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)

  “I’m sure Mother would be delighted”, she exclaimed. “You see”, I went on, “I’m trying to serve you all I can, yet you don’t even kiss me of your own accord”: she smiled and so I drew her to the bed and lifted her up on it: I saw her glance and answered it: “The door is shut, dear”, and half lying on her I began kissing her passionately while my hand went up her clothes to her sex. To my delight she wore no drawers, but at first she kept her legs tight together, frowning: “love denies nothing, Kate”, I said gravely; slowly she drew her legs apart, half pouting, half smiling, and let me caress her sex. When her love-juice came I kissed her and stopped: “It’s dangerous here”, I said, “that door you came in by is open; but I must see your lovely limbs” and I turned up her dress. I hadn’t exaggerated; she had limbs like a Greek statue and her triangle of brown hair lay in little silky curls on her belly and then—the sweetest cunny in the world: I bent down and kissed it. In a moment Kate was on her feet, smoothing her dress down: “What a boy you are”, she exclaimed, “but that’s partly why I love you; oh, I hope you’ll love me half as much. Say you will, Sir, and I’ll do anything you wish!” “I will”, I replied, “but oh, I’m glad you want love: can you come to me to night? I want a couple of hours with you uninterrupted.” “This afternoon”, she said, “I’ll say I’m going for a walk and I’ll come to you, dear! They are all resting then or out and I shan’t be missed.” I could only wait and think. One thing was fixed in me, I must have her, make her mine before Smith came: he was altogether too fascinating, I thought, to be trusted with such a pretty girl; but I was afraid she would bleed and I did not want to hurt her this first time, so I went out and bought a syringe and a pot of cold cream which I put beside my bed.

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

  I went down to Dr. Keogh’s cabin, once more joyful and grateful as I had been with E… My fingers were like eyes gratifying my curiosity, and the curiosity was insatiable. Jessie’s thighs were smooth and firm and round: I took delight in recalling the touch of them, and her bottom was firm like warm marble. I wanted to see her naked and study her beauties one after the other. Her sex too was wonderful, fuller even than Lucille’s and her eyes were finer. Oh, Life was a thousand times better than school. I thrilled with joy and passionate wild hopes—perhaps Jessie would let me, perhaps—I was breathless. Our walk on deck that evening was not so satisfactory: the wind had gone down and there were many other couples and the men all seemed to know Jessie, and it was Miss Kerr here, and Miss Kerr there, till I was cross and disappointed; I couldn’t get her to myself, save at moments, but then I had to admit she was as sweet as ever and her Aberdeen accent even was quaint and charming to me. I got some long kisses at odd moments and just before we went down I drew her behind a boat in the davits and was able to caress her little breasts and when she turned her back to me to go, I threw my arms round her hips and drew them against me and felt her sex and she leant her head back over her shoulder and gave me her mouth with dying eyes. The darling! Jessie was apt at all Love’s lessons. The next day was cloudy and rain threatened, but we were safely ensconced in the boat by two o’clock, as soon as lunch was over, and we hoped no one had seen us. An hour passed in caressings and fondlings, in love’s words and love’s promises: I had won Jessie to touch my sex and her eyes seemed to deepen as she caressed it. “I love you, Jessie, won’t you let it touch yours?” She shook her head. “Not here, not in the open”, she whispered and then, “wait a little till we get to New York, dear”, and our mouths sealed the compact. Then I asked her about New York and her sister’s house, and we were discussing where we should meet, when a big head and beard showed above the gunwale of the boat and a deep Scotch voice said: “I want ye, Jessie, I’ve been luiking everywhere for ye.” “Awright, father”, she said, “I’ll be down in a minute.” “Come quick”, said the voice as the head disappeared.

