Desire

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The City of God

  Wherefore let us go on to consider what virtues of the Romans they were which the true God, in whose power are also the kingdoms of the earth, condescended to help in order to raise the empire, and also for what reason He did so. And, in order to discuss this question on clearer ground, we have written the former books, to show that the power of those gods, who, they thought, were to be worshipped with such trifling and silly rites, had nothing to do in this matter; and also what we have already accomplished of the present volume, to refute the doctrine of fate, lest any one who might have been already persuaded that the Roman empire was not extended and preserved by the worship of these gods, might still be attributing its extension and preservation to some kind of fate, rather than to the most powerful will of God most high. The ancient and primitive Romans, therefore, though their history shows us that, like all the other nations, with the sole exception of the Hebrews, they worshipped false gods, and sacrificed victims, not to God, but to demons, have nevertheless this commendation bestowed on them by their historian, that they were "greedy of praise, prodigal of wealth, desirous of great glory, and content with a moderate fortune."[193] Glory they most ardently loved: for it they wished to live, for it they did not hesitate to die. Every other desire was repressed by the strength of their passion for that one thing. At length their country itself, because it seemed inglorious to serve, but glorious to rule and to command, they first earnestly desired to be free, and then to be mistress. Hence it was that, not enduring the domination of kings, they put the government into the hands of two chiefs, holding office for a year, who were called consuls, not kings or lords.[194] But royal pomp seemed inconsistent with the administration of a ruler (_regentis_), or the benevolence of one who consults (that is, for the public good) (_consulentis_), but rather with the haughtiness of a lord (_dominantis_). King Tarquin, therefore, having been banished, and the consular government having been instituted, it followed, as the same author already alluded to says in his praises of the Romans, that "the state grew with amazing rapidity after it had obtained liberty, so great a desire of glory had taken possession of it." That eagerness for praise and desire of glory, then, was that which accomplished those many wonderful things, laudable, doubtless, and glorious according to human judgment. The same Sallust praises the great men of his own time, Marcus Cato, and Caius Cæsar, saying that for a long time the republic had no one great in virtue, but that within his memory there had been these two men of eminent virtue, and very different pursuits. Now, among the praises which he pronounces on Cæsar he put this, that he wished for a great empire, an army, and a new war, that he might have a sphere where his genius and virtue might shine forth. Thus it was ever the prayer of men of heroic character that Bellona would excite miserable nations to war, and lash them into agitation with her bloody scourge, so that there might be occasion for the display of their valour. This, forsooth, is what that desire of praise and thirst for glory did. Wherefore, by the love of liberty in the first place, afterwards also by that of domination and through the desire of praise and glory, they achieved many great things; and their most eminent poet testifies to their having been prompted by all these motives:

• From The History of Sexuality, Vol. 3: The Care of the Self (1984)

  Musonius indicates in another passage how this form of unity has been inscribed by Nature in each individual. The treatise Is Marriage a Handicap for the Pursuit of Philosophy? evokes the original division brought about in the human species between men and women.4 Musonius reflects on the fact that after having separated the two sexes, the Creator wished to bring them back together. Now, Musonius notes, he brought them together again by implanting in each of them a “strong desire,” a desire that was both for “association” and for “union”—homilia and koinōnia. Of the two terms, the first seems in fact to refer to sexual intercourse, the second to community life. What should be understood, then, is that there is a certain fundamental and original desire in human beings, and that this desire is directed toward physical intimacy as well as toward the sharing of existence. A thesis that has this double consequence: that the extreme intensity of desire is not characterized simply by the movement that leads to the conjoining of the sexes, but also by the movement that conduces to the sharing of lives; conversely, that the relationship between the sexes belongs to the same rational scheme as the relations that bind two individuals to one another through interest, affection, and community of souls. It is the same natural inclination that leads, with an equal intensity and a rationality of the same type, to the coupling of existences and to the joining of bodies. For Musonius, then, what founds marriage is not that it is situated at the point of intersection of two heterogeneous predilections, one of which is physical, the other rational and social. It is rooted in a single, primitive tendency that aims directly toward it as an essential goal and hence, through it, toward its two intrinsic effects: the formation of a common progeny and companionship in life. One understands how Musonius can say that nothing is more desirable (prosphilosteron) than marriage. The naturalness of the latter is not due merely to the consequences that one can derive from its practice; its naturalness is already declared by the existence of an original predilection, which establishes it as a desirable objective. Hierocles, in a rather similar way, founds marriage on the “binary” nature of man. For him, humans are “conjugal” animals (syndyastikoi).5 The notion was already present in the Naturalists: they distinguished between animals that herd together (synagelastikoi) and those that live in pairs (syndyastikoi). Moreover, Plato had referred to this distinction in a passage of the Laws. He recommended to humans the example of those animals that are chaste so long as they are living in a band but pair off and become “conjugal” when the mating season arrives. Aristotle had likewise spoken of the “syndastic” character of human beings, in order to define the relations of the master with the slave as well as relations between spouses.6

• From Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life (2010)

