Desire

Passages

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

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• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “They call me ‘Topsy’,” she replied, “but ma’ real true name is Sophy, Sophy Beveridge: you was very kind to my mother who lives upstairs: yes”, she went on defiantly, “she’s my mother and a mighty good mother too and don’t you fergit it!” she added, tossing her head in contempt of my astonishment. “Your father must have been white!” I couldn’t help remarking for I couldn’t couple Topsy with the old octaroon, do what I would. She nodded, “he was white all right: that is, his skin was!” and she got up and wandered about the office as if it belonged to her. “I’ll call you, ‘Sophy’,” I said; for I felt a passionate revolt of injured pride in her. She smiled at me with pleasure. I didn’t know what to do. I must not go with a colored girl: though I could see no sign of black blood in Sophy and certainly she was astonishingly good-looking even in her simple sprigged gown. As she moved about I could not but remark the lithe panther-like grace of her and her little breasts stuck out against the thin cotton garment with a most provocative allurement: my mouth was parching when she swung round on me; “You ondressing me”, she said smiling, “and I’se glad, ’cause my mother likes you and I loves her—sure pop!” There was something childish, direct, innocent even about her frankness that fascinated me and her good looks made sunshine in the darkening room. “I like you, Sophy”, I said, “but anyone would have done as much for your mother as I did. She was ill!” “Hoo!” she snorted indignantly, “most white folk would have let her die right there on the stairs: I know them: they’d have been angry with her for groaning: I hate ’em!” and her great eyes glowered. She came over to me in a flash: “If you’d been American, I couldn’t never have come to you, never! I’d rather have died, or saved and stole and paid you—” the scorn in her voice was bitter with hate: evidently the negro question had a side I had never realised. “But you’re different”, she went on, “an’ I just came—” and she paused, lifting her great eyes to mine, with an unspoken offer in their lingering regard. “I’m glad”, I said lamely, staving off the temptation, “and I hope you’ll come again soon and we’ll be great friends—eh, Sophy?” and I held out my hand smiling; but she pouted and looked at me with reproach or appeal or disappointment in her eyes. I could not resist: I took her hand and drew her to me and kissed her on the lips, slipping my right hand the while up to her left breast: it was as firm as india-rubber: at once I felt my sex stand and throb: resolve and desire fought in me, but I was accustomed to make my will supreme:

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “Indeed I do,” I cried; but I confessed to myself that she was right; her bottom was adorably dimpled; but it was a little too fat, and the line underneath it was not perfect. One of her breasts, too, was prettier than the other, though both were small and stuck out boldly; my critical sense could find no fault with her triangle or her sex; the lips of it were perfect, very small and rose-red and her clitoris was like a tiny, tiny button. I often wished it were half an inch long like Mrs. Mayhew’s. Only once in our intercourse did I try to bring her to ecstasy and only half succeeded; consequently I used simply to have her, just to enjoy myself and only now and then went on to a second orgasm so as really to warm her to the love-play; Rose was anything but sensual, though invariably sweet and an excellent companion. How she could be so affectionate though sexually cold was always a puzzle to me. Lily, as I have said, was totally different: a merry little grig and born child of Venus: now and then she gave me a really poignant sensation. She was always deriding Mrs. Mayhew; but curiously enough, she was very like her in many intimate ways—a sort of understudy of the older and more passionate woman, with a child’s mischievous gaiety to boot and a childish joy in living. But a great and new sensation was now to come into my life. One evening a girl without a hat on and without knocking came into my office. Sommerfeld had gone home for the night and I was just putting my things straight before going out; she took my breath; she was astoundingly good-looking, very dark with great, black eyes and slight, girlish figure: “I’m Topsy”, she announced and stood there smiling, as if the mere name told enough. “Come in”, I said, “and take a seat: I’ve heard of you!” and I had. She was a privileged character in the town: she rode on the street-cars and railroads too without paying; those who challenged her were all “pore white trash”, she said, and some man was always eager to pay for her: she never hesitated to go up to any man and ask him for a dollar or even five dollars—and invariably got what she wanted: her beauty was as compelling to men as her scornful aloofness. I had often heard of her as “that d—d pretty nigger girl!” but I could see no trace of any negro characteristic in her pure loveliness. She took the seat and said with a faint Southern accent I found pleasing, “You’ name Harris?” “That’s my name”, I replied smiling: “You here instead Barker?” she went on: “he sure deserved to die hiccuppin’: pore white trash!” “What’s your real name?” I asked.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “I’ll give you two,” I whispered, “right now: the first is, I dare you to strip naked as I’m going to do, and I’ll tell you the other when we’re in bed.” Again she tossed her little blue-black head: “pooh!” she cried, “I’ll be undressed first”, and she was. Her beauty made my pulses hammer and parched my mouth. No one could help admiring her: she was very slight, with tiny breasts, as I have said, flat belly and straight flanks and hips: her triangle was only brushed in, so to speak, with fluffy soft hairs, and as I held her naked body against mine, the look and feel of her exasperated my desire. I still admired Kate’s riper, richer, more luscious outlines; her figure was nearer my boyish ideal; but Lily represented a type of adolescence destined to grow on me mightily. In fact as my youthful virility decreased, my love of opulent feminine charms diminished, and I grew more and more to love slender, youthful outlines with the signs of sex rather indicated than pronounced. What an all-devouring appetite Rubens confesses with the great, hanging breasts and uncouth fat pink bottoms of his Venuses! I lifted Lily on to the bed and separated her legs to study her pussy. She made a face at me; but as I rubbed my hot sex against her little button that I could hardly see, she smiled and lay back contentedly. In a minute or two her love-juice came and I got into bed on her and slipped my root into her small cunt: even when the lips were wide open it was closed to the eye and this and her slim nakedness excited me uncontrollably. I continued the slow movements for a few minutes; but once she moved her sex quickly down on mine as I drew out to the lips, and gave me an intense thrill: I felt my seed coming and I let myself go in short, quick thrusts that soon brought on my spasm of pleasure and I lifted her little body against mine and crushed my lips on hers: she was strangely tantalizing, exciting like strong drink. I took her out of bed and used the syringe in her, explaining its purpose, and then went to bed again and gave her the time of her life! Lying between her legs but side by side an hour later, I dared her to tell me how she had lost her maidenhead. I had to tell her first what it was. She maintained stoutly that no “feller” had ever touched her except me and I believed her, for she admitted having caressed herself ever since she was ten: at first she could not even get her forefinger into her pussy she told me. “What are you now?” I asked. “I shall be sixteen next April”, was her reply. About eleven o’clock she dressed and went home, after making another appointment with me.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “Won’t you love me, dear? I want you so: I’m burning and itching with desire (I knew she was!) Please, I won’t hurt you and I’ll take care; please, love, no one will know”, and the end of it was that right there on the porch I drew her to me and put my sex against hers and began the rubbing of her tickler and front part of her sex that I knew would excite her. In a moment she came and her love-dew wet my sex and excited me terribly; but I kept on frigging her with my manroot while restraining myself from coming by thinking of other things, till she kissed me of her own accord and suddenly moving forward pushed my prick right into her pussy. To my astonishment, there was no obstacle, no maidenhead to break through, though her sex itself was astonishingly small and tight. I didn’t scruple then to let my seed come, only withdrawing to the lips and rubbing her clitoris the while, and as soon as my spirting ceased, my root glided again into her and continued the slow in-and-out movement till she panted with her head on my shoulder and asked me to stop. I did as she wished, for I knew I had won another wonderful mistress. We went into the house again for she insisted I should meet her father and mother, and while we were waiting she showed me her lovely tiny breasts, scarcely larger than small apples, and I became aware of something childish in her mind which matched the childish outlines of her lovely, half-formed hips and pussy. “I thought that you were in love with Mrs. Mayhew,” she confessed, “and I couldn’t make out why she made such funny noises; but now I know”, she added, “you naughty dear; for I felt my heart fluttering just now and I was nearly choking—” I don’t know why; but that ravishing of Lily made her dear to me: I resolved to see her naked and to make her thrill to ecstasy as soon as possible, and then and there we made a meeting-place on the far side of the church, whence I knew I could bring her to my room at the Gregory’s in a minute, and then I went home, for it was late and I didn’t particularly want to meet her folks. The next night I met Lily by the church and took her to my room: she laughed aloud with delight as we entered; for indeed she was almost like a boy of bold, adventurous spirit. She confessed to me that my challenge of her pluck had pleased her intimately: “I never took a ‘dare’!” she cried in her American slang, tossing her head.

• From Untrue (2018)

  A few days later they ran into each other at the playground with their kids. They ended up all going to a family-style restaurant after. Their boys fell in together like long-lost friends. So did Michelle and Delia, with Delia again mentioning that she found her marriage lonely and difficult. She told Michelle she had tried to leave her wife once before but hadn’t been able to follow through. Delia was clearly hurting. She was also beautiful and alluring, with a sly sense of humor like Michelle’s and a taut runner’s body. Delia invited Michelle and her son over to the house that evening for dinner; Delia’s wife was still out of town. “I really wanted to, but I also wanted to be upstanding. So I said, ‘I can’t, it’s not a good idea, because you’re married.’” Delia nodded and said she understood, and that Michelle was right. They started emailing and texting the next day. They texted about what they were up to, how their kids were. And then, after that first week, about their mutual attraction. “I knew it was wrong. Mostly I told myself that she was married and this would not lead anywhere for me. But the truth is, I just lived for her next text.” Delia’s texts were funny. And honest. And raw. “She really was just so miserable about her relationship with her wife. She said there was zero communication and that her wife was a workaholic.” Not long after their texts took a turn for the intimate, they saw each other at a get-together at a mutual friend’s, and Delia’s wife was there. “The sexual tension was just impossible. It was so thick you could see it,” Michelle recalls. “And it continues that way to this day. Still.”

