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 Delta of Venus (1977)

  The Basque came on such a day and divined he could benefit from the irritation. Other days Viviane was lethargic, heavy and indifferent. She laid her body down as in some classical painting, in such a manner as to accentuate the tremendous rise and fall of her curves. She lay on her side with her head resting on her arm, her flesh, of copper-colored tones, distended at times as if it were laboring under the erotic swelling of a caress from some invisible hand. Thus she offered herself, sumptuous and almost impossible to arouse. Most men did not try. She turned her mouth away from them with contempt, offering her body all the more, but with detachment. They could stretch open her legs and stare as long as they wanted. They could not draw any sap from her. But once a man was inside of her, she behaved as if he were pouring hot lava into her, and her contortions were more violent than those of women taking pleasure because they were dramatized to simulate the real. She twisted herself like a python, jerked herself in all directions as if she were being burnt or beaten. Powerful muscles gave to her motions a strength which stirred the most bestial desires. Men fought to arrest the contortions, to calm the orgiastic dance she did around them, as if she were pinned to something that was torturing her. Then suddenly, at her own caprice, she would lie still. And this, perversely in the middle of their rising fury, cooled them so that the fulfillment was delayed. She became a mass of quiet flesh. She took to gentle sucking then, as if she were sucking a thumb before falling asleep. Then her lethargy irritated them. They sought to arouse her again, touching her everywhere, kissing her. She submitted, unmoved. The Basque bided his time. He watched Viviane’s ceremonious ablutions. Today she was swollen from many assaults. No matter how small a sum was placed for her on the table, she had never been known to stop a man from satisfying himself. The big, rich lips, too much rubbed, were slightly distended, and a slight fever burned her. The Basque was very gentle. He deposited his little gift on the table. He undressed. He promised her a balm, a cotton, a veritable padding. These delicacies put her off her guard. The Basque handled her as if he were a woman. Only a little touch there, to smooth, to quieten, the fever. Her skin was as dark as a gypsy’s, very smooth and clean, and even powdered. His fingers were sensitive. He touched her only by accident, brushing by, and laid his sex on her belly like a toy, merely for her to admire. It answered when spoken to. Her belly vibrated to its weight, heaving slightly to feel it there. As he showed no impatience to move it where it would be sheltered, enclosed, she permitted herself the luxury of expanding, abandoning herself.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  When they arrived, it was scented with burning incense. The only light came from illuminated glass globes filled with water and iridescent fish, corals and glass sea horses. This gave the room an undersea aspect, the appearance of a dream, a place where three diversely beautiful women exhaled such sensual auras that a man would have been overcome. Bijou was afraid to move. Everything looked so fragile to her. She sat cross-legged like an Arab woman, smoking. Elena seemed to radiate light like the glass globes. Her eyes shone brilliant and feverish in the semidarkness. Leila emitted a mysterious charm for both women, an atmosphere of the unknown. The three of them sat on the very low couch, on a heaving sea of pillows. The first one to move was Leila, who slid her jeweled hand under Bijou’s skirts and gasped slightly with surprise at the unexpected touch of flesh where she had expected to find silky underwear. Bijou lay back and turned her mouth towards Elena, her strength tempted by the fragility of Elena, knowing for the first time what it was to feel like a man and to feel a woman’s slightness bending under the weight of a mouth, the small head bent back by her heavy hands, the light hair flying about. Bijou’s strong hands encircled the dainty neck with delight. She held the head like a cup between her hands to drink from the mouth long draughts of nectar breath, her tongue undulating. Leila had a moment of jealousy. Each caress she gave to Bijou, Bijou transmitted to Elena—the very same caress. After Leila kissed Bijou’s luxuriant mouth, Bijou took Elena’s lips between hers. When Leila’s hand slipped further under Bijou’s dress, Bijou slid her hand under Elena’s. Elena did not move, filling herself with languor. Then Leila slid to her knees and used both hands to stroke Bijou. When she pushed up Bijou’s dress, Bijou threw her body back and closed her eyes to better feel the movements of the warm, incisive hands. Elena, seeing Bijou offered, dared to touch her voluptuous body and follow every contour of the rich curves—a bed of down, soft, firm flesh without bones, smelling of sandalwood and musk. Her own nipples hardened as she touched Bijou’s breasts. When her hand passed around Bijou’s buttocks, it met Leila’s hand. Then Leila began to undress, exposing a soft little black satin corselet, which held her stockings with tiny black garters. Her thighs, slender and white, gleamed, her sex lay in shadow. Elena loosened the garters to watch the polished legs emerging. Bijou threw her dress over her head and then leaned forwards to finish pulling it off, exposing as she did so the fullness of her buttocks, the dimples at the bottom of the spine, the incurving back. Then Elena slid out of her dress. She was wearing black lace underwear that was slit open back and front, showing only the shadowy folds of her sexual secrets.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  And so it was arranged. It was three, the Young Man would be over at four. Love in the afternoon, like Gary Cooper and Audrey Hepburn. Well, not quite. I didn’t have a cello. With one hour to prepare, I had no time to think. Just as well, because there was no sense in it. But the ones who made sense drove me crazy. I had already caught several men desiring matrimony—and married the best of them—and had found misery to spare. Catching a man and hauling him to the altar was not what I wanted. I had a creepy suspicion that all those “proposals” were more about insecurities and jealousies than about love, more about tying me down emotionally when I needed tying down physically. I didn’t want a lifetime commitment; I wanted a sexual commitment. For a few hours, anyway. Trembling, I got on my knees, not knowing what else to do, and prayed to my unknown God to allow me to surrender to this man, in this moment, for this afternoon only. No more. I could not imagine more. I can only fuck one fuck at a time. Could I have the courage to not be afraid of the beauty of the Young Man just this once? To go all the way in with him, not knowing if there was a way out? I got up off my knees and turned on the bath. I bathed, shaved my legs, powdered my whole body with honey dust, set up the music, closed the curtains, fed the cat, lit the incense and candles, and then—very excited, very apprehensive—I put myself into a black thong, a black bra, and a long black velvet gown. The doorbell rang, late. I opened the door and he stepped inside and then stepped inside of me. He folded me into his big arms, no words, and pressed me close. I was his from that moment forth. I allowed it, and then it took on a life of its own. For the next three hours, I melted into this man in a way I never had with any man before. As his cock entered me to the full, the pressure made me flinch. He looked down at me and said gently, “I won’t hurt you.” Actually, it did hurt—he had a big cock—but somehow I understood intuitively that it wasn’t about hurting me, it was about something else. As with dancing, I knew that I had to work with my discomfort, embrace it, to get to the next level. And then he fucked me in the ass. Is this what he learned while out of town? It was the first time for me. Ever. My God, he was good. I mean bad. What nerve he had. So graceful. It was very slow, very careful, very connected and painful.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  When she awakened, she was lying on an iron bed in a shabby room. A man was asleep beside her. She was naked, and he too, but half-covered by the sheet. She recognized the body which had crushed her the night before in the Bois. It was the body of an athlete, big, brown, muscular. The head was handsome, strong, with wild hair. As she looked at him admiringly, he opened his eyes and smiled. “I could not let you go back with the others, I might never have seen you again,” he said. “How did you get me here?” “I stole you.” “Where are we?” “In a very poor hotel, where I live.” “Then you’re not . . .” “I’m not a friend of the others, if that is what you mean. I am simply a workman. One night, bicycling back from my work, I saw one of your partouzes. I got undressed and joined it. The women seemed to enjoy me. I was not discovered. When I had made love to them, I stole away. Last night I was passing by again and I heard the voices. I found you being kissed by that man, and I carried you off. Now I brought you here. It may make trouble for you, but I could not give you up. You’re a real woman, the others are feeble compared to you. You’ve got fire.” “I have to leave,” said Linda. “But I want your promise that you will come back.” He sat up and looked at her. His physical beauty gave him a grandeur, and she vibrated at his nearness. He began to kiss her and she felt languid again. She put her hand on his hard penis. The joys of the night before were still running through her body. She let him take her again almost as if to make sure that she had not dreamed. No, this man who could make his penis burn through her whole body and kiss her as if it were to be the last kiss, this man was real. And so Linda returned to him. It was the place where she felt most alive. But after a year she lost him. He fell in love with another woman and married her. Linda had become so accustomed to him that now everyone else seemed too delicate, too refined, too pale, feeble. Among the men she knew, there was none with that savage strength and fervor of her lost lover. She searched for him again and again, in small bars, in the lost places of Paris. She met prizefighters, circus stars, athletes. With each she tried to find the same embraces. But they failed to arouse her.