  But in many ways compassion is alien to our modern way of life. The capitalist economy is intensely competitive and individualistic, and goes out of its way to encourage us to put ourselves first. When he developed his theory of the evolution of species, Charles Darwin (1809–82) revealed a nature that, as Tennyson had already suggested, was “red in tooth and claw”; the biologist Herbert Spencer (1820–1903) believed that, instead of being imbued with Buddhist “love” or the “softness” of ren, all creatures were perpetually engaged in a brutal struggle in which only the fittest survived. Because it runs counter to the Darwinian vision, advocates of evolutionary theory since Thomas H. Huxley (1825–95) have found altruism problematic. Today positivists, who believe science to be the sole criterion of truth, have argued that our genes are inescapably selfish and that we are programmed to pursue our own interests at whatever cost to our rivals. We have to put ourselves first. Altruism is, therefore, an illusion, a pious dream that is unnatural to humanity. At best it is a “meme,” a unit of cultural ideas, symbols, or practices, that has colonized our minds. A “blessed” misfiring of natural selection, it has turned out to be a useful survival mechanism for Homo sapiens, because those groups that learned to cooperate forged ahead in the desperate competition for resources.7 But this so-called altruism, they insist, is only apparent; it too is ultimately selfish. “The ‘altruist’ expects reciprocation for himself and his closest relatives,” E. O. Wilson has argued. “His good behavior is calculating, often in a wholly conscious way, and his maneuvers are orchestrated by the excruciatingly intricate sanctions and demands of society.” Such “soft-core altruism” is characterized by “lying, pretense, and deceit, including self-deceit, because the actor is more convincing who believes that his performance is real.”8 There is no doubt that in the deepest recess of their minds, men and women are indeed ruthlessly selfish. This egotism is rooted in the “old brain,” which was bequeathed to us by the reptiles that struggled out of the primal slime some 500 million years ago. Wholly intent on personal survival, these creatures were motivated by mechanisms that neuroscientists have called the “Four Fs”: feeding, fighting, fleeing, and—for want of a more basic word—reproduction. These drives fanned out into fast-acting systems, alerting reptiles to compete pitilessly for food, to ward off any threat, to dominate their territory, seek a place of safety, and perpetuate their genes. Our reptilian ancestors were, therefore, interested only in status, power, control, territory, sex, personal gain, and survival. Homo sapiens inherited these neurological systems; they are located in the hypothalamus at the base of the brain, and it is thanks to them that our species survived. The emotions they engender are strong, automatic, and “all about me.”

• From Open (2009)

  Brad and I take the ferry back to Fisher Island, where J.P. is waiting. The three of us spend the rest of the night talking about Steffi as if she’s an opponent, which she is. Brad treats her like Rafter or Pete. She has strengths, she has weaknesses. He breaks down her game, coaches me up. Now and then J.P. phones Joni, puts her on speaker, and we try to get the female point of view. The conversation continues over the next two days. At dinner, in the steam room, at the hotel bar, the three of us talk about nothing but Steffi. We’re plotting, using military jargon, like recon and intel. I feel as if we’re planning a land and sea invasion of Germany. I say, She seemed kind of cool to me. Brad says, She has no idea you split from your missus. It hasn’t been in the papers yet. Nobody knows. You need to let her know your status, and tell her how you feel about her. I’ll send her flowers. Yes, J.P. says. Flowers are good. But you can’t send them under your name. It might get leaked to the press. We’ll have Joni send them, with your name on the card. Good thinking. Joni goes to a shop in South Beach and, under my directive, buys every rose in the place. She essentially orders a rose garden transplanted to Steffi’s room. On the card I thank Steffi for the practice session and invite her to dinner. Then I sit back and wait for the call. There is no call. All day. Or the next day. No matter how much I stare at it, and shout at it, the phone refuses to ring. I pace, pick my cuticles until they bleed. Brad comes to my room and worries that he might need to give me a sedative. I shout, This is bullshit! OK, she’s not interested, I get it, but how about a thank you? If she doesn’t call by tonight, I swear, I’m calling her. We move to the patio. Brad looks off and says, Uh-oh. What? J.P. says, I think I see your flowers. They point to the patio of a room across the way. Steffi’s room, obviously, because there on the patio table are my giant bouquets of long-stemmed red roses. Not sure that’s a good sign, J.P. says. No, Brad says. NG. Not good. · · · WE DECIDE THAT I’LL wait for Steffi to win her first match—a foregone conclusion—and when she does, I’ll phone. J.P. preps me for the call. He plays the role of Steffi. We rehearse every scenario. He throws me every line she might possibly utter. Steffi beats her hapless first-round opponent in forty-two minutes. I’ve tipped the ferry captains to phone me the moment they see her step on the ferry. Fifty minutes after the match I get a call: She’s aboard.

• From What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire (2013)