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  Yet another woman, after going through their usual weekend argument about what movie to rent, acquiesced to her husband, agreeing to forgo her love story for his action adventure. Later, at the video store, she had an idea. She walked out a little while later with both the action adventure and a pornographic film. She put the porn film in the action adventure case and handed it to him, saying she would make them some popcorn and be right in. Instead of going to the kitchen, she went to the bedroom and put on one of his shirts, a sexy bra, and a thong. Then she joined him in front of the television. As it turned out, he got his action adventure, after all. An elegant middle-aged woman told me of accompanying her lover, an older, very regal gentleman in his mid-sixties, to the Jockey Club in New York for lunch. It was late afternoon and the club’s restaurant was virtually empty except for one other couple across the room. Under the circumstances, they were both surprised by how little attention they were receiving from the waiter. After bringing them some wine, the waiter had left them alone for a long time. She could see that her partner was starting to become impatient with the lack of service, in spite of the fact they were in no hurry at all. She wondered why he always had to get so uptight in restaurants. Knowing that an unpleasant scene was imminent, she reached under the table in their booth. Putting her hand on his crotch, she began to rub it gently, increasing the intensity as his attention obviously shifted from the missing waiter. He was shocked at her boldness, but couldn’t stop himself from reacting to it. She was surprised at her behavior, too, as it was rare for her to be the aggressor in any of their sexual encounters. For some reason, it excited her beyond belief to have been able to squelch his anger with her bare hand, and she felt giddy with excitement. She unzipped his fly, freed his penis and continued working on him. As he grabbed the napkin and rushed it under the table, the only thing he could muster was, “God, I hope that waiter doesn’t come back now!” To this day, he has never complained about having to wait for service in a restaurant again. A warning: If you should try this yourself, do make sure that the tablecloth reaches at least halfway to the floor. Secret from Lou’s Archives Women and men have distinctly different scents. Men tend to smell muskier, and women sweeter. There are also different scents among the different races: my sources tell me that Caucasian, African-American, and Asian men all have distinct body scents.

• From Fifty Shades of Grey (2011)

  “I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures are fantastic, José—you’re very talented.” He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.” José sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I can see Christian across the gallery. He’s scowling, and I realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a calculated move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I think Christian is going to expire. His glare darkens to something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way toward us. “Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I mumble. “Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like them?” “Um…I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his question. “Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You’re a poster girl.” He hugs me tighter as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortunately José doesn’t see. José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening.” “Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian sounds icily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He subtly stresses we, and takes my hand as he does so. “Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian is dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with silent wrath, but so am I. He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent, determined eyes. I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my mouth. Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress. I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels the same. He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious air into my lungs. “You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.” I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control my riotous reaction…trying to find my equilibrium. “I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.

• From How to Be a Great Lover (1999)

  • lying on his back, hugging his knees towards his chest so his spine is curved and the anal area is completely available for you to play with Secret from Lou’s Archives If you’d like to try anal sex, seminar attendees recommend using the women’s Reality condom, which is made of polyurethene. By removing the adjustable ring at one end, voila, you have the ideal condom for anal sex. Anal play is not for everyone, but it can add a wonderful dimension to your sexual life with your partner. As with any adventure taken between two people, breaking boundaries can lead to new heights of awareness and, in this case, pleasure. [image file=image_rsrc1ZM.jpg] “You gave me information that allowed me to reconnect with my husband and remember why we got married in the first place.” FEMALE SEMINAR ATTENDEE, ACTRESS, AGE 43 You have arrived. Now it’s time to learn how to use all that you’ve learned about foreplay and push the “last act” over the edge. Intercourse comes naturally to human beings. It’s how we propagate the species. But that’s not the same as knowing how to do it well. This chapter will explore the elements of sexual intercourse and show you how to turn the event into a magical experience that completes both of you, transporting you through pleasure. This chapter comes late in the book to encourage you to use all the elements from the previous chapters to enhance sexual intercourse with your lover. Fast and urgent sex can indeed be a great rush. However, I have found, in listening to hundreds and hundreds of women and men, that extending the foreplay through creating a sensual environment, kissing, lubrication, oral and manual stimulation, and even anal sex, is what pushes intercourse into the realm of the divine. As a man in his mid-fifties recently told me, “When I was a teenager, I could look at a woman across the room and I’d be saluting the stars. Now she has to walk toward me and sit on my lap.” A fortysomething male novelist from Los Angeles had this to say about intercourse: “It’s a lot of work: keep thrusting, maintain your erection, push into your toes, stare into her eyes, and say ‘I love you!’ ” Again, I can’t overstate this advice: the factor that most determines whether or not you’ll enjoy intercourse is your ability to be an active participant rather than a passive one. Intercourse is an exchange of energy, spirit, passion, and love. It isn’t intended to be simply tolerated. After all, this is the act by which life is created. I’m not suggesting that your reason for making love is, ever will, or should be to create a life. What I am saying is that the act commands respect, for both yourself and your partner. Lying there like a bump on a log while he thrusts himself in and out of you is not a demonstration of respect, spirit, passion, or love.

