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 The Fermata (1994)

  He was eating a yellow curry chicken dish. He said that the first thing he would do would be to look through the walls while the cooks were making up their curry powder, since it was extraordinarily good curry powder and he wanted to be able to duplicate it at home. Then he admitted that he would probably use it to look at women. “But what people don’t think about when they talk about X-ray vision,” he then said, suddenly animated, “is two things. First, what you’re talking about is not a blanket sort of X-ray vision, where your sight penetrates through any substance, but a very specific sort of X-ray vision that only goes through clothes. Textile X-ray vision is what we’re talking about. That’s pretty obvious, but perhaps less obviously, think about what you’re going to see when you see a woman who is wearing clothes but you can’t see the clothes she’s wearing. You have this idea that you’re going to see her with no clothes on, that her breasts are going to be there looking the way they would look without a bra on, but remember, she has a bra on, you just can’t see it, so you’re going to see indentations where the seams are, and if it’s a push-up bra, her breasts are going to look all squished out of shape, not the way you imagine them at all. And think if she’s wearing some kind of support pantyhose, and it’s tight—you’re going to see all this squeezing around her rear end and stuff like that. You’re going to see the panty lines there, red lines, but without the panties actually being there.” I admitted that he had a point, but countered that the sight of breasts in a bra, without the bra visible, might be kind of wonderful: if you could see her breasts moving as they would move in a bra and yet the bra was out of the picture it might be a totally novel kind of semi-constrained motion—not even the kind of motion you would expect in zero-gravity environments, because the undersides of the breasts would be held relatively firmly, within the limits of the give and take of that particular bra, but the top would shake a little more where it wasn’t being held. Maybe the sight of breasts in invisible bras would be incredible. But he was probably right, I conceded, the nipples would probably have that flattened quality of faces pressed against panes of glass; and what makes the sight of kids squishing their faces against glass comic is that it takes away their “faceness” and substitutes a sort of monstrous nostrilly planar expression.

• From The Fermata (1994)

  In my idleness I had of course the option of letting my thinking drift in a number of mildly erotic directions at any time, but it seemed important to resist that lure for the moment. It would have been so easy to imagine three women in white bathing suits lying on white deck chairs on a pale-blue cruise ship with their heads poised in different directions, each with one knee up and with her eyes closed, each holding a forgotten bottle of sunscreen that was the color of those older Tercels and Civics whose owners had used their garages for storing other things than their cars and whose paint had consequently oxidized into states of frescoesque, unsaturated beauty, like M&Ms sucked for a minute and spit back out into the palm for study. It would have been so easy to think hard about those leggy thighs flowing into the leg-holes of those white bathing suits; about one of the women straightening one thighy leg and bending the other; about how good the sun made them feel. But I wanted to steer clear of the leg-holes until at least twelve-thirty, preferably one-thirty if possible, because it was so very delightful out in the sun, and there was, after all, an infinitude of complicated and intellectually rewarding ideas in the world that I might use my morning of otium liberate to consider, helped toward states of scholarly attentiveness by the intrinsic good of the blue sky, and if I gave my hindbrain the slightest opportunity to work up a comely sexual shape, my meditative range would inevitably narrow, the sex-thoughts would replicate busily, they would begin to polymerize, forming short, slippery narrative chains which would bind with other formerly innocent images and voluptualize them, contorting themselves like lipoproteins into self-contained masturbatory sub-realities, and from there into fully realized frigments of my invagination, and I would find that I had turned over onto my back to let the sweat on my chest declare itself, and I would bend one knee and perhaps reach tentatively inside my bathing suit to make sure everything was shipshape, and five minutes later I would be inside my apartment, where my eyes weren’t adjusted to the dimmer light, and where it was dissatisfyingly cool and unsunny, and I would send forth four gray stripes of fatherhood and fatherhood by-products onto a tree-patterned paper towel that was guaranteed to be made with more than seventy-five percent post-consumer waste, each stripe shorter and more albuminous than the last.