  He was ten years older. And he was particular, though his requests were never demands. What she put on was her choice. He let her know, keenly, precisely, what he liked: the black lace bra through which her nipples showed. But the decision about whether to fulfill his wishes belonged entirely to her. The problem was that she wanted to fulfill them all, though his taste in clothes was not hers. What was she collapsing into? she had berated herself. Yet it didn’t feel like collapse. There was strength in sliding on the lace thong that matched the bra, in pulling on the jeans or skirt, the boots. He would be riveted. She had that power. An alertness spread through her body as she dressed for him. An awareness suffused her skin. With Eric, she didn’t have to accuse herself of any capitulation. He liked what she liked, and she counted this as a sign. When they went out in summer, she often wore a loose-fitting pastel green dress she’d bought on a trip to Guatemala. It was girlish, she knew, and she laughed at herself because of it. But Eric cherished this quality in her. To be who Michael had wanted required stepping off a precipice, dismissing the voice that warned her against inhabiting his wishes, plummeting over that edge. Women who dressed with urgent, ungoverned need for the desire of men could set off, inside her, a flurry of disdain, like an instinctive aversion to a weakness or wound. Yet whenever she walked into a restaurant where Michael waited for her at the bar, his focus seemed to pluck her from the air, midfall, and pull her forward. His eyes held a thoroughly different kind of constancy than Eric’s later would. Eric adored her. Michael admired her. She was a possession, the heels of the boots she picked for him taking her across crowded rooms toward her owner. The boots were like the frames and pedestals he chose for the photography and sculpture in his gallery. He had specific opinions about how she was best displayed. Her mind was already reeling by the time they sat down to dinner, yet she kept the appearance of balance. The display that pleased him depended on a degree of agility. In conversation and body she maintained dexterity, but when his breath or hand grazed across her in any way, or even when there was no contact at all, only proximity, she could become so frantic with need she grew almost angry. “If you don’t touch me right now, I’m going to scream,” she would plead silently. “Please, God, touch me right now. Please, God, something’s got to be done here.” She came quickly, repeatedly, when the dinners were at last over and they were in bed. The certainty of her coming guaranteed it; she didn’t have to doubt, so doubt never got in the way. Her mind never obstructed; it had been unspooling since the evening’s start.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Unless that company’s P&L improves, I’m not interested, Ros. We’re not carrying deadweight… I don’t want any more lame excuses… Have Marco call me. It’s shit-or-bust time… Yes. Tell Barney that the prototype looks good, though I’m not sure about the interface… No, it’s just missing something… I want to meet him this afternoon to discuss… In fact, him and his team. We can brainstorm… Okay. Transfer me back to Andrea…” He waits, staring out the window, master of his universe, looking down at the little people below from this castle in the sky. “Andrea—” Glancing up, he notices me at the door. A slow, sexy smile spreads across his lovely face, and I’m rendered speechless as my insides melt. He is without a doubt the most beautiful man on the planet, too beautiful for the little people below, too beautiful for me. No, my inner goddess scowls at me, not too beautiful for me. He is sort of mine, for now. The idea sends a thrill through my blood and dispels my irrational self-doubt. He continues his conversation, his eyes never leaving mine. “Clear my schedule this morning, but get Bill to call me. I’ll be in at two. I need to talk to Marco this afternoon; that will need at least half an hour… Schedule Barney and his team in after Marco or maybe tomorrow, and find time for me to see Claude every day this week… Tell him to wait… Oh?… No, I don’t want publicity for Darfur… Tell Sam to deal with it… No… Which event?… That’s next Saturday?… Hold on.” “When will you be back from Georgia?” he asks me. “Friday.” He resumes his phone conversation. “I’ll need an extra ticket, because I have a date… Yes, Andrea, that’s what I said. A date. Miss Anastasia Steele will accompany me… That’s all.” He hangs up. “Good morning, Miss Steele.” “Mr. Grey.” I smile shyly. He walks around his desk with his usual grace and stands in front of me. He gently strokes my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I didn’t want to wake you; you looked so peaceful. Did you sleep well?” “I am very well rested, thank you. I just came to say hi before I had a shower.” I gaze at him, drinking him in. He leans down and gently kisses me, and I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around his neck and my fingers twist in his still-damp hair. Pushing my body flush against his, I kiss him back. I want him. My attack takes him by surprise, but after a beat, he responds, a low groan in his throat. His hands slip into my hair and down my back to cup my naked behind, his tongue exploring my mouth. He pulls back, his eyes hooded. “Well, sleep seems to agree with you,” he murmurs. “I suggest you go have your shower, or shall I lay you across my desk now?”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I choose the desk,” I whisper recklessly as desire sweeps like adrenaline through my system, waking everything in its path. He stares bewildered down at me for a millisecond. “You’ve really got a taste for this, haven’t you, Miss Steele? You’re becoming insatiable.” “I’ve only got a taste for you,” I respond breathlessly. His eyes widen and darken while his hands knead my naked backside. “Damn right. Only me!” he growls, and suddenly, with one fluid movement, he clears all the plans and papers off his desk so they scatter on the floor, sweeps me up in his arms, and lays me down across the short end of his desk so my head is almost off the edge. “You want it, you got it, baby,” he declares, producing a foil packet from his pants pocket while he unzips his pants. Oh, Mr. Boy Scout. He rolls the condom over his erection and gazes down at me. “I sure hope you’re ready.” A salacious smile spreads across his face. And in a moment, he’s filling me, holding my wrists tightly by my side, and thrusting into me deeply. I groan. Oh yes. “Ah… Christ, Ana. You’re so ready,” he rasps in veneration. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I hold him the only way I can as he stays standing, staring down at me, gray eyes glowing, passionate and possessive. He starts to move, really move. This is not making love, this is fucking—and I love it. I groan. It’s so raw and carnal, making me wanton. I revel in his possession, his lust slaking mine. He moves with ease, luxuriating in me, enjoying me, his lips slightly parted as his breathing increases. He twists his hips from side to side, and the feeling is exquisite. I close my eyes, feeling the buildup—that delicious, slow, step-climbing build. Pushing me higher, higher to the castle in the air. Oh yes… His stroke increases fractionally. I moan loudly. I am all sensation…all him, enjoying every thrust, every push that fills me. And he picks up the pace, thrusting faster…harder…and my whole body is moving to his rhythm, and I feel my legs stiffening, and my insides quivering and quickening. “Come on, baby, give it up for me,” he cajoles through gritted teeth, and the fervent need in his voice—the strain—sends me over the edge. I cry out a wordless, passionate plea as I touch the sun and burn, falling around him, falling down, back to a breathless, bright summit on Earth. He slams into me and stops abruptly as he reaches his climax, pulling at my wrists and sinking gracefully and wordlessly onto me. Wow…that was unexpected. I slowly materialize back on the planet. “What the hell are you doing to me?” he breathes as he nuzzles my neck. “You completely beguile me, Ana. You weave some powerful magic.” He releases my wrists, and I run my fingers through his hair, coming down from my high. I tighten my legs around him.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I frown at Taylor, and he glances at me in the rearview mirror, our eyes meeting. He’s saying no more. Jeez, he can be as tight-lipped as the control freak himself. “Is he okay?” “I believe so, ma’am.” “Are you more comfortable calling me Miss Steele?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Oh, okay.” Well, that curtails our conversation, and we continue in silence. I begin to think that Taylor’s recent slip, when he told me that Christian had been hell on wheels, was an anomaly. Perhaps he’s embarrassed about it, worried that he’s been disloyal. The silence is suffocating. “Could you put some music on, please?” “Certainly, ma’am. What would you like to hear?” “Something soothing.” I see a smile play on Taylor’s lips as our eyes meet briefly again in the mirror. “Yes, ma’am.” He pushes a few buttons on the steering wheel, and the gentle strains of Pachelbel’s Canon fills the space between us. Oh yes, this is what I need. “Thank you.” I sit back as we drive slowly but steadily along Interstate 5 into Seattle. Twenty-five minutes later, he drops me outside the impressive facade that is the entrance to Escala. “In you go, ma’am,” he says, holding the door open for me. “I’ll bring up your luggage.” His expression is soft, warm, avuncular even. Uncle Taylor, what a thought. “Thank you for meeting me.” “It’s a pleasure, Miss Steele.” He smiles, and I head into the building. The doorman nods and waves. As I ride up to the thirtieth floor, a thousand butterflies stretch their wings and flutter erratically in my stomach. Why am I so nervous? And I know it’s because I have no idea what kind of mood Christian’s going to be in when I arrive. My inner goddess is hopeful for one type of mood; my subconscious, like me, is fraught with nerves. The elevator doors open, and I’m in the foyer. It is so strange not to be met by Taylor. Of course, he’s parking the car. In the great room, Christian is on his BlackBerry, talking quietly as he stares through the glass doors at the early evening Seattle skyline. He’s wearing a gray suit with the jacket undone, and he’s running his hand through his hair. He’s agitated, tense even. Oh no, what’s wrong? Agitated or not, he’s still a fine sight. How can he look so…arresting? “No trace?… Okay… Yes.” He turns and sees me, and his whole demeanor changes. From tension to relief to something else: a look that calls directly to my inner goddess, a look of sensual carnality, his eyes scorching. My mouth goes dry and desire blooms in my body. Whoa. “Keep me informed,” he snaps and shuts off his phone as he strides purposefully toward me.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I stand paralyzed as he closes the distance between us, devouring me with his eyes. Holy shit, something’s amiss—the strain in his jaw, the anxiety around his eyes. He shrugs out of his jacket, undoes his dark tie, and slings them both onto the couch en route to me. Then his arms are wrapped around me, and he’s pulling me to him, hard, fast, gripping my ponytail to tilt my head up, kissing me like his life depends on it. What the hell? He drags the hair tie painfully out of my hair, but I don’t care. There’s a desperate, primal quality to his kiss. He needs me, for whatever reason, at this point in time, and I have never felt so desired and coveted. It’s dark and sensual and alarming all at the same time. I kiss him back with equal fervor, my fingers twisting and fisting in his hair. Our tongues entwine, our passion and ardor erupting between us. He tastes divine, hot, sexy, and his scent—all body wash and Christian—is arousing. He drags his mouth away from mine, and he’s staring down at me, gripped by some unnamed emotion. “What’s wrong?” I breathe. “I’m so glad you’re back. Shower with me. Now.” I can’t decide if it’s a request or a command. “Yes,” I whisper, and he grabs my hand, leading me out of the big room into his bedroom to his bathroom. Once there, he releases me and turns the water on in the far-too-spacious shower. Spinning around slowly, he gazes at me, eyes hooded. “I like your skirt. It’s very short,” he says, his voice low. “You have great legs.” He steps out of his shoes and reaches down to take off each of his socks, never taking his eyes off me. I am rendered speechless by the look of hunger in his eyes. Wow, to be this wanted by this Greek god. I mirror his actions and step out of my black flats. Suddenly, he reaches for me, backing me up against the wall. Kissing me, my face, my throat, my lips…running his hands through my hair. I feel the cool, smooth tiled wall at my back as he pushes himself against me so I’m flattened between his heat and the chill of the ceramic. Tentatively, I place my arms on his upper arms, and he groans as I squeeze tightly. “I want you now. Here…fast, hard,” he breathes, and his hands are on my thighs, pushing up my skirt. “Are you still bleeding?” “No.” I flush. “Good.”