• From Henry Miller on Writing (1964)

  To live out one’s desires, and in doing so to subtly alter the quality of desire, is, it seems to me, the great purpose of living. But desire is paramount and ineradicable, even when, according to Buddhist thought, it passes over into its opposite. Because, in order to free oneself from all desire, one has to desire to do so. This subject of desire is one which has interested me profoundly, first when I was coming out of adolescence, and again recently, after I had found myself and was confronted with the great problem of freedom and choice. As a youth I was whipped into a tumultuous life by great urges entirely beyond my control. In the last few years, after a prolonged period of intense creativity, I found myself mystified by all the metaphysical problems centering about this notion of desire. In the midst of my struggles the book Seraphita by Balzac was thrust into my hands by a friend who was an occultist. Seraphita remains the high peak of my experience in the world of books. From it I quickly passed to a deep study of that other memorable work of Balzac’s, Louis Lambert , and then to an examination of Balzac’s life. With the result that in an essay called “Balzac and His Double,” which is to be published shortly in an American review, I gave full expression to the problem and resolved the conflict which had been raging in me. Few people realize, I imagine, how greatly Balzac wrestled with the problem of the angel in man. If I mention this at all it is only to admit that something of this same problem—the angel in man—has also been my own life-long obsession. In a sense I believe it has always been the problem of the creative being, pre-eminently, almost exclusively his. And the artist, who is one type of creative being—not the highest, by any means—is obsessed, admittedly or not, with the idea of re-creating the world in order, as I see it, to re-establish man’s innocence. This innocence, he knows, is achieved only through freedom. It is based primarily on the idea of liberation through one’s own effort and involves, necessarily, the complete defeat of the automatic processes. The artist is continually warring against death in whatever form or shape it presents itself. He is not against dying, because to him dying and living are synonymous: he is against stagnation, crystallization, immobility. He is against civilization, because civilization is the supreme expression of the forces of death. In one of his essays D. H. Lawrence pointed out that there were two great modes of life, the religious and the sexual—the former taking precedence over the latter. The sexual was the lesser way towards salvation, he said. I would not even say there were two ways. To me it seems that there is only one great way and that is the way of truth.

• From Available: The unfiltered and empowering new memoir for women about sex, dating and divorce after 40 (2021)

  Shimmying my hips back until I am kneeling on the bed, his legs on either side of me, I pause to fully take in what’s in front of me: his penis is erect and his entire pubic area hairless. I ponder what I had just asked him minutes earlier about what makes one pussy different from another and I am struck by how different his penis is from what I’m used to. It’s been 27 years since I’ve seen a penis that did not belong to my husband and to my surprise, this one really does look very different, but I can’t say exactly how. Suddenly I’m aware that I couldn’t adequately describe Michael’s penis if I tried to. When was the last time I really looked at it? And when was the last time I lustfully (or even with complete boredom) wrapped my lips around it? I stroke his balls; I like the way they feel without hair, like baby skin. Tentatively, I flick my tongue against them and he grabs my hair and groans. I slide back up, pressing my body against his, and now reach for the condom myself, opening it and helping him unroll it down the length of his penis. I had been certain that condoms must have changed drastically in the thirty years since I last used one, but no – the sensation of a synthetic, sticky object rather than warm, soft skin is the first thing I notice when he slides into me. The second thing I notice is that a man who is not my husband is now deep inside me and I’m still very much intact. We remain in his bed for hours, touching and kissing and talking in between. Whatever I think ‘it’ is, I’m proving to myself that I might actually still have it. I had expected tears, nostalgia for the way it had been with Michael who knew so well what I did and didn’t like in bed. It turns out I’m an expert at achieving an orgasm and many women aren’t, according to Jack in what is admittedly a limited research study. For all the ways in which I’ve assumed I’m out of touch with myself sexually, I’ve just discovered that I understand what my body responds to, and that I enjoy the physical sensations that come with having sex. Sure, I’ve been having it for decades, but with the same man mostly the same way and with sleeping children a thin wall away. This is the sex I remember from my youth – ravenous, raw, and thrilling – the kind of sex that takes my breath away and makes me greedy for more. It occurs to me that I’m free to reinvent myself now in whatever way I choose, to shed the sexual persona that I rigidly assigned myself.

• From The Romance of Lust: A classic Victorian erotic novel (1873)

  “My darling Charlie, it is impossible that this great big thing could ever get into that orifice, my late husband’s was not half your size, and he had great difficulty unless I had already spent three or four times and relaxed all those parts. I should not dare to let you attempt it.” “Oh, yes my darling mamma, you will let me just get its point in and spend there. I should so like to try. We will fuck two or three times first, and then after the third time I shall frig you till you spend first, and so I shall be ready just to put in the point for you to try how it feels.” “But, my dear boy, the least throb on my part will push it out, unless it is in over the nut, and only look what a size it is. I can hardly grasp it, and although it is so velvety it is quite hard. Oh, the dear fellow, let me kiss it, and then do you fuck me again, my darling.”