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  First she loosened her wild hair, shook it like a mane. Then she unbuttoned her coat. Her hands were slow and caressing. She did not handle herself objectively, but like a woman ascertaining with her hands the exact condition of her body, patting it in gratitude for its perfections. Her perennial black dress clung to her body like a second skin and was filled with mysterious openings. One gesture opened the shoulders and let the dress fall over her breasts but no further. At this point she decided to look at her face mirror and examine her eyelashes. Then she opened the zipper which exposed the ribs, the beginning of the breasts, the beginning of the belly’s curve. All the students were watching her from behind their easels. Even the women rested their eyes on the luxuriant parts of Bijou’s body, which burst from the dress dazzlingly. The flawless skin, the soft contours, the firm flesh fascinated them all. Bijou had a way of shaking herself, as if to loosen her muscles, as the cat does before he leaps. This shake, which ran through her body, gave the breasts an air of being handled with violence. Then she took the dress lightly at the hem and lifted it slowly over her shoulders. When it reached her shoulders, she was always stuck for a moment. Something caught with her long hair. No one helped her. They were all petrified. The body which emerged, hairless, now absolutely naked, as she stood with her legs apart to keep her balance, startled them by the sensuality in every curve, by its richness and femininity. The wide black garters were placed high. She wore black stockings, and, if it was a rainy day, high leather boots, men’s boots. As she struggled with the boots, she was at the mercy of anyone who approached her. The students were sorely tempted. One might pretend to help her, but as he approached her she would kick him, sensing his real intention. She continued to struggle with the entangled dress, shaking herself as if in a spasm of love. Finally, she freed herself, after the students had satisfied their eyes. She freed her rich breasts and tangled hair. Sometimes she was asked to keep her boots on, the heavy boots from which expanded, like a flower, the ivory-colored female body. Then a wind of desire would sweep the entire class.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  Sometimes he’ll speak softly and say, “Get on the bed—on your knees—now pull up your dress.” Then he eats me out, from behind. Other times, he will just take my body and position me where he wants me—crouching on a pillow before him as he feeds me his cock, or flat on my back on the bed while he pinches my nipples through my dress or . . . But whatever happens now, it’s all in slow motion. After a lot of cocksucking, and I mean a lot, he moves me around and grabs a condom and then I know we are about to enter the next stage. Pussy sex is foreplay. Sometimes he skips my pussy altogether and goes straight to my ass, really nasty, only ass—the exit stage. But usually he does pussy first. As he enters me I feel him push up against my cervix, push into my cervix, and it always startles me. I enter the Zone of Release. Sometimes he’ll get so far up there and then start pulsing, with expert little thrusts, pushing my walls outward, upward, further into my being. Every pulse wants more and gets more. This is the beginning of moreness, a state of body longing that craves without cease. The waves of pleasure roll in slowly, then more quickly, but they never stop. Pinnacle after pinnacle, most might deem it the best ever, even transcendent. But he and I are greedy and know where to go for more. There is this amazing moment where love is saturating the room and yet loss is not present. We’re just beginning. Just warming up. After he has had enough pussy (always his choice), he pulls out and situates me—sometimes on Pink Square, sometimes on all fours, sometimes sideways, hip curved upward like a Henry Moore. However he sees it, he gets it. Already well fucked, I am now at my most obedient. My will is now about 40 percent depleted, but I am still holding on to my consciousness, to my awareness, and to my high heels. I have much more to give. Much more. I have the power to give, give power. Other lovers never even got 10 percent of what I have to give. They didn’t have the power to ask for it. He does . . . and then he asks for more than that. REAR ENTRY

