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 Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "She pressed her lips again upon his, and almost relinquished her grasp. The hand went stealthily up along the leg, stopped a moment on the knees, caressing them; but the legs closely pressed together prevented it from slipping between them, and thus reaching the higher storey. It crept slowly up, nevertheless, caressing the thighs through the fine linen underclothing, and thus, by stolen marches, it reached its aim. The hand then slipped between the opening of the drawers, and began to feel the soft skin. She tried to stop him. "'No, no!' said she; 'please dont; you are tickling me.' "He then took courage, and plunged his fingers boldly in the fine curly locks of the fleece that covered all her middle parts. "She continued to hold her thighs tightly closed together, especially when the naughty fingers began to graze the edge of the moist lips. At that touch, however, her strength gave way; the nerves relaxed, and allowed the tip of a finger to worm its way within the slit—nay, the tiny berry protruded out to welcome it. "After a few moments she breathed more strongly. She encircled his breast with her arms, kissed him, and then hid her head on his shoulder. "'Oh, what a rapture I feel!' she cried. 'What a magnetic fluid you possess to make me feel I as do!' "He did not give her any answer; but, unbuttoning his trousers, he took hold of her dainty little hand. He endeavoured to introduce it within the gap. She tried to resist, but weakly, and as if asking but to yield. She soon gave way, and boldly caught hold of his phallus, now stiff and hard, moving lustily by its own inward strength. "After a few moments of pleasant manipulation, their lips pressed together, he lightly, and almost against her knowledge, pressed her down on the couch, lifted up her legs, pulled up her skirts without for a moment taking his tongue out of her mouth or stopping his tickling of her tingling clitoris already wet with its own tears. Then—sustaining his weight on his elbows—he got his legs between her thighs. That her excitement increased could be visibly seen by the shivering of the lips which he had no need to open as he pressed down upon her, for they parted of themselves to give entrance to the little blind God of Love.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  AnnaI’m amused to see that your habit of being an “incurable fly-watcher” applies to me, also. Sometimes it can even be a little fun when you suddenly realize that the guy is watching you! Of course this all depends on who it is. I think it excites a man for him to think that you’re interested in what he looks like under his clothes. [Letter] VeraI, too, am a “crotch-watcher.” I can’t help imagining the exact shape and size of a man “there” when I look at him, and I invariably compare him to my fiancé. [Letter] UnaI myself am so unconscious of looking at men, of glancing at their crotches as they approach me on the street, that I can be thinking of what to buy for dinner while my mind is speculating on just what a guy has done to himself to achieve a particularly interesting arrangement of his genitalia. They can get the most remarkable effects! In fact, my husband says that I notice on which side a man dresses before I’ve even shaken hands. A funny thing happened to me one day as I was hurrying home from work, thinking about God knows what, but also checking out the oncoming stream of men hurrying home. I suppose I wasn’t even aware of how intently I stared at one particular man’s well-fitting trousers until just as we passed—tweak!—he reached out and tweaked my nipple! Just like that, on Fifth Avenue! I was stunned. I stopped, turned around with my mouth gaping open, watching him disappear… and then I laughed. What else could I do? [Letter] LoisI love seeing the bulge beneath a boy’s tight jeans and imagining what is underneath. I long to know whether he might or might not be circumcised. I have always preferred uncircumcised boys. [Letter] LizI am also an incurable fly-watcher, and also a bottom-watcher, imagining the reality beneath the clothing. I also have an almost irresistible urge to run my fingers through a man’s hair when it is well cut, reasonably long, and looks clean and soft. I find men’s naked bodies very exciting (and often wish there was the equivalent of “girlie” magazines for us women). [Letter] WinonaSometimes when I have been on a train or a bus I have found myself looking at men’s trousers to see if I can trace the shape and size of the penis. Sometimes I have noticed a penis stiffen when the man has looked at my breasts or when he tries to get a glimpse of my thighs and then it excites me to think that I am the cause of his erection. [Letter] RubyI do daydream a bit; if I have heard that a boy is particularly large, or good in bed, or something, then when I see him I undress him mentally, wondering what he looks like naked. [Letter]

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  …when sex got a bit mundane, I found myself imagining one night that I was “Jane” in a jungle hut being made love to. I screamed out “Tarzan!” and tore at my lover’s hair. The fantasy ended miserably when some of hubby’s last strands came away in my hands. …I am being made love to in a huge, dimpled, whiskey bottle, hung from top to bottom in tiger skins. My lover is dressed as an executioner, with eyes glittering through his mask, and when he takes me, the tiger skins slither down to reveal my entire family gazing in shock, horror, and bewilderment. Please don’t print my name or my family really will be shocked! …I have only one romantic fantasy about men, and that is that I would love to walk out dressed to kill with my three children looking like TV model children. As I pass, every man looks at me and desires me, thinking how beautiful I keep myself for a woman with three children. …my fantasy always takes place on a deserted beach. I am taking an evening stroll when I meet my heartthrob. I have had this fantasy ever since I was a teenager. Of course, the heartthrob changes from time to time. …although I am over sixty, I am still a romantic at heart, and a very happily married woman. I must confess I often look at an attractive man at a social “do,” or while waiting for the bus, and wonder what sort of partner he would make on a stolen weekend. I suspect not all the virile types make the best lovers! It is an exciting fantasy, and I’m thankful no one can read my thoughts, most of all my dear husband. …I’m tall, elegant, and intelligent. I am always at a masked ball where I am made love to by every man I desire. I never take off the mask. Of course, in reality I’m short, thin, not very intelligent, and middle-aged. But I’m happily married. …killing my daily traveling boredom, my mind always drifts to the jungle. Tarzan has me prisoner in his treetop home. He is wild, passionate, making love like the primitive man that he is. But how I enjoy every rough, clawing moment, so different from civilized delicacies. I’ve lost count of the times Tarzan has forced me to indulge in his animal sexual pleasures, but they keep getting better. I’m the seventh wife of Henry Tudor, Each night he comes to my boudoir. By day I am Olde Englande’s Queen, But by night it’s a different scene. There’s love, there’s passion, and there’s lust, On Saturdays an orgy’s a must. I know I shan’t go to the Tower, For through my sex I have great power. Of all his wives from one to seven I only transport him to seventh heaven.