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  His thumbs hook over my white cotton panties, and abruptly he drops to his knees as he tugs them off. My skirt is now rucked up so that I’m naked from the waist down and panting, wanting. He grabs my hips, pushing me against the wall again, and kisses me at the apex of my thighs. Grabbing my upper thighs, he forces my legs apart. I groan loudly, feeling his tongue circling my clitoris. Oh my. Tipping my head back involuntarily, I moan as my fingers find their way into his hair. His tongue is relentless, strong and insistent, washing over me, swirling around and around, again and again—nonstop. It’s exquisite, the intensity of feeling—it’s almost painful. My body starts to quicken, and he releases me. What? No! My breathing is ragged as I pant, gazing at him with delicious anticipation. He grabs my face with both hands, holding me firmly, and he kisses me hard, thrusting his tongue into my mouth so I can taste my arousal. Unzipping his fly, he frees himself, grabs the backs of my thighs, and lifts me. “Wrap your legs around me, baby,” he commands, his voice urgent, strained. I do as I’m told and wrap my arms around his neck, and he moves quickly and sharply, filling me. Ah! He gasps, and I groan. Holding my behind, his fingers digging into my soft flesh, he begins to move, slowly at first, a steady even tempo…but as his control unravels, he speeds up, faster and faster. Ahhh! I tip my head back and concentrate on the invading, punishing, heavenly sensation, pushing me, pushing me…onward, higher, up…and when I can take no more, I explode around him, spiraling into an intense, all-consuming orgasm. He lets go with a deep growl, and he buries his head in my neck as he buries himself inside me, groaning loudly and incoherently as he finds his release. His breathing is erratic, but he kisses me tenderly, not moving, still inside me, and I blink, unseeing, into his eyes. As he comes into focus, he gently pulls out of me, holding me steady while I place my feet on the floor. The bathroom is now cloudy with steam…and hot. I feel overdressed. “You seem pleased to see me,” I murmur with a shy smile. His lips quirk up. “Yes, Miss Steele, I think my pleasure is pretty self-evident. Come—let me get you in the shower.” He undoes the next three buttons of his shirt, removes the cuff links, tugs it over his head, and discards it on the floor. Taking off his suit pants and boxer briefs, he kicks them to one side. He begins to undo the buttons on my blouse while I watch him, yearning to reach out and stroke his chest, but I contain myself. “How was your journey?” he asks mildly. He seems so much calmer now, his apprehension gone, dissolved by sexual congress.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “Yes, I am,” he says darkly. “And you’d do well to remember that. But thank you for asking. We’ll take Charlie Tango.” Oh, the helicopter, of course. Silly me. More flying—cool! I grin. “Can I wash you?” I ask. “I don’t think so,” he murmurs, and he kisses me gently on my neck to take the sting out of his refusal. I pout at the wall as he caresses my back with soap. “Will you ever let me touch you?” I ask boldly. He stills again, his hand on my behind. “Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia. I’m going to take you again,” he murmurs as he grabs my hips, and I know that the discussion is over. Later, we are seated at the breakfast bar, dressed in bathrobes, having consumed Mrs. Jones’s rather excellent pasta alle vongole. “More wine?” Christian asks, gray eyes glowing. “A small glass, please.” The Sancerre is crisp and delicious. Christian pours one for me and one for himself. “How’s the, um…situation that brought you to Seattle?” I ask tentatively. He frowns. “Out of hand,” he murmurs bitterly. “But nothing for you to worry about, Anastasia. I have plans for you this evening.” “Oh?” “Yes. I want you ready and waiting in my playroom in fifteen minutes.” He stands and gazes down at me. “You can get ready in your room. Incidentally, the walk-in closet is now full of clothes for you. I don’t want any arguments about them.” He narrows his eyes, daring me to say something. When I don’t, he stalks off to his study. Me? Argue? With you, Fifty Shades? It’s more than my backside’s worth. I sit on the barstool, momentarily stupefied, trying to assimilate this morsel of information. He’s bought me clothes. I roll my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, knowing full well he can’t see me. Car, phone, computer…clothes. It’ll be a damn condo next, and then I really will be his mistress. Ho! My subconscious has her snarky face on. I ignore her and make my way upstairs toward my room. So, it is still mine. Why? I thought he’d agreed to let me sleep with him. I suppose he’s not used to sharing his personal space, but then neither am I. I console myself with the thought that at least I have somewhere to escape from him. Examining the door, I find that it has a lock but no key. I wonder briefly if Mrs. Jones has a spare. I’ll ask her. I open the closet door and close it again quickly. Holy crap—he’s spent a fortune. It resembles Kate’s—so many clothes hanging neatly on the rail. Deep down, I know that they’ll all fit. But I have no time to think about that—I have to get kneeling in the Red Room of Pain—or Pleasure, hopefully—this evening.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  Kneeling by the door, I am naked except for my panties. My heart is in my mouth. Jeez, I thought after the bathroom he would have had enough. The man is insatiable, or maybe all men are like him. I have no idea, no one to compare him to. Closing my eyes, I try to calm myself down, to connect with my inner sub. She’s there somewhere, hiding behind my inner goddess. Anticipation runs bubbling like soda through my veins. What will he do? I take a deep, steadying breath, but I cannot deny it—I’m excited, aroused, wet already. This is so…I want to think wrong, but somehow it’s not. It’s right for Christian. It’s what he wants—and after the last few days…after all he’s done, I have to man up and take whatever he decides he wants, whatever he thinks he needs. The memory of his look when I came in this evening, the longing in his face, his determined stride toward me like I was an oasis in the desert. I’d do almost anything to see that look again. I press my thighs together at the delicious memory, and it reminds me that I need to spread my knees. I shuffle them apart. How long will he make me wait? The wait is crippling me, crippling me with a dark and tantalizing desire. I glance quickly around the subtly lit room: the cross, the table, the couch, the bench…that bed. It looms so large, and it’s made up with red satin sheets. Which piece of apparatus will he use? The door opens and Christian breezes in, ignoring me completely. I glance down quickly, staring at my hands, positioned with care on my spread thighs. Placing something on the large chest beside the door, he strolls casually toward the bed. I indulge myself in a quick glimpse at him, and my heart almost lurches to a stop. He’s naked except for those soft ripped jeans, top button casually undone. He looks so freaking hot. My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm. She’s so ready. I lick my lips instinctively. My blood pounds through my body, thick and heavy with salacious hunger. What is he going to do to me? Turning, he nonchalantly walks back to the chest of drawers. Opening one, he begins to remove items and place them on the top. My curiosity burns, blazes even, but I resist the overwhelming temptation to sneak a quick peek. When he finishes what he’s doing, he comes to stand in front of me. I can see his naked feet, and I want to kiss every inch of them…run my tongue over his instep, suck each of his toes. Holy shit. “You look lovely,” he breathes.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I keep my head down, conscious that he’s staring at me while I am practically naked. I feel the flush as it slowly spreads over my face. He bends down and cups my chin, forcing my face up to meet his gaze. “You are one beautiful woman, Anastasia. And you’re all mine. Stand up.” His command is soft, full of sensual promise. Shakily, I get to my feet. “Look at me,” he breathes, and I stare up into his smoldering gaze. It is his Dom gaze—cold, hard, and sexy as hell, seven shades of sin in one enticing look. My mouth dries, and I know I will do anything he asks. An almost cruel smile plays across his lips. “We don’t have a signed contract, Anastasia. But we’ve discussed limits. And I want to reiterate we have safe words, okay?” Holy fuck…what has he got planned that I need safe words? “What are they?” he asks authoritatively. I frown slightly at his question, and his face hardens perceptibly. “What are the safe words, Anastasia?” he says slowly and deliberately. “Yellow,” I mumble. “And?” he prompts, his mouth setting in a hard line. “‘Red,” I breathe. “Remember those.” And I can’t help it…I raise my eyebrow at him and am about to remind him of my GPA, but the sudden frosty glint in his icy gray eyes stops me in my tracks. “Don’t start with your smart mouth in here, Miss Steele. Or I will fuck it with you on your knees. Do you understand?” I swallow instinctively. Okay. I blink rapidly, chastened. Actually, it’s his tone of voice, rather than the threat, that intimidates me. “Well?” “Yes, Sir,” I mumble hastily. “Good girl.” He pauses as he stares at me. “My intention is not that you should use the safe word because you’re in pain. What I intend to do to you will be intense. Very intense, and you have to guide me. Do you understand?” Not really. Intense? Wow. “This is about touch, Anastasia. You will not be able to see me or hear me. But you’ll be able to feel me.” I frown. Not hear him? How is that going to work? He turns, and I hadn’t noticed that above the chest is a sleek, flat, matte-black box. As he waves his hand in front, the box splits in half: two doors slide open revealing a CD player and a host of buttons. Christian presses several of these buttons in sequence. Nothing happens, but he seems satisfied. I am mystified. When he turns to face me again, he wears his small I-have-a-secret smile. “I am going to tie you to that bed, Anastasia. But I’m going to blindfold you first and”—he reveals his iPod in his hand—“you will not be able to hear me. All you will hear is the music I am going to play for you.” Okay. A musical interlude. Not what I was expecting. I hope it’s not rap.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  I comply, and he drags me down the bed so my arms are stretched out and almost straining at the cuffs. I cannot move my arms. A frisson of trepidation mixed with tantalizing exhilaration sweeps through my body, making me wetter. I groan. Parting my legs, he cuffs first my right ankle and then my left so I am staked out, spread-eagled, and totally vulnerable to him. It’s so unnerving that I can’t see him. I listen hard. What’s he doing? And I hear nothing, just my breathing and the pounding thud of my heart as blood pulses furiously against my eardrums. Abruptly, the soft silent hiss and pop of the iPod springs into life. From inside my head, a lone angelic voice sings unaccompanied a long sweet note, and it’s joined almost immediately by another voice, and then more voices—a celestial choir—singing a capella in my head, an ancient, ancient hymnal. What in heaven’s name is this? I have never heard anything like it. Something almost unbearably soft brushes against my neck, running languidly down my throat, slowly across my chest, over my breasts, caressing me…pulling at my nipples. It’s so soft, skimming underneath. It’s so unexpected. It’s fur! A fur glove? Christian trails his hand, unhurried and deliberate, down to my belly, circling my navel, then carefully from hip to hip, and I’m trying to anticipate where he’s going next, but the music—it’s in my head, transporting me…the fur across the line of my pubic hair…between my legs, along my thighs, down one leg…up the other. It almost tickles, but not quite. More voices join, the heavenly choir all singing different parts, their voices blending blissfully and sweetly together in a melodic harmony that is beyond anything I’ve ever heard. I catch one word—deus—and I realize they are singing in Latin. And still, the fur is moving down my arms and around my waist, back up across my breasts. My nipples harden beneath the soft touch, and I’m panting, wondering where his hand will go next. Suddenly, the fur is gone, and I can feel the fronds of the flogger flowing over my skin, following the same path as the fur, and it’s so hard to concentrate with the music in my head—it sounds like a hundred voices singing, weaving an ethereal tapestry of fine, silken gold and silver through my head, mixed with the feel of the soft suede against my skin, trailing over me… Abruptly, it disappears. Then suddenly, sharply, it bites down on my belly. “Ahh!” I cry out. It takes me by surprise yet it doesn’t hurt but my skin tingles all over. He hits me again. Harder. “Ahh!”