• From Delta of Venus (1977)

  So I entered a secret life, and when I was supposed to be posing for everyone else in the world, I was really waiting in a beautiful room for John. Each time he came, he brought a gift, a book, colored stationery for me to write on. I was restless, waiting. The only one who was taken into the secret was the sculptor because he sensed what was happening. He would not let me stop posing, and he questioned me. He had predicted how my life would be. The first time I felt an orgasm with John, I wept because it was so strong and so marvelous that I did not believe it could happen over and over again. The only painful moments were the ones spent waiting. I would bathe myself, spread polish on my nails, perfume myself, rouge my nipples, brush my hair, put on a negligée, and all the preparations would turn my imagination to the scenes to come. I wanted him to find me in the bath. He would say he was on his way. But he would not arrive. He was often detained. By the time he arrived I would be cold, resentful. The waiting wore out my feelings. I would rebel. Once I would not answer when he rang the doorbell. Then he knocked gently, humbly, and that touched me, so I opened the door. But I was angry and wanted to hurt him. I did not respond to his kiss. He was hurt until his hand slipped under my negligée and he found that I was wet, in spite of the fact that I kept my legs tightly closed. He was joyous again and he forced his way. Then I punished him by not responding sexually and he was hurt again, for he enjoyed my pleasure. He knew by the violent heartbeats, by the changes in the voice, by the contraction of my legs, how I had enjoyed him. And this time I lay like a whore. That really hurt him. We could never go out together. He was too well known, as was his wife. He was a producer. His wife was a playwright. When John discovered how angry it would make me to wait for him, he did not try to remedy it. He came later and later. He would say that he was arriving at ten o’clock and then come at midnight. So one day he found that I was not there when he came. This put him in a frenzy. He thought I would not come back. I felt that he was doing this deliberately, that he liked my being angry. After two days he pleaded with me and I returned. We were both very keyed up and angry. He said, “You’ve gone back to pose. You like it. You like to show yourself.” “Why do you make me wait so long? You know that it kills my desire for you. I feel cold when you come late.”