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

  “Oh, you wise boy!” she laughed, “don’t you see you are skipping the time I most desire you, and that’s not kind to either of us; is it?” “There’s still another way of evasion”, I said, “get me to withdraw before I come the first time, or get up immediately and syringe yourself with water thoroughly: water kills my seed as soon as it touches it—” “But how will that help if you go on half a dozen times more?” she asked. “Doctors say,” I replied, “that what comes from me afterwards is not virile enough to impregnate a woman: I’ll explain the process to you if you like; but you can take it, the fact is as I state it.” “When did you learn all this?” she asked. “It has been my most engrossing study,” I laughed, “and by far the most pleasureful!” “You dear, dear,” she cried, “I must kiss you for that.” “Do you know you kiss wonderfully?” she went on reflectingly, “with a lingering touch of the inside of the lips and then the thrust of the tongue: that’s what excited me so the first time” and she sighed as if delighted with the memory. “You didn’t seem excited,” I said half reproachfully, “for when I wanted another kiss, you drew away and said ‘tomorrow’! Why are women so coquettish, so perverse?” I added, remembering Lucille and Jessie. “I think it is that we wish to be sure of being desired,” she replied, “and a little too that we want to prolong the joy of it, the delight of being wanted, really wanted! It is so easy for us to give and so exquisite to feel a man’s desire pursuing us! Ah how rare it is”, she sighed passionately, “and how quickly lost! You’ll soon tire of your mistress”, she added, “now that I am all yours and thrill only for you” and she took my head in her hands and kissed me passionately, regretfully. “You kiss better than I do, Lorna! Where did you acquire the art, Madame?” I asked, “I fear that you have been a naughty, naughty girl!” “If you only knew the truth,” she exclaimed, “if you only knew how girls long for a lover and burn and itch in vain and wonder why men are so stupid and cold and dull as not to see our desire.

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

  The story marks an epoch in my life. We were taught singing at school and when it was found that I had a good alto voice and a very good ear, I was picked to sing solos, both in school and in the church choir. Before every church festival there was a good deal of practice with the organist, and girls from neighbouring houses joined in our classes. One girl alone sang alto and she and I were separated from the other boys and girls; the upright piano was put across the corner of the room and we two sat or stood behind it almost out of sight of all the other singers; the organist, of course, being seated in front of the piano. The girl E… who sang alto with me was about my own age: she was very pretty or seemed so to me, with golden hair and blue eyes and I always made up to her as well as I could, in my boyish way. One day while the organist was explaining something, E... stood up on the chair and leant over the back of the piano to hear better or see more. Seated in my chair behind her, I caught sight of her legs; for her dress rucked up behind as she leaned over: at once my breath stuck in my throat. Her legs were lovely, I thought, and the temptation came to touch them; for no one could see. I got up immediately and stood by the chair she was standing on. Casually I let my hand fall against her left leg. She didn’t draw her leg away or seem to feel my hand, so I touched her more boldly. She never moved, though now I knew she must have felt my hand, I began to slide my hand up her leg and suddenly my fingers felt the warm flesh on her thigh where the stocking ended above the knee. The feel of her warm flesh made me literally choke with emotion: my hand went on up, warmer and warmer, when suddenly I touched her sex: there was soft down on it. The heart-pulse throbbed in my throat. I have no words to describe the intensity of my sensations. Thank God, E…. did not move or show any sign of distaste. Curiosity was stronger even than desire in me; I felt her sex all over and at once the idea came into my head that it was like a fig (the Italians, I learned later, call it familiarly “fica”); it opened at my touches and I inserted my finger gently, as Strangways had told me that Mary had taught him to do; still E… did not move. Gently I rubbed the front part of her sex with my finger. I could have kissed her a thousand times out of passionate gratitude.

