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.

Page 317 of 344 · 20 per page

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

  In short, this develish thing, with its impetuous girds and itching fires, led me such a life, that I could neither, night or day, be at peace with it or myself. In time, however, I thought I had gained a prodigious prize, when figuring to myself that my fingers were something of the shape of what I pined for, I worked my way in with one of them with great agitation and delight; yet not without pain too did I deflower myself as far as it could reach; proceeding with such a fury of passion, in this solitary and last shift of pleasure, as extended me at length breathless on the bed in an amorous melting trance. “But frequency of use dulling the sensation, I soon began to perceive that this work was but a paultry shallow expedient, that went but a little way to relieve me, and rather raised more flame than its dry and insignificant titillation could rightly appease. “Man alone, I almost instinctively knew, as well as by what I had industriously picked up at weddings and christenings, was possessed of the only remedy that could reduce this rebellious disorder; but watched and overlooked as I was, how to come at it was the point, and that, to all appearance, an invincible one; not that I did not rack my brains and invention how at once to elude my mothers vigilance, and procure myself the satisfaction of my impetuous curiosity and longings for this mighty and untasted pleasure. At length, however, a singular chance did at once the work of a long course of alertness. One day that we had dined at an acquaintance over the way, together with a gentlewoman-lodger that occupied the first floor of our house, there started an indispensable necessity for my mother’s going down to Greenwich to accompany her: the party was settled, when I do not know what genius whispered me to plead a headache, which I certainly had not, against my being included in a jaunt that I had not the least relish for.

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

  It was on this foot that I solved to myself all the falsity I employed to procure him that blissful pleasure in it, which most certainly he would not have tasted in the truth of things. Eased, however, and relieved by one discharge, he now applied himself to sooth, encourage, and to put me into humour and patience to bear his next attempt, which he began to prepare and gather force for, from all the incentives of the touch and sight which he could think of, by examining every individual part of my whole body, which he declared his satisfaction with, in raptures of applause, kisses universally imprinted, and sparing no part of me, in all the eagerest wantonness of feeling, seeing, and toying. His vigour, however, did not return so soon, and I felt him more than once pushing at the door, but so little in a condition to break in, that I question whether he had the power to enter, had I held it ever so open; but this he then thought me too little acquainted with the nature of things, to have any regret or confusion about, and he kept fatiguing himself and me for a long time, before he was in any state to resume his attacks with any prospect of success and then I breathed him so warmly, and kept him so at bay, that before he had made any sensible progress in point of penetration, he was deliciously sweated, and wearied out indeed: so that it was deep in the morning before he achieved his second let-go, about half way of entrance, I all the while crying and complaining of his prodigious vigour, and the immensity of what I appeared to suffer splitting up with. Tired, however, at length, with such athletic drudgery, my champion began now to give out, and to gladly embrace the refreshment of some rest.

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

  All my back parts, naked half way up, were now fully at his mercy: and first, he stood at a convenient distance, delighting himself with a gloating survey of the attitude I lay in, and of all the secret stores I thus exposed to him in fair display. Then, springing eagerly towards me, he covered all those naked parts with a fond profusion of kisses; and now, taking hold of the rod, rather wantoned with me, in gentle inflictions on those tender trembling masses of my flesh behind, than in any way hurt them, till by degrees, he began to tingle them with smarter lashes, so as to provoke a red colour into them, which I knew, as well by the flagrant glow I felt there, as by his telling me, they now emulated the native roses of my other cheeks. When he had thus amused himself with admiring, and toying with them, he went on to strike harder, and more hard, so that I needed all my patience not to cry out, or complain at least. At last, he twigged me so smartly as to fetch blood in more than one lash: at sight of which he flung down the rod, flew to me, kissed away the starting drops, and sucking the wounds eased a good deal of my pain.

