s the matter, Henry? You seem nervous.” “Well ... you know how it is, Martha.” “My name is not Martha. It’s Helen.” “Let’s get married, Helen.” “What?” “I mean, how soon will I be able to use my hands again?” “You can use them right now if you feel like it.” “What?” “I mean, on the work floor.” She wrapped on some gauze. “It does feel better,” I told her. “You mustn’t burn the mails.” “It was junk.” “All mail is important.” “All right, Helen.” She walked over to her desk and I followed her. She filled out the travel form. She looked very cute in her little white hat. I’d have to find a way to get back there. She saw me looking at her body. “All right, Mr. Chinaski, I think you better leave now. “ “Oh yes ... Well, thanks for everything.” “It’s just part of the job.” “Sure.” A week later there were NO SMOKING IN THIS AREA signs all around. The clerks were not allowed to smoke unless they used ashtrays. Somebody had been contracted to manufacture all these ashtrays. They were nice. And said PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. The clerks stole most of them. NO SMOKING. I had all by myself, Henry Chinaski, revolutionized the postal system.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  On my way there, I passed an abandoned tennis court; it looked lonesome there inside its rusty wire netting, which was dripping from the misty rain. A German boy riding a bicycle passed close beside me, his blond hair and white hands gleaming wet. I waited a few minutes inside the old-fashioned post office, and during that time the sky became faintly lighter. The rain had ceased. It was but a momentary lull; the clouds did not break, and the light was only platinum colored. Sonoko brought her bicycle to a halt beyond the glass doors. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling rapidly, but there was a smile on her healthy red cheeks. "Now! sic 'em!" something said within me; and indeed I felt exactly as though I were a hunting dog being encouraged to give chase. I seemed to be acting under the pressure of a moral obligation that some demon had imposed on me. I jumped on my bicycle and side by side with Sonoko went riding the length of the main street. We rode on out of the village and through a grove of trees firs, maples, and silver birch, all dripping bright raindrops. Sonoko's hair was beautiful as it streamed behind her in the wind. Her strong thighs rose and fell smartly as she pedaled. She looked like life itself. At the entrance to a golf course, which was no longer being used, we got off our bicycles and walked along a wet lane bordering the fairway. I was as tense as a new recruit. Over there is a clump of trees, I told myself. Its shadows are exactly right. It's about fifty paces away. After twenty more paces I'll begin saying something to her to relieve the tension. And during the remaining thirty paces it'll be all right just to keep up some ordinary conversation. The fiftieth pace—we'll put down the bicycle stands and stop to look at the view toward the mountains. Then I'll put my hand on her shoulder. I can even say in a low voice: "Being here like this is something I've dreamed about." Then she'll make some innocent reply. I'll tighten the hand I have on her shoulder, swinging her around toward me. And then the only technique I'll need is just the same as that time with Chieko. . . . I swore to play my role faithfully. It had nothing to do with either love or desire. . . . Sonoko was actually in my arms. Breathing quickly, she blushed red as fire and closed her eyes. Her lips were childishly beautiful. But they aroused no desire in me. And yet I kept hoping that something would happen within me at any moment—surely when I actually kiss her, surely then I will discover my normality, my unfeigned love.The machine was rushing onward. No one could stop it. I covered her lips with mine.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Now I was separated from the house where my grandparents lived by several stops on the government railway and the municipal streetcar line. Day and night my grandmother clasped my photograph to her bosom, weeping, and was instantly seized with a paroxysm if I violated the treaty stipulation that I should come to spend one night each week with her. At the age of twelve I had a true-love sweetheart, aged sixty. Presently my father was transferred to Osaka. He went alone, the rest of us remaining behind in Tokyo. One day, taking advantage of having been kept from school by a slight cold, I got out some volumes of art reproductions, which my father had brought back as souvenirs of his foreign travels, and took them to my room, where I looked through them attentively. I was particularly enchanted by the photogravures of Grecian sculptures in the guidebooks to various Italian museums. When it came to depictions of the nude, among the many reproductions of masterpieces, it was these plates, in black and white, that best suited my fancy.This was probably due to the simple fact that, even in reproductions, the sculpture seemed the more lifelike. This was the first time I had seen these books. My miserly father, hating to have the pictures touched and stained by children's hands, and also fearing—how mistakenly!