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

  “What?” “Never mind. Go to sleep.” He listened as her feathery breaths became deeper and regular. He got up and retrieved a small penlight from his bag, then approached her bed, bending over her and straining to hear. Satisfied she was fast asleep he gingerly rolled the bedclothes back. She was lying on her stomach, clad in an oversized T-shirt that had bunched up just below her buttocks. His fingers slid beneath the fabric; delicately he lifted the shirt higher, over her round, moonlit globes, then over her hips exposing the small of her back above her tailbone. He directed the beam to the place flanked by the dimples of Venus. “Hmm.” He rolled the garment back down and reached for the bedclothes. In an instant she came awake and lifted off the bed like a rocket, standing on the bed and bracing her back against the wall. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Checking out your back.” “You mean my ass!” “TI mean your back. Your ass, well, as lovely as it is, it was not my point of interest.” “Jesus, Locan, if you wanted to . . . 1 mean, you could have asked.” 222 Robert Buckley “To see your back?” “No! I mean you and me... naked.” “Sit down.” She didn’t move. “You don’t wear panties to bed, eh?” She dropped into a sit and bunched her T-shirt at her crotch. “You have a mark on your back, just above your tailbone.” “Yeah, I have a birthmark, so what?” “A blue disk; a perfect circle, no irregularities.” SSOP “Very unusual.” “Yeah, and again, so?” “Tl tell you in the morning.” “No ... they told you something about me, didn’t they? I knew it; I knew something was up when they partnered me with you out of the blue.” “Don’t worry.” “Don’t worry ... this from a guy who put a bullet through two people’s brains like he was scratching an itch.” “Fair enough. So, let me say this: I won’t hurt you, Racey. Never.” “Then tell me what’s going on?” “Tater, after we’ve slept.” “T can’t sleep.” “Trust me?” ‘hetrekayes) bwalkogs spustiea “What?” “Sleep with me . . if you’re here next to me. . . I won’t be thinking . cl won' tires “Okay.” He slid beside her, then he lifted her’T-shirt over her head. Instantly his nostrils filled with the scent of skin and just the faintest essence of ... coconut? She clasped her arms around his neck and shoulders and rolled on to him. “Racey?” “Rachel.” This girl was too soft, too supple, she smelled just too good. Her hair was too lush, too silky, and her lips were just too’... too . He kissed her and pulled her against his chest. He felt her eashion his cock between her thighs as she trailed kisses down and down until he felt her pubis brush against his cock and her nipples trail bee hatin 223

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

  Yet the more he lost himself in her beauty, the more he saw her as not just a lifeless statue and the more aroused he became. He glanced furtively around the park, but there was nobody else. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he pulled down the zipper of his pants, his hands trembling with anticipation, pulted his penis out into the evening air, and rubbed it into an erection for her to see. The look on her face told him that she approved, accepted him for himself. Holding his erection in his hand, he walked up to her and stepped on the pedestal to stand in front of her. He put his arm around her slender waist, took her perfect breast in his hand, her hard nipple pressing against his palm, and rubbed himself to a thundering orgasm against her pubic mound. He gasped with pleasure, moaned against her smooth stone skin. He thought he could feel her shudder ever so slightly, could feel her eyes on him, could feel her stone-cold body warm in his embrace. He pressed himself against her until the rush of excitement began to abate, then detached himself from her and stepped off the pedestal. Arranging his trousers and straightening his clothes, he found a bench from where he could observe her for a while longer while he caught his breath and managed to get his body to relax. She was his now. He no longer had to worry about her because she would always be there for him and he would always be able to go to her again. He decided to name her Esmeralda, his precious stone, to mark the momentous occasion. Back in his apartment, his life-size, anatomically correct doll with the flexible limbs was waiting for him in her shocking pink negligée. 102 Peter Baltensperger She was sitting on the couch in the living room where he kept her when he was at work during the day and when he had supper and watched TV in the evening. He had only acquired her a couple of years ago when he felt that his trysts with the statues weren’t quite fulfilling him any more. For one thing, he couldn’t always get to them, especially during the cold weather and when he was occupied with other things. It also started to bother him that as much as he enjoyed his relationships with the statues, he still always found himself alone in his apartment at the end of the day.

