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 Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I hoped to find out the answers to all of these questions, plus more regarding the exact feel and taste of her, at our next meeting — though I expected the latter queries to remain unanswered. I constructed her corset — red satin, with black velvet running the length of the bones — with greater care than I usually expend. How perfectly it would frame her, covering her middle to expose more fully the tempting expanses above and below. I laced the eyelets lovingly, seeing the criss-cross pattern traverse her back from tailbone to bustline in my mind’s eye. The day of our fitting arrived at last; she was again respectably dressed in a boxy Jackie O-inspired skirt suit. When I passed the corset across the desk to her, she fingered it tenderly, catching her breath and shooting me my first eye contact: a cringing gratitude. “Do you think it will do?” I asked her, smiling. “I’m sure it will be just right,’ replied her husband, taking it off ~ her and holding it up in front of him. “Once we’ve added our little extras.” “Extras?” “Let’s have her try it on first, then we can discuss the adjustments I have in mind.” He left it to me to issue the order to undress. My mind raced while I watched her perfectly polished nails wrestle with the large buttons of her jacket. Adjustments. Extras. Memories of the customized corset the lady had requested by email flashed through my mind. Was something along those lines required here? I rather hoped so. How obediently she divested herself of her clothes, folding them neatly and piling them on the nearby chair, unsnapping her suspender clips, rolling down her stockings, tackling the hooks and eyes of her front-fastening basque and then standing quietly naked, head bowed as always, hands clasped modestly over her pubic triangle. She was not fully naked, though, for there was a plain silver torque around her neck, which fastened with a tiny chain at the back. Almost like a collar, of a very discreet kind. She complied patiently with my every request while I settled the corset in under her bust and commenced the task of lacing it. “How tight do you want it?” I asked, addressing my question unthinkingly to her husband. 66 Justine Elyot “Well, now, I think we decided that we don’t want it so ght that her breathing was affected. Tight enough to ensure that she is constantly aware of it, I suppose.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  His breath is hot on her ear. “I want you to do something for me,’ he whispers. “I want you to take my cock in your mouth. I want you to suck it, Dominique. I need you to do it.” > His words thrill and alarm her. Still, there is something about this place that makes her not only willing, but eager — the closeness, the warmth of him, the darkness and isolation. “Yes,” she says. “Let me.” He arranges her on her knees between his legs as the boat rocks softly. The sound of his zipper is unusually loud, and there is the dull clunk of his belt buckle hitting the seat as he pushed his trousers 34 Valerie Grey down. Dominique is on her knees, hungry to taste him. The shame and self-consciousness she feared is totally absent, as if the caverns had made her a different person. His manhood is soon revealed in the lamplight, and she loses no time in taking it in her hand and running her tongue up and down its length, loving his heat and responsiveness. She opens her mouth and takes him inside. His gasp of pleasure echoes softly and Dominique is in sensual heaven. His thickness on her tongue, the wild male taste of him. She sucks hungrily, filling her mouth with his virility as he combs his fingers through her hair and stares down at her. His voice is as soft and insistent as the water that drips in the cavern. “Yes, Dominique. Suck me. Suck my cock.” She feels a part of it too, a part of the deep, dark places, a hole in the earth meant to be filled, containing secrets and darkness. He’s so virile, his cock so full of light and life. It’s like a torch upon her tongue. Dominique doesn’t move. She just leaves his prick sitting in her mouth, the tip edging towards her throat. Her nostrils flare. In the darkness, it’s like there’s nothing but this: her mouth and his prick. There’s all the time in the world. ; ““ “Male and female made he them’,” Sheldon says. Dominique knows instinctively what he means. ‘The creation, born from the earth, born in duality. She feels the hunger for sex as a glow deep within her, deeper than she’d ever imagined, down below the worries and doubts and beyond even the thoughts of love and affection. It’s as though they’re the only people in the world, male and female, and Dominique feels a thrill at this recognition of her own sexual identity — she’s the same as Sheldon, and yet profoundly different, and in that difference lay everything that mattered.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “T don’t have much money on me,” I said. He chuckled and I flushed deeper to realize I’d betrayed myself. “Then go get some money,” he said. “There’s a cash machine—” “No,” I murmured. “Yes, stop resisting yourself. Do you agree it is a fair price?” “T don’t know,” I whispered, and I genuinely didn’t. It seemed an amount I’d pay without too many qualms. But fair, good? There was no market value for this; it flew in the face of the usual sexism dictating the flow of supply and demand: women give, men get. Without a scarcity of clean men with hard cocks, why would I pay? And what in the world would prompt a cock-drought? Guys were always up for it. But here and now in the early hours in Bar Anise, they’d changed the world, creating both a need and a scarcity. . Demand outstripped supply. A fair price? The thud in my pussy insisted it was a bargain. I swallowed. “I have money in my piso,” I said, deeply ashamed. “I live across the street.” 114 Kristina Lloyd He stepped back. “Véte/” he said, gesturing up the stairs. I wasted -no time, striding through the bar, head held high. At that point, I was unsure if I would return. I thought I might come to my senses but the night was sultry and weighted with the city, its heat wrapping me in strange enchantments where Bar Anise’s subterranean secrets seduced me away from the prosaic. The man’s voice echoed in my mind: Stop resisting yourself. Gone was the Barcelona I knew where the metro whisked me to work, sunshine poured on mosaic lizards, plane trees shimmered and cathedral spires and scaffolding stabbed a flat blue sky. Instead, lust conspired with magic and menace to lead me as if in a dream to collect money from my apartment and scurry back to the bar. Stop resisting yourself. I downed the brandy still awaiting me on the counter and crept downstairs, my sordid hunger flaring at the wine-dark walls and scents of sweat and semen lingering in the shadows. All ’'m doing, I told myself, is buying sex much as men have done for centuries. Nonetheless, I felt myself less an empowered consumer and more a desperate, greedy slut, a woman shameless enough to slake her desire in this masculine habitat of beer, cigarettes and sullen, perceptible misogyny. But I liked that these guys probably didn’t much care for me except as an object to fuck. The feeling was mutual.