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)

  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 Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I get up on the driver’s seat, wiping drops of perspiration from my brow. She gives the name of the hotel, and the driver urges on his horse. In a few minutes we halt at the brilliantly illuminated entrance. “Have you any rooms?” she asks the portier. “Yes, madame.” “Two for me, one for my servant, all with stoves.” “Two first-class rooms for you, madame, both with stoves,” replied the waiter who had hastily come up, “and one without heat for your servant.” She looked at them, and then abruptly said: “they are satisfactory, have fires built at once; my servant can sleep in the unheated room.” I merely looked at her. “Bring up the trunks, Gregor,” she commands, paying no attention to my looks. “In the meantime I’ll be dressing, and then will go down to the dining-room, and you can eat something for supper.” As she goes into the adjoining room, I drag the trunks upstairs and help the waiter build a fire in her bed-room. He tries to question me in bad French about my employer. With a brief glance I see the blazing fire, the fragrant white poster-bed, and the rugs which cover the floor. Tired and hungry I then descend the stairs, and ask for something to eat. A good-natured waiter, who used to be in the Austrian army and takes all sorts of pains to entertain me in German, shows me the dining-room and waits on me. I have just had the first fresh drink in thirty-six hours and the first bite of warm food on my fork, when she enters. I rise. “What do you mean by taking me into a dining-room in which my servant is eating,” she snaps at the waiter, flaring with anger. She turns around and leaves. Meanwhile I thank heaven that I am permitted to go on eating. Later I climb the four flights upstairs to my room. My small trunk is already there, and a miserable little oil-lamp is burning. It is a narrow room without fire-place, without a window, but with a small air-hole. If it weren’t so beastly cold, it would remind me of one of the Venetian piombi.4 Involuntarily I have to laugh out aloud, so that it re-echoes, and I am startled by my own laughter. [Footnote 4: These were notorious prisons under the leaden roof of the Palace of the Doges.] Suddenly the door is pulled open and the waiter with a theatrical Italian gesture calls “You are to come down to madame, at once.” I pick up my cap, stumble down the first few steps, but finally arrive in front of her door on the first floor and knock. “Come in!” I enter, shut the door, and stand attention.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  CaraI have occasionally fantasized about two of my friends, both of whom have very womanly figures. I do not mean “womanly” in the Raquel Welch sense. That sort of body doesn’t appeal to me. Rather, they are soft-looking, buxom women. I would imagine myself as a man making love to one of these women. The breasts were very important for excitation. I should add that I’ve had no real experience with women, am married and prefer it this way. [Letter] CeliaI am nineteen, a secretary, and am due to be married this year. My fiancé and I do not have sexual intercourse. We have been going out for just three years. We do, however, frequently have oral sex and are looking forward to an extremely happy and varied sex life together. In sex, I often think of someone else (no one I know), especially if I am not finding it easy to reach orgasm. I find it particularly exciting to think of another woman and generally this “does the trick.” Generally, I make up situations—strip clubs (watching or performing); slave girl (!); anything where I am forced to take off my clothes and make love. Sometimes I imagine there is just one other woman, other times that there are two women and a man. I get quite turned on by female nudity or pictures (I always read erotic literature before masturbating, to give myself ideas!), and it automatically shows up in fantasies. The women in my fantasies are not friends; I just picture a faceless woman’s body. I don’t think I actually imagine touching her. I just enjoy the thought of the naked body. I prefer to imagine she is touching me. When I was a little girl, about eight, I remember always bullying my best friend into playing games where we had to pretend to take off our clothes and the “wicked man” would make us walk in the street, or the inevitable school situations where we would force each other to do things. I remember when I was about ten, wanting to be a stripper… and there may have been some kind of intimate contact with my girlfriend, but I really can’t remember. I did have quite sexy ideas… like wanting another girl to dry me down after showering, or being forced in various ways to take my clothes off. I would be interested to know how many women (what percentage) are bisexual, as opposed to men. I can imagine myself to be, but I suspect that my apparent interest in women, having read through my letter, is just objective and a form of extra stimulation.

