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 My Secret Garden (1973)

  SadieI have always fantasized during intercourse and masturbation. I am being raped by one man or a group of men, while many of them watch the others “abuse” me. My attackers are always very handsome—dark hair, muscular, sexually well endowed—and brutal, in that they take what they want and the hell with what I want… or pretend I want. (I’m after what they are, really.) My husband is very curious about my fantasies, will occasionally enter into them, but puts them and me down as childish and immature. He doesn’t know what he’s missing, in my opinion. Other fantasies of mine include a fraternity initiation where I am tied to the bed hand and foot and all the brothers take their pleasure with me while the initiates watch. Then the new ones take their turn with me. There is always a certain “officer” in the fraternity’s organization whose sole purpose is to arouse the girl chosen so that she can’t help enjoying herself—although she’s protesting. Or I fantasize that I am a “bottomless” waitress; every time I bend to serve a customer, someone attacks me from the rear. As waiting on tables is my sole means of support, I have no choice. Even if I do one of those “Bunny Dips” (that the Playboy Bunnies do so that they don’t have to bend over), I will then be assaulted from the customer in front of me, who simply pulls me forward onto his lap, onto his prick, which is erect and exposed. I know that they say that women aren’t turned on by visual stimuli; I think it’s untrue. It’s another unexplored area where women are silent or ashamed. I am very aroused by hard-core pornography. If I see a picture, for example, of a black man and a white woman, I’m ready for sex almost immediately. Incidentally, I am twenty-four, have a B.A., M.A., am white, Catholic, married six years and no children. [Letter] ROOM NUMBER FOUR: PAIN AND MASOCHISM, OR, “OUCH, DON’T STOP!”Women are always being tied up or down in fantasy. They use “force” words liberally, almost involuntarily—“He made me do this…” “I then had to…”—in describing their fantasies, even when the fantasy has nothing to do with rape or pain. We are made to understand that even in her fantasy the fantasist doesn’t have control over what’s happening to her—unless, of course, control is what she is after, as in some of Barbara’s fantasies (below).

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  SallyMy friend Sally owns her own small boutique. She’s in her early twenties, has long, multilayered black hair, and the kind of figure that looks perfect under one of her own flowing chiffon designs. She recently finished a yearlong affair with a man twice her age, who, as a parting gesture, set her up in the boutique business. She considers this latest affair “the greatest education of my life.” She is still terrifically fond of Alan, her benefactor, and talks of him with enthusiasm. Having known him briefly, and knowing Sally’s zest for anything new, I would imagine that the “education” Sally refers to would include some fascinating new chapters in sexual exploration. She admits that he will be a hard act for any new man in her life to follow; “I really am so bored with younger men now,” she says. » I’ve thought about this fantasy quite a bit, ever since I started having it, dreaming it. I’ve analyzed it ten different ways, but I’m still not quite sure what it means. I don’t think I had it before I knew Alan, but maybe I did. He brought me out in many different ways, so maybe the fantasy had been there all along, but I just never acknowledged it until him. It’s really a very simple fantasy on the surface; I have a variety of twists I add to it depending on my mood. Basically, it’s that while I am making love I have this image of me lying there, naked, just as I really am, with the man, or men, and while we are fucking I’m talking on the telephone to my mother. Isn’t that weird? What I have to do, of course, is control my voice, talk to her normally as if nothing unusual is going on. Every now and then she’ll ask, “What was that I heard?” Every time she becomes suspicious, I get wildly excited, but even during those long periods while she and I just chat—far more amiably than we do in reality—I lie there in a great warm bath of arousal. It’s very comfortable talking to her like this, also wildly exciting. She used to come on very heavily with Alan—after all, they’re about the same age. She’s an incredible flirt. Also, she never really approved of me and Alan; either that or she was jealous. But she’s always very sweet and understanding to me on the fantasy telephone. The funny thing is, when I do come, when I reach an orgasm and I can’t control my voice any longer, she doesn’t scold or hang up as you would expect, she just keeps on chatting in this kind of nice warm voice that she never uses with me in reality. [Taped interview]