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  She’s made a promise to herself and she intends to keep it. She doesn’t have long in the hotel. The Cavern 9 II. She goes to her bag and finds a new package of nylons, opens it, and takes out one of the gauzy stockings. She rolls it up, then inserts her foot and extends her leg, unrolling the stocking as she goes, then running her hands up its length, over her calf, her knee, her thigh, smoothing out the thin fabric. The way it embraces her leg feels good, and the band of material around the top of her thigh feels very erotic. It’s good to feel this way again. She puts on the other stocking, looks through the underthings she’s unpacked but doesn’t find anything she likes. Impulsively, she pushes them aside and takes out a suspender belt which she fastens around her waist and tugs into place around her hips. She purposely ignores her panties and clips the garters to her stockings, then goes to her closet and selects her black dress; black crépe, with tiny thin straps that go over her flawless shoulders. It’s unlined, but Dominique doesn’t hesitate. She leaves her bras in the drawer and slips the dress on over her head, naked beneath it, and looks at herself in the mirror. The feel of the fabric on her bare nipples and her shaved mound feels very good, very wicked and erotic. So far, so good. The dress comes with a black jacket. She puts it on, fastens a gold chain around her neck, and threads the matching earrings through her ears. She puts on her watch and a gold bracelet, takes her bag and checks herself once more. She had hoped she would feel irresistible, but the best she can manage is a kind of stubborn pride and naughtiness. Well, that’s close enough. She turns off the lights and exits the room, slipping her key into her purse. The hotel is bewildering, with hallways that jog and branch off, small sitting rooms that emerge unexpectedly, and stairways that appear in puzzling places, seeming to make no sense. Dominique is quite lost. She was certain she was headed for the main desk, but now she’s disorientated and there seems to be no one about to ask for directions. She hears the murmur of voices and, a few turns later, she’s in the lobby again, or rather, a different lobby, and it occurs to her that there must be more than one check-in desk, and she’s apparently stumbled upon an alternate. “Excuse me, but how do I get to the dining room?” she asks the young woman at the desk. 10 Valerie Grey “Which dining room are you looking for?” the girl says. “There are several. The Ladies’, the Gentlemen’s, the Versailles, the Savoy, the New York Grille, the Tea House.” Dominique holds up her hand and says, “Please. I’m just looking for a place for a quiet meal.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Her perfume was sweet enough to mask the beery smell of the cellar, the warmth of her naked flesh made it seem thick and cloying, and, as Brian’s eyes closed and his body involuntarily strained to savour it better, so her back arched and she moved just out of his reach. She chuckled, a low rasp in the back of the throat like a man enjoying a dirty joke, said, “See? That is cruel and heartless. That is the bitch.” He permitted himself seconds more of picturing, behind closed eyes, what it was that he wanted, what it was that he hoped for, then opened them to see her grinning down at him. One hand trailed down his cheek and across his chest, the sharp ‘colourless nails scratching lightly over his belly. “Now expecting. .. what?” she asked, feeling his body tense, and brought her hand quickly away, knowing that it had been his cock expecting the sensation of her fingers around it. “Oh no, not that, not yet,” she told him, with a sorry shake of the head, though in her choice of words — not yet — he sensed some promise.® For the moment, though, it seemed that his predicament was amusement enough for her, her own body entertainment enough, for as her eyes drank him in, relishing the way his arms strained, the way the straps bit into his flesh, so she ran her hands across her body, caressing every inch of it, cupping her breasts and squeezing them, pinching the nipples through the thin fabric of her bra, slipping down across her flat belly to her groin. When she made a claw of her fingers and dug them between her thighs, as if there was an itch there which needed to be eased, Brian saw the silk of her knickers moulded against her genitals, could make out the swollen labia almost pouting beneath. With her index finger she forced the material inside, ran that finger up and down so that he could almost believe he heard the rasp of silk against skin. “I am wet, they are wet,” she told him, one hand tugging the knickers down over her thighs while she covered herself with the other, for a moment discordantly demure, like some figure in a painting by Botticelli. 258 Severin Rossetti Then, with a graceful dip at the knees, she stepped out of them, scooped them up and came back towards him. “Smell, taste how wet they are,” she invited, offering them to him, and his head came forward to meet them, caught their pungent perfume as they were wiped across his face. Then they were dropped into his lap, where they fell on his aching cock, and for all that the material was light and sheer they seemed like an agonizing weight bearing down on his erection.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Even sooner than he had promised, Henry slipped into the passenger seat of her car, slightly out of breath from his mad dash through the light rain. Water spots darkened his sage green shirt and his brown hair stood up in wet spikes where he had dragged his fingers through it, accentuating the flecks of silver at his temples. “Ten o’clock in the morning is a bit early for lunch, don’t you think?” “But if I waited until lunchtime, someone would be sure to see us.” “Good point,” he said. He leaned over to cup her face in his damp palm and give her a kiss. “And I am getting hungry. It’s been weeks _ since I had your luscious body against me.” Charlotte inched up her skirt to bare an expanse of stocking-clad thigh. “Would you like to see what’s on the menu today?” Henry loosened his tie. “Oh, I think I’ll just have the special.” 