• From The Fermata (1994)

  I would whisper-hiss. “Now I can see your sex-shape and yet your ass observes all the proprieties.” I would shuffle my way as close to the door-opening as possible and I would begin to jack frantically, my knuckles rapping smartly on the door. The lock’s chain would clank and rattle with every stroke of my fist. “Can you back up towards the door a little more?” I would ask. On her knees, Adele would back the white square on her ass towards me. It would follow the seam of her open peach faithfully; it would look oddly like an open book. “Just a little more!” I would say. I would tell her how close my cock was to her ass, and how fucking incredible her ass looked. Just below the edge of the washcloth, I would be able to see four of her fingers fretting against the flushed cowling of her clit. I would let go of my cock and extend my hand through the door-gap as far as it would go; I would almost be able to reach her with my middle finger. “Back up just a teensy bit more,” I would say. “I’m going to touch you.” She would let her knees slide farther apart on the rug and would push back with her hands, bringing her ass right up against the edge of the door. My fingertips would make contact with the rough damp texture of the washcloth. I would pull on one of the upper corners, which would have slipped down a little. “Is everything still in place?” she would ask, looking back over her shoulder. “You’re not seeing anything you shouldn’t be seeing?” I would let my fingers brush lightly down into her terry-cloth vale. Then I would go up the opposite slope a little way, then back down, tracing parabolas of shape-appreciation. I would know more or less where things were underneath, but I wouldn’t be able to see them. “All is in order for the time being,” I would say. “I’ll keep a close eye on it, though.” “Thanks,” she would say. “Do you want to frig your pussy real fast?” I would inquire huskily. Adele would answer that she was frigging her pussy real fast. We wouldn’t speak for some time, mewing antiphonally. The washcloth would be looser now. I would essentially be holding it up for her with my finger. “It doesn’t seem to want to stay put entirely,” I would warn. “But I think I know a good way to keep it from falling. Shall I?” “Yes, do it. Oh yeah. Do it.” Adele would be lost in her onan-world. “I’m going to push into the washcloth with my middle finger,” I would then say. “Okay? Just half an inch. That will keep it in place.” I would find the right spot and I would push.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It befell, then, that, after a long while, the damsel, whose name was Iphigenia, came to herself, before any of her people, and opening her eyes, saw Cimon (who, what for his fashion and uncouthness and his father's wealth and nobility, was known in a manner to every one in the country) standing before her, leant on his staff, marvelled exceedingly and said, 'Cimon, what goest thou seeking in this wood at this hour?' He made her no answer, but, seeing her eyes open, began to look steadfastly upon them, himseeming there proceeded thence a sweetness which fulfilled him with a pleasure such as he had never before felt. The young lady, seeing this, began to misdoubt her lest his so fixed looking upon her should move his rusticity to somewhat that might turn to her shame; wherefore, calling her women, she rose up, saying, 'Cimon, abide with God.' To which he replied, 'I will begone with thee'; and albeit the young lady, who was still in fear of him, would have declined his company, she could not win to rid herself of him till he had accompanied her to her own house.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Accordingly, without saying aught of the matter to any, he punctually repaired thither at the hour appointed him and found the bagnio taken by the lady; nor had he waited long ere there came two slave-girls laden with gear and bearing on their heads, the one a fine large mattress of cotton wool and the other a great basket full of gear. The mattress they set on a bedstead in one of the chambers of the bagnio and spread thereon a pair of very fine sheets, laced with silk, together with a counterpane of snow-white Cyprus buckram[415] and two pillows wonder-curiously wrought.[416] Then, putting off their clothes they entered the bath and swept it all and washed it excellent well. Nor was it long ere the lady herself came thither, with other two slave-girls, and accosted Salabaetto with the utmost joy; then, as first she had commodity, after she had both clipped and kissed him amain, heaving the heaviest sighs in the world, she said to him, 'I know not who could have brought me to this pass, other than thou; thou hast kindled a fire in my vitals, little dog of a Tuscan!' Then, at her instance, they entered the bath, both naked, and with them two of the slave-girls; and there, without letting any else lay a finger on him, she with her own hands washed Salabaetto all wonder-well with musk and clove-scented soap; after which she let herself be washed and rubbed of the slave-girls. This done, the latter brought two very white and fine sheets, whence came so great a scent of roses that everything there seemed roses, in one of which they wrapped Salabaetto and in the other the lady and taking them in their arms, carried them both to the bed prepared for them. There, whenas they had left sweating, the slave-girls did them loose from the sheets wherein they were wrapped and they abode naked in the others, whilst the girls brought out of the basket wonder-goodly casting-bottles of silver, full of sweet waters, rose and jessamine and orange and citron-flower scented, and sprinkled them all therewith; after which boxes of succades and wines of great price were produced and they refreshed themselves awhile. [Footnote 415: _Bucherame._ The word "buckram" was anciently applied to the finest linen cloth, as is apparently the case here; see Ducange, voce _Boquerannus_, and Florio, voce _Bucherame_.] [Footnote 416: _i.e._ in needlework.]