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

  Poor Louisa, however, bore up at length better than could have been expected: and though she suffered, and greatly too, yet, ever true to the good old cause, she suffered with pleasure and enjoyed her pain. And soon now, by dint of an enraged enforcement, the brute-machine, driven like a whirlwind, made all smoke again, and wedging its way up, to the utmost extremity, left her, in point of penetration, nothing to fear or to desire: and now, “Gorged with the dearest morsel of the earth,” (Shakespeare.) Louisa lay, pleased to the heart, pleased to her utmost capacity of being so, with every fibre in those parts, stretched almost to breaking, on a rack of joy, whilst the instrument of all this over-fullness searched her senses with its sweet excess, till the pleasure gained upon her so, its point stung her so home, that catching at length the rage from her furious driver and sharing the riot of his wild rapture, she went wholly out of her mind into that favourite part of her body, the whole intenseness of which was so fervously filled, and employed: there alone she existed, all lost in those delirious transports, those extasies of the senses, which her winking eyes, the brightened vermilion of her lips and cheeks, and sighs of pleasure deeply fetched, so pathetically expressed. In short, she was now as mere a machine as much wrought on, and had her motions as little at her own command, as the natural himself, who, thus broke in upon her, made her feel with a vengeance his tempestuous mettle he battered with; their active loins quivered again with the violence of their conflict, till the surge of pleasure, foaming and raging to a height, drew down the pearly shower that was, to allay this hurricane. The purely sensitive idiot then first shed those tears of joy that attend its last moments, not without an agony of delight, and even almost a roar of rapture, as the gush escaped him; so sensibly too for Louisa, that she kept him faithful company, going off, in consent, with the old symptoms: a delicious delirium, a tremendous convulsive shudder, and the critical dying: Oh! And now, on his getting off she lay pleasure-drenched, and regorging its essential sweets; but quite spent, and gasping for breath, without other sensation of life than in those exquisite vibrations that trembled still on the strings of delight; which had been too intensively touched, and which nature had so ravishingly stirred with, for the senses to be quickly at peace from.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  She thought of April and her nipples tightened. She shed her blouse, camisole and bra without hesitation, and before she put the blouse back on, she looked at the costumes on hangers behind the screen. Some of the shining fantasies were no bigger than her hand, and her nipples grew as hard as marbles as she imagined herself in glossy black and white, shining patches of satin. She stole a glimpse of herself in the mirror, unable to look directly at her image, the rising curves with dark rigid tips, and her face that of the woman in Bobby’s photos. She slipped on the sheer blouse and buttoned it to the place Mr Bentley had asked for, aware of every place the linen touched her, its Calendar Girl 481 cling no more than mist, but intense as a warm finger. She stepped from behind the screen, her blood pulsing in her ears, her throat, and her treasure. Almost giddy, she walked toward the men and their cameras. As she approached the chair, she understood at once that everything had changed. She smelled something in the room, a scent, sharp and tangy, exhilarating and new. She heard their breath, as ragged as her own, but with a primal edge. Every one of them watched the bounce of her breasts. She sat and gathered the roses, leaned forward so that the revealed cream of her chest emerged from the linen, her dark nipples harder yet in clinging, translucent pink, her lips parted in a smile, a promise. The clicking almost deafened her. “You are everything Bobby said, my dear.” Mr Bentley took the roses from her this time. He put his hands lightly on her shoulders and his fingertips kneaded lightly through the blouse. He held her gaze, the unspoken question as clear as a shout. She answered it with a nod. He knelt, his gray eyes intense on hers, not looking down to where his fingers worked at the’ last four buttons, not until he had finished and stood up so that she could open the blouse and drop it in a whisper to the floor. Click. She picked up the roses, spread them in a fan over her breasts, not covering herself at all, letting the red flowers brush the most sensitive spots just below the nipples. The men watched her, rapt, their cameras silent. She grew still in the moment, the pulse in her treasure and the blazing heat just under her skin demanding obedience. She saw the intense shapes against the rising light of the morning sun and tried to find Bobby among them. Paint me, she thought to him. Paint me with light. Raising a finger to her lips, she wet it to dripping, then touched her right nipple, slick and shining, catching the sun like the sweat of its luminescent desire.

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

  In Germany I have since learned the State requires that ten times as much pure air must be supplied as we had and in consequence the serious illnesses which with us amounted to eighty per cent in three months have been reduced to eight. Paternal Government, it appears, has certain good points. One day just as the “decompression” of an hour and a half was ending, an Italian named Manfredi fell down and writhed about, knocking his face on the floor till the blood spurted from his nose and mouth. When we got him into the shed, his legs were twisted like plaited hair. The surgeon had him taken to the hospital. I made up my mind that a month would be enough for me. At the end of the first week I got a note from Jessie saying that her father was going on board that afternoon and she could see me the next evening. I went and was introduced to Jessie’s sister who, to my surprise, was tall and large but without a trace of Jessie’s good looks. “He’s younger than you, Jess”, she burst out laughing. A week earlier I’d have been hurt to the soul, but I had proved myself, so I said simply, “I’m earning five dollars a day, Mrs. Plummer, and money talks.” Her mouth fell open in amazement. “Five dollars”, she repeated, “I’m sorry, I—I—” “There, Maggie”, Jessie broke in, “I told you, you had never seen anyone like him; you’ll be great friends yet. Now come and we’ll have a walk”, she added and out we went. To be with her even in the street was delightful and I had a lot to say, but making love in a New York street on a summer evening is difficult and I was hungry to kiss and caress her freely. Jessie, however, had thought of a way: if her sister and husband had theatre tickets, they’d go out and we’d be alone in the apartment; it would cost two dollars, however, and she thought that a lot. I was delighted: I gave her the bills and arranged to be with her next night before eight o’clock. Did Jessie know what was going to happen? Even now I’m uncertain, though I think she guessed. Next night I waited till the coast was clear and then hurried to the door. As soon as we were alone in the little parlor and I had kissed her, I said, “Jessie, I want you to undress. I’m sure your figure is lovely, but I want to know it.”