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

  At the same time the strangest visions began to float before my eyes. First I saw the Alhambra in all the luxuriant loveliness of its Moorish masonry—those sumptuous symphonies of stones and bricks—so like the flourishes of those quaint Gipsy melodies. Then a smouldering unknown fire began to kindle itself within my breast. I longed to feel that mighty love which maddens one to crime, to feel the blasting lust of men who live beneath the scorching sun, to drink down deep from the cup of some satyrion philtre. "The vision changed; instead of Spain, I saw a barren land, the sun-lit sands of Egypt, wet by the sluggish Nile; where Adrian stood wailing, forlorn, disconsolate for he had lost for ever the lad he loved so well. Spell bound by that soft music, which sharpened every sense, I now began to understand things hitherto so strange, the love the mighty monarch felt for his fair Grecian slave, Antinöus, who—like unto Christ—died for his master's sake. And thereupon my blood all rushed from my heart into my head, then it coursed down, through every vein, like waves of molten lead. "The scene then changed, and shifted into the gorgeous towns of Sodom and Gomorrah, weird, beautiful and grand; to me the pianist's notes just then seemed murmuring in my ear with the panting of an eager lust, the sound of thrilling kisses. "Then—in the very midst of my vision—the pianist turned his head and cast one long, lingering, slumberous look at me, and our glances met again. But was he the pianist, was he Antinöus, or rather, was he not one of those two angels which God sent to Lot? Anyhow, the irresistible charm of his beauty was such that I was quite overcome by it; and the music just then seemed to whisper: "'Could you not drink his gaze like wine, Yet though its splendour swoon In the silence languidly As a tune into a tune?' </poem> "That thrilling longing I had felt grew more and more intense, the craving so insatiable that it was changed to pain; the burning fire had now been fanned into a mighty flame, and my whole body was convulsed and writhed with mad desire. My lips were parched, I gasped for breath; my joints were stiff, my veins were swollen, yet I sat still, like all the crowd around me.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I sat in front of my laptop and wrote more words than had come to me in years—all at once. They just strung themselves together and I felt like a writing god. I had to have more of this woman. I’d write a library full of books if I had a year with her. Imagine a lifetime. She was meant for me. I cleaned out my weeds, I cleaned out my closets, I bought a new table and chairs for my kitchen. I finished my book. E-mailed it to my editor. I lingered some more at my kitchen window, industriously washing and rewashing my dishes. It was Christmas before I found her again. Actual Christmas—the day of tinsel and turkey and colorful paper wrapped around goodies we don’t want or need. I have a mother and a father and twin sisters with rhyming names. I was on my way to their house for Christmas dinner when I saw her jogging along the barren sidewalk. She was headed for the lake, her fluorescent sneakers blurring beneath her. She was a flash of speed. Her legs were chorded with muscle. I’d bet she could outrun a deer if she tried. I sped up and pulled into the empty lot of an Indian restaurant about half a mile ahead of her. I could smell the curries seeping from the building: green and red and yellow. I hopped out of my car and crossed the street, planning to cut her off before she reached the lake. She would have to go through me to get to the trail. I looked bolder than I felt. She could tell me to go to hell. By the time she saw me it was too late to pretend she hadn’t. Her pace slowed until she was bent at the knees in front of me. I watched the way her back rose and fell. She was breathing hard. “Merry Christmas,” I said. “Sorry for interrupting your run.” She glared at me from her bent position, confirming my guess that she didn’t want to see me. “I didn’t mean to upset you the last time you were at my house,” I said. “If you’d given me the chance to apologize I wo—” “You didn’t upset me,” she said. And then, “I finished my book.” Finished her book? I gaped. “In the three weeks I haven’t seen you? I thought you’d barely started.” “Yes, and now I’ve finished it.” I opened and closed my mouth. It took me a year to complete a manuscript, and that didn’t include the time I spent on research. “So when you just left like that…?” “I knew what I had to write,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why didn’t you say something? Call me?” I felt like a clingy high school girl. “You’re an artist. I thought you’d understand.”