• 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 Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  But, as it was painted by an esthetic painter of the eclectic school that derived from the Renaissance, even this painting of the death of a Christian saint has about it a strong flavor of paganism. The youth's body —it might even be likened to that of Antinous, beloved of Hadrian, whose beauty has been so often immortalized in sculpture—shows none of the traces of missionary hardship or decrepitude that are to be found in depictions of other saints; instead, there is only the springtime of youth, only light and beauty and pleasure. His white and matchless nudity gleams against a background of dusk. His muscular arms, the arms of a praetorian guard accustomed to bending of bow and wielding of sword, are raised at a graceful angle, and his bound wrists are crossed directly over his head. His face is turned slightly upward and his eyes are open wide, gazing with profound tranquility upon the glory of heaven. It is not pain that hovers about his straining chest, his tense abdomen, his slightly contorted hips, but some flicker of melancholy pleasure like music. Were it not for the arrows with their shafts deeply sunk into his left armpit and right side, he would seem more a Roman athlete resting from fatigue, leaning against a dusky tree in a garden. The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstasy. But there is no flowing blood, nor yet the host of arrows seen in other pictures of Sebastian's martyrdom. Instead, two lone arrows cast their tranquil and graceful shadows upon the smoothness of his skin, like the shadows of a bough falling upon a marble stairway. But all these interpretations and observations came later. That day, the instant I looked upon the picture, my entire being trembled with some pagan joy. My blood soared up; my loins swelled as though in wrath. The monstrous part of me that was on the point of bursting awaited my use of it with unprecedented ardor, upbraiding me for my ignorance, panting indignantly. My hands, completely unconsciously, began a motion they had never been taught. I felt a secret, radiant something rise swift-footed to the attack from inside me. Suddenly it burst forth, bringing with it a blinding intoxication. . . . Some time passed, and then, with miserable feelings, I looked around the desk I was facing. A maple tree at the window was casting a bright reflection over everything—over the ink bottle, my schoolbooks and notes, the dictionary, the picture of St. Sebastian.

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

  She reached out her hand in an attempt to touch his face, thinking that she might at least feel his features with her fingers, but he gently brushed her hand away and continued to kiss her. His breath was warm and pleasant. Fragments of the last few hours whirled around in her consciousness. The stranger, who had appeared so suddenly, said that each of them was the reason for the other being there. And she could not forget the words of the bear, promising that the enchanted castle would bring about her every desire. But she only vaguely remembered the strange yearnings she had been feeling when the stranger came to her room, for they had all but disappeared upon his arrival! Was it her own desire, then, that had brought this stranger to her? Wasn’t he, in fact, doing things that she had always wished someone would do? But who was he? Was he even real, or just a figment of her imagination? Oh, but it was impossible to think with him kissing her! His lips were insistent and enticing, and she began to feel herself giving in to a fate that, uncertain as it was, was infinitely more pleasant than any other she had encountered in her meager life so far. A new, warmer longing was rising up from within her. She wanted his kisses to go on forever, but at length she became aware that he was reaching beneath her nightgown. He placed his warm hand on her stomach for a moment, allowing her to become accustomed to his touch. Slowly and gently he began to move his hand, exploring her body carefully and thoroughly, and ultimately leaving every part of her that he touched yearning when he abandoned it for another. His other hand still held her hair in its grasp, preventing escape, though her desire to escape had abated. In fact, her arms, seemingly of their own accord, wound themselves around his neck, and her lips began uttering soft sounds that were unintelligible to both of them. The stranger carefully released his hold on her hair. He once again placed his lips on hers as he slowly and carefully peeled the edges of her nightgown down over her shoulders and torso and legs. With her fully exposed to his hands, he began to caress her more earnestly, feeling every inch of her from head to foot, as if attempting to see her through his touch. She trembled beneath him as he slowly and meticulously continued his intimate examination, seemingly fascinated by every little curve and indentation. She didn’t wonder about his reaction to what he discovered, for she could feel his own rigid body against hers throughout his administrations. But he was in no hurry, regardless of his growing excitement, and his very adept fingers gradually gave way to an even more skillful tongue. Clutching the extravagant bedding in her hands, she felt herself submitting completely under her mystery lover’s captivating seduction.