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I want to get something straight,” I whisper as my pulse starts to accelerate, and my inner goddess closes her eyes, reveling in the feel of his lips on me. He pauses momentarily before continuing his sensual assault. “Always so eager for information, Miss Steele. What needs straightening out?” he breathes against my skin at the base of my neck, continuing his soft gentle kisses. “Us,” I whisper as I close my eyes. “Hmm. What about us?” He pauses his trail of kisses along my shoulder. “The contract.” He lifts his head to gaze down at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes, and sighs. He strokes his fingertips down my cheek. “Well, I think the contract is moot, don’t you?” His voice is low and husky, his eyes soft. “Moot?” “Moot.” He smiles. “But you were so keen.” “Well, that was before. Anyway, the rules aren’t moot; they still stand.” His expression hardens slightly. “Before? Before what?” “Before…” He pauses, and the wary expression is back. “More.” He shrugs. “Oh.” “Besides, we’ve been in the playroom twice now, and you haven’t run screaming for the hills.” “Do you expect me to?” “Nothing you do is expected, Anastasia.” “So, let me be clear. You just want me to follow the rules element of the contract all the time but not the rest of the contract?” “Except in the playroom. I want you to follow the spirit of the contract in the playroom, and yes, I want you to follow the rules—all the time. Then I know you’ll be safe. And I’ll be able to have you anytime I wish.” “And if I break one of the rules?” “Then I’ll punish you.” “But won’t you need my permission?” “Yes, I will.” “And if I say no?” He gazes at me for a moment, with a confused expression. “If you say no, you’ll say no. I’ll have to find a way to persuade you.” I pull away from him and stand. I need some distance. He frowns as I stare down at him. He looks puzzled and wary again. “So the punishment aspect remains.” “Yes, but only if you break the rules.” “I’ll need to reread them,” I say, trying to recall the detail. “I’ll fetch them for you.” His tone is suddenly businesslike. Whoa. This has gotten serious so quickly. He rises from the piano and walks lithely to his study. My scalp prickles. I need some tea. The future of our so-called relationship is being discussed at 5:45 in the morning when he’s preoccupied with something else. Is this wise? I head into the kitchen, which is still shrouded in darkness. Where are the light switches? I find them, flick them on, and pour water into the kettle. My pill! I rummage in my purse, which I left on the breakfast bar, and find them quickly. One swallow and I’m done. By the time I finish, Christian is back, sitting on one of the barstools, watching me intently.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  “Do something for me, baby,” Life asked. “Reach down, stick two fingers inside of that pussy, and suck them juices from your pretty fingertips. Lemme see you do that.” I did what Life asked of me. I felt like a movie star. Before I knew it he pulled his tool out and began stroking it openly. “Look at what I got for you,” he said, working his dick up into a nice thick, long pole. “Put that thing ’way. That’s not a good idea,” I told him. The sight of Life’s sexy dick made me feel like Jell-O inside. “You can’t even look at my dick. You’re nervous as hell. You think there’s something wrong with a man stroking his shit?” “No—I never said that. There’s nothing wrong with . . . well. Never mind, Life.” “Before you say no to something, you should at least see what you’re turning down,” he said, stroking it gently. I finally took a really good look at Life’s dick and my mouth began to water like I smelled good food burnin’ at a soul-food spot! “I’m in a committed relationship. I told you that from day one,” I said weakly. “Yani, the man you got ain’t living up to the meaning of a man. He has you hanging your head down and holding back on what you wanna do. If you were satisfied in every way, you wouldn’t be writing poetry about me, wondering how I work my dick, or shaking yo ass in my face. So you tryna tell me you half-naked but I’m feeling sparks up in this motherfucker alone?” I didn’t answer. “Girl, what you really want right now is a thug nigga like me to hit it like I’m gonna break you in half! From the way you’ve explained things here and there, the situation you’re in is fucked up. I know you need to get fucked, licked, and sucked right—it’s been written all over your face since the night I saw you in the club. If you need time, I got time. But don’t you think it’s about time you just let go, for you? I ain’t that nigga that’s got you stressin’. If you want this dick, get ready to sit down on it and enjoy it,” Life said, tearing open a condom. I was nearly salivating at the thought of sitting down on his massive dick. But just when I was about to take him up on his offer, something snapped me out of the fuckin’ mood. The phone rang. “Yo, Yani! I’m on my way over. I just wrapped up some business and I’ma come through and holla atchu. Put on some heels and some sexy shit. I wanna see you looking good when I come through the spot for that wet wet,” Smooth Willie said. “Oh shit!” I told Life when I hung up. “That was Smooth!”