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

  Since then I have read lascivious books in half a dozen languages and they all represent women coming to an orgasm in the act, as men do, followed by a period of content: which only shows that the books are all written by men and ignorant, insensitive men at that. The truth is hardly one married woman in a thousand is ever brought to her highest pitch of feeling: usually, just when she begins to feel, her husband goes to sleep. If the majority of husbands satisfied their wives occasionally, the Woman’s Revolt would soon move to another purpose: women want above all a lover who loves to excite them to the top of their bent. As a rule men through economic conditions marry so late that they have already half exhausted their virile power before they marry. And when they marry young they are so ignorant and so self-centered that they imagine their wives must be satisfied when they are. Mrs. Mayhew told me that her husband had never excited her really. She denied that she had ever had any acute pleasure from his embraces. “Shall I make you hysterical again?” I asked, out of boyish vanity, “I can, you know!” “You mustn’t tire yourself!” she warned, “my husband taught me long ago that when a woman tires a man, he gets a distaste for her and I want your love, your desire, dear, a thousand times more even that the delight you give me—” “Don’t be afraid”, I broke in, “you are sweet, you couldn’t tire me: turn sideways and put your left leg up, and I’ll just let my sex caress your clitoris back and forth gently; every now and then I’ll let it go right in until our hairs meet.” I kept on this game perhaps half an hour until she first sighed and sighed and then made awkward movements with her pussy which I sought to divine and meet as she wished when suddenly she cried: “Oh! Oh! hurt me, please! hurt me, or I’ll bite you! Oh God, oh, oh”—panting, breathless till again the tears poured down! “You darling!” she sobbed, “how you can love! Could you go on forever?” For answer I put her hand on my sex: “Just as naughty as ever”, she exclaimed, “and I am choking, breathless, exhausted! Oh, I’m sorry”, she went on, “but we should get up, for I don’t want my help to know or guess: niggers talk—” I got up and went to the windows; one gave on the porch but the other directly on the garden. “What are you looking at?” she asked coming to me. “I was just looking for the best way to get out if ever we were surprised”, I said, “if we leave this window open I can always drop into the garden and get away quickly.” “You would hurt yourself”, she cried.

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

  As it so happened, I had gone to the saloon with him on his promise that he would only drink one glass, and though the glass would be full of forty-rod whisky, I knew it would have only a passing effect on Charlie’s superb strength. But it excited him enough to make him call up all the girls for a drink: they all streamed laughing to the bar, all save one. Naturally Charlie went after her and found a very pretty blond girl, who had a strain of Indian blood in her, it was said. At first she didn’t yield to Charlie’s invitation, so he turned away angrily, saying: “You don’t want to drink probably because you want to cure yourself or because you’re ugly where women are usually beautiful.” Answering the challenge the girl sprang to her feet, tore off her jacket and in a moment was naked to her boots and stockings. “Am I ugly?” she cried, pushing out her breasts, “or do I look ill, you fool!” and whirled around to give us the back view! She certainly had a lovely figure with fair youthful breasts and peculiarly full bottom and looked the picture of health. The full cheeks of her behind excited me intensely, I didn’t know why: therefore, it didn’t surprise me when Charlie, with a half-articulate shout of admiration, picked her up bodily in his arms and carried her out of the room. When I remonstrated with him afterwards, he told me he had a sure way of knowing whether the girl, Sue, was diseased or not. I contradicted him and found that this was his infallible test: as soon as he was alone with a girl, he pulled out ten or twenty dollars, as the case might be, and told her to keep the money. “I’ll not give you more in any case”, he would add: “now tell me, dear, if you are ill and we’ll have a last drink and then I’ll go. If she’s ill, she’s sure to tell you—see!” and he laughed triumphantly. “Suppose she doesn’t know she’s ill?” I asked: but he replied: “they always know and they’ll tell the truth when their greed is not against you.” For some time it looked as if Charlie had enjoyed his Beauty without any evil consequences, but a month or so later he noticed a lump in his right groin and soon afterwards a syphilitic sore showed itself just under the head of his penis. We had already started northwards, but I had to tell Charlie the plain truth. “Then it’s serious”, he cried in astonishment, and I replied. “I’m afraid so, but not if you take it in time and go under a rigorous regimen.” Charlie did everything he was told to do and always bragged that gonorrhea was much worse, as it is certainly more painful, than syphilis; but the disease in time had its revenge.