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

  "'Yes, I did see you look towards my side, and——' "'And you were jealous!' "'Yes,' said I, almost inaudibly. "He pressed my arms strongly against his body for all answer, then after a pause, he added hurriedly, and in a whisper: "'You must know that I do not care for a single girl in this world, I never did. I could never love a woman.' "My heart was beating strongly, I felt a choking feeling as if something was griping my throat. "'Why should he be telling me this?' said I to myself. "'Did you not smell a scent just then?' "'A scent,—when?' "'When I was playing the gavotte; you have forgotten perhaps." "'Let me see, you are right, what scent was it?' "'Lavande ambrée.' "'Exactly.' "'Which you do not care for, and which I dislike; tell me, which is your favourite scent?' "'Heliotrope blanc.' "Without giving me an answer, he pulled out his handkerchief and gave it to me to smell. "'All our tastes are exactly the same, are they not?' And saying this, he looked at me with such a passionate and voluptuous longing, that the carnal hunger depicted in his eyes made me feel faint. "'You see, I always wear a bunch of white heliotrope; let me give this to you, that its smell may remind you of me to-night, and perhaps make you dream of me.' "And taking the flowers from his button-hole, he put them into mine with one hand, whilst he slipped his left arm round my waist and clasped me tightly, pressing me against his whole body for a few seconds. That short space of time seemed to me an eternity. "I could feel his hot and panting breath against my lips. Below, our knees touched, and I felt something hard press and move against my thigh. "My emotion just then was such that I could hardly stand; for a moment I thought he would kiss me—nay, the crisp hair of his moustache was slightly tickling my lips, producing a most delightful sensation. However, he only looked deep into my eyes with a demoniac fascination. "I felt the fire of his glances sink deep into my breast, and far below. My blood began to boil and bubble like a burning fluid, so that I felt my——, (what the Italians call a 'birdie,' and what they have portrayed as a winged cherub) struggle within its prison, lift up its head, open its tiny lips, and again spout one or two drops of that creamy, life-giving fluid. "But those few tears—far from being a soothing balm—seemed to be drops of caustic, burning me, and producing a strong, unbearable irritation. I was tortured. My mind was a hell. My body was on fire. "'Is he suffering as much as I am?' said I to myself. "Just then he unclasped his arm from round my waist, and it fell lifeless of its own weight like that of a man asleep.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  I emailed from Oklahoma, and the night I got back to campus, he took me to dinner. It was four days after my twentieth birthday. He kissed me, my second-ever kiss. After the next date, we went back to his apartment a few blocks from campus, and I lost my virginity in his twin bed. It hurt less than I’d heard it would—so little, actually, that I asked him: Are you in yet? Afterward, he got up to use the bathroom, and when he came back, his hands smelled like Lubriderm, like my grandmother. [image file=image_rsrc2FK.jpg] Going on dates, I’d ask myself: Can I be someone who can live with this? A ruggedly handsome ecology major who consistently arrives forty-five minutes late and whose sheets are scratchy with soil and dog hair? A blond fitness trainer I met outside a gym who spent our first date talking about his ex and the dreamy daylong bike rides they took together? I wanted to be fun and low-maintenance, flexible and light on my feet. I wanted to be sleek as a dolphin, able to glide through any situation. I wanted to give everyone a chance. How else would I know what love felt like, if I didn’t try? 6The first time I ate rabbit was with Laura. The meat was shredded and served warm, sauced with olive oil and flecks of cilantro. She’d done the ordering. I’d never eaten rabbit, but I didn’t tell her. As I raised my fork to spear a piece, there was a funny beat of wings in my stomach. Next to me, Laura was already chewing, small-talking with the bartender, holding her wineglass by the stem, like someone who knew how to do things. I was twenty-one, on the cusp of twenty-two. It was the summer after my junior year of college, and I was living at my aunt Tina’s house, an hour or so north of Stanford. I worked at Whole Foods in Mill Valley, at the prepared-foods counter, making sandwiches to order and scooping deli salads. Adjacent to prepared foods was the bakery, where I had a crush on a surfer guy who worked behind the pastry case. He had a lean body and hair that fell into his eyes like a horse’s forelock. I dreamed about him once: he was in a swimming pool, and he burst through the surface of the water in slow motion, tossing his hair like Sebastian Bach in a Skid Row video.