• From The Principles of Psychology (Volume 1 of 2) (1890)

  When we pass from scientific to æsthetic and ethical systems, every one readily admits that, although the elements are matters of experience, the peculiar forms of relation into which they are woven are incongruent with the order of passively received experience. The world of æsthetics and ethics is an ideal world, a Utopia, a world which the outer relations persist in contradicting, but which we as stubbornly persist in striving to make actual. Why do we thus invincibly crave to alter the given order of nature? Simply because other relations among things are far more interesting to us and more charming than the mere rates of frequency of their time—and space-conjunctions. These other relations are all secondary and brain-born, 'spontaneous variations' most of them, of our sensibility, whereby certain elements of experience, and certain arrangements in time and space, have acquired an agreeableness which otherwise would not have been felt. It is true that habitual arrangements may also become agreeable. But this agreeableness of the merely habitual is felt to be a mere ape and counterfeit of real inward fitness; and one sign of intelligence is never to mistake the one for the other. There are then ideal and inward relations amongst the objects of our thought which can in no intelligible sense whatever be interpreted as reproductions of the order of outer experience. In the æsthetic and ethical realms they conflict with its order—the early Christian with his kingdom of heaven, and the contemporary anarchist with his abstract dream of justice, will tell you that the existing order must perish, root and branch, ere the true order can come. Now the peculiarity of those relations among the objects of our thought which are dubbed 'scientific' is this, that although they no more are inward reproductions of the outer order than the ethical and æsthetic relations are, yet they do not conflict with that order, but, once having sprung up by the play of the inward forces, are found—some of them at least, namely the only ones which have survived long enough to be matters of record—to be congruent with the time—and space-relations which our impressions affect. In other words, though nature's materials lend themselves slowly and discouragingly to our translation of them into ethical forms, but more readily into æsthetic forms; to translation into scientific forms they lend themselves with relative ease and completeness. The translation, it is true, will probably never be ended. The perceptive order does not give way, nor the right conceptive substitute for it arise, at our bare word of command.[551] It is often a deadly fight; and many a man of science can say, like Johannes Müller, after an investigation, 'Es klebt Blut an der Arbeit.' But victory after victory makes us sure that the essential doom of our enemy is defeat.[552] "My Illustrious Friend, and Joy of my Liver!

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Is the storm passing, though? The rumbling grows distant and the rain lets up enough that I can hear them talking. Please, no! If it stops, I’ll have to leave before they’re done, before he’s done. It isn’t any good unless the rain is washing over me. “Hey, Pammy, want your ass warmed?” She squeals a sophomoric imitation of the Big Bopper succumbing to the charms of his Chantilly lay. “Oh, baby, you Rnooooow what I like.” The dishwater will be left to cool. Gerry swings Pamela away from the sink and bends her forwards over the mint green Formica top of the kitchen table, rucking up her dress. Even though she doesn’t say another word, I know she asks for this. I know it, not just because ve seen them do this before, but because she’s not wearing underpants, just a white garter belt to hold up her nylons. She wanted this to happen. Her chubby ass cheeks are practically quivering. The bitch always looks so prim and wholesome, squeaky clean, but Gerry knows what she is, and so do I. I sometimes wonder if he knew before they were married. If he did, that was probably the reason he married her, in the first place. If he didn’t, then he got the bonus of his life with a filthy little slut like her. He pushes her shoulders down. She’s resting on elbows and forearms, which are pressed in close to her. Gerry wedges the hem of her dress between her arms and her torso, then tucks her slip under the waistband of the raised dress so it won’t slide down. “Stay right where you are, little girl. Daddy has some business with you.” Pamela whimpers, again as if she’s on a stage, or in front of a camera. Phony cunt. She’s not facing my way and I’m just as glad of that. ’m not afraid she'll see me. The kitchen is brightly lit and all either of them would oor Only When it Rains 373 see, should they attempt to peer out the window into the murk, especially in their now distracted state, is their own reflections. No, I simply don’t want to look at her face while Gerry’s working her over. I don’t want to see her eyes squeezed shut, her gaping maw groaning out animal sounds. I don’t want to see Pamela’s lovely, though slightly imperfect, visage contorted in lust ignited by Gerry’s attentions. I do want to look at Gerry’s face, though. Even through the distortion of the droplets on the glass, his face is handsome. He bares his teeth, again, in a ravenous smile. The rain has intensified again and thunder rolls around this suburban enclave as a predator might circle its helpless victim. He speaks to Pamela, but the rumbling drowns out most of what . just what you deserve,” as he pulls his belt he says. I catch only, “. . out of the loops.