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

  “If you don’t want your nightdress to be destroyed, remove it now,” the Beast said at last. His tone was matter-of-fact, but his manner was strained, as if he was struggling to maintain control. His voice was gruff, and so deep as to be barely able to transmit human language. His presence engulfed and overwhelmed me. His gaze hypnotized me. His breath burned me. There was nothing that I could perceive remaining of the mild friend I had shared so many suppers with. And yet, as I stared into the Beast’s eyes, mesmerized, a new sensation was rapidly creeping up from deep within me, mingling with the fear. Utterly motionless, except for my throbbing heart, I contemplated my predicament (meanwhile, as I stood pondering, the foregoing sensation persisted and grew, so that I felt strangely excited and excitable). In this state, I saw the situation only superficially, and reasoned to myself accordingly: What power had I to resist the Beast? Indeed, resistance seemed unlikely while the Beast stood towering ominously over me, silently waiting for me to obey his command. What he was capable of, were I not to comply, I didn’t dare speculate. The Beast who stood over me at that moment appeared ready to pounce at my slightest movement. And yet, vaguely, I suspected the Beast would make every effort to submit to my will, were I to try to escape him. All the time that I stood there deliberating, which seemed to me like hours, but more likely was mere seconds, I was plagued with that gnawing excitement that had been steadily growing within me, and haven’t I as much as admitted already that I was not desperate for the scenario to end? With a sudden motion, I hastily removed my nightdress, lest my resolution wane. I stood waiting with much agitation for the Beast’s next move, but he merely stared at me in silence for what seemed to me an interminable amount of time. I wondered if he could hear my frantic heart; its echo was thundering loudly in my own ears. The Beast slowly lifted his huge hand and lightly caressed my face. I gasped in shock when I felt it. It was so rough as to almost inflict pain with the slightest touch. The Beast’s eyes flared with momentary anger, but then quieted as he studied me with troubled eyes. “I do not want to hurt you, Beauty,” he murmured. “It is you who controls the destiny of us both.” I could not grasp the meaning of his words. His presence was slowly overpowering me, enveloping and entrapping me in its dangerous power. It seemed as if he were warning me of something. Had he said that I was in control? Should I stop him? I wondered. Could I still stop him? I felt too weak to move.

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

  As Mr. Fox kissed Mrs. Wolfe, his hands gently wandered down the length of her body, caressing and lightly tickling her skin to create goose bumps and cause her breasts to harden. Then his hands moved to her breasts that he might enjoy his handiwork. His fingertips determinedly squeezed and twisted the hard little tips. Mrs. Wolfe gasped at this exquisitely sweet torture. Mrs. Fox certainly had not lied when she described how talented her husband was. Mr. Fox took his time, not greedily grabbing and grasping, but playfully handling her breasts until she thought she might die from the agony of not being touched elsewhere. At last, just as she thought she might lose her mind, he finally moved his hand lower, but then he lingered on her belly, until she lifted her hips off the bed and pushed them upward and into his hand. Mr. Fox laughed at her obvious impatience, and whispered, “Easy, love.” Mrs. Wolfe had never been in the position of having to wait or plead; in fact she was quite used to being attended to without delay. This teasing created a twisting ache between her legs and a prickling awareness in her nerve endings, so she felt all at once needy and desperate and irritable. She lifted her hips and pushed them fiercely into his hand yet again, silently cursing him for his cool control. Chuckling at her obvious displeasure in him, he kept circling her skin with cruel gentleness, lightly brushing around and between her wide-open legs but all too quickly flittering away again to roam over her hips, belly and thighs, and then back between her legs. Mrs. Wolfe was becoming quite anxious but what could she do? Fearing to say the wrong thing and give herself away she could do no more than wait. However, her need was becoming voracious and the little flickering teasing touches, although quite expert in effectiveness, were all too short-lived to even come close to satisfying her. She moaned in anguish and shamelessly flung her hips up again in search of his hand. She was becoming more and more indignant with Mr. Fox. How did Mrs. Fox bear all this horrible teasing? Mr. Fox, meanwhile, seemed to be enjoying himself too much to care about her discomfort. He merely laughed at her struggles, using his hands to subdue her even as they drove her to distraction. He loved how each time he brushed and teased the opening between her legs it seemed to get wetter and wetter. He staunchly approved discipline and self-control, and furthermore believed that for every moan of anticipation one full second of pleasure was added to the final satisfaction. He kept this in mind as his fingers continued their torturous dance over her body. His own body was throbbing with eagerness to bury itself in her wetness and get lost in the pleasure. But all in good time.