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

  Barville, who used her house, just come to town, whom she was not a little perplexed about providing a suitable companion for; which was indeed a point of difficulty, as he was under the tyranny of a cruel taste: that of an ardent desire, not only of being unmercifully whipped himself, but of whipping others, in such sort, that though he paid extravagantly those who had the courage and complaisance to submit to his humour, there were few, delicate as he was in the choice of his subjects, who would exchange turns with him so terribly at the expense of their skin. But, what yet increased the oddity of this strange fancy was the gentleman being young; whereas it generally attacks, it seems, such as are, through age, obliged to have recourse to this experiment, for quickening the circulation of their sluggish juices, and determining a conflux of the spirits of pleasure towards those flagging shrivelly parts, that rise to life only by virtue of those titillating ardours created by the discipline of their opposites, with which they have so surprising a consent. This Mrs. Cole could not well acquaint me with, in any expectation of my offering for service: for, sufficiently easy as I was in my circumstances, it must have been the temptation of an immense interest indeed, that could have induced me to embrace such a job, neither had I ever expressed, nor indeed, felt the least impulse or curiosity to know more of a taste, that promised so much more pain than pleasure to those that stood in no need of such violent goads: what then should move me to subscribe myself voluntarily to a party of pain, foreknowing it such? Why, to tell the plain truth, it was a sudden caprice, a gust of fancy for trying a new experiment, mixed with the vanity of approving my personal courage to Mrs. Cole, that determined me, at all risks, to propose myself to her and relieve her from any further look-out. Accordingly, I at once pleased and surprised her, with a frank and unreserved tender of my person to her and her friend’s absolute disposal on this occasion. My good temporal mother was, however, so kind as to use all the arguments she could imagine to dissuade me: but, as I found they only turned on a motive of tenderness to me, I persisted in my resolution, and thereby acquitted my offer of any suspicion of its not having been sincerely made, or out of compliment only.

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

  Thus Emily, who knew no art but that which nature itself, in favour of her principal end, pleasure, had inspired her with, the art of yielding, coy’d it indeed, but coy’d it to the purpose; for with all her straining, her wrestling, and striving to break from the clasp of his arms, she was so far wiser yet than to mean it, that in her struggles, it was visible she aimed at nothing more than multiplying points of touch with him, and drawing yet closer the folds that held them every where entwined, like two tendrils of a vine intercurling: together: so that the same effect, as when Louisa strove in good earnest to disengage from the idiot, was now produced by different motives. Mean while, their emersion out of the cold water had caused a general glow, a tender suffusion of heightened carnation over their bodies; both equally white and smooth-skinned; so that as their limbs were thus amorously interwoven, in sweet confusion, it was scarce possible to distinguish who they respectively belonged to, but for the brawnier, bolder muscles of the stronger sex. In a little time, however, the champion was fairly in with her, and had tied at all points the true lover’s knot; when now, adieu all the little refinements of a finessed reluctance; adieu the friendly feint! She was presently driven forcibly out of the power of using any art; and indeed, what art must not give way, when nature, corresponding with her assailant, invaded in the heart of her capital and carried by storm, lay at the mercy of the proud conqueror, who had made his entry triumphantly and completely?