168 Kristina Wright She angled over the gearshift and into his lap. It was no small feat, given the length of her skirt and tight fit of the narrow bucket seat, but within moments she was straddling him, her skirt hiked up around her hips. “This would be better with me on the bottom,” she said. “But I don’t think it would work.” Henry slid his hands under her bunched skirt and fingered the lace tops of her sheer black stockings. “You could probably get me to do anything you want right now,” he said, stroking the bare skin above the lacy bands of nylon. “You look like the clichéd sexy librarian. Nice touch. Just for me?” She leaned over and nibbled his neck above his collar, breathing in the spicy scent of his aftershave. “Of course. All for you, darling.” He moved his hand to the juncture of her thighs. She squirmed against him, silently urging him to touch her. “This is my favorite magical spot,” he said as his fingers found her wetness. “You’re already excited, bad girl. Have you been thinking about me?” She smirked. If only he knew. Wriggling against his rain-chilled fingers, she gasped, “I could barely keep from touching myself before you got here.” He cupped her pussy in his hand, his thumb stroking her swollen clit in slow, lazy circles. “Really?” She kissed him, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth. It wasn’t the most comfortable position to be in, but she was too aroused to care. “Mmm-hmm.” His fingers delved deeper, parting her silken wetness as his thumb kept moving on her clit. “Well, ’m sorry for keeping you waiting then.” “You’re here now,” she murmured against his mouth. “That’s all that matters to me.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “But ... that doesn’t make any sense.” “No? Look at people, good or bad. The ones with intellect, the ones who have a deep thought, even if it’s just once in a while. I think they have souls. But look at the rest. Like that lovely couple we left behind us. Something like that just lives to feed its appetites. And it’s not just what we’d consider the scum of the earth. From white trash right on up to the nouveau riche yuppie shithead who’s acquired his latest BMW, or yacht or mansion ... you know the type, they calculate their own worth and everyone else’s according to how many things they’ve accrued. They have no souls, because as insubstantial as a soul might be, it takes a lot to fill the void where it doesn’t exist. So they fill it up with things.” “So, what are you saying, that it’s okay to kill people like that?” “T’m saying if it has no soul, it isn’t murder when you kill it.” 226 Robert Buckley “Did that cane thing have a soul?” He shrugged. “Maybe. But that was self-defense.” “Maybe you think too much,” she said, then yawned. He pulled into another hotel. A sleepy clerk checked them in. Another room, much like the one in which they spent the night before. This one they entered from a balcony. Outside it began to rain; droplets beat against the window. They stood together in the darkness by the window. A lightning flash illuminated the courtyard; another caught a naked couple in the room directly across from theirs having sex in their window, a fleeting image of a woman with her breasts pressed against the glass. He chuckled. “You can’t enjoy sex if you don’t have a soul.” “Why not?” “Because if you don’t, fucking is just about the fucking, it’s just chalking up another pussy or prick, just another fuck to tally on top of the ones you’ve already had. Just so you can say you had more tail than the other guy.” “And if you have a soul?” “Well, then it’s about...” “Making love?” “Or...something else. In any case, you do it with another person. Some people have sex, and it’s no different than if they were masturbating.” “You think too much.” “Tet me take a shower at least,” she protested weakly after he tossed her on the bed and tugged her shorts and panties off. “Uh-uh,” he said. He knelt and breathed deeply, his nose pressed against her dark pubic patch. He spread her thighs apart. She didn’t resist. Then his tongue laved her swelling vulva. Her own tongue slipped along her lips as his licking became more determined.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  So we got lost. We spent a half-hour locked in kisses outside on the sidewalk, pressing our hips together, muttering tender obscenities in each others’ ears, groping under each other’s shirt, taking turns running our index fingers along each other’s lower lip, unbuttoning buttons and letting the cold night air ripple over our skin, nibbling each other’s neck in full view of a parked patrol car. When we finally let go of each other we waved at the two cops; the officers seemed to blush like schoolboys. I wished her good night and rode my train home with my face on fire, my cock surging as I recalled my hands on her warm skin, the supple after-tingle of her lips on mine. And most of all that blue- eyed gaze of hers: sharp, hungry, determined. For two weeks, she phoned me nonstop trying to arrange a rendezvous. I reminded myself that student crushes are just that, and that I would be driving down a dead end — she was going to marry Mr ATM. I hated myself for how much my heart leaped at hearing her voice. My pussyfooting around her requests didn’t work. Soon I got tired of resisting. “Why don’t you come up here,” I suggested. I met her on the train platform. She was wearing a tight fitting denim jacket over a slate gray halter dress and matching gray sling back heels. We strolled with our arms snaked around each other’s back as if we might fall down if we didn’t hold tight to prop each other up. She tried to distract us from our own sexual tension by enumerating the property values of the storefronts and buildings we passed. Honeymoon with Shannon 41 After dinner, I brought her home to my apartment to “meet my goldfish”. The goldfish was indifferent; I wasn’t. When I helped her out of her denim jacket, the sight of her bare arms, lightly freckled and perfumed with talc, made me feel so intensely alive I felt I’d walked into someone else’s life. I led her into my bedroom and I put on Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain. She closed her eyes and told me what a sharp interior design eye I have. “For a starving poet, at least.” I knelt down in front of the bed and drew back the slit of her long gray skirt, staring up at her as I raised the fabric over her knees. She closed her eyes. She asked me for some poetic lines. “Slate gray like the sea. Scented,” I said, “like wave-spray.” She smiled and threw her head back, her long red hair dangling behind her back, her draped hair almost touching the sheets on my bed. I studied her tightly crossed legs. Then I wedged her legs apart, gently, willfully. I quoted the Talking Heads to her. “Dreams walking in broad daylight.