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

  “We must get up and dress”, she said, “they’ll soon be back”, so I had to content myself with just lying in her arms with my sex touching hers. Soon she began to move against my sex, and to kiss me, and then she bit my lips just as my sex slipped into hers again; she left it in for a long moment and then as her lips grew hot: “it’s so big”, she said, “but you’re a dear.” The moment after she cried: “We must get up, boy! if they caught us, I’d die of shame.” When I tried to divert her attention by kissing her breasts, she pouted, “That hurts too. Please, boy, stop and don’t look”, she added as she tried to rise, covering her sex the while with her hand, and pulling a frowning face. Though I told her she was mistaken and her sex was lovely, she persisted in hiding it, and in truth her breasts and thighs excited me more, perhaps because they were in themselves more beautiful. I put my hand on her hips; she smiled, “Please, boy” and as I moved away to give her room, she got up and stood by the bed, a perfect little figure in rosy, warm outline. I was entranced, but the cursed critical faculty was awake. As she turned, I saw she was too broad for her height; her legs were too short, her hips too stout. It all chilled me a little. Should I ever find perfection? Ten minutes later she had arranged the bed and we were seated in the sitting-room but to my wonder Jessie didn’t want to talk over our experience. “What gave you most pleasure?” I asked. “All of it”, she said, “you naughty dear; but don’t let’s talk of it.” I told her I was going to work for a month, but I couldn’t talk to her: my hand was soon up her clothes again playing with her sex and caressing it, and we had to move apart hurriedly when we heard her sister at the door. I didn’t get another evening alone with Jessie for some time. I asked for it often enough, but Jessie made excuses and her sister was very cold to me. I soon found out it was by her advice that Jessie guarded herself. Jessie confessed that her sister accused her of letting me “act like a husband: she must have seen a stain on my chemise”, Jessie added, “when you made me bleed, you naughty boy; any way something gave her the idea and now you must be good.” That was the conclusion of the whole matter. If I had known as much then as I knew ten years later, neither the pain nor her sister’s warnings could have dissuaded Jessie from giving herself to me. Even at the time I felt that a little more knowledge would have made me the arbiter.

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

  If her hand, if any hand, were to close on his cock now he would come in an instant. Of this much he was sure. But he was just as sure that this was not a thing the heartless bitch would permit. Not yet. As she made a slow pirouette before him, turning her back to him, he just caught sight of a bared breast in profile as she removed her bra, was denied a full view of it as plump pale buttocks filled his field of vision, her slender waist and the soft indentation of her spine, the firm thighs pinched by the black silk stockings. © “Kiss,” she ordered, her hands on the arms of the chair to support herself as she moved between his spread legs, lowering herself so that she was so close he couldn’t possibly refuse. Brian touched his lips almost reverently against one buttock, then the other, felt her press harder against him so that his lips parted and his tongue licked against her warm salty flesh. “With more intimacy,” she insisted, her hips swaying and lazily rotating so that his face was sucked into the crack between her buttocks, his nose pressed against her arse, his tongue lapping beneath it. “Ah! Oh yes! That’s nice!” she sighed, her body churning against him, and slowly, as if her arms could no longer bear her weight, she lowered herself into his lap so that his tongue ran from her buttocks and along her spine. When she was finally settled Brian’s face was crushed against her back, his mouth mashed between her shoulder blades and his cock caught between her thighs, her weight bearing down on it as it fought to spring up free and erect. “What would you do for an orgasm?” she asked, resting so heavily on him that he might have replaced the chair which supported them both, actually become that chair, become nothing more than a fixture, a furnishing, something to be used by her. He gasped as he felt her buttocks against his belly, the silk of her thighs closing on his cock, the discarded knickers still draped over it causing him such exquisite agony. A Cruel Heartless Bitch 259 His incoherent reply gave her the opportunity to rephrase her question, there was an added pressure to his cock, her fingers compressing it through the silk which swathed it as she said, “No, scratch that, rather let me ask—” “Anything!” he gasped again. “— rather let me ask what must you do for an orgasm?” Her body writhed against him, not fiercely enough to make him come yet, just enticingly enough to draw an inspired answer from him. “Make you have an orgasm first?” he guessed. “Close,” she said, her body stiffening a little, “but no one makes this cruel bitch do anything.”