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

  She then had me untied, but I had to get down on my knees and thank her for the punishment and kiss her hand. [Footnote 2: A woman’s jacket.] “Now you understand the supersensual fool! Under the lash of a beautiful woman my senses first realized the meaning of woman. In her fur-jacket she seemed to me like a wrathful queen, and from then on my aunt became the most desirable woman on God’s earth. “My Cato-like austerity, my shyness before woman, was nothing but an excessive feeling for beauty. In my imagination sensuality became a sort of cult. I took an oath to myself that I would not squander its holy wealth upon any ordinary person, but I would reserve it for an ideal woman, if possible for the goddess of love herself. “I went to the university at a very early age. It was in the capital where my aunt lived. My room looked at that time like Doctor Faustus’s. Everything in it was in a wild confusion. There were huge closets stuffed full of books, which I bought for a song from a Jewish dealer on the Servanica; 3 there were globes, atlases, flasks, charts of the heavens, skeletons of animals, skulls, the busts of eminent men. It looked as though Mephistopheles might have stepped out from behind the huge green store as a wandering scholiast at any moment. [Footnote 3: The street of the Jews in Lemberg.] “I studied everything in a jumble without system, without selection: chemistry, alchemy, history, astronomy, philosophy, law, anatomy, and literature; I read Homer, Virgil, Ossian, Schiller, Goethe, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Voltaire, Molière, the Koran, the Kosmos, Casanova’s Memoirs. I grew more confused each day, more fantastical, more supersensual. All the time a beautiful ideal woman hovered in my imagination. Every so and so often she appeared before me like a vision among my leather-bound books and dead bones, lying on a bed of roses, surrounded by cupids. Sometimes she appeared gowned like the Olympians with the stern white face of the plaster Venus; sometimes in braids of a rich brown, blue-eyes, in my aunt’s red velvet kazabaika, trimmed with ermine. “One morning when she had again risen out of the golden mist of my imagination in all her smiling beauty, I went to see Countess Sobol, who received me in a friendly, even cordial manner. She gave me a kiss of welcome, which put all my senses in a turmoil. She was probably about forty years old, but like most well-preserved women of the world, still very attractive.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  In passing, Frederico also touches on the role of the two remaining cornerstones in boosting his affection for Audrey: searching for power and overcoming ambivalence. He doesn’t like the fact that she controls how often they see each other. Yet her position of power keeps him, quite literally, in hot pursuit. More often than not, the desire to be close is felt most keenly by whichever partner is less secure—Frederico in this case. Nor is it unusual for someone in Frederico’s position to have bouts of ambivalence about the relationship. He naturally wants to avoid being hurt again if this affair is doomed, yet each time he reaffirms that Audrey is worth the risks, his ambivalence is overpowered by his need to be close. CLOSENESS AS AN ANTIAPHRODISIACHardly anyone needs to be convinced that feeling close to someone can be a turn-on. Yet it’s equally important to realize two ways that emotional connections can dampen rather than stimulate desire: (1) when closeness becomes an obligation or demand and (2) when it threatens to dissolve the separateness that is the basis of all attraction. In Frederico’s story, it’s impossible to ignore the contrast between his role as a closed, nonintimate male with his old girlfriend and his eagerness for total involvement with Audrey. We know practically nothing about his old relationship. But in his own analysis of why he felt so much closer to Audrey, Frederico writes, “Nancy [his old girlfriend] made me feel like intimacy was a chore—something to get out of. I also felt completely inadequate to satisfy her. Proving to Nancy that I loved her had become a test I was destined to fail.” Of this I am sure: whenever closeness feels like a requirement—something owed rather than inherently gratifying—it inevitably switches from an aphrodisiac to an antiaphrodisiac. The erotic mind may enthusiastically gravitate toward the risks of intimate self-disclosure. But once you become convinced that you cannot meet that challenge, your enthusiasm changes into avoidance. Many long-term partners set each other up for a similar fate by allowing their closeness to become a “should” rather than a choice. Even couples who manage to avoid making intimacy an obligation will eventually face its paradoxical nature. In early romance the urge to merge magnetically draws the lovers to each other. Yet once they are doing everything together, developing feelings and opinions as a unit rather than as two individuals, they undermine the sense of otherness that was the original basis of their mutual appeal.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  LUSTY ATTRACTIONSDictionary definitions of lust mirror our mixed feelings about it, running the gamut from surprisingly positive to strongly negative. At one pole lust is simply pleasurable delight in our sensual appetites. It can also connote a strong enthusiasm, as in the phrase “lust for life.” Most people see this kind of lust as admirable. Similarly, Webster’s defines “lusty” as “vigorous, robust, and hearty”—nothing negative at all. At the opposite extreme, lust is defined as unrestrained, wanton surrender to carnal urges. From this point of view, a lustful person is often considered lascivious, lecherous, unsavory, and a potential menace. Sexual lust is decidedly unpopular these days, firmly linked with disease, pregnant teenagers, sexual abuse, harassment, sexual addiction, and even lust murders. Given such unappealing associations, it may be difficult to think of it in a positive light. Thus the emphasis has shifted to relationships and monogamy. There’s been quite a change since the 1960s and 1970s, when sexual experimentation was widely celebrated. AIDS, of course, changed all that, but other factors also played a part. If you participated in that era’s “sexual revolution” you got a pretty good look at lust in action and probably weren’t completely comfortable with everything you saw. Many people, especially women, found that casual sex wasn’t particularly satisfying. Although lust has perhaps inevitably fallen into disfavor, we make a terrible mistake if we reject it completely. Our erotic health requires that we make room for lust, for it provides much of the zest that makes sex fun and self-affirming. Socially, it is also very important not to reject lust, no matter how relentless the antisexual clamoring may become. When lust falls victim to the forces of repression, its negative potentials increase dramatically. At the heart of lusty attraction lies the desire for sexual excitation and orgasmic release, pure and simple. It can be profound, utterly meaningless, playful, loving, or hostile. In its most intense forms lust has an animalistic quality that can be exhilarating, frightening, or both. When you’re feeling lusty your attention is focused primarily on whatever it is you want that produces and intensifies sensations of arousal, especially in the genitals. LUST’S OBJECTWhen you see someone who looks sexy, it seems as if that person is making you feel aroused, even though the source of arousal is your own mind and body. The sexy other is simply a stimulus and, at least to a degree, an object. The nature of lust is to objectify, a reality that can be troublesome for many people. According to one popular line of thinking, to see a person as an object is to do him or her a grave injustice. People must always be regarded in their entirety, not merely “used” for selfish gratification. Focusing on just a part of someone for sexual kicks—voluptuous breasts, bulging biceps, or genitals, for instance—may even be considered a form of victimization.