• From Three Women (2019)

  They are quiet for another while and then Aidan says, So what’s this thing you brought? Lina is in control now or at the very least she feels that she is. She says, Get in the back and take off your pants and your shoes. He gets into the back of the Suburban and she follows. She undresses herself and doesn’t let him touch her just yet. She slips her hand into a pocket of her pants that are on the floor of the car and she pulls out a Cadbury Crème Egg. You took so long before meetin’ me, she says, I almost ate it. She winks and he looks at the egg quizzically. She holds it aloft and to the side, in her left hand, and then she moves her face to him and she kisses him and it is fucking amazing. It always is with him. His tongue. Her tongue, which he does not think is like a rough blanket that is offensive to the touch. Then she pulls away from his mouth to unwrap the egg. It has a seam where she splits it in half. She sets one half down on the floor of the Suburban and scoops out the filling from the other half with her index and middle fingers and rubs it all over his penis, down onto his testicles, and then she takes special care glopping a lot onto the head. She starts sucking it, spreading the sweet gluey crème with her tongue while also licking it up. He pre-ejaculates a little and she lifts her head up and says, Mmm, salty and sweet, fantastic. And then she brings her face up to his and kisses him with crème on her tongue. She alternates between kissing his mouth and sucking his penis. Everything tastes so good. He takes his strong arms and clasps one under each of her thighs and raises her up completely above him and lowers her crotch onto his face and sucks at her. She feels as though she’s being eaten by a tiger. He moans into her vagina and keeps repeating, I love eating your pussy. He says this actually into her vagina so that she feels they’re having a private communion, as if her vagina and Aidan are engaged with each other and the rest of Lina is watching from above. His face is buried there for about ten minutes. Sometimes it feels so good that it’s too much and she tries to de-saddle but his arms clamp down tighter and he keeps her on his face. He says, Nuh uh, into her vagina and keeps her rooted to his mouth the way a round ball fits into the base of a joystick. Finally he lifts her off and is about to lower her vagina over his penis and she goes, Wait! I don’t want that stuff in me!

• From The Life and Amours of the Beautiful, Gay and Dashing Kate Percival (1903)

  "We immediately proceeded to the box where the beautiful girl was seated. She received us with a charming smile and I was soon on terms of the closest intimacy with her. After we had conversed for about a quarter of an hour, she whispered something to George to which he made the reply 'all right!' She then turned to me and asked me to sup with her that evening after the play was over. To this invitation I gave a willing assent. "The first act of the play was over and the curtain rose for the second. "'What a dull piece!' said Harriet. 'Let us retire to the rear of the box, where we shall not be seen by the audience--we can then converse with more freedom. I dare say, you don't care about seeing the play, Mr. Clarence?" "'Not at all,' I replied, 'I would a thousand times rather converse with you than see the finest play in the world.' "'That's a very pretty compliment,' said she, rising from her chair and taking up her position at the back of the box, where I followed her. "George now excused himself and said that he would return when the piece was ended, leaving me alone with Harriet. In the position we had taken no one could see us, neither from the stage nor from the theater. When we were alone I put my arms round the lovely girl's waist and drawing her towards me imprinted a moist kiss on her soft dewy lips and then begged her pardon for my boldness. "'There is no apology necessary,' said Harriet. 'I like it as much as you do yourself, and I like men to be bold.' "She then kissed me of her own accord and I could even feel her tongue penetrate my lips while a deep flush of desire suffused her face. "Thus encouraged, I grew more bold and placed my hand on her white shoulders; I gently let it slide down inside the front of her dress and it came in contact with her glorious bubbies. Of all the breasts I had ever felt there were none could be compared with hers--so voluptuous, so white and so firm. I handled them at will, pressing them and pulling down her dress, exposing them to my ardent gaze. "Harriet placed one of her feet on a chair and placed her other leg across my lap. This movement raised her petticoats in such a manner that it showed me a considerable portion of her gloriously formed limbs. In a moment my hand was under her clothes, handling at will her lovely con. She stretched her thighs widely to assist me in my researches--nay, more, she raised her petticoats with her own hand and exposed to my delighted gaze the lovely domain of Venus.