—that I might be attracted by the nude women of the masterpieces, had kept the books hidden away deep in the recesses of a cupboard. And for my part, until that day I had never dreamed they could be more interesting than the pictures in adventure-story magazines. I began turning a page toward the end of a volume. Suddenly there came into view from one corner of the next page a picture that I had to believe had been lying in wait there for me, for my sake. It was a reproduction of Guido Reni's "St. Sebastian," which hangs in the collection of the Palazzo Rosso at Genoa. The black and slightly oblique trunk of the tree of execution was seen against a Titian-like background of gloomy forest and evening sky, somber and distant. A remarkably handsome youth was bound naked to the trunk of the tree. His crossed hands were raised high, and the thongs binding his wrists were tied to the tree. No other bonds were visible, and the only covering for the youth's nakedness was a coarse white cloth knotted loosely about his loins. I guessed it must be a depiction of a Christian martyrdom.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The Empress’ New ClothesThis is a story about an empress. During the mystical era of her reign, there were many empresses and queens in power throughout the world. It is said that these legendary women ruled judiciously, and that they brought about a most remarkable amity between their kingdoms and the nations that surrounded them. And as for their subjects, well, you’ve never heard a single instance of revolt, have you? Indeed not, for these women were supreme leaders, and one of the greatest mysteries in history is that they lost their power. I suspect it had something to do with a male heir, somewhere or other, who, bored by such a peaceful existence, thought it might be more interesting if the question of authority were decided by brute force. But, alas, that theory will have to be taken up another time, for I am quickly wandering away from the original story I had intended to tell. The empress about whom this story is written ruled over her kingdom with wisdom and kindness as has already been indicated, and she was respected and admired by all who knew her. She had the utmost loyalty from her subjects, and all of the kingdoms that bordered hers were allies. Her husband and worthy assistant, the emperor, helped turn all of her inclinations into law, trusting her sense and reason without the slightest hesitation. There was only one discernible eccentricity in the empress’s character, and perhaps it was to be expected in one as worthy and remarkable as she. You see, this empress craved attention, and she was never happier than when she was in the spotlight, with all eyes upon her. As the years passed, the empress’s desire for attention grew, and she sometimes did things that would draw even more of it to her. Her dresses became bolder, made from cloth that was dyed in the brightest colors imaginable, and cut in such a way as to reveal the maximum amount of flesh. Too, she was apt to leave doors open where privacy was generally expected. Her husband the emperor was well aware of this growing peculiarity in his wife’s character, but as with everything else that pertained to her, he found it to be utterly charming and delightful. Things went along quite happily for everyone in this way until the occurrence of one very singular event that took place during a great feast that had been arranged to celebrate the empress’s birthday. There was more than the usual amount of intrigue surrounding this birthday celebration, for it had been rumored that the empress had discovered a most exceptional new tailor whose designs had never before been seen in the region. The empress’s clothing attracted interest even under ordinary circumstances, and so on this occasion, with the added mystery of the exciting new tailor, everyone’s curiosity was especially piqued to see the empress’s new clothes.