• From The Erotic Mind (1995)

  Notice how he is the source of all the action. But notice also that she is the primary recipient of the attention and pleasure—after all, it’s her fantasy. It could be argued that a girl’s early fantasies of sexual surrender are part of her internal preparation for the submissive role she will later be expected to play. After all, the most familiar images of male-female sexual interaction include at least mild domination by the man along with a complementary yielding by the woman. If, however, early submission fantasies help prepare us for adult sex-role behavior, many of the men in The Group appear to have been studying the wrong scripts as boys. When men remember images’ of power in their earliest fantasies, as they often do, they’re just as likely as women to be submitting to a highly desirable but more experienced and powerful other, as in Juan’s fantasy: When I was in fourth or fifth grade, I had a crush on my teacher. Miss Peters. I would fantasize that I did something bad (even though in reality I tried to be her favorite) so I had to stay after school. I imagined she took off my clothes to punish me, but I didn’t mind a bit. I wanted her to touch me. I especially liked the idea of being forced to sit under her desk while she graded papers, waiting for her to spread her legs so I could sneak a peek at her panties. With few exceptions, when The Group’s earliest fantasies involve power roles, the fantasizer, whether a boy or a girl, is being guided, coaxed, or forced into sensual or sexual experimentation. Yet such fantasies are virtually always described as pleasurable, with the frequent exception of guilt afterward. In my view, we first discover the erotic potentials of receptivity and aggression in the powerlessness, especially concerning sexual matters, of our youth. PARADOXES OF POWERPower positions in sex are often described as “top” (the forceful, aggressive initiator) or “bottom” (the receptive, yielding responder). At first glance it may appear obvious who’s playing which role. It’s commonly assumed, for instance, that the inserter in intercourse—vaginal or anal—is the top, while the insertee is the bottom. Likewise, a person being “done” or pleasured is seen as bottom because the “doer” is more active. Perceptions shift, however, in male-male encounters; the receiver of oral stimulation is usually seen as the top because he is assumed to be in a more manly position. When people describe the subjective experience of a top-bottom encounter, there’s hardly anything obvious about who’s in control. I have consistently observed that whenever people engage in sexual power exchanges voluntarily and enthusiastically, whether they play the role of top or bottom, they feel an enormous sense of powerfulness and validation. Peter, a construction worker in his mid-thirties, demonstrates the paradox of empowerment through submission, as his beautiful and aggressive girlfriend teaches him a thing or two:

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  I wonder if we will discover a fourth. Even as I come across pages of Knotted and hand them to Isaac, it is the nameless book that catches my attention. Each page has a line that pulls at my eyes. I read them, re-read them. No one I know writes this way, yet it is so familiar. I feel a lust for this author’s words. A jealousy at being able to string such rich sentences together. The first line keeps coming back to me with each subsequent line I read. The punishment for her peace was upon him, and he gave her rest. I don’t notice when Isaac disappears from the room to make us food. I smell it when he comes back and hands me a bowl of soup. I set it aside, intent on finishing my work, but he picks it up and places it back in my hands. “Eat it,” he instructs me. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I reluctantly place the spoon in my mouth, sucking the salty brown broth. I set the spoon aside and drink from the bowl, my eyes still scanning the piles set neatly around me. My leg is aching, as is my back, but I don’t want to stop. If I ask Isaac to help me move he will guess at my discomfort and force me to rest. I rub the small of my back when he’s not looking, and press on. “I know what you’re doing,” he says, as he leans over his pile of pages. I look up in surprise. “What?” “When you think I’m not looking, I am.” I flush, and my hand automatically reaches for my aching muscles. I pull back at the last minute and curl my hand into a fist instead. Isaac snickers and shakes his head, turning back to his work. I’m glad he doesn’t press the issue. I pick up another page. It’s my own. The story I wrote for Nick. Instead of putting it on its pile, I read it. True and trite. It was my call to him. The first line of the book went like this: Every time you want to remember what love feels like, you look for me. That line grabbed every woman who had ever offered their throbbing little heart to a man. Because we all have someone who reminds us of what love stings like. That unreliquished love that slips between our fingers like sand. The second line of the book confused them a little. It’s why their eyes kept following my trail of words. I was dropping breadcrumbs for the disaster that was to come. Stay the fuck away from me. I only wrote the book because he wrote one for me. It seemed fair. Most people text, or call, or write e-mails. My love and I write each other books.

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

  "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. "At the sight of this tableau vivant of hellish concupiscence, all our blood rose bubbling to our heads. Everyone seemed eager to enjoy what those four men were feeling. Every unhooded phallus was not only full of blood, but as stiff as a rod of iron, and painful in its erection. Everyone was writhing as if tormented by an inward convulsion. I myself, not inured to such sights, was groaning with pleasure, maddened by Teleny's exciting kisses, and by the doctor, who was pressing his lips on the soles of my feet. "Finally, by the lusty thrusts the Spahi was now giving, by the eager way the general was sucking and the Marquis was being sucked, we understood that the last moment had come.

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

  But scarce was supper well over, before a change so incredible was wrought in me, such violent, yet pleasingly irksome sensations took possession of me that I scarce knew how to contain myself; the smart of the lashes was now converted into such a prickly heat, such fiery tinglings, as made me sigh, squeeze my thighs together, shift and wriggle about my seat, with a furious restlessness; whilst these itching ardours, thus excited in those parts on which the storm of discipline had principally fallen, detached legions of burning, subtile, stimulating spirits, to their opposite spot and centre of assemblage, where their titillation raged so furiously, that I was even stinging made with them. No wonder then that in such a taking, and devoured by flames that licked up all modesty and reserve, my eyes, now charged brimful of the most intense desire, fired on my companion very intelligible signal of distress: my companion, I say, who grew in them every instant more amiable, and more necessary to my urgent wishes and hopes of immediate ease. Mr. Barville, no stranger, by experience, to these situations, soon knew the pass I was brought to soon perceived my extreme disorder; in favour of which, removing the table out of the way, he began a prelude that flattered me with instant relief, to which I was not, however, so near as I imagined: for as he was unbuttoned to me, and tried to provoke and rouse to action his unactive torpid machine, he blushingly owned that no good was to be expected from it, unless I took it in hand to re-excite its languid loitering powers, by just refreshing the smart of the yet recent blood-raw cuts, seeing it could, no more than a boy’s top, keep up without lashing.

• From Mud Vein (2014)