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Mrs. Patterson strode in as if she had just jumped off a high horse. She smelled expensive and looked rich. She appeared to own something. She walked with patient steps toward her husband. She reached her destination and gave him adequate affection. Their kiss was cursory; their hug was even worse. Mr. Patterson switched hands and introduced Pretty. “My dear, this is Jarvis.” He turned back to his wife. “Jarvis, this is my proposition.” He walked around his desk and poured a glass of wine. Mrs. Patterson accepted his offering. She didn’t kick her feet up as he did; instead, she folded her legs and fell into the throes of his leather. She took a sip of wine and closed her eyes. She inhaled deeply and let it out silently. Pretty sat in disbelief. He looked behind; his eyes transfixed on Mrs. Patterson. Her skin was as creamy as whole milk, and her hair was as short as his, and blond. She had many features that were youthful. He assumed she was in her early thirties and regularly visited the gym. Her cleavage brought men near; her beauty made them fall. She opened her eyes and reached for her pocketbook. She moved her lips seductively as she painted them with an earthy tone of brown. She pushed her compact below her eyes and stole a peek at Pretty. She couldn’t hide her smile. Pretty watched Mr. Patterson as he sat on the edge of the desk watching the incident unfold. His eyes went from his wife’s legs to Pretty’s expression. He nodded his head, cleared his throat, and began, “Should I explain what I would like, Jarvis?” “Let’s see what the lady would like, Mr. Patterson,” Pretty said. Mr. Patterson ignored Pretty’s feeble attempt at assertion. He asked his wife, “Do you like what you see, dear?” Mrs. Patterson pressed her lips to a napkin and observed her print on it. Her lips were oversized and perfectly shaped. Her tongue glided easily against her teeth and she inhaled. She folded her legs seductively and let her fingers trail down her athletic calf. She spoke slowly, “I do like what I see, Geronimo.” Pretty snickered. Mr. Patterson shot him a quick glance. It stopped the laugh, but it wasn’t potent enough to erase the information. No one knew Mr. Patterson’s first name, and now Pretty had something to combat his disrespectful tone when he spat “Jarvis” like Pretty was his slave. Pretty glanced at the desk and reread the designer golden nameplate. G. TONY PATTERSON. Pretty called his horse, laughed, and jumped high. “If I do accept this opportunity, I would prefer to be called Pretty.” He paused. “Can you do that, Geronimo?” Pretty watched Mrs. Patterson’s reaction. She was appreciative of his thriving nature. Mr. Patterson exchanged glances with his wife. She won. He twitched and mumbled something incoherent under his breath before nodding in agreement. “Anything else, Pretty?” The word stumbled from his mouth.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  Pretty felt more comfortable than earlier. He felt the change in power. He walked around the room, his pace full of questions. He wanted to be a part of three thousand dollars. He realized Mr. Patterson didn’t make the decisions. He broke silence. “What do you want from me, Mrs. Patterson?” She popped up and offered Mr. Patterson his seat. He begrudgingly obliged. She walked around and sat on the edge of the desk, watching Pretty shuffle in his chair as she positioned herself in front of him. She offered him a peek. Her tone was stimulating. “I love black men,” she started. Mr. Patterson coughed, and nearly hacked up a lung before settling back in his seat. She looked behind, shot him a glance of pity, and returned her stare to Pretty. “And you are a beautiful black man.” Her eyes raped. Pretty knew this feeling. He’d felt this power before. He unloosened his tie, and wrestled with his shirt before a few chest hairs snuck out. “I am beautiful, bitch!” he agreed. Mr. Patterson waddled to the edge of his seat. “Bitch? What a minute!” Mrs. Patterson held her hand up, not turning around. “You wait a minute, Geronimo. I can handle this.” Mr. Patterson must didn’t know that she could handle it. He hesitantly relaxed and sat back. Mrs. Patterson looked at Pretty with confusion and closed her legs. “Did you just call me a bitch?” “Yeah!” He didn’t hesitate. His look told her that he would do it again if given the opportunity. She turned to Mr. Patterson, and then back toward Pretty. Her blank stare didn’t waver. For a second, everything went deathly still. Mrs. Patterson broke the silence when she jumped to her feet. She asked Pretty to stand. He lifted himself up and stood a foot taller than her, arms folded. She inhaled his body. “Show me why they call you Pretty.” He laughed. It wasn’t that easy. She called the shots, but he gave the bullets direction. He held out his hand for payment; his eyes never left hers. She adjusted her shirt. She showed more cleavage and her lips pouted. She imposed her sexuality on her young thug. “No disrespect, Mrs. Patterson, but I got to get paid before I release the hound.” His joke had serious intent. She immediately snapped her fingers. Her movements were mechanical, like she had done this before. Mr. Patterson reached for an envelope in his suit jacket; his movements were choppy and unsure. It appeared to be his first and last time in this arena. Mr. Patterson retrieved the envelope and slid it across the desk. Mrs. Patterson scooped it up and banged it against the palm of her hand. She offered Pretty the envelope. “Will this do?” He accepted it and pushed it deep into his back pocket. “You’re not going to check?” she asked.