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She looked round the whitewashed little bedroom with its sloping ceiling and gable window where the white curtains were closed. The room was bare save for a little yellow-painted chest of drawers, and a chair: and the smallish white bed in which she lay with him. "Fancy that we are here!" she said, looking down at him. He was lying watching her, stroking her breasts with his fingers, under the thin night dress. When he was warm and smoothed out, he looked young and handsome. His eyes could look so warm. And she was fresh and young like a flower. "I want to take this off!" he said, gathering the thin batiste night dress and pulling it over her head. She sat there with bare shoulders and longish breasts faintly golden. He loved to make her breasts swing softly, like bells. "You must take off your pyjamas too," she said. "Eh nay!" "Yes! Yes!" she commanded. And he took off his old cotton pyjama-jacket, and pushed down the trousers. Save for his hands and wrists and face and neck he was white as milk, with fine slender muscular flesh. To Connie he was suddenly piercingly beautiful again, as when she had seen him that afternoon washing himself. Gold of sunshine touched the closed white curtains. She felt it wanted to come in. "Oh! do let's draw the curtains! The birds are singing so! Do let the sun in," she said. He slipped out of bed with his back to her, naked and white and thin, and went to the window, stooping a little, drawing the curtains and looking out for a moment. The back was white and fine, the small buttocks beautiful with an exquisite, delicate manliness, the back of the neck ruddy and delicate and yet strong. There was an inward, not an outward strength in the delicate fine boy. "But you are beautiful!" she said. "So pure and fine! Come!" She held her arms out. He was ashamed to turn to her, because of his aroused nakedness. He caught his shirt off the floor, and held it to him, coming to her. "No!" she said, still holding out her beautiful slim arms from her dropping breasts. "Let me see you!" He dropped the shirt and stood still, looking towards her. The sun through the low window sent in a beam that lit up his thighs and slim belly, and the erect phallus rising darkish and hot-looking from the little cloud of vivid gold-red hair. She was startled and afraid. "How strange!" she said slowly. "How strange he stands there! So big! and so dark and cock-sure! Is he like that?" The man looked down the front of his slender white body, and laughed. Between the slim breasts the hair was dark, almost black. But at the root of the belly, where the phallus rose thick and arching, it was gold-red, vivid in a little cloud.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  Connie went to the wood directly after lunch. It was really a lovely day, the first dandelions making suns, the first daisies so white. The hazel thicket was a lacework of half-open leaves, and the last dusty perpendicular of the catkins. Yellow celandines now were in crowds, flat open, pressed back in urgency, and the yellow glitter of themselves. It was the yellow, the powerful yellow of early summer. And primroses were broad, and full of pale abandon, thick-clustered primroses no longer shy. The lush, dark green of hyacinths was a sea, with buds rising like pale corn, while in the riding the forget-me-nots were fluffing up, and columbines were unfolding their ink-purple riches, and there were bits of bluebird's eggshell under a bush. Everywhere the bud-knots and the leap of life! The keeper was not at the hut. Everything was serene, brown chickens running lustily. Connie walked on towards the cottage, because she wanted to find him. The cottage stood in the sun, off the wood's edge. In the little garden the double daffodils rose in tufts, near the wide-open door, and red double daisies made a border to the path. There was the bark of a dog, and Flossie came running. The wide-open door! so he was at home. And the sunlight falling on the red-brick floor! As she went up the path, she saw him through the window, sitting at the table in his shirtsleeves, eating. The dog wuffed softly, slowly wagging her tail. He rose, and came to the door, wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief, still chewing. "May I come in?" she said. "Come in!" The sun shone into the bare room, which still smelled of a mutton chop, done in a dutch oven before the fire, because the dutch oven still stood on the fender, with the black potato-saucepan on a piece of paper beside it on the white hearth. The fire was red, rather low, the bar dropped, the kettle singing. On the table was his plate, with potatoes and the remains of the chop; also bread in a basket, salt, and a blue mug with beer. The tablecloth was white oil-cloth. He stood in the shade. "You are very late," she said. "Do go on eating!" She sat down on a wooden chair, in the sunlight by the door. "I had to go to Uthwaite," he said, sitting down at table but not eating. "Do eat," she said. But he did not touch the food. "Shall y'ave something?" he asked her. "Shall y'ave a cup of tea? t' kettle's on t' boil." He half rose again from his chair. "If you'll let me make it myself," she said rising. He seemed sad, and she felt she was bothering him. "Well, teapot's in there,"--he pointed to a little, drab corner cupboard; "an' cups. An' tea's on t' mantel ower yer 'ead."