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

  His hand behind my head — Unh! — in my ear, gripping hard my hair, pulling my head back, baring my throat as I have done, The Lady and the Unicorn — - 521 breathing, his mouth open in pleasure, biting my skin, hurting me, whispering. “It feels so good. You fuck. I missed you. You cunt. You little scary cunt. You scary little fuck. Unh!” Hammer and stake. Pounding me hard into the good night earth. My cries like song birds from my mouth to his ear. ‘Twisting tremors, the sea boiling, rising up in my loins — Leviathan rising — “Kuschelbaer|” It is different. It feels so different, to come this way. To feel what woman feels at that moment, dying at every second. I am no demon. I don’t need to be put down. I am much changed. I was a virgin when I died. He tore me tonight. Do I bleed? Suddenly I have to know. Everything depends on it. If I am a girl, surely I must bleed down there, a simple girl on her wedding night. Again! I want to feel this again! “Unh! You scary little blood sucking fuck!” His breathing racing, his heart beating against the skin of my breast. Heart beating against heart. I sneak my hand down there, my right hand. I reach inside my leg, my right leg. Wetness there, I a on my fingertips. “Nixie! Nixie!” I raise my hand to my nose. Blood. I know the smell. My blood. My blood is on my fingers. I have blood. Do I dare to taste it? Is it blasphemy? “Nixie! Ohmygod I love you! Ahh!” Jets. Jets from his cock inside me. Love. His body goes stiff, rises above me; trembling in every little bone. His neck stretched over my ear, shaking with his pleasure. I taste my fingers. It is my blood. My own. It is bitter, and it is mine. I feel it rising in me. His lips. His tongue in my ear, licking, biting me, moaning with his relief. I want to bite him. To bite him! I long to bite him! The waves of pleasure rise again, bursting, blotting out everything. My teeth. My teeth. Deep. Taking it in, all in, sucking. Greedy. Blood in my mouth. Whose blood is in my mouth? There should not be blood in my mouth! Oh no. Oh God no. I am saved. It cannot be. It cannot. God would not let it happen. NO! I’m saved. Jesus saved me. He did. We had a deal! He is lying on top of me, all limp and vacant and hollow. He has left me again. Where will I chase him to now? I slip my teeth, now ByAP C. Sanchez-Garcia

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

  For some moments she didn’t speak, then: “I feel as if I had passed through fever”, she said, putting her hands through her hair, lifting it in a gesture I was to know well in the days to come: “Never promise again if you don’t come: I thought I should go mad: waiting is a horrible torture! Who kept you?—some girl?” and her eyes searched mine. I excused myself; but her intensity chilled me. At the risk of alienating my girl-readers, I must confess this was the effect her passion had on me. When I kissed her, her lips were cold. But by the time we had got upstairs, she had thawed: she shut the door after us gravely and began: “See how ready I am for you!” and in a moment she had thrown back her robe and stood before me naked: she tossed the garment on a chair; it fell on the floor: she stooped to pick it up with her bottom to me: I kissed her soft bottom and caught her up by it with my hand on her sex. She turned her head over her shoulder: “I’ve washed and scented myself for you, Sir: how do you like the perfume? and how do you like this bush of hair?” and she touched her Mount with a grimace; “I was so ashamed of it as a girl: I used to shave it off: that’s what made it grow so thick, I believe: one day my mother saw it and made me stop shaving; oh, how ashamed of it I was: it’s animal, ugly:—don’t you hate it? Oh! tell the truth!” she cried, “or rather, don’t; tell me you love it.” “I love it,” I exclaimed, “because it’s yours!” “Oh you dear lover,” she smiled, “you always find the right word, the flattering salve for the sore!” “Are you ready for me?” I asked, “ripe-ready or shall I kiss you first and caress pussy?” “Whatever you do, will be right,” she said, “you know I am rotten-ripe, soft and wet for you always!” All this while I was taking off my clothes: now I too was naked. “I want you to draw up your knees,” I said: “I want to see the Holy of Holies, the shrine of my idolatry.” At once she did as I asked. Her legs and bottom were well-shaped without being statuesque; but her clitoris was much more than the average button: it stuck out fully half an inch and the inner lips of her vulva hung down a little below the outer lips. I knew I should see prettier pussies. Kate’s was better shaped, I felt sure, and the heavy, madder-brown lips put me off a little.