• From Open (2009)

  I’ve told Brad the stories. The 1991 French Open. The 1992 Wimbledon Ball. I’ve tried and tried. No dice. Steffi Graf is like the French Open. I just can’t get across that particular finish line. That’s all in the past, Brad says. Besides, your approach back then was so un-Andre. Asking once and backing off? Strictly amateur. Since when do you let other people run your game? Since when do you take no for an answer? I nod. Maybe. You just need a look, Brad says. A crack of light. A window. An opening. The next tournament where Steffi and I are both scheduled to play is Key Biscayne. Brad tells me to relax, he’ll get me close. He knows Steffi’s coach, Heinz Gunthardt. He’ll talk to Heinz about setting up a practice session. · · · THE MOMENT WE ARRIVE IN KEY BISCAYNE, Brad phones Heinz, who’s surprised by the proposition. He says no. He says Steffi would never agree to break her regular preparation schedule for a practice session with a stranger. She’s too regimented. Also, she’s shy. She’d be highly uncomfortable. But Brad is persistent, and Heinz must have some trace of romantic in him. He suggests Brad and I book the court for right after Steffi’s practice session, then arrive early. Heinz will then casually suggest that Steffi hit a few balls with me. It’s all set, Brad says. High noon. You. Me. Steffi. Heinz. Let’s get this party started. FIRST THINGS FIRST. I phone J.P. and tell him to get his ass to Florida, pronto. I need advice. I need a sounding board. I need a wingman. Then I hit the court and practice for my practice session. On the appointed day, Brad and I get to the court forty minutes early. I’ve never been so breathless. I’ve played seven times in the final of a Grand Slam and I never felt like this. We find Heinz and Steffi deeply absorbed in their practice session. We stand off to the side, watching. After a few minutes Heinz calls Steffi to the net and says something to her. He points to us. She looks. I smile. She doesn’t. She says a few words to Heinz, and Heinz says a few words, and then she shakes her head. But when she jogs back to the baseline, Heinz waves me onto the court. I tie my shoes quickly. I pull a racket out of the bag and walk onto the court—then impulsively whip off my shirt. It’s shameless, I realize, but I’m desperate. Steffi looks and does a barely detectable double take. Thank you, Gil. We start to hit. She’s flawless, of course, and I’m struggling to get the ball over the net. The net is your biggest enemy. Relax, I tell myself. Stop thinking. Come on, Andre, it’s only a practice session.