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  This image seems to turn itself on without my trying or doing anything about it, almost as soon as I am sure we will have intercourse, and continues until I have had an orgasm. It has nothing to do with my being dissatisfied with my husband’s penis, which is a very good-sized one that fully satisfies me. I just somehow seem to imagine that this enormous, long, thick penis (with a giant knob on the end) is entering me. When we are just starting, I imagine this huge organ is rubbing my enormous breasts, and especially is more or less dueling with them, trying to slide up between them and poking at first one and then the other, and that I am holding it off from me by sticking my huge breasts in the way. This is when my husband is stroking or sucking my nipples. Again, it is not jealousy on my part or any feeling of inadequacy, since I am quite sure he thinks I am adequate in this respect. For example, I’ll try to describe our very relaxed and loving habits with one another and our happy appreciation and acceptance of one another’s bodies: We sleep nude, and he almost always is in bed before my hair is put up. I do this in the nude, standing in front of the large dresser mirror in our bedroom. He watches because he likes to see my breasts lift as I raise my arms to put in curlers, and then lower them. While we ordinarily are very old fashioned in our language, he almost invariably tells me, “You sure have yummy tits, kid,” at such times. When I am done, I walk to the bed, bend over so he can nibble each nipple in turn for a moment, then turn the covers down so he is exposed, and bend over and give his penis a quick kiss. We do this every night, although we have sex only every second or third night on the average. If he already has an erection or a partial one, I linger longer on his penis since I know this is “the” night. If it is not, but I feel I would like a little loving and don’t think he is tired or worried or something, I will work on his penis a bit more to see if he responds. But many nights it is only a wifely kiss and nothing more happens. (Of course we kiss mouth to mouth before going to sleep, too.)

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  For myself, when Patricia says her fantasies make her (and her lover) enjoy sex more, I feel I have nothing to add. However, if that is not enough, here is Suzanne’s letter which argues the case for fantasy in all positions. SuzanneWhen I was sixteen, I read a sex instruction book in which there was a case history that had a great effect on me. This girl described how she was alone in the cloakroom at a dance, bending forward, when a man came in behind her, lifted her dress, put his penis into her (obviously before the days of tights) and had intercourse with her without her looking around or even knowing who the man was. This excited me. I had not had intercourse at this stage, but I would think about what I had read while masturbating and, of course, after awhile I started to put myself in the girl’s place, imagining that it was happening to me. This basic fantasy went on for a long time. I started having intercourse when I was seventeen, but I am sure you will agree that to carry through a fantasy while having intercourse it is necessary that neither partner should talk too much or the theme is lost. As this was not the way it usually went in those early days, I did not fantasize very much during intercourse, but I always did when masturbating. I met my husband when I was nineteen and married him at twenty. Once we had settled into a pattern of prolonged intercourse, I found I could have fantasies, which of course increased my pleasure, also my husband’s. I was able to tell my husband of these fantasies, and he was very understanding and encouraging. The fantasies expanded from the original, but there were always similarities. The idea of the anonymous approach from behind continues to excite me, but the fantasies took on more scope, although the man would always do whatever he wanted without any form of lead up or courting. I am rarely nude, usually wearing a dress, but never panties or tights so that I show myself very easily and am always available. The scene is usually at least partly public, at a party, in a park, at the office so that other people see what happens. They never get in the way or object in any way.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  You know, the only thing that bothers me about this doctor fantasy is that I don’t understand the association. I’ve never had a romance with a doctor. God knows, I’ve never been excited during one of those examinations. I never even went through the ritual childhood games of Doctor and Nurse with the neighborhood boys. But get me in bed with a man these days and there we all are—me and the guy in bed, and me and the doctor in my head. The more excited I get, my legs up, the doctor between them—my lover I mean… well, you know what I mean—anyway, the more intent the examination, the more intense the excitement. The closer the doctor gets to his prognosis, the closer I get to orgasm. And then, without fail, right before orgasm, the doctor’s masked face zooms in close to mine and those loving eyes tell me even before he speaks that I’m in great shape, everything’s just where it should be. Now that I think of it, tell it out loud, I realize I should edit what I said earlier, the part about blaming you for bringing all this up. Whatever it means, all I know is my sex life has never been better. [Taped conversation] FrancescaFrancesca is a pretty Jewish mother of three. Her sweet disposition goes a long way in running a house constantly teeming with her teenage children’s friends and her nonstop husband’s business associates, who seem to fly in hourly from all over the world. Under her quiet but firm hand, all generations and nationalities meet and merge around the family dining table. Her mother lives with them three months of the year. “I have very ambivalent feelings about my mother,” she says. “I suppose I love her and accept her more now than I ever did, but it’s very rare that I can even kiss her on the cheek. I used to sort of shrink from being touched by anyone, but now I’m much more liberated… with everyone except my mother. I’ve often wondered if there was anything homosexual about this fantasy; when I was nineteen I had an unfulfilled lesbian experience in Paris. But I don’t know, as often as I fantasize about women, I fantasize about men, and my real sexual life is very much only with men.” (This interview with Francesca shows how women often talk about their fantasies. Even though Francesca was an interested volunteer, she begins by trying to tell it all in one semiabstract sentence. Only as she reworks the almost unconscious images again and again in her mind as she tells it to me, will she remember the elaborate details.) » I’m afraid my fantasies are just the usual ones. This is my favorite. I am brought at the age of thirteen or fourteen, as a pubescent girl, by my mother to be sold to an Oriental potentate.