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

  She came half scared, half angry, on the defensive, I could see; so I spoke first, smiling: “Oh Rose”, I said, “Professor Smith has been telling me of your trouble: but you ought not to be angry: for you are so pretty that no wonder a man wants to kiss you: you must blame your lovely eyes and mouth”— Rose laughed outright: she had come expecting reproof and found sweet flattery. “There’s only one thing, Rose”, I went on: “the story would hurt Mrs. Kellogg if it got out and she’s not very strong, so you must say nothing about it, for her sake: that’s what Professor Smith wanted to say to you”, I added. “I’m not likely to tell”, cried Rose: “I’ll soon forget all about it: but I guess I’d better get another job: he’s liable to try again though I gave him a good hard slap”, and she laughed merrily. “I’m so glad for Mrs. Kellogg’s sake”, said Smith gravely, “and if I can help you to get another place, please call upon me.” “I guess I’ll have no difficulty”, said Rose flippantly with a shade of dislike of the Professor’s solemnity: “Mrs. Kellogg will give me a good character” and the healthy young minx grinned; “besides I’m not sure but I’ll go stay home a spell: I’m fed up with working and would like a holiday, and mother wants me—” “Where do you live, Rose?” I asked with a keen eye for future opportunities; “On the other side of the river”, she replied, “next door to Elder Conklin’s, where your brother boards—” she added smiling. When Rose went I begged Smith to pack his boxes for I would get him the best room at the Gregorys’ and I assured him it was really large and comfortable and would hold all his books, etc., and off I went to make my promise good. On the way I set myself to think how I could turn the kindness I was doing the Gregorys to the advantage of my love. I decided to make Kate a partner in the good deed, or at least a herald of the good news. So when I got home I rang the bell in my room and as I had hoped, Kate answered it. When I heard her footsteps I was shaking, hot with desire and now I wish to describe a feeling I then first began to notice in myself. I longed to take possession of the girl, so to speak, abruptly, ravish her in fact, or at least thrust both hands up her dress at once and feel her bottom and sex altogether; but already I knew enough to realise certainly that girls prefer gentle and courteous approaches: why? Of the fact I’m sure. So I said, “Come in, Kate!” gravely; “I want to ask you whether the best bedroom is still free and if you’d like Professor Smith to have it, if I could get him to come here?”