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

  When I was between four and five, I was sent with Annie to a girl’s boarding-school in Kingstown kept by a Mrs. Frost. I was put in the class with the oldest girls on account of my proficiency in arithmetic, and I did my best at it because I wanted to be with them, though I had no conscious reason for my preference. I remember how the nearest girl used to lift me up and put me in my high-chair and how I would hurry over the sums set in compound long division and proportion, for as soon as I had finished, I would drop my pencil on the floor, and then turn round and climb down out of my chair, ostensibly to get it, but really to look at the girls’ legs. Why? I couldn’t have said. I was at the bottom of the class and the legs got bigger and bigger towards the end of the long table, and I preferred to look at the big ones. As soon as the girl next to me missed me, she would move her chair back and call me, and I’d pretend to have just found my slate-pencil, which I said had rolled, and she’d lift me back into my high-chair. One day I noticed a beautiful pair of legs on the other side of the table, near the top. There must have been a window behind the girl; for her legs up to the knees were in full light and they filled me with emotion giving me an indescribable pleasure. They were not the thickest legs, which surprised me. Up to that moment, I had thought it was the thickest legs I liked best; but now I saw that several girls, three anyway, had bigger legs, but none like hers, so shapely, with such slight ankles and tapering lines. I was enthralled and at the same time a little scared. I crept back into my chair with one idea in my little head: could I get close to those lovely legs and perhaps touch them—breathless expectancy. I knew I could hit my slate-pencil and make it roll up between the files of legs. Next day I did this and crawled right up till I was close to the legs that made my heart beat in my throat and yet gave me a strange delight. I put out my hand to touch them; suddenly the thought came that the girl would simply be frightened by my touch and pull her legs back and I should be discovered and—I was frightened.

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

  “Don’t we try all sorts of tricks? Aren’t we haughty and withdrawn at one moment and affectionate, tender, loving at another? Don’t we conceal the hook with every sort of bait only to watch the fish sniff at it and turn away. Ah, if you knew—I feel a traitor to my sex even in telling you—if you guessed how we angle for you and how clever we are, how full of wiles! There’s an expression I once heard my husband use which describes us women exactly or nine out of ten of us. I wanted to know how he kept the office warm all night: he said, we damp down the furnaces and explained the process: that’s it, I cried to myself, I’m a damped-down furnace: that’s surely why I keep hot so long! Did you imagine”, she asked, turning her flower-face all pale with passion half aside, “that I took off my hat that first day before the glass and turned slowly round with it held above my head, by chance? You dear innocent! I knew the movement would show my breasts and slim hips and did it deliberately hoping it would excite you and how I thrilled when I saw it did. “Why did I show you the bed in that room?” she added, “and leave the door ajar when I came back here to the sofa, but to tempt you and how heart-glad I was to feel your desire in your kiss. I was giving myself before you pushed my head back on the sofa-arm and disarranged all my hair!” she added pouting and patting it with her hands to make sure it was in order. [Illustration] “You were astonishingly masterful and quick,” she went on: “how did you know that I wished you to touch me then! Most men would have gone on kissing and fooling, afraid to act decisively. You must have had a lot of experience? You naughty lad!” “Shall I tell you the truth!” I said, “I will, just to encourage you to be frank with me. You are the first woman I have ever spent my seed in or had properly—” “Call it improperly, for God’s sake,” she cried laughing aloud with joy, “you darling virgin, you! Oh! how I wish I was sixteen again and you were my first lover. You would have made me believe in God. Yet you are my first lover”, she added quickly, “I have only learned the delight and ecstasy of love in your arms—” Our love-talk lasted for hours till suddenly I guessed it was late and looked at my watch; it was nearly seven-thirty: I was late for supper which started at half-past six! “I must go,” I exclaimed, “or I’ll get nothing to eat.”