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  …I began to have sexual daydreams about the age of four. There was a dark-haired, mysterious-looking man in the orchestra that played for Saturday night dances at my grandfather’s country club. He played bass, and I would daydream from Sunday on through the week that he would come some night around dusk and whisk me off in the bass case. To this day I am attracted by dark-haired musicians, especially bass players, and have allowed myself time and time again to be carried off by them (not in their bass cases), only to discover that their lovemaking, no matter how wild, can never live up to my now quite grown-up fantasies of what I’d really like them to do to me… …I am not with the obvious he-man muscular type. My sex orgies are with intellectual, almost shy men, who you think wouldn’t know what to do in bed, but I picture them as experts under the surface. As if I’m the only one who knows their prowess… …I am chained, being beaten, forced to make love against my will. This surprises me, because I’d never allow a man to lay a hand on me… yet I keep coming back to this situation… …I just think how much I love him when we make love. But every once in a while, I play the pussycat and he the affectionate owner… …I have had erotic dreams which have produced orgasm. I am making love with a black man, a mysterious stranger, teenage boys, once, to tell all, even with a woman, and there was one with a stallion who looked like a man I know but was a horse all the same… …I imagine, while I am masturbating, that I am being raped by a man who has just kidnapped me because he couldn’t resist my fantastic beauty… or I imagine I am making love with an old high-school sweetheart who was maddeningly sexy but whom I never went to bed with because I was too virginal (my husband really is the only man I’ve ever been to bed with)…

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Once I went to a sauna bath with a friend who I thought had lesbian tendencies. What happened can still bring me on. My nipples and clitoris get firm just thinking about it. We both stripped, put towels around us, and went inside. There was one other woman there. She lay down on her back, showing all. When she left, my pal undid her towel and stretched out on her back. It was the first time I had seen her in the nude and the way she was talking soon made me feel sexy. I took my towel off and she remarked how much darker and bushier my pubic hair was than hers. She was very fair, but her bust was a lot bigger than mine. She got up and came over to me and started massaging my legs. I let her carry on. Soon her hands were all over me. She asked me to go back to her flat for tea and said if I wanted she would finish me off. When we got there I was stripped by her and given a most satisfying thrill. She licked and sucked my breasts and went down between my legs and performed cunnilingus on me (better than my husband). I could feel her sucking my clitoris, and just to feel her breasts was enough to make me come at least twice. I often think of this and then give my husband a good time. [Letter] NormaI think of Norma’s name as being just right for her; to me it has an old-fashioned, prim ring. And so I was not surprised that Norma was reluctant to give an interview for this book. She thinks there is nothing wrong with it, however, and believes wholeheartedly that it can have a liberating purpose. She would even like her daughter (“if I’d had one”) to read it. “I wouldn’t want any girl to be brought up the way I was.” Norma also told me that she hadn’t slept with a man since her husband, who was more homosexual than not, left her over fifteen years ago, just after their son, Ted, was born. » I’m very brave and aggressive in my fantasies. In fact, I take the lead. My fantasies are always about young men. You are probably thinking there is some element of incest there—some desire for Ted. But I don’t think that’s quite right. I think the reason that I imagine that the man is always fifteen or twenty years younger than I am is that it makes him less frightening to me. In fact, he’s always someone who is a virgin, close to it. Somebody who doesn’t really know what it—the bedroom, you understand—is all about. So it’s up to me to teach him, and nothing he’s going to do can surprise or worry me. He’s just a boy.