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, that it went against the professionalism which was such an important part of my job, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and circled his cock with my fingers, feeling the hot, hard length of him. His sigh of pleasure was barely audible as I stroked him gently. He rolled back, pulling me on to the mattress with him, and we began to kiss, his mouth soft and tasting faintly of spearmint. It felt strange to be still fully dressed while he was naked, but if I thought that gave me the upper hand in matters, I was proved wrong. Suddenly, he climbed over me, and the weight of his body pressed me down as he straddled my chest. My hand barely broke its rhythm on his shaft, even when he pulled my T-shirt out of my jeans and started cupping and squeezing my breasts through my bra. I wriggled beneath him, using the seam of my jeans to give my overheating pussy the stimulation, it craved. Now it was his mouth that explored my tits, his tongue dampening the nylon of my bra and flicking over my nipples. “Take it off,’ I urged him, wanting to feel his lips against my bare skin. My T-shirt and bra were stripped off me without ceremony and, as he suckled my bare breasts, my hand continued to wank his cock. We were both panting heavily by now, and drops of sweat glistened on his torso. I guided his hand down to the fly of my jeans, hoping he would take the hint. I was pretty sure he knew exactly what I wanted, but he seemed determined to make me beg. “Please . . .” I murmured, pressing my crotch against his fingers, and I was rewarded with the rasp of my zip being pulled down. Between us, we started hauling my jeans and panties down, but when they reached my ankles he pushed me back to the mattress, leaving me effectively hobbled by the tangle of denim and white cotton. It felt strange to have my movements restrained as his fingers began to explore the soft, wet flesh of my sex, but I gave myself up to the feeling. I had let go of his cock and lay submissively as he circled my clit with a lazy fingertip. I was blossoming, opening up under his touch, readying myself for the moment when the thick head of his cock breached the entrance to my pussy, and. yet somewhere at the back of my brain a little voice nagged at me. 248 Elizabeth Coldwell “Condoms,” I muttered. “In the bedside cabinet.” If he found the vibrator now, I didn’t really care. An image flashed through my mind of him using it on me, sliding its buzzing length deep into my cunt, or even using it to explore my tight, virgin arse.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  For the special day, I wore my favorite jeans and a loose white top, leaving the pearly buttons undone to the center of my bra. I went online and read story after story of naughty girls who needed to be spanked. Some of them horrified me; I mean, ’m a middle- aged businesswoman, and I was getting off on the idea of girls half my age getting paddled by their former teachers right after they’d graduated? Well, yes, I was. All those pretty young things in their schoolgirl skirts made me long to be eighteen or nineteen again, innocent and carefree. How I’d wasted my early years, content to do it in the dark, under the covers, missionary or, if I was lucky, on top. Marco hadn’t even let me suck his cock, telling me that such behavior was unbecoming of a young lady like myself. Of course, when he wasn’t around, I’d spent copious solo masturbation time fantasizing about a man who didn’t give a shit what was ladylike or even what I would be into; he’d take from me exactly what he needed, pulling my hair, slapping my ass, and “forcing” me to suck his cock. Those fantasies got me through countless boring classes, solo expeditions, and even a few sessions with Marco. And now, perhaps, I was simply doing what I was destined to do: take the spanking that rightly belonged to me. That’s right; this 416 Rachel Kramer Bussel was all about empowerment. I jolted in my seat, feeling heat rising to my cheeks as my doorbell rang, and wondering if I had a just- been-fucked flush on my skin. I buttoned my jeans back up and gave myself a once-over in the mirror, then raced to the door and flung it open. It should say a lot that I barely glanced at the muscular young man before me. He looked like a college student; way too young for me, but that had never stopped me before. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, almost killing my sex buzz. “Where shall I put this?” ’d pondered and pondered that question, but had opted for the only real space I had available: my living room. The bedroom would’ve been more discreet, but it also would’ve swallowed it. Besides, I live alone and I have the right to get off in any room I damn well please. I’d certainly spent plenty of nights sprawled on my couch with my vibrator pressed against my clit while watching a dirty movie. I watched him put the box down, then wipe his brow with a handkerchief. ““Would you like something to drink?” I asked, more out of rote politeness than any real desire to delay him. I wasn’t looking to seduce him, or even flirt, which was new for me; usually men like him were a challenge to me, a pleasant distraction from the rush of my daily business dealings.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But you alone can devise the means of saving us both.’ Whereupon the girl said: ‘Ricciardo, as you see, I am watched very closely, and for this reason I cannot think how you are to come to me. But if you are able to suggest anything I might do without bringing shame upon myself, tell me what it is, and I shall do it.’ Ricciardo turned over various schemes in his mind, then suddenly he said: ‘My sweet Caterina, the only way I can suggest is for you to come to the balcony overlooking your father’s garden, or better still, to sleep there. Although it is very high, if I knew that you were spending the night on the balcony, I would try without fail to climb up and reach you.’ ‘If you are daring enough to climb to the balcony,’ Caterina replied, ‘I am quite sure that I can arrange to sleep there.’ Ricciardo assured her that he was, whereupon they snatched a single kiss and went their separate ways. It was already near the end of May, and on the morning after her conversation with Ricciardo, the girl began complaining to her mother that she had been unable to sleep on the previous night because of the heat. ‘What are you talking about, child?’ said her mother. ‘It wasn’t in the least hot.’ To which Caterina said: ‘Mother, if you were to add “in my opinion”, then perhaps you would be right. But you must remember that young girls feel the heat much more than older women.’ ‘That is so, my child,’ said her mother, ‘but what do you expect me to do about it? I can’t make it hot or cold for you, just like that. You have to take the weather as it comes, according to the season. Perhaps tonight it will be cooler, and you will sleep better.’ ‘God grant that you are right,’ said Caterina, ‘but it is not usual for the nights to grow any cooler as the summer approaches.’ ‘Then what do you want us to do about it?’ inquired the lady. ‘If you and father were to consent,’ replied Caterina, ‘I should like to have a little bed made up for me on the balcony outside his room, overlooking the garden. I should have the nightingale to sing me off to sleep, it would be much cooler there, and I should be altogether better off than I am in your room.’ Whereupon her mother said: ‘Cheer up, my child; I shall speak to your father about it, and we shall do whatever he decides.’ The lady reported their conversation to Messer Lizio, who, perhaps because of his age, was inclined to be short-tempered. ‘What’s all this about being lulled to sleep by the nightingale?’ he exclaimed.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  NINTH STORY Lydia, wife of Nicostratos, falls in love with Pyrrhus, who sets her three tasks as a proof of her sincerity. She performs all three, in addition to which she makes love to Pyrrhus in her husband’s presence, causing Nicostratos to believe that his eyes have been deceiving him . Neifile’s story was so much to their liking that the ladies could not be restrained from laughing and talking about it, even though the king, who had ordered Panfilo to narrate his own tale, called upon them several times to be silent. But as soon as they were quiet, Panfilo began as follows: Venerable ladies, it is my conviction that there is no enterprise, however perilous or difficult it may be, that those who are fervently in love will not have the courage to undertake. And although this has been proved in many of the stories we have heard, nevertheless I believe that I can prove it better still with the one I now propose to relate, in which you will hear of a lady whose deeds were far more favoured by Fortune than tempered by common sense. Consequently I would not advise any of you to take the risk of following her example, seeing that Fortune is not always so kindly disposed, and that all men are not equally gullible. In Argos, 1 that most ancient city of Greece, whose kings brought it universal renown out of all proportion to its size, there was once a noble lord, Nicostratos by name, upon whom, on the threshold of old age, Fortune bestowed a wife of great distinction, no less bold than she was beautiful, whose name was Lydia. 2 Being a wealthy patrician, Nicostratos kept a large number of servants, hawks and hounds, and was passionately fond of hunting. One of his retainers, whose name was Pyrrhus, was a sprightly and elegant young man, handsomely proportioned, and skilled in every activity he chose to pursue, and Nicostratos loved and trusted him above all others. With this young man, Lydia fell desperately in love, to such an extent that her thoughts were fixed upon him alone at every hour of the day and night. But Pyrrhus, either failing or not desiring to notice, showed a total lack of interest in her love, which filled the lady’s heart with unspeakable sorrow. But being determined at all costs to acquaint him with her feelings, she summoned a maid of hers, named Lusca, 3 whom she was able to trust implicitly, and said to her: ‘Lusca, the favours you have had from me in the past should have sufficed to earn me your loyalty and obedience, and hence you must take good care that nobody ever hears what I am about to tell you, apart from the person to whom I shall ask you to repeat it. As you can see, Lusca, I am young and vigorous, and I am well supplied with all the things a woman could desire.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Don’t look so worried! I’m not about to chop your balls off!” she laughed, now with genuine humour as she noted his alarm, and as she squatted down before him she proceeded to run the sharp blade through his shirt, his trousers, reducing his clothes to shreds. “And please don’t look so violated,” she added, as he felt the blunt edge of the steel cold against his skin. “They’re only clothes, trappings, a disguise to hide behind. I’m sure you can afford to replace them, should you feel the need of new, should you feel the need to leave.” Feel the need to leave? Was there any possibility he might not want to? It seemed a ludicrous notion, that he might not be away at the first opportunity after the way this heartless bitch had treated him, but as she peeled away the ribbons she had made of his clothes he looked down with shame to see that his cock was erect. Erect, protruding, weeping from the tip. “See?” she said, standing. “I told you that this cruel heartless bitch was good at what she did. And if you think that is hard,” she added, with a dismissive nod at his cock, “then you ain’t seen nothing yet!” In the brief seconds it took for him to blink, she was gone, he heard her step first soft and then sharp again, as she moved across the room from rug to stone to rug again, bruised his face against the sculpted wings of her “throne” and chafed his arms against the bonds which held him. as he tried to follow her, searching for her perfume, straining for her warmth. Her body seemed cold when she came back before him, naked but for the dark silk stockings which gripped her thighs, pinching the pale flesh, the slender heels which had rung against the stone floor, the skimpy black bra and the silky knickers which covered her genitals. “So, now that we’re both comfortable, how do you think a cruel heartless bitch would treat a man in your position?” she wondered, swaying a little on her heels, hugging herself like a younger girl surrendering to a teenage fantasy. “What would the bitch do with the man?” she asked, and when Brian was slow to reply she snapped, “Answer me!” Despite his reaction he pretended to be cool, shrugged as best his bonds would permit and said, “Since she has him tied, she would probably beat him, but I told you—” A Cruel Heartless Bitch 25) “Youre not into that.” She nodded, stepping forward so that she stood between his thighs. “But no, the bitch is cruel and heartless because she gives the man what he doesn’t want, what he doesn’t expect,” she said, leaning forward, resting her hands on the chair to either side, so that her breasts were just tantalizing inches above his face, her bare midriff just inches away from his mouth.