  It made me wonder what he did on the mornings of his days off. He walked toward me and stopped just in time to keep two solid feet between us. He was wearing a light blue fleece, pushed up past his elbows. I was shocked to see the dark ink of tattoos peeking out. What type of doctor had tattoos? “I have a doctor’s appointment,” I said stepping around him. “I’m a doctor.” I was glad to be turned away from him when I smiled. “Yes, I know. There are quite a few others in the state of Washington.” His head jerked back like he was surprised I was anything but the stoic, expressionless victim he’d been cooking for. I was opening the driver’s side door to my Volvo when he held out his hand for my keys. “I’ll drive you.” I dropped my eyes into his hand and snuck another look at the tattoos. Words—I could just make out the tip of them. My eyes slid up the sleeves of his shirt and rested on his neck. I didn’t want to look in his eyes when I handed him my keys. A doctor who loved words. Imagine that. I was curious. What did a man who had held a screaming woman all night have written on his body? I sat in the passenger seat and instructed Isaac where to go. My radio was on the classical station. He turned it up to hear what was playing and then lowered it back down. “Do you ever listen to music with words?” “No. Turn left here.” He turned the corner and shot me a curious look. “Why not?” “Because simplicity speaks the loudest.” I cleared my throat and stared straight ahead. I sounded like such a chump. I felt him looking at me, cutting into me like one of his patients. I didn’t want to be dissected. “Your book,” he said. “People talk about it. It’s not simple.” I don’t say anything. “You need simplicity to create complexity,” he said. “I get it. I suppose too much can clog up your creativity.” Exactly. I shrugged. “This is it,” I said softly. He turned into a medical complex and pulled into a parking spot near the main entrance. “I’ll wait for you right here.” He didn’t ask where I was going or what I was here for. He simply parked the car where he could see me walk in and out of the building and waited. I liked that. Dr. Monroe was an oncologist. In mid December I found a lump in my right breast. I forgot about the worry of cancer in the wake of a more immediate and needier pain. I sat in his waiting room, my hands pressed between my knees, a strange man waiting in my car, and all I could think about were Isaac’s words.

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

  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.” “Dangerous forces lie within me,” said Wanda, after we had gone a few steps further. “You awaken them, and not to your advantage. You know how to paint pleasure, cruelty, arrogance in glowing colors. What would you say should I try my hand at them, and make you the first object of my experiments. I would be like Dionysius who had the inventor of the iron ox roasted within it in order to see whether his wails and groans really resembled the bellowing of an ox. “Perhaps I am a female Dionysius?” “Be it,” I exclaimed, “and my dreams will be fulfilled. I am yours for good or evil, choose.

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

  H....’s polite joys, in an undress, which was with all the art of negligence flowing loose, and in a most tempting disorder: no stays, no hoop..., no incumbrance whatever. On the other hand, he stood at a little distance, that gave me a full view of a fine featured, shapely, healthy country lad, breathing the sweets of fresh blooming youth; his hair, which was of a perfect shining black, played to his face in natural side curls, and was set out with a smart tuck-up behind; new buckskin breechs, that, clipping close, shewed the shape of a plump, well made thigh; white stockings, garter- laced livery, shoulder knot, altogether composed a figure of pure flesh and blood, and appeared under no disgrace from the lowness of a dress, to which a certain spruce neatness seems peculiarly fitted. I bid him come towards me, and give me his letter, at the same time throwing down, carelessly, a book I had in my hands. He coloured, and came within reach of delivering me the letter, which he held out, awkwardly enough, for me to take, with his eyes rivetted on my bosom, which was, through the designed disorder of my handkerchief, sufficiently bare, and rather than hid.

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

  Wanda swung the whip, and hit me twice. “Are you satisfied now?” “No.” “Seriously, no?” “Whip me, I beg you, it is a joy to me.” “Yes, because you know very well that it isn’t serious,” she replied, “because I haven’t the heart to hurt you. This brutal game goes against my grain. Were I really the woman who beats her slaves you would be horrified.” “No, Wanda,” I replied, “I love you more than myself; I am devoted to you for death and life. In all seriousness, you can do with me whatever you will, whatever your caprice suggests.” “Severin!” “Tread me underfoot!” I exclaimed, and flung myself face to the floor before her. “I hate all this play-acting,” said Wanda impatiently. “Well, then maltreat me seriously.” An uncanny pause. “Severin, I warn you for the last time,” began Wanda. “If you love me, be cruel towards me,” I pleaded with upraised eyes. “If I love you,” repeated Wanda. “Very well!” She stepped back and looked at me with a sombre smile. “Be then my slave, and know what it means to be delivered into the hands of a woman.” And at the same moment she gave me a kick. “How do you like that, slave?” Then she flourished the whip. “Get up!” I was about to rise. “Not that way,” she commanded, “on your knees.” I obeyed, and she began to apply the lash. The blows fell rapidly and powerfully on my back and arms. Each one cut into my flesh and burned there, but the pains enraptured me. They came from her whom I adored, and for whom I was ready at any hour to lay down my life. She stopped. “I am beginning to enjoy it,” she said, “but enough for to-day. I am beginning to feel a demonic curiosity to see how far your strength goes. I take a cruel joy in seeing you tremble and writhe beneath my whip, and in hearing your groans and wails; I want to go on whipping without pity until you beg for mercy, until you lose your senses. You have awakened dangerous elements in my being. But now get up.” I seized her hand to press it to my lips. “What impudence.” She shoved me away with her foot. “Out of my sight, slave!” * * * * * After having spent a feverish night filled with confused dreams, I awoke. Dawn was just beginning to break. How much of what was hovering in my memory was true; what had I actually experienced and what had I dreamed? That I had been whipped was certain. I can still feel each blow, and count the burning red stripes on my body. And she whipped me. Now I know everything. My dream has become truth. How does it make me feel? Am I disappointed in the realization of my dream? No, I am merely somewhat tired, but her cruelty has enraptured me. Oh, how I love her, adore her!