• 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 Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "An' I'd tell 'em: Look! Look at Joe! He moves lovely! Look how he moves, alive and aware. He's beautiful! An' look at Jonah! He's clumsy, he's ugly, because he's niver willin' to rouse himself. I'd tell 'em: Look! look at yourselves! one shoulder higher than t'other, legs twisted, feet all lumps! What have yer done ter yerselves, wi' the blasted work? Spoilt yerselves. No need to work that much. Take yer clothes off an' look at yourselves. Yer ought ter be alive an' beautiful, an' yer ugly an' half dead. So I'd tell 'em. An' I'd get my men to wear different clothes: 'appen close red trousers, bright red, an' little short white jackets. Why, if men had red, fine legs, that alone would change them in a month. They'd begin to be men again, to be men! An' the women could dress as they liked. Because if once the men walked with legs close bright scarlet, and buttocks nice and showing scarlet under a little white jacket: then the woman 'ud begin to be women. It's because th' men _aren't_ men, that th' women have to be.--An' in time pull down Tevershall and build a few beautiful buildings, that would hold us all. An' clean the country up again. An' not have many children, because the world is overcrowded. "But I wouldn't preach to the men: only strip 'em an' say: Look at yourselves! That's workin' for money!--Hark at yourselves! That's working for money. You've been working for money! Look at Tevershall! It's horrible. That's because it was built while you was working for money. Look at your girls! They don't care about you, you don't care about them. It's because you've spent your time working an' caring for money. You can't talk nor move nor live, you can't properly be with a woman. You're not alive. Look at yourselves!" There fell a complete silence. Connie was half listening, and threading in the hair at the root of his belly a few forget-me-nots that she had gathered on the way to the hut. Outside, the world had gone still, and a little icy. "You've got four kinds of hair," she said to him. "On your chest it's nearly black, and your hair isn't dark on your head: but your moustache is hard and dark red, and your hair here, your love-hair, is like a little bush of bright red-gold mistletoe. It's the loveliest of all!" He looked down and saw the milky bits of forget-me-nots in the hair on his groin. "Ay! There's where to put forget-me-nots, in the man-hair, or the maiden-hair. But don't you care about the future?" She looked up at him. "Oh, I do, terribly!" she said.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Sonoko introduced me to her aunt. I wanted to make a good impression and was trying as hard as I could. Everyone seemed to be silently asking each other: "Why did Sonoko ever fall in love with such a fellow? What a pale bookworm! What on earth can she find to like about him?" Having the commendable intention of making everyone think well of me, I did not form an exclusive clique with Sonoko as I had that time on the train. I helped her sisters with their English lessons and listened attentively to the grandmother's stories about her days in Berlin long ago. Oddly enough, it seemed that Sonoko was all the closer to me at such times. In the presence of her grandmother or mother I would often exchange impudent winks with her. At mealtime we would touch feet under the table. She too gradually became absorbed in this play. Once when I was being bored by the grandmother's yarns, Sonoko leaned against a window through which I could see green leaves under the cloudy sky of the rainy season, and from behind her grandmother, so that only I could see, she held up the locket that hung against her breast and swayed it before my eyes. How white was the bosom that could be seen above the crescent-shaped neckline of her dress! Startlingly white. Looking at her smile as she leaned against the window, I could understand the reference to the "wanton blood" that dyed Juliet's cheeks. There is a kind of immodesty that becomes only a virgin, differing from the immodesty of a mature woman, and intoxicates the beholder, like a gentle wind. It is a sort of something that is in bad taste but is still somehow cute, for example, like wanting to tickle a baby. At moments such as these my mind was apt to become intoxicated with sudden happiness. For a long time I had not approached the forbidden fruit called happiness, but it was now tempting me with a melancholy persistence. I felt as though Sonoko were an abyss above which I stood poised. Thus time passed and only two days remained until I was due to return to the naval arsenal. I still had not fulfilled the obligation of the kiss that I had imposed upon myself.All the uplands were wrapped in the drizzle of the rainy season. Borrowing a bicycle, I went to the post office to mail a letter. Sonoko was working in a branch of a government office in order to escape being sent away for volunteer labor, but she had promised to meet me at the post office and play truant for the afternoon.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  If that understanding is in place, even readers who do not think of themselves as S/M enthusiasts may find much to like in this collection. Many of us initially were drawn to S/M less because of an obvious interest in dominance and submission and more because of an undeniable attraction to the wild women who were. As Cindy Patton, the founder of one of the original lesbian sex magazines, Bad Attitude, wrote in 1984, “for the lesbian community right now, at the first moments of our journey toward a new understanding of our sexuality, ‘s/m’ and ‘pornography’ function more as categories of relationship to the sexual than they reflect a consistent set of objective practices.”5 Perverse pleasure and sexually explicit imagery offered a compelling alternative to expectations of womanly purity, chastity, and timidity. I was not alone in my fascination with these women who appeared to know exactly what they wanted and how to communicate it through the codes of black leather or the particular placement of a handkerchief in the appropriate back pocket. Seeing women signal the specifics of their desires made me realize how little I knew about my own. It also made me eager to find out. Becoming sexually literate was both an adventure and an obligation when confronted by people like Califia, who said: “Anybody who answers the question, ‘what would you like to do?’ by saying, ‘I don’t know, what would you like to do?’ should be taken out and shot.”6 The stories in Macho Sluts are populated by women who are shameless in pursuing their own pleasure. The notion that a woman’s reputation could be damaged by having “too much sex” with “too many people” is effectively turned on its head in this book. If for that reason alone, Macho Sluts could be a potent weapon in women’s hands. But these stories do more. They teach us often unexpected things about our own desires. In a culture in which most pornography is still made by men for men (including the industrial porn category of girl-girl sex) and more formal sex education continues to focus on the dangers of sex and not on its pleasures, variations, and techniques, many of us are still essentially sexually illiterate.