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  [image file=image_1722.jpg] One more observation before closing these already too protracted physiological speculations. Already (Vol. I. p. 71) I have tried to shadow forth a reason why collateral innervation should establish itself after loss of brain-tissue, and why incoming stimuli should find their way out again, after an interval, by their former paths. I can now explain this a little better. Let S1 be the dog's hearing-centre when he receives the command 'Give your paw.' This used to discharge into the motor centre M1, of whose discharge S2 represents the kinæsthetic effect; but now M1 has been destroyed by an operation, so that S1 discharges as it can, into other movements of the body, whimpering, raising the wrong paw, etc. The kinæsthetic centre S2 meanwhile has been awakened by the order S1, and the poor animal's mind tingles with expectation and desire of certain incoming sensations which are entirely at variance with those which the really executed movements give. None of the latter sensations arouse a 'motor circle,' for they are displeasing and inhibitory. But when, by random accident, S1 and S2 do discharge into a path leading through M2, by which the paw is again given, and S2 is excited at last from without as well as from within, there are no inhibitions and the 'motor circle' is formed: S1 discharges into M2 over and over again, and the path from the one spot to the other is so much deepened that at last it becomes organized as the regular channel of efflux when S1 is aroused. No other path has a chance of being organized in like degree. [image file=image_1728.jpg] CHAPTER XXVII. HYPNOTISM. MODES OF OPERATING, AND SUSCEPTIBILITY.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Then comes the heel, ankle, calf, nudging open high skirt slit, my life’s meaning thrust through a stage curtain. So like her tongue through her lips, taking her time, teasing. Then knee, thigh. A hand. A twist at her waist, unseen. Then Kiara. We receive the whole of her, but we never get enough. Not even with the backless dress, tease of drapery and miracle of architecture cascading from threads at her shoulders, offering us the entirety of her spine. Each vertebra, count them, fulcrum of her grace. The wisp of cloth waterfalls beneath her sacrum, sacred seat of her soul, god-made indentation for a man’s palm to guide her — but no man will. This she proffers to us, so much more profound a revelation than pedestrian cleavage heaving along the catwalk. Amidst the perfume and hairspray and sweat, her natural fragrance shimmers: nutmeg and mango and oak-barreled whiskey. Chocolate and chili. All simmered into the essence of her skin. 86 FD. Munro Most paps don’t work the red carpet. After all, the paparazzi get top dollar for the shots of stars with their clothes off, not their makeup on. We want the wrinkle, the wart, not the de la Renta. But Click’ll get the candid of her that everyone wants (Kiara checking, over her shoulder in the limo’s reflection, the transition from skin to silk just at the swell of her tailbone, a mere millisecond). All the other hacks with single lens reflex stand in the same place, with the same equipment. But blind. Just a few weeks before that, I caught her on an icicled balcony in the middle of godforsaken nowhere, 1,000 mm and F2.8 all the way through, grainy but solid gold, unmistakably her despite the sunglasses, ushanka, and white mink coat swaddling her up past her chin. The tabloid editors say Christ, Click, howd you know? Howd you get. the shot? She’d sprinkled none of her usual clues for me to follow. She cuddled with a new lover (cropped out), descendant of some Svalbardian prince, or so he claimed. His Highness soon disappeared, though his absence never hit the US papers — we don’t care much for the fate of jaundiced, bottom-runged nobility. An alleged accident on the way to his hunting lodge. It seems that his Stolichnaya-fond majesty had always been careless near crevasses. Poor out-of-the-frame prince, wedged into his gorge of snow like a pallid lemon slice. Shaken like an ice cube, his dentures chatter and clatter in that great martini glass in the sky. But who knows if that’s really how he met his maker, since the body was never found?