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

  “So you too are one of those who rave about modern women, those miserable hysterical feminine creatures who don’t appreciate a real man in their somnambulistic search for some dream-man and masculine ideal. Amid tears and convulsions they daily outrage their Christian duties; they cheat and are cheated; they always seek again and choose and reject; they are never happy, and never give happiness. They accuse fate instead of calmly confessing that they want to love and live as Helen and Aspasia lived. Nature admits of no permanence in the relation between man and woman.” “But, my dear lady—” “Let me finish. It is only man’s egoism which wants to keep woman like some buried treasure. All endeavors to introduce permanence in love, the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence, have gone shipwreck in spite of religious ceremonies, vows, and legalities. Can you deny that our Christian world has given itself over to corruption?” “But—” “But you are about to say, the individual who rebels against the arrangements of society is ostracized, branded, stoned. So be it. I am willing to take the risk; my principles are very pagan. I will live my own life as it pleases me. I am willing to do without your hypocritical respect; I prefer to be happy. The inventors of the Christian marriage have done well, simultaneously to invent immortality. I, however, have no wish to live eternally. When with my last breath everything as far as Wanda von Dunajew is concerned comes to an end here below, what does it profit me whether my pure spirit joins the choirs of angels, or whether my dust goes into the formation of new beings? Shall I belong to one man whom I don’t love, merely because I have once loved him? No, I do not renounce; I love everyone who pleases me, and give happiness to everyone who loves me. Is that ugly? No, it is more beautiful by far, than if cruelly I enjoy the tortures, which my beauty excites, and virtuously reject the poor fellow who is pining away for me. I am young, rich, and beautiful, and I live serenely for the sake of pleasure and enjoyment.” While she was speaking her eyes sparkled roguishly, and I had taken hold of her hands without exactly knowing what to do with them, but being a genuine dilettante I hastily let go of them again. “Your frankness,” I said, “delights me, and not it alone—” My confounded dilettantism again throttled me as though there were a rope around my neck. “You were about to say—” “I was about to say—I was—I am sorry—I interrupted you.” “How, so?” A long pause. She is doubtless engaging in a monologue, which translated into my language would be comprised in the single word, “donkey.” “If I may ask,” I finally began, “how did you arrive at these—these conclusions?”

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

  “I feel a perfect horror, when I imagine, that the woman I love and who has responded to my love could give herself to another regardless of me. But have I still a choice? If I love such a woman, even unto madness, shall I turn my back to her and lose everything for the sake of a bit of boastful strength; shall I send a bullet through my brains? I have two ideals of woman. If I cannot obtain the one that is noble and simple, the woman who will faithfully and truly share my life, well then I don’t want anything half-way or lukewarm. Then I would rather be subject to a woman without virtue, fidelity, or pity. Such a woman in her magnificent selfishness is likewise an ideal. If I am not permitted to enjoy the happiness of love, fully and wholly, I want to taste its pains and torments to the very dregs; I want to be maltreated and betrayed by the woman I love, and the more cruelly the better. This too is a luxury.” “Have you lost your senses,” cried Wanda. “I love you with all my soul,” I continued, “with all my senses, and your presence and personality are absolutely essential to me, if I am to go on living. Choose between my ideals. Do with me what you will, make of me your husband or your slave.” “Very well,” said Wanda, contracting her small but strongly arched brows, “it seems to me it would be rather entertaining to have a man, who interests me and loves me, completely in my power; at least I shall not lack pastime. You were imprudent enough to leave the choice to me. Therefore I choose; I want you to be my slave, I shall make a plaything for myself out of you!” “Oh, please do,” I cried half-shuddering, half-enraptured. “If the foundation of marriage depends on equality and agreement, it is likewise true that the greatest passions rise out of opposites. We are such opposites, almost enemies. That is why my love is part hate, part fear. In such a relation only one can be hammer and the other anvil. I wish to be the anvil. I cannot be happy when I look down upon the woman I love. I want to adore a woman, and this I can only do when she is cruel towards me.” “But, Severin,” replied Wanda, almost angrily, “do you believe me capable of maltreating a man who loves me as you do, and whom I love?” “Why not, if I adore you the more on this account? It is possible to love really only that which stands above us, a woman, who through her beauty, temperament, intelligence, and strength of will subjugates us and becomes a despot over us.” “Then that which repels others, attracts you.” “Yes. That is the strange part of me.”