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  “That’s it,” he groaned with pleasure. “If you want it you’re going to have to work for it.” Her face burned when she heard these words, but the distress between her legs was becoming urgent, so what could she do? Mrs. Wolfe worked with all her might to please Mr. Fox, licking and sucking as cleverly as she was capable and even using her hands too, just as he had done, so that she might earn her reward. She sucked and slurped until she was certain she had never done it so well, and she even thought up some new things that she hadn’t thought of before; such was her desire to win the pleasures Mr. Fox dangled before her. And it occurred to her that this, too, was causing her loins to ache even more painfully than Mr. Fox’s clever administrations had. But, oh, how much longer until she would be granted relief? Tears filled her eyes as she continued to labor before him, nearly choking herself in her efforts to please him. Mr. Fox was a firm believer in self-control as we have established, but he was not a machine, and his body also had its limitations. He abruptly stopped the suckling therefore, lest he should shame himself and disappoint his partner after all her commendable efforts. He said, “You have well earned your reward!” And he pulled her onto his throbbing body. Mrs. Wolfe moaned loudly as her body was lowered onto his. It felt so good to finally have him sliding into her! At last the ache between her legs started to recede a bit as she wiggled herself up and down and forward and back, trying to get the feeling just right. Mr. Fox was fondling and pinching her breasts, but as Mrs. Wolfe’s movements became more frenzied he moved one hand down between her legs and began to help her. She gasped and moaned, once again amazed by how clever Mr. Fox was. His fingers were much more effective than her rubbing had been and she slowed her own movements to a mere rocking motion and allowed his talented fingers to do the rest. She rocked and ground her hips forward and back as his fingers twisted and teased. With his other hand he pinched the tips of her breasts. Mrs. Wolfe was unused to this gentler style of intercourse. Her husband’s more vigorous attentions revealed to her his attraction and need. Mr. Fox’s absolute composure seemed almost like indifference by comparison, even if it did enhance the pleasure considerably. She closed her eyes and imagined her husband ravishing poor Mrs. Fox and this brought about a most shattering conclusion to her painstaking efforts of the evening.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  This cat, however, was one of the few who would be considered worth the trouble. But that was all the more reason to avoid him in Mouse’s opinion, for the good-looking cats were worse than the slovenly ones. They were in great demand and they knew it, and it was hard work indeed to win their affection for a single moment, let alone to achieve any kind of long-term devotion. As she looked at this cat’s self-assured expression, Mouse realized he probably had a number of mice at his beck and call. She forced herself to look past his physical beauty. But it was impossible not to note the thick hair that fell in short dark waves around his face, or the faultlessly chiseled features that arranged themselves into an expression of absolute confidence and poise. His muscular body moved with singular grace and ease. Mouse’s sharp instincts warned her that she had better get rid of him quickly. She drew her most effective weapon in ridding herself of cats: her tongue. “Look all you like, pig,” she snarled. “You will never be allowed to touch.” For at the very least, this strange world in which she lived would not permit a cat to force a mouse to submit against her will. Indeed, there was not the slightest temptation for them to do so anyway, since mice were offering themselves up willingly to be the eager slaves of the undeserving louts! To Mouse’s astonishment, Cat actually smiled at her remark and then slowly reached his hand into her little hideaway. Very carefully, so as not to touch her skin, he took one agile finger and lifted the ragged material of her covering up to her shoulders, exposing her body completely to his view. With an angry hiss she slapped his hand away. “You did say I could look all I liked, did you not?” He laughed. Now, Mouse had one weakness, and it was that she was highly competitive—especially in matters of wit and will. Hers was a character that was easily drawn into the game of cat and mouse. The cat’s clever retort, combined with his easy demeanor and absolute disregard of her bad-tempered manner was sufficient enticement for her to ignore her apprehensions and change her mind about her earlier resolution to get rid of him immediately. It might be better to torment him a bit first. Her eyes held his with sudden interest, and one corner of her lips turned up in a smirk. She shrugged her shoulders and tried to assume a look of casual indifference. “I was only thinking of you just now,” she rejoined with mock sincerity. “I would hate your ego to suffer the singular blow of being refused what you desire.” “It’s sweet of you to be concerned for my welfare,” he replied with a grin. His eyes burned into hers as he added, “But on that matter we both know you don’t need to worry.”