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

  How could he refuse? Sullenly he went to draw her bath. As he watched the water fill the tub he reflected that bubbles might make the bath more pleasant for them both, since he planned to linger while she bathed and he loved the way the bubbles bounced and clung to her luscious curves. This he accomplished easily enough, but then it occurred to him that candles would undoubtedly make the bubbles sparkle as they bounced. These thoughts chased away his surly mood, and he was even smiling when she came in for her bath. She glanced at the candles and then at his face, and she blushed as he gave her a wink. Could he be flirting with her? Her heart gave a little leap. And even when Cinderella slipped off the enchanted slippers she was still too delighted by her husband’s attentions to remember to be unhappy. Needing a task to take his mind off his throbbing loins, the prince picked up the soap and began to wash Cinderella, starting with her feet, taking time to massage her flesh from toe to heel, slowly and caressingly, and then moving his way up her leg to her thigh. She closed her eyes and moaned with pleasure. He did not rush over the task, but perceiving her wish to relax and unwind from her unusually busy day, and also wishing to enjoy the task ahead of him, her husband leisurely and thoroughly bathed her. As the prince lovingly assisted Cinderella with her bath, he asked her questions about her day and listened attentively to her answers. The warm water and his courtly manner caused her cheeks to turn pink with warm anticipation. It suddenly occurred to her that her husband was infinitely more attentive and charming and romantic when his body desired her than he was once she had already pleased him. And his attentions were in turn making her desire him. The prince had very scrupulously washed her legs and feet, and now his hands very gently and carefully washed her private area. She had been chatting happily until then, when suddenly his administrations silenced her. Their eyes locked as his hands slowly washed the fleshy parts of her opening, and then wiggled into the cleft of her backside and circled that opening as well, not quitting until both regions were squeaky clean. Next he washed her torso and breasts, and shoulders and back. Then he pulled the plug to let the water drain, while at the very same time pouring very warm water over her to rinse her. The bath was so well performed that Cinderella’s heart was touched along with the rest of her senses. For this was not the bath of an impatient lover, but more like that of a loving caregiver. His gentle attentions caused her heart to fill.