• From Manhunt (2022)

  Ramona felt a surge of horny frustration at the sight of their wide, round ass. She wrestled for a moment with the temptation to retrieve the paddle from the closet by the painted-over inner door. It made the most delicious sound against their creamy skin. Don’t be a fucking idiot. “Sorry,” she said lamely, feeling suddenly awkward in the doorway of the messy bedroom. “Sorry I kicked you.” “No big,” said Feather, shrugging. They held the lighter to the piece’s bowl, the weed inside kindling into reddish embers. They sucked smoke, then let it stream out from their nostrils before pursing their lips to blow a ring. She wanted to hook her fingers in their mouth and yank their head up until they were staring helpless up at her, drooling on her hand. But it was over. They’d moved on from the scene, their shoulders relaxing, their manner shifting from bratty panic to an almost lizard-like calm. Ramona picked at her right cuff, teasing a loose thread and telling herself that she didn’t want to cry, that this wasn’t a big deal. Just a fat hooker doing their job. “Settle up tomorrow?” They smiled. The sunlight coming through the window and the leaves of the pear tree outside fell in dappled tatters across the goldfish sleeve tattooed on their left shoulder. “Sure, honey.” She left by the back stairs, cutting through the apartment’s cramped little kitchen and taking the narrow, whitewashed steps two at a time. In the building’s deserted first-floor hall she paused before a water-spotted mirror to center her septum piercing and straighten the collar of her jacket where, embroidered in golden thread, the words MARYLAND WOMYN’S LEGION XX-XIII-V stood out bold against the green. Boston’s city hall was a brutalist stack of honeycombed concrete cells, recessed windows glinting between its regimented slabs. It faced a long, tiered plaza, the steps of which ran down to Court Street where the old hall and state house had been burned and dynamited and now only twisted steel and broken masonry were left. Across the plaza to the north stood the JFK federal building, webbed in scaffolding from the structural work the city had begun last year. Ramona liked Boston; it was old and earthy and the wind off the harbor was pleasantly cool. The city had none of Maryland’s cloying pseudo-Southern politeness.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  » I am not a lesbian, and I preface my letter with this comment because it may be thought that I am one when you hear about my fantasies. My particular fantasy concerns punishment with the cane, and by talking about it once, I was introduced to a woman who looked normal outwardly, but within a few minutes at her home, when I first went there, I realized that she wanted to whip me before having her usual larks in her kind of sex. I made the bargain with her that the only instrument to which I would subject myself was the school cane—not a garden cane or something about an inch thick. I cannot tell you why, but my fantasy has always been that I like to imagine myself as a naughty girl of about seventeen, hauled up in front of the headmistress for a caning, and that I am wearing the old-fashioned type of gym tunic and Directoire knickers down to my knees. From this stage I like to be told to bend over, after a lecturing, and then get caned with my gym tunic raised, the cane coming on my knickers. Therefore I told my lesbian friend just how far she could go, and the date and scene were agreed upon. Naturally I found that the whipping I got with the cane wasn’t half so thrilling as the fantasy, and while I had no heart in masturbation with the lesbian woman, it came easily after the punishment. Since then I’ve found a young man—much younger than I am by the way—who enjoys playing these caning games with me, and in addition allows me to flog him with the cane, on his bottom. When our bottoms are red and smarting, but not horribly marked with a real thrashing, we get down to sex. All my fantasies are concerned with various methods of being caned, and various methods of me giving the cane to someone else. For instance, I would like to be tied hand and foot, and then given twelve strokes of the birch, but if this happened, I would probably faint with the awful pain. Another of my ideas is to be strapped down on a wide seat of a swing, secured to the ceiling. As the swing comes backwards, my bottom would make a fine target for the person caning me. Another idea is that I would like to be strapped down over a flogging bench, just in knickers and bra, and the flogging bench would have handles in front which I would grip with my hands. As I pressed these bars down, by leverage there would be a rubber penis at the other end, and this would come right into me between my legs. I imagine myself being caned in this way, and enjoying masturbation via the rubber penis once the caning got going.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  The only people that know I’m gay are one of my sisters and my shrink, so I don’t have anyone to go out with. Anyway, my fantasy has to do with a woman who is thirty-four and not exactly beautiful, but extremely attractive. She has the most piercing blue eyes. I like feminine women, but not glamorous ones. I’m also attracted to her mentally. We have so much in common. We’re both vegetarians and love children. I met her through the children I watch. She works at a learning center that I go to. As far as I know she’s single and lives on her own. I see her about twice a week and we talk. I can’t stop staring at her eyes and smiling a lot. I wonder if she knows how I feel. Well, in my fantasy we’re sitting in a meadow on top of a mountain (I love to be outside) and just talking and she touches my arm, as people often do when talking, but her touch lingers and she realizes what she is doing. I take her hand and intertwine my fingers with hers. Then