• From The Whole Lesbian Sex Book: A Passionate Guide for All of Us (2004)

  • Pacing. Let your partner recover from one sensation before going on to the next. Intermittent hard beating, mixing sensual strokes with sharper strokes, will also help her take more pain and stretch her limits (if she so desires). After a painful blow, place the palm of your hand at the point of contact. Soothe the rising welt or mark with the warmth of your body. • Breathing. As the receptive partner, breathe into the sensations; don’t hold your breath or tense your muscles against the pain. Ride with it. • Sensation. Some women prefer thud to sting—or vice versa. Different toys produce different sensations. Generally, the thinner the toy, the more stinging its sensations. So a wide paddle or heavy flogger will produce a “thuddier” sensation than a thin rod or single-tailed whip. Some women who love the deep pounding of a heavy whip seem to be able to take it forever; others prefer the discrete, searing lines of pain laid down by an expert caning. • Erotic context. Many women find they can take more pain when the context is eroticized. You may find that a finger slowly stroking your clitoris will more than ameliorate the pain of that strap on your butt. • Discipline and reward. In some scenes, pain is a reward for a good deed; in others, it’s delivered as punishment for a mistake, real or imagined. • Submission. Some women may find they can eroticize pain in the context of a dominance and submission scene. Simply put, they wish to please their top, and if the top enjoys administering a good beating, they aim to take it. • Masochism. Finally, a masochist craves pain in the context of an S/M scene. Even when pain isn’t accompanied by erotic touching, and regardless of whether she gives a hoot about pleasing her top or whether the pain is being administered as punishment or reward, she may simply desire pain’s sensations. NegotiationAs a top, I like to ask the bottom to pick the toys she likes best, plus one she would hate to feel. I love the physical act of flogging, the swing and rhythm of both bodies giving and receiving. Paddling as well, if only to have a woman on her knees or over my lap. I would have to say orgasm denial is my all-time favorite activity. The rewards are lovely. Negotiating an S/M scene involves exploring each partner’s desires, needs, limits, and safety concerns to find a common ground from which to proceed. The keys to negotiation are honesty and mutual respect.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  It was raining on the roof of the houseboat. At five o’clock Paris always has a current of eroticism in the air. Is it because it is the hour when lovers meet, the five to seven of all French novels? Never at night, it would seem, for all the women are married and free only at “tea time,” the great alibi. At five I always felt shivers of sensuality, shared with the sensual Paris. As soon as the light faded, it seemed to me that every women I saw was running to meet her lover, that every man was running to meet his mistress. When he leaves me, Marcel kisses me on the cheek. His beard touches me like a caress. This kiss on the cheek which is meant to be a brother’s is charged with intensity. We had dinner together. I suggested we go dancing. We went to the Bal Negre. Immediately Marcel was paralyzed. He was afraid of dancing. He was afraid to touch me. I tried to lure him into the dance, but he would not dance. He was awkward. He was afraid. When he finally held me in his arms he was trembling, and I was enjoying the havoc I caused. I felt a joy at being near to him. I felt a joy in the tall slenderness of his body. I said, “Are you sad? Do you want to leave?” “I’m not sad, but I’m blocked. My whole past seems to stop me. I can’t let go. This music is so savage. I feel as if I can inhale but not exhale. I’m just constrained, unnatural.” I did not ask him to dance anymore. I danced with a Negro. When we left then in the cool night, Marcel was talking about the knots, the fears, the paralysis in him. I felt, the miracle has not happened. I will free him by a miracle, not by words, not directly, not with the words I used for the sick ones. What he suffers I know. I suffered it once. But I know the free Marcel. I want Marcel free. But when he came to the houseboat and saw Hans there, when he saw Gustavo arriving at midnight and staying on after he left, Marcel got jealous. I saw his blue eyes grow dark. When he kissed me goodnight, he stared at Gustavo with anger. He said to me, “Come out with me for a moment.” I left the houseboat and walked with him along the dark quays. Once we were alone, he leaned over and kissed me passionately, furiously, his full, big mouth drinking mine. I offered my mouth again. “When will you come to see me?” he asked. “Tomorrow, Marcel, tomorrow I will come to see you.”

• From Hot Daddies: Gay Erotic Fiction (2011)