• From The Fixed Stars: A Memoir (2020)

  I took her to a bar owned by a friend. I wanted to make it all seem ordinary. I needed this to be ordinary. I’d texted the friend ahead of time with a forcefully matter-of-fact heads-up, told her I’d figured out that I wasn’t straight, la la la, that Brandon and I had opened our relationship, that if she saw me at the bar, looking datey with a woman, that was why. Our friend must have told the bartender, who was an acquaintance. When he saw me with Nora, he smiled and introduced himself to her, and then he bought us a round. He unfurled a semblance of normalcy over us, light as a blanket on sand. We ate tacos on the same side of the banquette. I put my feet up on a chair, and so did she. By unspoken agreement, we did not allow them to touch. We could have gone up in flames. Are you sure your husband is okay with this? she said. How does he feel about it? I reassured her. I said he’d gone out one night this week and had let himself flirt a bit. I didn’t want to talk about him. The street was empty as we walked to my car. We stopped on the sidewalk beside a brick house with expensively pruned hedges. Something wobbled in my stomach, went zinging up between my ears. Can I kiss you? I asked, and then I did. Her mouth was open just enough. My lips found her upper lip just right of center, and I kissed the ridge where it met the skin above. Her tongue moved gently, a polite suggestion. I felt her mouth close around my lower lip, and I drove myself against her, linked my hands at the small of her back. Her breasts pressed against my chest. They were bigger than mine, pliant the way a waterbed is, and they made a peculiar spacer between us. I’d never collided this way with familiar and foreign, like-me and not-me. I’d never been this close to another woman, not since I was an infant with my mother. Nora and I were not the same person, but she knew what it felt like to have breasts, to have a vagina, to live in a body like this, to move it through the world, to move it against another body. This was a new intimacy: the pleasure of sameness. Her thigh slid between my legs and offered itself to me. I pressed my pelvis against the firm pad of her muscle and gave her my own thigh in return. We fit, because she was made like me. She whispered into my mouth and I pulled in her words like air.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  I am twenty-nine years old, have been married for eleven years to a merchant seaman, and have two children. My husband is at sea for almost six months of every year, and during one of his trips about three years ago I was introduced to lesbianism by two young girls. My first experience with these girls was so completely satisfying and wonderfully exciting that I now relive the scene almost every time I make love with my husband when he is at home. The scene I picture is as follows: My husband is at sea and the children are at my mother’s for the weekend, because I am having a night out with the girls at the office to celebrate one of the girls’ coming wedding. I have invited two of the girls to spend the night at my place, as they live in the next town and they would have had to leave the party early to make the last train home. We arrive at my place, late and tired after the party. I flop down on the chair and say that I wish that I had a maid who would undress me and get me ready for bed. The girls say they will be my maids and proceed to undress me. When they take off my bra and panties they are obviously very excited by what they see, and both say they have never seen breasts as large and beautiful as mine before. They ask if they could touch them. I say they may do anything they want with them, and soon my nipples become very large and firm with their caresses. Then they take a breast each and kiss and suck my large but very sensitive nipples, and at the same time they begin to caress my tummy and thighs, and soon I am squirming all over the chair. When I start moving they release my breasts, and one of the girls sits on the arm of the chair and starts to kiss me very tenderly and lovingly and then more demandingly. Soon our tongues are deep into each other’s mouths. While this is going on, the other girl is kneeling on the carpet between my legs caressing my thighs and tummy until I am about frantic with desire. I am moving all over the place trying to direct her fingers into my vagina, but she ignores my attempts. Suddenly I almost go crazy when I feel her head go between my legs and her tongue enter my vagina. I have an orgasm almost immediately, and nearly scream the house down in the process. While I am regaining my breath, the girls strip off and make love on the carpet while I watch. We then have a shower together and all three go to bed and make love all night. [Letter] ***