I lean forward and run my tongue along her lower lip and she grabs my head and kisses me passionately, but softly, as only a woman can. At this point she lays me back and while still kissing me, takes off my shirt and my bra (I have large breasts) and starts to roughly caress my tits. Then she trails her mouth down my neck to between my tits and up to my nipple and bites me just the way I like it. It’s as if she knows exactly what I want. All of a sudden there is a tree behind us, just the right size for her to tie me up. She then moves down my body biting me and licking until she gets to my pants which she removes (I don’t wear underwear) and starts to taste me without remorse until the point where I’m screaming. I feel her tongue dart out and caress my clit. Then her lips are around it and she sucks it into her mouth, then bites me. The pleasure that goes through my body is almost unbearable. (By the way, her name is Nancy.) Well, Nancy separates my lips and enters me with her tongue and finger. She continues all of this over and over again until I climax uncontrollably (something I’ve never experienced before). At the end of this fantasy she unties me and it happens all over again. In every relationship I’ve had I was the dominant one. I guess I want to be dominated.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  It’s worth repeating my conviction that fantasy need have nothing to do with reality, in terms of suppressed wish-fulfillment. Women like Julietta (coming up), whose fantasy life is focused on the rape theme, invariably insist that they have no real desire to be raped, and would, in fact, run a mile from anyone who raised a finger against them, and I believe them. The message isn’t in the plot—the old hackneyed rape story—but in the emotions that story releases. Julietta“I believe I can love more than one man at a time. That’s not a theory. I always do. That’s why I don’t want to get married, and why I prefer my affairs with men who already are. They are in no position to demand monogamy from me.” That’s Julietta. With strong views like these, it didn’t come as any surprise to me when she told me during our conversations that she is a strong believer in Women’s Lib. “But it would frighten my mother to hear me say it,” says Julietta. “I grew up on a little farm, but I left as soon as I was old enough to travel by myself. My mother stayed on the farm. That’s the difference between women of her generation and me.” » It may sound freaky coming from me, but while I enjoy going to bed with some guy I dig almost any time, I especially like it if there’s something in the air that lets me think I’m doing it against my will. That I’m being forced by the man’s overwhelming physical strength. Something like that. The doctors call this kind of thing as a rape fantasy, but that’s as far as I want it to go. On the fantasy level, not the real thing. I don’t go out by myself on dark nights, and if any horny stud threatened me, even with a gun, I’d scream my head off. All this doesn’t sound like me, but you might say that the person I am today is totally at war with the girl my mother tried to make me. So whatever there is left in me of the girl my mother preferred, that girl wants to think that it’s not really her fault, that she’s being forced into this sexual scene. That I’m really good little Julie.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  The most important detail in my fantasies, even when I masturbate, is my breasts. As young as five or six I was fascinated by breasts and used to try to imagine what it felt like to have them. I would stare for hours at photos of film stars. Not naked breasts. My images were always of breasts with material stretched tightly across them. They strained and pushed against the fabric as if trying to burst through it. My own breasts, in reality, are fine; no one’s ever complained. But in my fantasies my figure is truly fantastic; my breasts are enormous and they are my greatest weapon in my seduction scenes. I just have to close my eyes, turn on this picture of my bigger-than-Raquel-Welch breasts, and no man can resist me. [Letter] KayI was a bit of a tomboy at age ten and I remember dressing up as a pirate, pulling the trousers up very tight against my crotch, and putting one of my father’s old leather belts very tightly around me. I didn’t know what the reason was, all I knew was that it felt good “down there,” and that I ended up playing pirate a lot. When I was eleven or so, I used to get distinctly excited by “strapping” myself very tightly around my genitals and immersing myself in a cold bath more or less fully clothed. Around this age and later I had dreams about wrestling people in a pit of slushy mud, completely encased in a wet suit, and being completely buried in the mud. While thinking this I’d rub myself against the seam of my pajama trousers. [Conversation] TrudyOnly now as I’m writing do I remember that my sister and I used to pretend that we were making it with our dog. He cooperated quite nicely. My fantasies about dogs still continue, so that when my husband is entering me from the back, I think of dogs humping, something I remember seeing frequently since I was three or four years old. [Letter] MonaI hope you will keep my name confidential, as I have never told anybody this before. From what I’ve read, I think that I am a sadist. I may be a masochist as well, as I very often daydream about being tortured. I developed sexually at about twelve, and as I was very wild and disobedient growing up, my parents decided to send me to a strict convent school. Corporal punishment was allowed in this school. A strap was always used. The head nun, Sister Rosario, would take an offender—which was very often me—up to the front of the class, tell her to bend down and touch her toes, and then, having lifted up her tunic, she would hit her across the buttocks.