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  I look down around this point and see that he’s unzipped his fly, and that he’s playing with himself and has an erection the size of which I’ve never seen. I keep staring at his penis, which grows as my own excitement grows. His mouth is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, it’s like magic, it’s tender and demanding, and his own hand on his cock, the veins are as strained as the veins in his penis. My legs become so weak, it’s almost as if I’m poised there on his mouth, that it’s holding me up, and I feel if I take my eyes off his hand, his penis, that I’ll faint. Suddenly, as I’m just about to climax, but not quite—just as I know I’m going to, though—these little bubbles begin to appear at the tip of his penis, bubbles, faster and faster, one after the other, and I begin to worry he’ll finish before I do and that he will stop. And then, on top of everything, the other people begin calling to us, I can even hear Phil’s voice calling to me to come in to dinner. I don’t know what would be worse at this point… if they were to find us or if he were to stop before I’d finished. For an instant I hang there in space, totally dependent on this unknown man; I couldn’t move if Phil were to walk straight toward me, which he is just about to do. But then, thank goodness, everything happens at once: Just as Phil is about to be close enough to see the expression on my face, the entire garden party, all the other people, turn as a body to follow our hostess in to dinner, and at that moment, this man’s bubbles turn into the most incredible jet, ejaculation, and I climax. I suppose I almost drown the poor man. [Interview] ROOM NUMBER TWO: THE AUDIENCEWe spend most of our fucking lives trying to be alone, trying to improve the privacy of our fucking with soundproofed bedroom walls, No-Lite window blinds, and locked doors. We race miles with our lovers to “get away from everyone,” and if sexual desire overcomes us at a crowded party or in a restaurant, the first impulse is to get out of there and be alone before Act One. That is reality, and with no moral judgment intended, it’s probably just as well.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Back at her hotel, I help her into her bed. I kiss her gently on the forehead, cover her up, and try to go to sleep on the couch. I can’t sleep knowing that Uma is in the other room. I start daydreaming about her and become very wet. My clit is throbbing and I feel like I’m on fire! However, I won’t make the first move as I’m not sure if she feels the same for me, and I don’t want to lose her friendship. I finally nod off. Then I hear Uma whispering my name… I’m not sure if I’m dreaming, but I open my eyes and she is standing over the couch with her hands out to me. “You don’t have to sleep out here… come sleep with me… I need someone to cuddle with.” I get up and oblige. She asks me to hold her. I do and then tell her that I’m attracted to her and that I hope this doesn’t make her uncomfortable. She asks me how hard it is for me, and I look deep into her eyes and tell her it’s all I can do not to kiss her. She whispers, “I’m attracted to you too. I just don’t want to lose our friendship. It really means a lot to me, but I want you to kiss me. I want you to make love to me.” My heart is beating through my chest as I lean toward her beautiful lips and gently touch them with mine. Her mouth opens and we kiss. Her tongue meets mine and I’m so wet I can feel myself dripping. Our arms and hands are pulling each other’s bodies closer and closer together. She has just a T-shirt on and I slowly remove it. She removes mine as well. We gaze at each other’s bodies and then we begin kissing again. I slowly push her down toward the bed so I’m on top of her. I part from her lips and begin kissing her cheek, then her neck, and then I whisper in her ear how beautiful and exotic she is. I tell her how much I want to make love to her and taste between her legs. I tell her how wet I am for her and how much my tongue is aching to be inside her, tasting every drop of her. She moans and I move lower with my mouth, my hands still caressing every inch of her body. My tongue and lips slowly slide down her chest to her beautiful, perfect breasts. I move my tongue around her nipples, not yet touching the nipples.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  BettyDuring the last phase of intercourse is when I fantasize. I pretend I have changed into a very beautiful and glamorous woman (in real life I know I’m somewhat plain), and that my husband and I are in bed in very luxurious surroundings, usually in a hotel, far away from where we live. I can see the bottle of wine in a silver bucket waiting for us when we finish. I think of the people walking along outside our room in the corridor who are unaware of what we are doing only a few feet away from them, and how they’d envy us if they did know. Most of all, I like the idea that it is not our house but a hotel room, because hotels are only temporary, anything can happen. When I was a little girl I always imagined that only the most beautiful women lived in the huge marvelous hotels I’d see in the movies. There weren’t any large hotels in the town where I grew up, and so I only saw them in the movies, and of course, since it was in films, all the women were beautiful. I am quite myself before the stage mentioned above, but when I begin feeling myself to be this other woman, I usually mount my husband and give myself a good working out on his gorgeous cock. This is still part of what I think of as the “final stage,” and while I am sitting there above him, moving myself up and down on him, I close my eyes and seem to be watching this other beautiful woman who is me from some other place, outside myself. I can see her so vividly that I want to shout encouragement to her… she loves it so much. “Go on, go on, give it to yourself,” I want to say to her. “Enjoy it, you deserve it.” The funny thing is that this other woman isn’t me. In fact, she’s not always the same woman. [Letter] PhyllisHi. I am twenty-six, upper middle-class background, and had three and one-half years of college before I dropped out and bummed around the world. I have been legally married for almost four years. I am presently employed as a bartender. I am in favor of self-determination for both men and women in all areas, sexual included. In general, I would say that my fantasies are pretty free, but my actions, though perhaps more far out than those of many people, are still conservative when compared to the possibilities of human sexuality.