  He grinds his boot deeper into my balls until the pain is too much and I begin to cry. He chuckles as he rams his boot between my legs harder. Tears drip onto the boot in my mouth. “Good boy. Feed my boot with your tears. Now I need to feel your mouth on my leathers.” I lift my head to meet his eyes, surprised. He has never let me do that before, though I have dreamed about it. “Yes, that’s right, boy. You are going to lick your way up to the only cock that matters. Daddy’s cock. Start with my chaps. It’s your job to please Daddy with your mouth, boy. If you do, you just might get to taste Daddy’s dick tonight.” I begin to lick, savoring the feel of the buttery leather on my lips. My eyes close and I breathe in the scent of it. Daddy begins to speak in a slow deep soothing voice. “You did very well tonight, boy. You stood still for Daddy. You took everything I had. You fed Daddy right. You have earned the honor of worshipping my leathers.” My sole purpose in life is to please Daddy with my mouth. I open my mouth wider, licking intently along the leather of his chaps. My head between his calves, I writhe on the floor, intent on savoring every inch. I lick up to the knee on one and then switch legs, worshipping with luxurious strokes of my tongue. I can feel myself flying, airy. It is trancelike, and yet I’m completely focused. He groans when my mouth reaches the back of his knee, and his other leg clamps down onto my head, holding my mouth there as I continue to stroke him with my tongue. “That’s Daddy’s good boy. Use that tongue. Make Daddy happy. Your mouth feels so damn good, boy.” His leg releases me, and I continue my journey up his thighs. Muscle shifts in response to my tongue. His hand snakes down and grips my hair before stroking my head. My cheek is against his leather jock. I can smell him. I am in heaven. “Such a good boy for Daddy. Such a sweet mouth, so eager, so open for me. That’s my good boy. Get your mouth over here.” He pulls my mouth onto his jock. I almost cum, right there. His boot slides between my thighs and the heel grinds into my cock. Tears well up in my eyes. His hand again grips my hair tightly, pulling it as he drives his boot heel into my cock, harder. I whimper, and tears fall onto his jock. He grips my head, rubbing my eyes into the jock to soak up the tears.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  These practices had aroused her sensuality to such a degree that she was frightened. She was afraid of the day when André would cease to be sufficient for her. Her sensuality was, she knew, vigorous; his was the last burst of a man who had spent himself on a life of excess and now gave her the flower of it. A day came when André had to leave her for ten days for a trip. Linda was restless and feverish. A friend telephoned her, André’s friend, the painter of the day in Paris, the favorite of all women. He said to her, “Are you bored with yourself, Linda? Would you care to join us in a very special kind of party? Do you have a mask?” Linda knew exactly what he meant. She and André had often laughed at Jacques’s parties in the Bois. It was his favorite form of amusement: on a summer night, to gather society people wearing masks, drive to the Bois with bottles of champagne, find a clearing in the wooded section and disport themselves. She was tempted. She had never participated in one. That, André had not wanted to do. He said playfully that the question of the masks might confuse him and that he did not want to make love to the wrong woman. Linda accepted the invitation. She put on one of her new evening dresses, a heavy satin dress which outlined her body like a wet glove. She wore no underwear, no jewelry that could identify her. She changed her hairstyle, from a pageboy frame around her face to a pompadour style, which revealed the shape of her face and neck. Then she tied the black mask on her face, pinning the elastic to her hair for greater security. At the last minute she decided to change the color of her hair and had it washed and tinted blue-black instead of pale blond. Then she put it up again and found herself so altered that it startled her. About eighty people had been asked to meet at the big studio of the fashionable painter. It was dimly lit so as to preserve the guests’ identities better. When they were all there, they were whisked to the waiting automobiles. The chauffeurs knew where to go. In the deepest part of the woods there was a beautiful clearing covered with moss. There they sat, having sent the chauffeurs away, and began to drink champagne. Many of the caresses had already begun in the crowded automobiles. The masks gave people a liberty that turned the most refined ones into hungry animals. Hands ran under the sumptuous evening dresses to touch what they wanted to touch, knees intertwined, breaths came quicker.

• From The Plum in the Golden Vase: Jin Ping Mei, Vol. 1, Tangled Pleasures

  He pretended to pick up the chopstick and offered her some food. She searched around but couldn't find it. She said, "This isn't yours!" Ximen Qing walked over to her side and said, "It's right here." He squatted down and reached for the chopstick but instead pinched her embroidered shoe. The woman laughed and said, "You're so naughty! I might scream!" Ximen Qing knelt down and pleaded, "Lady, have mercy on me!" He then began to touch her leg. The woman pushed him away, saying, "You shameless rascal! I'll give you a slap!" Ximen Qing laughed and said, "If you slap me to death, it will still be to your advantage." Without further ado, they embraced each other and lay together on Madam Wang's bed, removing their clothes and enjoying each other's company. This woman, having had an affair with Zhang Dahu, was used to soft and weak partners. A three-inch fellow like Wu Dalang couldn't possibly satisfy her. Now, encountering Ximen Qing, who was experienced in romantic affairs and highly skilled, how could she not be delighted? They enjoyed themselves intimately. The two of them were like mandarin ducks in water, phoenixes among flowers. Blissfully intertwined, they displayed affectionate unity. Her slender waist entwined with his, while her cherry-like mouth breathed heavily. With flirtatious gazes, they exchanged sweet words. Yang Liu's waist pulsed with the intensity of spring, while her cherry mouth exhaled softly. Their eyes shyly met, their gestures filled with charm. Their enjoyment was sweet, like nectar, and their laughter was like a playful tongue. Her waist was slender like a willow, her cheeks flushed with passion. Her stockings were pulled up high, revealing a pair of beautiful, crescent-shaped moons. Her hairpin was tilted, a wisp of cloud resting by her pillow. Her silk ribbon, loose and alluring, formed a black cloud. This pair was a perfect match, destined to be together. Truly, their secret love was exceptionally delightful. After their intimate encounter, just as they were adjusting their clothing, Madam Wang pushed open the door and entered, exclaiming in surprise and amusement. She clapped her hands and said, "You two have done quite a good deed!" Ximen Qing and the woman were both startled. Madam Wang turned to the woman and said, "Fine, just fine! I invited you here to do sewing, not to have you fooling around with a man! If your husband Wu Dalang finds out, it will be my trouble too. I might as well go and tell him right away." She turned to leave, but the woman quickly grabbed her skirt, blushing and lowering her head, and pleaded, "Please forgive me, godmother!" Madam Wang said, "Both of you must agree to do something for me. From now on, keep your relationship secret from Wu Dalang. You must come early or late, depending on Ximen Qing's desires. If you fail to come for a single day, I'll inform your husband." The woman was embarrassed and couldn't say anything.