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

  "She took the lifeless object in her delicate fingers. She rubbed and manipulated it. She even rolled it between her two soft hands. It remained like a piece of dough. She sighed as piteously as Ovid's mistress must have done on a like occasion. She did like this woman did some hundreds of years before. She bent down; she took the tip of that inert piece of flesh between her lips—the pulpy lips which looked like a tiny apricot—so round, sappy, and luscious. Soon it was all in her mouth. She sucked it with as much evident pleasure as if she were a famished baby taking her nurse's breast. As it went in and out, she tickled the prepuce with her expert tongue, touched the tiny lips on her palate. "The phallus, though somewhat harder, remained always limp and nerveless. "You know our ignorant forefathers believed in the practice called 'nouer les aiguillettes'—that is, rendering the male incapable of performing the pleasant work for which Nature has destined him. We, the enlightened generation, have discarded such gross superstitions, and still our ignorant forefathers were sometimes right." "What! you do not mean to say that you believe in such tomfoolery?" "It might be tomfoolery, as you say; but still it is a fact. Hypnotize a person, and then you will see if you can get the mastery over him or not." "Still, you had not hypnotized Teleny?" "No, but our natures seemed to be bound to one another by a secret affinity." "At that moment I felt a secret shame for Teleny. Not being able to understand the working of his brain, she seemed to regard him in the light of a young cock, who, having crowed lustily once or twice at early dawn, has strained his neck to such a pitch that he can only emit hoarse, feeble, gurgling sounds out of it after that. "Moreover, I almost felt sorry for that woman; and I thought, if I were only in her place, how disappointed I should be. And I sighed, repeating almost audibly,—'Were I but in her stead.' "The image which had formed itself within my mind so vividly was all at once reverberated within Réné's brain; and he thought, if instead of this lady's mouth those lips were my lips; and his phallus at once stiffened and awoke into life; the glands swelled with blood; not only an erection took place, but it almost ejaculated. The Countess—for she was a Countess—was herself surprised at this sudden change, and stopped, for she had now obtained what she wanted; and she knew that—'Depasser le but, c'est manquer la chose.'

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

  She is found agreeable by an elderly gentleman, much debauched, who at first has her come merely to attend to the affairs of the moment; she has the skill to cause herself magnificently to be kept; it is not long before she is appearing at the theater, at promenades, amongst the elite, the very cordon bleu of the Cytherean order; she is beheld, mentioned, desired, and the clever creature knows so well how to manage her affairs that in less than four years she ruins six men, the poorest of whom had an annuity of one hundred thousand crowns. Nothing more is needed to make her reputation; the blindness of fashionable people is such that the more one of these creatures has demonstrated her dishonesty, the more eager they are to get upon her list; it seems that the degree of her degradation and her corruption becomes the measure of the sentiments they dare display for her. Juliette had just attained her twentieth year when a certain Comte de Lorsange, a gentleman out of Anjou, about forty years of age, became so captivated by her he resolved to bestow his name upon her; he awarded her an income of twelve thousand pounds and assured her of the rest of his fortune were he to be the first to die; he gave her, as well, a house, servants, lackeys, and the sort of mundane consideration which, in the space of two or three years, succeeded in causing her beginnings to be forgot. It was at this point the fell Juliette, oblivious of all the fine feelings that had been hers by birthright and good education, warped by bad counsel and dangerous books, spurred by the desire to enjoy herself, but alone, and to have a name but not a single chain, bent her attentions to the culpable idea of abridging her husband's days. The odious project once conceived, she consolidated her scheme during those dangerous moments when the physical aspect is fired by ethical error, instants when one refuses oneself much less, for then nothing is opposed to the irregularity of vows or to the impetuosity of desires, and the voluptuousness one experiences is sharp and lively only by reason of the number of the restraints whence one bursts free, or their sanctity. The dream dissipated, were one to recover one's common-sense mood the thing would be of but mediocre import, 'tis the story of mental wrong-doing; everyone knows very well it offends no one; but, alas! one sometimes carries the thing a little farther.

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

  I was nervous from loss of sleep, and the proximity of the beautiful woman affected me like a fever. I no longer recall what I said, but I remember that I kissed her feet, and finally raised her foot and put my neck under it. She withdrew it quickly, and rose almost angrily. “If you love me, Severin,” she said quickly, and her voice sounded sharp and commanding, “never speak to me of those things again. Understand, never! Otherwise I might really—” She smiled and sat down again. “I am entirely serious,” I exclaimed, half-raving. “I adore you so infinitely that I am willing to suffer anything from you, for the sake of spending my whole life near you.” “Severin, once more I warn you.” “Your warning is vain. Do with me what you will, as long as you don’t drive me away.” “Severin,” replied Wanda, “I am a frivolous young woman; it is dangerous for you to put yourself so completely in my power. You will end by actually becoming a plaything to me. Who will give warrant that I shall not abuse your insane desire?” “Your own nobility of character.” “Power makes people over-bearing.” “Be it,” I cried, “tread me underfoot.” Wanda threw her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes, and shook her head. “I am afraid I can’t, but I will try, for your sake, for I love you Severin, as I have loved no other man.” * * * * * To-day she suddenly took her hat and shawl, and I had to go shopping with her. She looked at whips, long whips with a short handle, the kind that are used on dogs. “Are these satisfactory?” said the shopkeeper. “No, they are much too small,” replied Wanda, with a side-glance at me. “I need a large—” “For a bull-dog, I suppose?” opined the merchant. “Yes,” she exclaimed, “of the kind that are used in Russia for intractable slaves.” She looked further and finally selected a whip, at whose sight I felt a strange creeping sensation. “Now good-by, Severin,” she said. “I have some other purchases to make, but you can’t go along.” I left her and took a walk. On the way back I saw Wanda coming out at a furrier’s. She beckoned me. “Consider it well,” she began in good spirits, “I have never made a secret of how deeply your serious, dreamy character has fascinated me. The idea of seeing this serious man wholly in my power, actually lying enraptured at my feet, of course, stimulates me—but will this attraction last? Woman loves a man; she maltreats a slave, and ends by kicking him aside.” “Very well then, kick me aside,” I replied, “when you are tired of me. I want to be your slave.”