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  EmmaI am hiding from the others. We are playing a game of sardines and I have been given a head start to find a hiding place. At the top of the house I have found an empty room with only a bed in it. Quickly, in the dark, I slide under the bed and wait for the others to find me; their voices are very distant now. They are far away, except for one pair of footsteps, one person, who is getting closer and closer. He comes in such a direct line toward me, it’s as though he knew where I was, as if I had left him a trail, a scent. As if we had planned this hiding place together. I catch my breath, my heart pounding, because I know who it is, the one person in the group I want to have find me, to find me before the others. It has to be him. I will it to be him.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  I also get pleasure imagining I am an empress who has unlimited supplies of men and who lines them up to choose. I imagine giving banquets where the servants are naked men, and afterward accommodating the women guests with any male they desire, all having been tested as to performance by myself previously. This and variations of this theme I particularly like, as the men can be erotically clothed or decorated if necessary. I have many erotic dreams, often of transparently clothed men, or Greek god types, usually nude. Sometimes at night I dream I am having sex, but in my dreams it is always with someone familiar, never a stranger. My fantasy men are always beautiful and blond and unknown. One of my favorite fantasies is being invisible among crowds of naked men, and being fascinated by the way they move. In reality and fantasy I simply love to look at men, their bodies, and have had such imaginings, of which these are an example, since I was about twelve. [Letter] MargaretI am twenty-six, unmarried, and living in the country by myself. I have never written to a magazine before. I was determined, however, to reply to this letter. Some years ago I was about to become a nun. I was at a convent for a year and began to hate the environment, for I was convinced that a vast number of the novices were indeed sex-repressed. I certainly was from the outset and just had to give it up. I had slight lesbian tendencies prior to going to the convent, but they then enlarged. I masturbated frequently before I went there, but this increased enormously. I just had to get relief somehow. Fortunately, I grew fond of a novice older than myself and secretly we masturbated together quite often. Then it was that I started having fantasies. I would grow fond of a nun, and while playing with myself I would think of her. I would imagine that it was her fingers that titillated my clitoris. I would try hard to imagine her standing by the bedside stark naked with hairs on her pubic region. I also tried to think of her being played with by another nun. This brought me to a climax speedily. When I left the convent, I went in for teaching at a girls’ school. I would enjoy being present when the girls went for showers each morning en masse. My thoughts would always veer toward a particular girl whose body was fairly well developed. Then, in the seclusion of my own room, I would strip, lie on the bed, and think of the girl as I had seen her in the showers.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  I have one particular fantasy about women that really gets me going. I am at a party, a very distinguished one, like the parties my parents often attend. I am dressed in a very simple, short black gown that reveals my very large, firm breasts. There is another woman at this party who is, perhaps, the wife of the host. She is making her rounds, kissing everyone hello, when she stops to greet my parents. They introduce us and she smiles, yet I see her sneak a glance at my breasts. My nipples grow hard and I am flustered by this strange feeling. She is quickly whisked away by another guest. As the evening winds down, my parents have disappeared and so this beautiful woman asks if I would like to stay. We find that all of the rooms are being used by many couples, and so I must stay in her room. She gives me a thin nightshirt to sleep in and begins to undress. Her large, heavy breasts fall free of their restraints and I am unable to look away. She smiles and takes my hand and puts it on her nipple. I pinch it teasingly and she smiles. I feel myself grow with desire. She leads me over to the bed and lays me on my back, spreading my legs with her hands. I feel the cool air against my feminine lips and I feel moisture between my legs as her mouth comes down on me. I thrust my hips forward, pushing my sex against her expert lips. She releases me and brings her mouth down on mine, and I can taste my sweetness in her. Then she rests her pelvis on mine and begins to thrust. (I had a similar experience once as a child, yet only as experimentation, unfortunately.) She brings me to orgasm and I fall asleep in her arms sucking on her breast. ROOM NUMBER SIXTEEN: PROSTITUTION, OR, “SADIE THOMPSON DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE.”This room is empty. When I began collecting fantasies for this book, and would talk about it to psychologists, writers, and other people who I thought had some information about the subject, they’d often smile with amusement, and tell me that of course one of women’s most popular fantasies was that of being a prostitute. And from everything I’ve read and heard, I thought this was so myself. (For instance, who hasn’t heard that old tag line again and again, that at every costume party, half the women come dressed as call girls?)