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

  “Rose, Rose,” I said, “you mustn’t be too hard on us: we’re different from you girls and that’s all.” “How do you mean?” she asked. “I mean that mere desire”, I said, “just the wish to kiss and enjoy you, strikes the man first; but behind that lust is often a good deal of affection, and sometimes a deep and sacred tenderness comes to flower; whereas the girl begins with the liking and affection and learns to enjoy the kissing and caressing afterwards.” “I see”, she rejoined quietly, “I think I understand: I’m glad to believe that.” Her unexpected depth and sincerity impressed me and I continued: “We men may be so hungry that we will eat very poor fruit greedily because it’s at hand; but that doesn’t prove that we don’t prefer good and sweet and nourishing food when we can get it.” She let her eyes dwell on mine: “I see”, she said, “I see!” And then I went on tell her how lovely she was and how she had made a deathless impression on me and I ventured to hope she liked me a little and would yet be good to me and come to care for me, and I was infinitely pleased to find that this was the right sort of talk and I did my best in the new strain. Three or four times a week I took her out in a buggy and in a little while I had taught her how to kiss and won her to confess that she cared for me, loved me indeed and bit by bit she allowed me the little familiarities of love. One day I took her out early for a picnic and said, “I’ll play Turk and you must treat me” and I stretched myself out on a rug under a tree. She entered into the spirit of the game with zest, brought me food and at length, as she stood close beside me, I couldn’t control myself; I put my hand up her dress on her firm legs and sex. Next moment I was kneeling beside her: “Love me, Rose”, I begged, “I want you so: I’m hungry for you, dear!” She looked at me gravely with wide-open eyes: “I love you too”, she said, “but oh! I’m afraid: be patient with me!” she added like a little girl. I was patient but persistent and I went on caressing her till her hot lips told me that I had really excited her.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  “Encourage you to have an orgasm then?” he said. “Good boy! You’re learning!” she congratulated him, her body relaxing again, and while one hand rested lightly against his cock, sustaining his erection, the other one crept away, her sighs giving him a clue as to where. It was Brian she was using — as a toy, a tool, a support or whatever — but it was herself that she was pleasuring. That free hand was between her thighs, he knew, strumming her clitoris, parting the lips of her sopping cunt wHere he longed to bury his aching cock, dipping finger after finger inside until her whole fist was dripping. Perhaps her wrist was aching, perhaps she wanted to tantalize him further . .. whatever the reason, she switched hands, the teasing one leaving his cock to delve between her thighs and the other lifting, pulling her hair aside so his lips could kiss her slender neck, then working their way behind her head and between their bodies so he could taste her excitement. Her wet fingers forced themselves between his lips and he sucked on them, knowing that this was what she wanted of him, that this was the only way he could give her the orgasm she demanded. His mouth fastened on them, his tongue lapped at them, she writhed so much that his body was bruised by hers, squashed between her firm flesh and the sculpted hardness of the wooden seat. Then, with a sigh which was like the last gasp of a dying person, her head fell forward. “Oh fuck!” she sobbed, her back bowed before him to finally allow him some air, rocking in his lap and nodding her head, saying, “Yes! Yes! Oh fuck!” ~The shudders which shook her body slowly subsided, her breathing became slow and deep and Brian found his matching it, as if he shared her satisfaction. 260 Severin Rossetti But of course he didn’t, his cock was rock hard and as red as a piece of rare meat, burning beneath the knickers which were still draped over it. She could guess at his discomfort, could not help but be aware of the effect she had on him, and with a tantalizing slowness she uncovered him, drew the soft silk along the length of his erection before letting the knickers fall to the floor. His cock sprang upright as she lifted from his lap, jutting out in something like a salute as she turned to face him. “He wants to come?” she supposed, an unnecessary remark in the circumstances, addressing Brian’s cock rather than him as she nudged it with her knee, bringing a gasp of delight from him. “Yes? He does?” “If my hands were free—” he said hoarsely, offering a threat, a promise. “Yes? If your hands were free. .. what?” she asked, but he had no need to answer, she knew what he had in mind.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  Unlike her left arm with the realistic bright red long stem rose that extended from elbow to shoulder, her right arm was bare. Contrasting the rose was a bright green and purple dragon who came into full view as her pale blue bra fell. He curled around on her broad back. The serrations of her spine were worked impressively into the dragon’s form. She removed her panties displaying the bottom of the dragon’s tail, which curled like a fishhook around the curve of her butt. “How do you want me?” “Huh?” My eyes fixed on the bright golden Jaguar that stalked in tall bright green grasses, perfectly fitted to the outside of her strong right thigh. “How do you want me?” “Tattoos like that must cost a mint.” “No, they were free. How do you want me?” prree?a “Thought you hated tattoos.” “T do. Just go ahead and lie on your back. Cross your left leg over. No, turn your shoulders a bit more. Face toward me.” It wasn’t the best pose, but I had the damned tattoos obscured. I sat on the old red barstool with the duct tape patch and pinned the first paper to a piece of ply in the jaws of my old easel. I took account of my soft pastel sticks carefully organized in their foam beds in shallow wooden trays. She settled into the awkward position as if she were taking a nap. I started drawing, and time stood still. She was so at ease as I ‘filled in the outlines. Her small breasts and muscular stomach were so fair. Her nipples drew me to a stick of ruby red. Her hair made me tumble through cadmium yellow, red ochre and carmine. My left hand gathered the sticks between thumb and forefinger, then 384 Craig F. Sorensen paused in passing to blend colors while my right skidded out fresh, bright streaks. “T have to work in the morning.” Her voice broke my trance. It was after 2 a.m. “Oh shit. Is that the time?” My sandy hands and clothes were smudged in Leeny’s colors. “Yup.” She didn’t move until I nodded. “Mind if I look?” “It’s still pretty rough, but go ahead.” She tilted her head as she put on her panties. “S’okay.” “You'll come back, right?” Pyupes Leeny was good to her word. Slowly, I introduced her tattoos into the paintings. When I got paid for my dwindling stock of wheat period paintings, I gave her what I could. Twenty here, fifty there. It could not have equaled the hours she was there, but I’d lost track. She never really pressed. Leeny was far and away the best model I’d ever worked with. She could hold a position for hours and never complained.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  On the surface, it was a legitimate, innocent venture. Two smart people, who wanted to spend time together, doing something productive. It wasn’t something suspicious. The shortness of your skirt? That was just part of the play. There’s no harm in a young sexy woman teasing an older man. It’s a sign of affection and respect. Part of the game. And if he really does get a furious hard-on for her, and that thirst in the mouth, as if for a stem of rye grass when he was walking home from school as a lonely kid, when demons started appearing and people died or wished they had, that’s a good thing. Besides, it was raining very hard and you couldn’t have predicted that. Spring thunderstorm. Black licorice and ozone smell. It would be good to get inside the library. Where it was dry. And where our minds wouldn’t wander. I'd come a long way to find an original of a very old book called The Trials of Great Men Accused of Magic, which as it turned out, was to be found down in the lower basement, down in a very quiet labyrinth of books arranged on very high shelves. It was a lovely bonus that the only library in the US to have a genuine, undamaged copy was at least a little close to where you live. It gave us the excuse of not doing what I wanted to do straight up — and take you to some lost Magic Fingers motel or some resort along the coast where people in uniform bring the rum to your room and discreetly turn away. This was going to be work. I couldn’t help but notice the shortness of the skirt though. And I knew instantly, in some animal way, that you weren’t wearing panties. 290 Kris Saknussemm Which made me think all kinds of thoughts as we descended to the basement. Do I kiss her? Do I fondle her? Or do I just let things run their course? Do I behave? The basement was silent, a veritable maze of old, unlooked-at books filled with who knows what. I was intrigued, however, to see a ladder of a particular kind resting against one of the shelves. I'd often dreamed of having just such a ladder, in the private library of my brownstone on the Upper West Side of New York (of course!). It was very tall, neatly made of individually dowelled rungs, with hooked ends at the top and lubricated wheels at the bottom.