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

  I instantly crept softly and posted myself so, that seeing everything minutely, I could not myself be seen; and who should come in but the venerable mother Abbess herself! handed in by a tall, brawny young Horse-grenadiers, moulded in the Hercules style: in fine, the choice of the most experienced dame, in those affairs, in all London. Oh! how still and hush did I keep at my stand, lest any noise should baulk my curiosity, or bring Madam into the closet! But I had not much reason to fear either, for she was entirely taken up with her present great concern, that she had no sense of attention to spare to anything else. Droll was it to see that clumsy fat figure of her’s flop down on the foot of the bed, opposite to the closet door so that I had a full front view of all her charms. Her paramour sat down by her: he seemed to be a man of very few words, and a great stomach; for proceeding instantly to essentials, he gave her some hearty smacks, and thrusting his hands into her breasts, disengaged them from her stays, in scorn of whose confinement they broke loose, and sagged down, navel-low at least. A more enormous pair did my eyes never behold, nor of a worse colour, flagging, soft, and most lovingly contiguous: yet such as they were, this great beef-eater seemed to paw them with a most unenviable lust, seeking in vain to confine or cover one of them with a hand scarce less than a shoulder of mutton. After toying with them thus some time, as if they had been worth it, he laid her down pretty briskly, and canting up her petticoats, made barely a mask of them to her broad red face, that blushed with nothing but brandy. As he stood on one side, unbuttoning his waistcoat and breeches, her fat brawny thighs hung down, and the whole greasy landscape lay fairly open to my view; a wide open mouthed gap, overshaded with a grizzly bush, seemed held out like a beggar’s wallet for its provision. But I soon had my eyes called off by a more striking object that entirely engrossed them. Her sturdy stallion had now unbuttoned, and produced naked, stiff and erect, that wonderful machine, which I had never seen before, and which, for the interest my own seat of pleasure began to take furiously in it, I stared at with all the eyes I had: however, my senses were too much flurried, too much concentered in that now burning spot of mine, to observe anything more than in general the make and turn of that instrument; from which the instinct of nature, yet more than all I had heard of it, now strongly informed me, I was to expect that supreme pleasure which she had placed in the meeting of those parts so admirably fitted for each other.

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

  “I felt there was something sacred in sex; in fact, it was the only sacred thing. In woman and her beauty I saw something divine, because the most important function of existence—the continuation of the species—is her vocation. To me woman represented a personification of nature, Isis, and man was her priest, her slave. In contrast to him she was cruel like nature herself who tosses aside whatever has served her purposes as soon as she no longer has need for it. To him her cruelties, even death itself, still were sensual raptures. “I envied King Gunther whom the mighty Brunhilde fettered on the bridal night, and the poor troubadour whom his capricious mistress had sewed in the skins of wolves to have him hunted like game. I envied the Knight Ctirad whom the daring Amazon Scharka craftily ensnared in a forest near Prague, and carried to her castle Divin, where, after having amused herself a while with him, she had him broken on the wheel—” “Disgusting,” cried Wanda. “I almost wish you might fall into the hands of a woman of their savage race. In the wolf’s skin, under the teeth of the dogs, or upon the wheel, you would lose the taste for your kind of poetry.” “Do you think so? I hardly do.” “Have you actually lost your senses.” “Possibly. But let me go on. I developed a perfect passion for reading stories in which the extremest cruelties were described. I loved especially to look at pictures and prints which represented them. All the sanguinary tyrants that ever occupied a throne; the inquisitors who had the heretics tortured, roasted, and butchered; all the woman whom the pages of history have recorded as lustful, beautiful, and violent women like Libussa, Lucretia Borgia, Agnes of Hungary, Queen Margot, Isabeau, the Sultana Roxolane, the Russian Czarinas of last century—all these I saw in furs or in robes bordered with ermine.” “And so furs now rouse strange imaginings in you,” said Wanda, and simultaneously she began to drape her magnificent fur-cloak coquettishly about her, so that the dark shining sable played beautifully around her bust and arms. “Well, how do you feel now, half broken on the wheel?” Her piercing green eyes rested on me with a peculiar mocking satisfaction. Overcome by desire, I flung myself down before her, and threw my arms about her. “Yes—you have awakened my dearest dream,” I cried. “It has slept long enough.” “And this is?” She put her hand on my neck. I was seized with a sweet intoxication under the influence of this warm little hand and of her regard, which, tenderly searching, fell upon me through her half-closed lids. “To be the slave of a woman, a beautiful woman, whom I love, whom I worship.” “And who on that account maltreats you,” interrupted Wanda, laughing. “Yes, who fetters me and whips me, treads me underfoot, the while she gives herself to another.”