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Upon leaving the convent, Juliette went to find a woman whose name she had once heard mentioned by a youthful friend; perverted was what she desired to be and this woman was to pervert her; she arrived at her house with a small parcel under her arm, clad in a blue dressing gown nicely disarrayed, her hair straggling carelessly about, and showing the prettiest face in the world, if it is true that for certain eyes indecency may have its charms; she told her story to this woman and begged her to afford her the sanctuary she had provided her former friend. "How old are you?" Madame Duvergier demanded. "I will be fifteen in a few days, Madame," Juliette replied. "And never hath mortal . . ." the matron continued. "No, Madame, I swear it," answered Juliette. "But, you know, in those convents," said the old dame, "sometimes a confessor, a nun, a companion... I must have conclusive evidence." "You have but to look for it," Juliette replied with a blush. And, having put on her spectacles, and having scrupulously examined things here and there, the duenna declared to the girl: "Why, you've only to remain here, pay strict attention to what I say, give proof of unending complaisance and submissiveness to my practices, you need but be clean, economical, and frank with me, be prudent with your comrades and fraudulent when dealing with men, and before ten years' time I shall have you fit to occupy the best second-story apartment: you'll have a commode, pier-glass mirrors before you and a maid behind, and the art you will have acquired from me will give you what you need to procure yourself the rest." These suggestions having left her lips, Duvergier lays hands on Juliette's little parcel; she asks her whether she does not have some money, and Juliette having too candidly admitted she had a hundred crowns, the dear mother confiscates them, giving her new boarding guest the assurance her little fortune will be chanced at the lottery for her, but that a girl must not have money. "It is," says she, "a means to doing evil, and in a period as corrupt as ours, a wise and well-born girl should carefully avoid all which might lure her into any snares. It is for your own good I speak, my little one," adds the duenna, "and you ought to be grateful for what I am doing." The sermon delivered, the newcomer is introduced to her colleagues; she is assigned a room in the house, and on the next day her maidenhead is put on sale.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Yet another fantasy is that I would like a man to get on top of me, both of us naked, then gently lower himself until his enormous erect penis was resting in between my breasts. I would like to watch it as he moves up and down, then when it is getting near his time I would like him to lower himself and push it into me in the right place. I must tell you that whenever I have sex with a man, all the time I am pretending to myself that I am wearing long knickers, bending over in the headmistress’ study, and getting soundly caned on my bottom. I can only think of two possible causes of my fantasies. The first happened when I was about six or seven. I had an elder sister who was then about fourteen, and for probably a series of misdemeanors, my stepmother said she would cane her. My sister was ordered out of her frock, in front of me, and then Stepmother pushed her over the settee arm. My sister Jean was wearing the usual school Directoire knickers at the time, much longer than those worn today, of course, and with her bottom in the air and her feet off the ground, the knickers tightened around her buttocks.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Another of my fantasies is when I imagine I am secretary to the headmistress of some school for girls between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. One of my jobs, being a big strong girl, is to cane girls who have been sentenced to be caned by the headmistress. Two or three nights in the week I imagine I have about six girls waiting outside my office in a queue for the cane, and one by one they enter at my command, strip off their gym tunics, and are then ordered to bend over the whipping block, where they get the number of strokes of the cane ordered by the headmistress. Then I change the fantasy and imagine that I am one of the senior girls, aged about eighteen, caught smoking and sentenced to twelve strokes of the cane. We stand outside the door of the secretary’s room and listen to the sounds of the caning going on inside. Then it is my turn. I go in, get out of my gym tunic, and stand there feeling tense in my tight knickers. The secretary points to the flogging block, says Bend over, girl, and I get across it, ready for my thrashing with the cane on my knickers. While I am pretending that I am getting caned, I masturbate. I’ve read many stories of how women used to be punished in the old days, and many of these appeal to me in my fantasies. There is a lovely tale of a rich man, in the 1880s, who employed a governess for his large family of eight daughters and six sons. Frequently the children were caned, and at all such canings the master was present while the governess administered the punishment. The boys had to drop their trousers