• From From the Streets to the Sheets: Noire's Urban Erotic Quickies (2007)

  As Life pulled off his shirt, pants, boxers, and shoes, he told me to sit on top of the desk. I did. He caressed my legs, then spread them apart and began kissing the inside of my thick thighs. Next, he took his fingers and began playing with my pussy. My juices began to flow from his persistent fingertip stroking, but that was only the beginning. My new lover dropped lower and stuck his head between my legs. Life licked on my clit like it was an ice-cream cone, until it felt swollen. I threw my head back, finally let go, and began to openly moan. I began throwing the rest of my clothes off until I was completely naked. Life sucked my juices up with passion. I felt high, suspended above the sun. When I opened my eyes and looked down I gasped. My juices were all over his face and chin. Life’s brown skin was glistening, and the sight of his tattoo—a microphone inked over a nasty scar on his neck—made me shake and tremble, as the blissful feeling between my legs took on a life of its own. I closed my eyes and had an orgasm that erupted in one huge creamy wave. I heard a condom wrapper tearing open, and my mouth dropped as he pushed his tool into me and filled me up inside. His warm dick stroked me as he gripped the sides of the desk. I spoke some unintelligible words and Life answered by hitting all my sweetest spots. His focus was completely on pleasing me. That realization made me jut my pussy back and forth in a steady motion. I became so excited that I wrapped my legs around him and the desk began creaking and moving like a seesaw. When Life noticed this, he looked around for another spot. “Come on,” he told me. He lowered me from the desk and carefully laid me down on my boss’s large white rug. “Get on your hands and knees,” Life said. I arched my back sharply and complied, because I wanted to, not because I had to. Life spit between my ass cheeks, then fingered my anus. He began pounding me from behind with powerful and intense thrusts, the way I’d imagined the thugs on music videos did to their hood girls. I gladly gripped my muscles tight around Life’s dick. He responded by smacking my phat ass. “Do you like this shit, baby?” Life asked, burying his dick all the way inside of me. “Yes. Mmmm,” I moaned. “Oh yes!” “Does that bitch-ass, trifling nigga you got at home make you feel this good?” “No—never. He . . . Smooth never . . . He never—” “Then cry for Life, Mommy. If I make this sweet pussy feel good, take it and cry for me,” he said, continuing to thrust himself in and out of my pussy.