• From Scandalous Liaisons (2007)

  She patted the bulging saddlebag he’d been too distracted to notice before. “I heard your footman has a broken arm. I can set it and tend to him, while you attend to your carriage.” Hugh nodded, resigned. It would save time, and if she couldn’t help John, at least she’d be pleasing to the eye in the meantime. Damned if the sight of her in those breeches didn’t make every thought leave a man’s head. He urged the horses forward, and she moved aside to allow him to lead. Charlotte’s hands were quite literally shaking on the reins. She’d never been studied in such a manner in her life, in a way that made her skin hot and her palms itch. She was no ingenue—her attractiveness had been the backbone of her existence for many years. But it had been a novel experience to be raked by Montrose’s warm brown eyes. She felt looked at, truly seen, for the first time in years. At first glance he appeared nonchalant, but she wasn’t fooled. He’d perused her in detail, and liked what he saw. It had been thrilling. Arousing. And she wanted the handsome earl, who was an obvious libertine, to strip her with his eyes again. Charlotte had hoped he would be fine of face, but the reality was far more devastating than she had imagined. He exhibited none of the signs of ennui and dissolution common to men with a marked predilection to excess. Montrose was, in fact, youthful and quite fit. More than fit. Vigorous, actually, and virile. Potently virile. His mode of dress was understated, almost reserved, which suited him because his physical beauty alone was attractive enough. Any further adornment would simply be too much. There were varying forms of male arrogance: the arrogance of wealth and privilege, the arrogance of intelligence, and the arrogance of attractiveness. The Earl of Montrose bore all of those traits, and a little bit more. The intensity of his stare, the way his hands had tightened the harnesses, the leisurely, seductive grace with which he moved—it all betrayed him. A man that comfortable in his own skin would know all about sexual pleasure and wouldn’t doubt his ability to bestow it. He was a man who fucked often and well. A man few women could resist. Charlotte watched him closely as they left the grounds and moved onto the snow-covered lane, noting the easy expertise with which he held the ribbons. She was a woman who appreciated men who had a way with horses, because she liked them so well herself. Quite frankly, she respected men who took the time to become experts in the things that interested them. And Montrose was just such a man.

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

  As she arranged her body in her usual yoga poses, she attempted “a cognitive reframe. I said to myself over and over, like a mantra, that I was a highly sexual woman, a highly responsive woman. Not that I wasn’t a sexual person, but now I was very consciously telling myself these things, taking on this persona. And there was the mindfulness. That’s a part of yoga anyway; you’re deeply aware of what your body is doing. You’re aware of your breathing, your heartbeat. But that day there was a deliberate intent not only to listen to my body even more than I would normally in yoga but also to interpret the signs from my body as signs of my sexual identity. So my breathing was not just breathing through the pose; it was breathing because I was highly sexual.” Sensation and self-image became linked. She was in a tricky position, bent over and balanced on one foot and one inverted hand, when she had a profound moment. It wasn’t that anything she was trying mentally was in itself so stunningly new. The power of positive thought was a cliché. And the acute concentration on the sensory harkened back to a style of sex therapy practiced by Masters and Johnson decades earlier. Yet by melding the two, something revelatory happened. Suddenly her straining muscles and racing heart were affirmations “of my sexual vigor, my arousability.” She finished class and walked out onto the street and bicycled home with an exhilarating sense of her own body, her potency. Brotto took what she learned treating borderline personality—the raisins came from that training—and what she discovered in yoga class, and tested it first with her gynecological cancer patients, then with a range of women who rued their weak desire. These days she sent her groups home to repeat over and over and over, “My body is alive and sexual,” no matter if they believed it. And she guided them in the conference room, “Lift the raisin to your lips. . . . Notice that your mouth has begun to salivate. . . . Place the raisin in your mouth, without chewing it. Close your eyes and just notice how it feels. . . . Notice where the tongue is, notice saliva building up in your mouth. . . . Feel your teeth biting through the surface. Notice the trajectory of the flavor as it bursts forth, the flood of saliva, how the flavor changes from your body’s chemistry. Notice the clenching of your jaw when chewing, the sensation of the raisin passing down the throat as it is swallowed. Notice the aftertaste and even the echo of the aftertaste.”