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Clues could not be transmitted to the Mesdames; Monsieur Gray had to refrain from his signature figure eight thrust, lest it be Madame Gray on the receiving end of his carnal movements. But no Monsieur felt limited and each took his time with the fucking — testing and withdrawing, diving in again, deeper, harder and unbridled. The Mesdames, rendered weak by their separate anonymous pleasures, were slumped chests to thighs, heads resting on knees, while vigorously being penetrated by unidentifiable thick anaconda snakes through holes in the wall — each taking a slithering fleshy battering. The Monsieurs were four oil rigs toiling in blackness, grabbing hips with their perspiring hands, pushing towards the back of the wall. One Monsieur felt as if he were motoring a foreign car that fit like a glove, changing gears as he tracked the curves of the road. The Monsieurs varied and ratcheted their paces, somewhat choreographed by hypnotic rhythms and screeching animals; two divergent in momentum — one plunging very slowly, the other jerky and unleashed, spurred by calls of beasts in the feral night. They could not yell out as that would unmask their identities te each other and the Mesdames into whom they were plowing. This proved quite the challenge, especially for a particular Monsieur. He suppressed ‘Tarzan exclamations and deep jaguar growling as his cock probed ught flesh gripping in reply, an invisible smoke signal. Blind Tasting 141 However, when they came, all four within a short period, as if cued by the low grunts of a howler monkey, goaded and stimulated by each other’s body heat and the arousing stirring pops of cocks driving into pussies — the Mesdames pierced on the human skewers nearly fainting from their own ecstasies; whimpering like birds unable to squawk — the Monsieurs yowled one collective indecipherable primal utterance, blending seamlessly with the surrounding untamed yelping. At varied intervals, four molten spouts poured into four pussies, dripping on to the terrycloth cushions as each Monsieur gave his final tremor of emission, the wall shaking and buckling precariously. They slouched, one by one, breathlessly, on the padding beneath, their ammunition shot, regaining a little strength by eating any surviving fruit slices, listening to melodies of birds and streams, their own racing heartbeats adding to the bestial orchestra. The Amazon rainforest lulled and the velvet curtain closed. The lights rose incrementally from pitch black to a steady duskiness. The Monsieurs and the Mesdames re-attired and gathered their carnival props, perhaps to be used again during another scenario. They rested in the theater seats, scattered among a dozen rows, digesting the activities and recouping their energy. The Monsieurs furtively glanced at the four Mesdames, and vice versa, trying — unsuccessfully — to determine who had been with whom. Adieus were finally bid and the Greens, Blacks, and Grays departed; all Mesdames hanging on to their Monsieurs, all ambulation irregular, everybody spent.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  She becomes aware of Sheldon yelling, pushing at her head, trying to get her off his cock. She coughs as his withdrawing prick sets off her reflex again and chases after him, suddenly missing that throbbing thickness in her throat, but he seems desperate, pushing her away and crying out, “No! Dominique, no!” He pulls his cock from her lips and she sees it almost glowing in the lamp-lit darkness. She licks her lips, feels the emptiness in her mouth and the hollowness in her body. She looks up to see Sheldon breathing hard, looking down at her with a look of astonishment on his face, and Dominique gets up on her knees, digs her nails into the bunched muscles of his thighs, and impales herself again on his hard shaft. 36 Valerie Grey It’s like diving into deep water. Again the gag reflex, again the frantic spasm of the ring of muscle in her throat, and again a savage hunger she can’t explain forces her head down on him, taking him deep, so deep he’s almost a part of her body. The broad, thick head of his cock opens her secret and intimate flesh and holds it open. She feels the tickle of his lubricant burning into her throat, and here she waits. She waits with the patience of the blind fish in the deep pools, with the patience of the dark cave and the dripping water. She waits as her throat closes on him again and again in a series of peristaltic contractions, milking him, massaging his glans, her very body trying to pull him deeper. She waits with the patience of the female serving her man; and Sheldon groans and throws his head back. There’s no chance of his controlling himself this time. She can tell from his helpless growls and breathless gasps, the spastic shudders of his tightly clenched abdominals. There’s no strength in his hand as he touches her, just the feeble palsy of a man at his limit, in the extreme of sensation. Dominique holds herself there while her ears roar and her throat milks him in a reflex action she can’t even control, her lower lip against his balls, her nose digging into his lower stomach. She holds herself there even as she feels his tool jerk in her mouth and he cries out, his head falling back in helpless abandon as his hips thrust against her. He tries to warn her but he’s not in control of himself, and Dominique knows instinctively just what she’s doing. She holds him in her throat and feels him erupt. Hot, thick gouts of semen hit her in a place where she has few nerves, and yet she can feel the powerful contractions of his cock and the jets of come splattering against the back of her gullet. She can taste it as the aroma wafts up from the sticky pools of his passionate discharge. :