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

  "One of the guests shewed us how to make a Priapean fountain, or the proper way of sipping liqueurs. He got a young Ganymede to pour a continuous thread of Chartreuse out of a long-beaked silver ewer down on Briancourt's chest. The liquid trickled down the stomach and through the tiny curls of the jet-black, rose-scented hair, all along the phallus, and into the mouth of the man kneeling in front of him. The three men were so handsome, the group so classic, that a photograph was taken of it by lime-light. "'It's very pretty," said the Spahi, "but I think I can shew you something better still.' "'And what is that?' asked Briancourt. "'The way they eat preserved dates stuffed with pistachioes in Algiers; and as you happen to have some on the table, we can try it.' "The old general chuckled, evidently enjoying the fun. "The Spahi then made his bed-fellow go on all fours, with his head down and his backside up; then he slipped the dates into the hole of the anus, where he nibbled them as his friend pressed them out, after which he licked carefully all the syrup that oozed out and trickled on the buttocks. "Everybody applauded and the two men evidently were excited, for their battering-rams were jerking up their heads, and nodding significantly. "'Wait, don't get up yet,' said the Spahi, 'I haven't yet quite finished; let me just put the fruit of the tree of knowledge into it.' Thereupon he got on him, and taking his instrument in his hand, he pressed it into the hole in which the dates had been; and slippery as the gap was, it disappeared entirely after a thrust or two. The officer then did not pull it out at all, but only kept rubbing himself against the other man's buttocks. Meanwhile the cock of the sodomized man was so restless that it commenced beating a tattoo against its owner's stomach. "'Now for the passive pleasures that are left for age and experience,' said the general. And he began to teaze the glans with his tongue, to suck it, and to twiddle the column with his fingers in the deftest way. "The delight expressed by the sodomized man seemed indescribable. He panted, he shivered, his eyelids drooped, his lips were languid, the nerves of his face twitched; he seemed, every moment, ready to faint with too much feeling. Still he appeared to be resisting the paroxysm with might and main, knowing that the Spahi had acquired abroad the art of remaining in action for any length of time. Every now and then his head fell as if all his strength was gone, but then he lifted it up again, and—opening his lips—'Someone—in my mouth,' said he. "The Italian Marquis, who had doffed his gown, and who had nothing on but a diamond necklace and a pair of black silk stockings, got astride on two stools over the old general, and went to satisfy him.

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

  “Oh, you have already paid me,” he said, with a tormented smile, refusing her offer. Before he left, he secretly opened his portfolio, and let me look inside. I was startled. Her head looked at me as if out of a mirror and seemed actually to be alive. “I shall take it along,” he said, “it is mine; she can’t take it away from me. I have earned it with my heart’s blood.” * * * * * “I am really rather sorry for the poor painter,” she said to me to-day, “it is absurd to be as virtuous as I am. Don’t you think so too?” I did not dare to reply to her. “Oh, I forgot that I am talking with a slave; I need some fresh air, I want to be diverted, I want to forget. “The carriage, quick!” Her new dress is extravagant: Russian half-boots of violet-blue velvet trimmed with ermine, and a skirt of the same material, decorated with narrow stripes and rosettes of furs. Above it is an appropriate, close-fitting jacket, also richly trimmed and lined with ermine. The headdress is a tall cap of ermine of the style of Catherine the Second, with a small aigrette, held in place by a diamond-agraffe; her red hair falls loose down her back. She ascends on the driver’s seat, and holds the reins herself; I take my seat behind. How she lashes on the horses! The carriage flies along like mad. Apparently it is her intention to attract attention to-day, to make conquests, and she succeeds completely. She is the lioness of the Cascine. People nod to her from carriages; on the footpath people gather in groups to discuss her. She pays no attention to anyone, except now and then acknowledging the greetings of elderly gentlemen with a slight nod. Suddenly a young man on a lithe black horse dashes up at full speed. As soon as he sees Wanda, he stops his horse and makes it walk. When he is quite close, he stops entirely and lets her pass. And she too sees him—the lioness, the lion. Their eyes meet. She madly drives past him, but she cannot tear herself free from the magic power of his look, and she turns her head after him. My heart stops when I see the half-surprised, half-enraptured look with which she devours him, but he is worthy of it. For he is, indeed, a magnificent specimen of man, No, rather, he is a man whose like I have never yet seen among the living. He is in the Belvedere, graven in marble, with the same slender, yet steely musculature, with the same face and the same waving curls. What makes him particularly beautiful is that he is beardless. If his hips were less narrow, one might take him for a woman in disguise. The curious expression about the mouth, the lion’s lip which slightly discloses the teeth beneath, lends a flashing tinge of cruelty to the beautiful face—