before being lashed down across a bench, and the girls had to remove outer clothing, the caning being given on their frilly long white drawers. I picture myself as the governess, first because I would enjoy giving the cane, and secondly because I fancy that after all this corporal punishment I could go to bed with the master of the house, who was widowed. In another book of stories about the Midwest in the early days, there is a story of how girls found guilty in the courts were publicly punished. They were taken to the front of the courthouse in the one main street, and there had their wrists fastened above their heads to a whipping block, so that in their underwear, and bending forward, they were unable to move. The number of whacks with the cane varied according to their crimes, but after the sentence had been passed, the girl was left there so that passersby could pick up a cane and give her another whipping. The culprit was released after three hours.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  Also, G. and I used to share a fantasy of what it would be like, when we were making love in his car in a secluded spot on a promontory with bushes all around, if the two hundred men on his staff would suddenly appear from behind the bushes and see us at it. In fact, I think I would have really enjoyed it, and have since wondered about seeing all that lot masturbating when they saw that their boss was pretty good at things apart from work. I would have liked to watch their reactions when I toyed with my lover’s penis in my mouth—that would shock a good many of them, old women that a lot of them are, especially when they saw me bring him to climax that way and swallow his seed, or when I made G. come simply by flexing my vaginal muscles (tricks my mother taught me—ha!—I can’t do that with my husband though; he’s not sensitive enough). My husband never seems to really take the initiative in bed, and a climax for him seems to be more of a relief than a release. (Incidentally, we’ve been married three years and he’s twenty-four.) What I miss most is my lover’s manipulation of me during intercourse, and his more or less mastery of the situation. Most of all I remember when I’m with my husband how G., when his climax came, used to grunt and groan with the pleasure and kiss me fiercely, making me feel a complete woman, completely possessed. I haven’t really felt like that for months now. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to get something off my chest which has been weighing me down for almost two years. Very often I’ve longed to tell my husband the details of my adultery—it would heighten my opinion of my husband if he could take joy in what my lover has experienced. But I know it’s just not possible. After all, my fantasies are based on the real thing. [Letter] AdrienneAdrienne is one of those lively, gregarious types who are easy to get to know. I met her on the QE2 trip from New York to Southampton. Although the voyage is only five days, a ship has a way of bringing people together in terms of intimacy so quickly that it seems incredible when remembered back on shore.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Saying these words, holding her with one hand clasped as in a vice, her back against him, he tried with the other to twist her head round so as to get to her lips; but, seeing that he could not, he pressed her down on the bed. Holding her by the nape of the neck, he thrust his other hand between her legs and gripped her middle part in his brawny palm. "Being ready before-hand, thrusting himself between her parted legs, he began to press his instrument against the lower part of the half-opened lips. "Swollen and dry as they had remained after my attempt, his good-sized turgid phallus slipped, and the tip lodged itself at the upper corner. Then, like a heavy laden stamen when kissed by the deflowering wind scatters its pollen on the open ovaries around it, so, hardly had the turgid and overflowing phallus touched the tiny clitoris when it jutted forth its sappy seed not only on it, but it squirted over all the surrounding parts. As she felt her stomach and thighs bathed by the warm fluid, it seemed to her that she was burnt by some scalding corrosive poison, and she writhed as if in pain. "But the more she struggled, the greater was the pleasure he felt, and his groans and the gurgling that seemed to mount from his middle parts up to his throat, testified the rapture in which he was. He rested for a moment but his organ lost none of its strength or stiffness, her contortions only excited him the more. Putting his huge hand between her legs, he uplifted her on the bed, higher than she was, and brutally holding her down, he pressed the fleshy extremity of the glans against her, and the lips bathed in the slimy fluid parted asunder easily. "It was hardly a question with him now of pleasure given or received, it was the wild overpowering eagerness which the male brute displays in possessing the female, for you might have killed him, but he would not have left go his hold. He thrust at her with all the mighty heaviness of a bull; with another effort, the glans was lodged between the lips, another one more, half the column was already in, when it was stopped by the as yet unperforated but highly dilated virginal membrane. Feeling himself thus stopped at the outer orifice of the vagina he felt a moment of exultation. "He kissed her head with rapture. "'You are mine,' he cried with joy; 'mine for life and death, mine for ever and ever.' "She evidently must have compared his wild delight with my cold indifference, and yet she tried to scream, but his hand stopped her mouth. She bit him, still he did not heed it.