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  With the farmyard animals there is no licking, no clitoral stimulation either in fantasy or fact. I don’t think there are many women who have actually been fucked by a bull or a donkey, either—though it is supposed to be not entirely unknown at “stag” (ah!) dinners. With barnyard studs, imagined or not, it’s all about the visible turn-on of the prick, the incredible size of it more than anything. Imagine something that big—which you reacted to with such fascination, at least the first time you saw it, even if you almost immediately glanced away with embarrassment—imagine that penetrating you! How can a woman look at a prick that big and not imagine it going into her? It’s like looking at a racing car and ignoring the thrill of speed. I don’t think it’s literally a desire to be fucked by these animals, simply an attempt to imagine what it would be like to have so much prick “filling” you up. In fantasy and reality, women repeatedly refer to “being filled”; perhaps it’s a woman’s way of expressing her sexual desire for more. But since everyone knows that unless the man is abnormally small, it isn’t penis size that really matters, I think this female cry only uses size as a kind of visible metaphor to express a desire for greater sex, completer sex, the essence of sex. Advertisers have found that the public responds when they call their product “the coffeeer coffee” and “the chocolate-ier chocolate.” Should it be any surprise then that women desire sexier sex? JoI often have this fantasy when I’m alone, or with time on my hands, or even when I’m making love with my husband. I am alone in the house. My husband has left for work. I begin my housework downstairs, clearing the dishes from the dining room into the kitchen. I take off my nightgown and housecoat and work in the nude. While I work, the neighbor’s dog follows me. He always comes over to visit. I take no notice of him, but his wet nose and warm breath move between my legs whenever I pause. Briefly I will let my legs part, and his tongue will dart out and lick me while I continue my chores as though he weren’t even there. I keep moving about, not giving him or me too much. Slowly, as if not noticing, I let him have more: now two licks, increasing to three, four, his nose burrowing into my privates as I allow him to get at me for longer and longer periods. Suddenly he tires of the game and stops following, just as I have finished cleaning all the downstairs rooms. Except the kitchen. I always save the kitchen for last.

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

  I then just hinted to him not to mention in the house his having seen such a person as me, for reasons I would explain to him more at leisure. And then, for fear of miscarrying, by being seen together, I tore myself from him with a bleeding heart, and stole up softly to my room, where I found Phœbe still fast asleep, and hurrying off my few clothes, lay down by her, with a mixture of joy and anxiety, that may be easier conceived than expressed. The risks of Mrs. Brown’s discovering my purpose, of disappointments, misery, ruin, all vanished before this new-kindled flame. The seeing, the touching, the being, if but for a night, with this idol of my fond virgin heart, appeared to me a happiness above the purchase of my liberty or life. He might use me ill, let him: he was the master, happy, too happy, even to receive death at so dear a hand. To this purpose were the reflections of the whole day, of which every minute seemed to me a little eternity. How often did I visit the clock! nay, was tempted to advance the tedious hand, as if that would have advanced the time with it! Had those of the house had the least observations on me, they must have remarked something extraordinary from the discomposure I could not help betraying; especially when at dinner mention was made of the charmingest youth having been there, and stayed breakfast. “Oh! he was such a beauty!... I should have died for him!... they would pull caps for him!...” and the like fooleries; which, however, was throwing oil on a fire I was sorely put to it to smother the blaze of. The fluctuations of my mind, the whole day, produced one good effect: which was, that, through mere fatigue, I slept tolerably well till five in the morning, when I got up, and having dressed myself, waited, under the double tortures of fear and impatience, for the appointed hour. It came at last, the dear, critical, dangerous hour came; and now, supported only by the courage love lent me, I ventured, a tip-toe, down stairs, leaving my box behind, for fear of being surprized with it in going out.

• 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.