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  says. “I don’t want to insert myself where I’m not wanted.” She looks at him and sees a hint of a smile in his steady gaze. He’s an intelligent man, and she decides his choice of words was deliberate. She returns his smile and holds out her glass for more wine. “Not at all.” They talk of things of no great consequence, but the words are just an excuse to keep themselves together, like the wine and the cheese. There’s no hurry, and yet there’s a sense that time is wasting too. Inside Dominique is filled with doubt. He’s everything she’s been looking for: older, experienced, and discreet — everything that Michael wasn’t — and extremely attractive. And since he works at the hotel, there won’t be any strings attached. When they’re done, she can just walk away. Can she do it? Is it really as easy as just saying yes? It’s been months since she’s thought of being with a man, and she hardly trusts her own feelings any more. She’d be devastated if she failed. At last the room and the decanter are almost empty, and Dominique is filled with a languorous goodwill. He tries to pay her bill, citing his employee discount, but Dominique won’t hear of it and he doesn’t insist. He’s wise enough to know how things would seem if he paid for her dinner, and so he just signs the tab for the port. She’s grateful for his sensitivity. He will see her back to her room, though, and as they walk from the dining room she notices how the staff acknowledges and defers to him. The Cavern 15 Perhaps it’s the port, but it seems like she’s aware of everything, from the looks of the staff to the rustle of her dress against her naked skin. He walks her outside on to a vast marble terrace overlooking the water. The lake is dark, the trees darker still, great black shadows blocking the reflection of the stars along the edges of the water. He points out the landscape to her, the various views: the arrangement of the different textures of darkness. It was all designed to be as beautiful at night as it is in the day, and indeed there is something soothing yet mysterious out there in the darkness. The moon is near full, slashed by thin clouds that cast moving shadows on the lake. “It’s. all designed to create a certain aesthetic sense,” he says. “Beauty provokes a type of longing in the soul, a desire for intimacy, to join with it. We’ve worked very hard to achieve that effect here.” III. The night is warm. The swans are asleep on the far bank, so the surface of the water is mirror smooth. There’s nobody about.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Yes,” she said and I left it at that. Chivalrously I offered my bed and said I’d sleep on the couch. She excused herself to the bathroom to wash up. I grabbed a spare comforter from the closet and threw it on the couch. She was still in the bathroom. I went into my bedroom to get a pair of boxers to sleep in. I needed to do laundry and it was my last pair of clean boxers and there it was, where I hid it, and that’s when I got the thought. Maybe it was fate. I lifted my last pair of boxers and saw its head peeking out from under a sock in the back of the drawer. Maybe it wasn’t fate. ’d never been in this position before, not in this apartment, not in this city, not ever, and so I got the thought. My last sort-of girlfriend had given me her dildo, saying she didn’t need it now that she’d met me. She wanted me to have her favorite dildo as a sign of eternal gratitude for making her come like a porn star. I’'d grown tired of her by the time she gave me her special gift, so tired I didn’t bother correcting her. She wasn’t the porn star. I was the porn star. I was the one making her come. Making the golden-haired beauty in my bathroom come was what I wanted. I wanted to see her perfect mouth open in orgasm. I wanted to feel-her perfect hands holding my biceps as I moved my cock inside her. I wanted her perfect legs wrapped around my waist. And most of all I wanted her perfect eyes, eyes that could look and linger, to look at me, look through me, while I was fucking her and then, something I had never really wanted before, I wanted her eyes to stay on my eyes after we were done. I was a jaded man, but I wanted her and not just to fuck. I would sleep on the couch if that’s what it took. But I had to know, had to know now, that she was as sexual as her kiss, that she could keep up with me and keep me fulfilled for more than a night and then, maybe, I could fall. Like the fairytale Pd heard sO many times as a kid, I took the dildo from my drawer and, as if it were the pea to the puzzle, put it under my mattress. I went back to the couch. I was the opposite of tired. She came out of the bathroom, her face freshly washed, and she kissed me once more. “Thank you for tonight,” she said. “Pll see you in the morning.” “T hope so.” “And thank you for letting me stay over. I had a room reserved and my family arrives tomorrow, but I’m glad I’m here. It feels real to me here. It feels like a home.”

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  She didn’t give him a chance to respond. Pressing him up against the door, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his head down for a fierce kiss. She parted his lips with the tip of her tongue, deepening the kiss with the intention of distracting him from their surroundings. He tasted of tequila and the sharp tang taste reminded her of other things. She knew she had him when she hooked her leg around his hip and rubbed against him. He groaned softly, gripping her ass in his hands as he pulled her up hard against him. She could feel him beginning to stiffen and whimpered low in her throat. He pulled back, a little breathless from their kissing. “You are wicked.” She fumbled with his belt, laughing softly. “Let me show you just how wicked I can be.” “T really don’t think this is a good idea.” Having managed to get his belt unbuckled, Charlotte was not about to stop now. She proceeded to unfasten his trousers, noticing ‘Terrence’s cock did not share his doubt about her naughty intentions. His cock was shaped like his beautiful fingers — long and smooth. She felt her own body respond to his arousal and clenched her thighs together. “Maybe I can change your mind,” she said, thankful for her thigh high stockings as she slipped to her knees on the dirty tile floor. Above her, Terrence’s dark eyes went wide. “What are you up to?” She pulled his cock free from his pants and underwear and kissed the engorged tip. “What does it look like?” “Tt looks like you’re a very nasty girl.” Wrapping her hand around the length of him, she looked up into his eyes. “Oh, you have no idea.” She held his cock in her hand and licked his shaft from the tip to the base and back again. His sharp intake of breath turned her on, made her want to tease him long and slow. Unfortunately, she knew they didn’t have that kind of time before someone came knocking on the door to use the restroom, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t tease him a little bit. Perfect Timing 175 Looking up at him, she licked the ridge of his cock again. He threw his head back against the door and closed his eyes as she took him inside her mouth, cradling the broad head in the hollow of her tongue. He groaned softly, tangling his fingers in her long dark hair. She didn’t move, didn’t suck, just held him there in her mouth as she looked up at him. Finally, his eyes opened and he looked down at her, his gaze unfocused.