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  “I have indeed considered it,” she replied almost with a tone of command. “As a man of honor you must keep your oath and redeem your promise to follow me as slave whithersoever I demand and to obey whatever I command. Now leave me, Gregor!” I turned toward the door. “Not yet—you may first kiss my hand.” She held it out to me with a certain proud indifference, and I the dilettante, the donkey, the miserable slave pressed it with intense tenderness against my lips which were dry and hot with excitement. There was another gracious nod of the head. Then I was dismissed. * * * * * Though it was late in the evening my light was still lit, and a fire was burning in the large green stove. There were still many things among my letters and documents to be put in order. Autumn, as is usually the case with us, had fallen with all its power. Suddenly she knocked at my window with the handle of her whip. I opened and saw her standing outside in her ermine-lined jacket and in a high round Cossack cap of ermine of the kind which the great Catherine favored. “Are you ready, Gregor?” she asked darkly. “Not yet, mistress,” I replied. “I like that word,” she said then, “you are always to call me mistress, do you understand? We leave here to-morrow morning at nine o’clock. As far as the district capital you will be my companion and friend, but from the moment that we enter the railway-coach you are my slave, my servant. Now close the window, and open the door.” After I had done as she had demanded, and after she had entered, she asked, contracting her brows ironically, “well, how do you like me.” “Wanda, you—” “Who gave you permission?” She gave me a blow with the whip. “You are very beautiful, mistress.” Wanda smiled and sat down in the arm-chair. “Kneel down—here beside my chair.” I obeyed. “Kiss my hand.” I seized her small cold hand and kissed it. “And the mouth—” In a surge of passion I threw my arms around the beautiful cruel woman, and covered her face, arms, and breast with glowing kisses. She returned them with equal fervor—the eyelids closed as in a dream. It was after midnight when she left. * * * * * At nine o’clock sharp in the morning everything was ready for departure, as she had ordered. We left the little Carpathian health-resort in a comfortable light carriage. The most interesting drama of my life had reached a point of development whose denouement it was then impossible to foretell.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  By the end of the second week, or sometimes sooner, I am getting desperate for intercourse, and I have to resort to masturbation, as for various reasons I do not wish to get involved with other men. At first, I used to fantasize that my husband was with me, and he was fondling my breasts and my vulva, licking and sucking my clitoris, and—as I thrust a banana or the smaller end of a cucumber into my vagina—I closed my eyes and pretended it was my husband’s penis that was penetrating me. This was sufficient to give me a satisfying orgasm at first, but after a while I found it more difficult to reach one. So, I started to imagine that two men were making love to me—my husband and a man I strongly fancy at the tennis club. I imagined that one was kissing my breasts and sucking my nipples while the other was loving me with his mouth between my legs. Then, as I pushed the banana into my vagina, I imagined that the other man was fucking me while my husband put his penis in my mouth. Now it has gone a step further, and to get my orgasm, I lie down on my back across our double bed, with my legs apart and a two-inch-thick cucumber thrust into my vagina, and close my eyes while I imagine that four men are making love to me all at once. As I thrust the cucumber in and out with a screwing motion, I imagine that one man kneels between my legs, kissing my slit, which is hairless, by the way; another kneels beside the bed above my head kissing my mouth; and two others kneel on the bed each side of me, sitting on their heels, and leaning forward to suck my nipples, while I stretch out my hand and take hold of their penises to masturbate them. From there the fantasy progresses. I tip my head back over the side of the bed, and the man there inserts his penis in my mouth. The man between my legs gets onto the bed and inserts his penis in my vagina, and with my mouth, my hands, and my vagina, I make all four of them come at once. After a while, when I start to want another orgasm, I imagine that I am taking them on one at a time for a session of soixante-neuf. One by one, I suck them to erection, and proceed to drain them dry; swallowing each offering of semen from four men, leaving them limp and impotent (for the time being), thrills me immensely, and I enjoy a whole series of wonderful orgasms in this way.