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

  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. So far everything went well. I sat beside Wanda, and she chatted very graciously and intelligently with me, as with a good friend, concerning Italy, Pisemski’s new novel, and Wagner’s music. She wore a sort of Amazonesque travelling-dress of black cloth with a short jacket of the same material, set with dark fur. It fitted closely and showed her figure to best advantage. Over it she wore dark furs. Her hair wound into an antique knot, lay beneath a small dark fur-hat from which a black veil hung. Wanda was in very good humor; she fed me candies, played with my hair, loosened my neck cloth and made a pretty cockade of it; she covered my knees with her furs and stealthily pressed the fingers of my hand. When our Jewish driver persistently went on nodding to himself, she even gave me a kiss, and her cold lips had the fresh frosty fragrance of a young autumnal rose, which blossoms alone amid bare stalks and yellow leaves and upon whose calyx the first frost has hung tiny diamonds of ice. * * * * * We are at the district capital. We get out at the railway station. Wanda throws off her furs and places them over my arm, and goes to secure the tickets. When she returns she has completely changed. “Here is your ticket, Gregor,” she says in a tone which supercilious ladies use to their servants. “A third-class ticket,” I reply with comic horror. “Of course,” she continues, “but now be careful. You won’t get on until I am settled in my compartment and don’t need you any longer. At each station you will hurry to my car and ask for my orders. Don’t forget. And now give me my furs.”

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

  He puts himself into the woman’s hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel. I’ve gotten to like you so much, however, that I’ll try it with you.” I fell down at her feet. “For heaven’s sake, here you are kneeling already,” she said mockingly. “You are making a good beginning.” When I had risen again she continued, “I will give you a year’s time to win me, to convince me that we are suited to each other, that we might live together. If you succeed, I will become your wife, and a wife, Severin, who will conscientiously and strictly perform all her duties. During this year we will live as though we were married—” My blood rose to my head. In her eyes too there was a sudden flame— “We will live together,” she continued, “share our daily life, so that we may find out whether we are really fitted for each other. I grant you all the rights of a husband, of a lover, of a friend. Are you satisfied?” “I suppose, I’ll have to be?” “You don’t have to.” “Well then, I want to—” “Splendid. That is how a man speaks. Here is my hand.” * * * * * For ten days I have been with her every hour, except at night. All the time I was allowed to look into her eyes, hold her hands, listen to what she said, accompany her wherever she went. My love seems to me like a deep, bottomless abyss, into which I subside deeper and deeper. There is nothing now which could save me from it. This afternoon we were resting on the meadow at the foot of the Venus-statue. I plucked flowers and tossed them into her lap; she wound them into wreaths with which we adorned our goddess. Suddenly Wanda looked at me so strangely that my senses became confused and passion swept over my head like a conflagration. Losing command over myself, I threw my arms about her and clung to her lips, and she—she drew me close to her heaving breast. “Are you angry?” I then asked her. “I am never angry at anything that is natural—” she replied, “but I am afraid you suffer.” “Oh, I am suffering frightfully.” “Poor friend!” she brushed my disordered hair back from my fore-head. “I hope it isn’t through any fault of mine.” “No—” I replied,—“and yet my love for you has become a sort of madness.