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  “Well, I met a lady who has potential, that’s Roxanne. She works at the Mitchell Brothers theater, dancing. And she is pretty special, I think. But it’s real hard for me to let myself go unless I know that the other person belongs to me. And that she will go the distance with me, she won’t whip-tease me and then chicken out. I know when most people say they want somebody to belong to them they mean they want to keep them all to themselves, but for me the real test of property is, can you give it away? And if you loan it out, can you get it back? So I guess I need to test her, but I also want to surprise her and give her something that is a fantasy for a lot of bottoms. “I want a gang, a pack, a bunch of tough and experienced top women. I’ll leave the exact number up to you, but I don’t want just a threesome in warm leatherette. I would rather it not be women Roxanne already knows. And no novices, they would just get in the way. Once you get that group together I want to give them Roxanne, and if she makes me proud I want her to belong to me, wear my rings. If she still wants me. She might decide it’s too much, or maybe she’ll tumble for one of the other tops. I have to know where she’s at before I fall any more in love with her. I want somebody I can perfect with hard, constant training. A living work of art I can take out and show off on Folsom Street as my counterpart. So pretty and so alive and responsive to me it will make all the other tops, boys and girls, gnaw on their arms. It’s makin’ me crazy, what I want. What do you think?” Tyre thoughtfully chewed her lower lip. “Well, the only problem is the classic one of determining consent. Since my negotiations are with you and not with Roxanne, I have no way to determine if this really is one of her fantasies.” “Well, what do you want me to do? Give her a safe word?” “Since the whole thing is being set up as a test, I don’t think that would ruin the ambiance. And I also need to check your credentials, and her background. You understand. If I’m going to find tops she doesn’t know, I’d have to do that anyway.” “I think my reputation will bear up under scrutiny. You plan to be equally careful when you select the other members of the party?” Tyre nodded. But she seemed distracted. “What else is bothering you?” Alex asked. “I was just wondering if that’s what they say about me—that I have no interest in dominance and submission.”

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  Mouse shot up like a rocket. She was trembling with relief and busied herself with dusting off her hands and knees as she tried to regain her composure. It occurred to her that she had put herself through all that humiliation for no good reason. What did she care that the wager was unreasonably high? She would not—could not—lose to him a second time, for this time it would require a confession from her lips, and she still had full command of that organ, if not the other parts of her body. No, he could never make her utter in words the same admission her body had given. Cat led Mouse to his quarters, which, of course, were far superior to her little hole in the wall. It irked her that the cats always had so much more than the mice, especially since the reality was that mice worked just as hard, if not harder than the cats. She looked at him, agitated and uncertain. “So all I have to do is remain here with you without—” she paused “—without…” “Without confessing your true feelings for me?” he suggested with a grin. “Without confirming your illusions regarding my feelings for you,” she corrected, becoming more hopeful and composed now. “And for how long do you plan to keep me here?” “Will two hours, do you think, be sufficient?” he asked sweetly. “It will by no means take me the full two hours to have you issuing forth a confession of your desire for me, but still, I find two hours to be the amount of time I most prefer to spend in this particular pastime.” He walked casually toward the window to hide his countenance from her. He could only defeat her if she took the bait. “I don’t care a fig about your personal preferences,” she stormed, wishing that she could just once make him lose his smug self-assurance. “Is that your way of asking for three hours instead of two?” he taunted. “Two hours is more than enough time to have to endure your presence,” she replied. “And you will be the only one ‘issuing forth confessions’ of any kind.” He congratulated himself on his ability to lure her in, yet again. She would indeed be a dangerous opponent if she were not so hotheaded. He removed the smile from his lips and turned to face her. “Another challenge?” “Well…” she thought for a moment. “I do think I could tolerate you as my slave for the evening. Yes!” “Just so we understand each other,” he quickly moved in for the kill. “If you declare your obvious desire for me first, you become my wife? If I declare my desire first, I become your slave?” She thought for a moment. “Yes, I think that sums it up.”