• From The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica Volume 10 (2011)

  We ate quietly. There was no need to dilute the experience with talk and she seemed to know this. Her lips were as perfect as sushi and I pictured the pieces of fish stacking up in my stomach and then another picture came to me. Her lips. Not her lip lips, but the lips hidden by the tablecloth that shielded her lap. I pictured a piece of those lips stacked in my stomach and I felt a rush go through me, more intense than the greatest craving. I put my chopsticks down and looked at her and I nodded my head, like the thick-muscled sushi chef at Nobu. “T want to take you to Nobu one day.” “There are sushi places better than Nobu,” she said. “T know. But Nobu was my first and I want to take you there.” “Why did you stop me last night?” “T had to.” “You didn’t have to. How did you know I wasn’t dating a jealous man who would hurt you if he saw you giving me your card.” I lifted my arm, made a muscle, asked her to feel it. “So you would have hurt him.” “T don’t fight,” I said. She moved her hand over my forearm. “That’s the muscle of a hoodlum,” she said. | Raw 425 “T was born with it.” “You have hoodlum in your blood.” “T have sushi in my blood. Or it will be in my blood. First I have to stack it in my stomach.” “That’s the image I have,” she said and picked up a piece of yellowtail scallion roll, dipped it in the soy and wasabi, moved it into her mouth. “It’s a perfect image. Can you keep stacking?” “I can stack sushi all night,” she said and there was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Then we will.” I called over the waiter and ordered more. More and more. I watched the waiter move to the sushi bar, place the order. The chefs started cutting. I took her to my place. I never took them back to my place, preferred the option of making a speedy bolt in that limbo-moment between drunk and hungover, but I wanted her in my place. I didn’t want to know where she lived or how she lived. I didn’t want to know anything about her. It felt more ‘pure that way. I just wanted to know her, know her lips, know how they felt. I had kissed her in the cab. Her lip lips were perfect and I tested her immediately, kissed her and kissed her and then I pressed my teeth into her lower lip and she took it without a flinch of protest and I pressed harder and she took it and I grew bone hard. I tasted the salt of blood and stopped biting. I kissed her lips gently. The cab stopped. I took her hand, took her up to my bedroom, undressed her on my bed.

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

  “You are the loveliest girl in Lawrence”, I said, “but I must really go now: I have an appointment and I’m late.” She smiled enigmatically as I seized my hat and went, not stopping even to shut or lock the office door. As I walked up the street, my thoughts and feelings were all in a whirl: “Did I want her? Should I have her? Would she come again? “Oh Hell! women are the very devil and he’s not so black as he’s painted! Black?” That night I was awakened by a loud knocking at my office door; I sprang up and opened without thinking and at once Sophy came in laughing. “What is it?” I cried half asleep still. “I’se tired waiting”, she answered cheekily, “and anyways I just came.” I was about to remonstrate with her when she cried: “You go right to bed” and she took my head in her hands and kissed me. My wish to resist died out of me. “Come quickly!” I said getting into bed and watching her as she stripped. In a hand’s turn she had undressed to her chemise: “I reckon this’ll do”, she said coquettishly. “Please take it off”, I cried and the next moment she was in my arms naked. As I touched her sex, she wound her arms round my neck and kissed me greedily with hot lips. To my astonishment her sex was well-formed and very small: I had always heard that negroes had far larger genitals than white people; but the lips of Sophy’s sex were thick and firm, “Have you ever been had, Sophy?” I asked. “No, sir!” she replied, “I liked you because you never came after me and you was so kind and I thot that I’d be sure to do it sometime, so I’d rather let you have me than anyone else: I don’t like colored men”, she added, “and the white men all look down on me and despise me and I—I love you”, she whispered, burying her face on my neck.

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

  I used to illustrate the absurdity of our present system of educating the young by a quaint simile. “When training me to shoot”, I said, “my earthly father gave me a little single-barreled gun, and when he saw that I had learned the mechanism and could be trusted, he gave me a double-barreled shot-gun. After some years I came into possession of a magazine gun which could shoot half a dozen times if necessary without reloading, my efficiency increasing with my knowledge.” My Creator, or Heavenly Father, on the other hand, when I was wholly without experience and had only just entered my teens, gave me, so to speak, a magazine gun of sex, and hardly had I learned its use and enjoyment when he took it away from me forever, and gave me in its place a double-barreled gun: after a few years, he took that away and gave me a single-barreled gun with which I was forced to content myself for the best part of my life. Towards the end the old single-barrel began to show signs of wear and age: sometimes it would go off too soon, sometimes it missed fire and shamed me, do what I would. I want to teach youths how to use their magazine gun of sex so that it may last for years, and when they come to the double-barrel, how to take such care that the good weapon will do them liege service right into their fifties, and the single-barrel will then give them pleasure up to three score years and ten. Moreover, not only do I desire in this way to increase the sum of happiness in the world while decreasing the pains and disabilities of men, but I wish also to set an example and encourage other writers to continue the work that I am sure is beneficent, as well as enjoyable.