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

  “Quite simply, my father was an intelligent man. From my cradle onward I was surrounded by replicas of ancient art; at ten years of age I read Gil Blas, at twelve La Pucelle. Where others had Hop-o’-my-thumb, Bluebeard, Cinderella, as childhood friends, mine were Venus and Apollo, Hercules and Lackoon. My husband’s personality was filled with serenity and sunlight. Not even the incurable illness which fell upon him soon after our marriage could long cloud his brow. On the very night of his death he took me in his arms, and during the many months when he lay dying in his wheel chair, he often said jokingly to me: ‘Well, have you already picked out a lover?’ I blushed with shame. ‘Don’t deceive me,’ he added on one occasion, ‘that would seem ugly to me, but pick out an attractive lover, or preferably several. You are a splendid woman, but still half a child, and you need toys.’ “I suppose, I hardly need tell you that during his life time I had no lover; but it was through him that I have become what I am, a woman of Greece.” “A goddess,” I interrupted. “Which one,” she smiled. “Venus.” She threatened me with her finger and knitted her brows. “Perhaps, even a ‘Venus in Furs.’ Watch out, I have a large, very large fur, with which I could cover you up entirely, and I have a mind to catch you in it as in a net.” “Do you believe,” I said quickly, for an idea which seemed good, in spite of its conventionality and triteness, flashed into my head, “do you believe that your theories could be carried into execution at the present time, that Venus would be permitted to stray with impunity among our railroads and telegraphs in all her undraped beauty and serenity?” “Undraped, of course not, but in furs,” she replied smiling, “would you care to see mine?” “And then—” “What then?” “Beautiful, free, serene, and happy human beings, such as the Greeks were, are only possible when it is permitted to have slaves who will perform the prosaic tasks of every day for them and above all else labor for them.” “Of course,” she replied playfully, “an Olympian divinity, such as I am, requires a whole army of slaves. Beware of me!” “Why?” I myself was frightened at the hardiness with which I uttered this “why”; it did not startle her in the least. She drew back her lips a little so that her small white teeth became visible, and then said lightly, as if she were discussing some trifling matter, “Do you want to be my slave?”

• From Sexual Politics (1970)

  And I could feel her beginning to come. The doubt in me had tipped her off, the adjuration to be quiet had thrown the bolt. She was a minute away, but she was on her way, and just as if one of her wily fingers had thrown some switch in me, I was gone like a bat and shaking hands with the Devil once more. Rare greed shone in her eyes, pleasure in her mouth, she was happy. I was ready to chase, I was gorged to throw the first spill, high on a choice, like some cat caught on two wires I was leaping back and forth, in separate runs for separate strokes, bringing spoils and secrets up to the Lord from the red mills, bearing messages of defeat back from that sad womb, and then I chose-ah, but there was time to change-I chose her cunt. It was no graveyard now, no warehouse, no, more like a chapel now, a modest decent place, but its walls were snug, its odor was green, there was a sweetness in the chapel, a muted reverential sweetness in those walls of stone. “That is what prison will be like for you,” said a last effort of my inner tongue. “Stay here!” came a command from inside of me; except that I could feel the Devil’s meal beneath, its fires were lifting through the floor, and I waited for the warmth to reach inside, to come up from the cellar below, to bring booze and heat up and licking tongues, I was up above a choice which would take me on one wind or another, and I had to give myself, I could not hold back, there was an explosion, furious, treacherous and hot as the gates of an icy slalom with the speed at my heels overtaking my nose. I had one of those splittings of a second where the senses fly out and there in that instant the itch reached into me and drew me out and I jammed up her ass and came as if I’d been Rung across the room. She let out a cry of rage.17 The foregoing is a description of heterosexual sodomy from Norman Mailer’s An American Dream. The practice is not only one of the book’s primary attractions, but so central to the action that one might even say the plot depended on it. Mailer’s hero, Stephen Rojack, has just finished murdering his wife and is now relieving his feelings by buggering his maid.

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

  "Nothing is a greater incentive to pleasure than a fight. A short tussle with some tingling slaps and a few cuffs will set any man aglow, whilst a sound flagellation will rouse the blood of the most sluggish old man, better than any aphrodisiac. "The struggle excited her as much as it did me, and yet no sooner had I stretched her down, than she managed forthwith to roll down all in a bundle on the floor; but I was up to her tricks and over her. She managed, however, to slip like an eel from under me, and with a bound like a young kid, made for the door. I had, however, locked it. "A new scuffle ensued, I was now bent upon having her. Had she yielded tamely, I should have ordered her out of the room, but resistance rendered her desirable. "I clasped her within my arms, she writhed and sighed, and every part of our bodies came into strong contact. Then I thrust my leg between her's, our arms were entwined and her breasts were palpitating against my chest. During all this time she belaboured me with blows, and each one as it fell seemed to set both her blood and mine on fire. "I had thrown off my coat. The buttons of my waistcoat and trousers were all giving way, my shirt-collar had been torn off, my shirt was soon in rags, my arms were bleeding in several places. Her eyes were glistering like those of a lynx, her lips were pouted with lust, she now seemed to struggle not to defend her maidenhood, but rather for the pleasure the fight gave her. "As I pressed my mouth on her's, I felt her whole body quiver with delight, nay once—and once only—I felt the tip of her tongue thrust slightly within my mouth, and then she seemed maddened with pleasure. She was in fact like a young Mænad in her first initiation. "I actually began to desire her, and yet I felt sorry to sacrifice her at once on love's altar, for this little game was worth being rehearsed more than once. "I lifted her again in my arms and put her on the bed. "How pretty she looked as I held her down. Her curly and wavy hair dishevelled by the fight was strewed in locks all over the pillows. Her dark lively eyes, with their short but thick lashes, were twinkling with an almost phosphorescent fire, her face all aglow was bedabbled with my blood, her parted, panting lips would have made the soft phallus of some old worn-out monsignore leap with renewed life. "I had pinioned her down and for a moment stood over her, admiring her. My glances seemed to irritate her, and she struggled once more to be free.