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

  But I’d just plunked down a very healthy amount of cash for something that would distract me any time I wanted, so when he asked for a beer, I just smiled and went to get it. I took one for myself as well, cracking them open and feeling the wetness in my panties as I walked back to him. “Feel free to sit down,” I said, my fingers itching to open the box but willing myself to wait. “Do you need any ... help?” he asked. It was only when the red splotches sprang up on his cheeks that I realized he might have a clue as to the contents of my very special box. “What kind of help did you have in mind?” I wasn’t embarrassed, though I was surprised that my secret had somehow been revealed. I truly hoped the company was discreet enough to leave the word spanking off their packaging. “Well, I just...it was pretty heavy, and maybe you need some help assembling . .. whatever’s inside.” He turned his mouth to the rim of his beer bottle and sucked hard, avoiding my eyes. “Do you have some in assembling... machinery?” I asked, making sure he noticed my eyes drop from his face to his crotch. expertise special The Spanking Machine 417 “Not special, exactly, but I’m handy,” he said after another long sip from the bottle. “Handy. Hmm ... well, maybe you can be of service,” I said, draining my own bottle, then walking over to the box. I slipped my Swiss army knife out of my pocket and neatly sliced through the box. He stood and walked over to me and I felt that familiar electricity crackle between us, the kind where all you have to be is one person in a room with another and suddenly, no matter their age or sex or anything else, your body reacts in a way that means you want to fuck this person as soon as possible. I would’ve groaned, but I was too intent on getting my machine set up. He didn’t speak then, just put his hands on the box and slid it away so the spanking machine was revealed, although it didn’t quite look like the BDSM fantasy sex toy of my dreams so much as it really did appear to be an exercise bench. When all the parts were on my living room floor, I just stared at it. It really was going to be up to me to take the reins, to top from below, because the machine wasn’t going to start itself!

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

  I liked to keep the lights on. A friend of mine, a hunter himself but not a lover of sushi, was the same way. We loved to see it, spread it. We always joked how we would be happiest to go to bed with a miner’s hat on our heads, the attached flashlight providing the perfect beam of light to look deep. It was all about the mystery for us. We weren’t tit men. We weren’t ass men or leg men or feet men or eye men. We were cunt men. It was all about the slit of skin, the pink flesh, the mystery, which, we knew, we’d never fully see no matter how bright the light. But I kept the light on and her lip lips had not lied. Her cunt was perfect. She had waxed so I could see its perfect definition, its perfect symmetry. I put a finger inside her and opened the two lips, the color of perfect sushi. I worked another finger in and opened her more and then I put my cock inside her and did what I did 426 Adam Berlin best, listened to her, put my head in her head and listened to what would get-her there, sensing the tide and then moving to it, closer and closer, picturing the beginning of her orgasm like a small wave, just starting, still far from shore. And that’s what I said in her ear, that’s what I said in all of their ears, but none of them had ever felt perfect. I worked for her, talked to her about the wave, about the growing wave, moved to the growing wave, and the wave started to gather water, started to gather strength, the salt water starting to foam, and I moved to it, harder to it, faster to it, talking to her the whole time, making her picture the wave, making her realize I was the only man who could truly fuck her, the wave getting bigger, her voice starting to take over my voice, and I fucked her and fucked her until the wave peaked, was right there, too high to fold in on itself, too high to go back, too high. It was going to crash. “Let it crash,” I said. “Yes,” she said: “Tet it crash all the way. Let it all go. All of it.” “Yes,” she said. “Go,” I said. The wave crashed. I lifted myself up, straightened my arms, looked down at her lips, perfect lips, sushi-perfect. I felt the wave start in myself and kept my eyes right there, right there.

• 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)

  “Never eloquent,” he replied deprecatingly, “but sometimes very earnest perhaps, especially when some event of the day comes to point the Gospel story—” he talked like a man of fair education and I could see he was pleased at being drawn to the front. Then Kate brought me fresh coffee and Mrs. Gregory came in and continued her meal and the talk became interesting, thanks to Mr. Gregory who couldn’t help saying how the fire in Chicago had stimulated Christianity in his hearers and given him a great text. I mentioned casually that I had been in the fire and told of Randolph Street Bridge and the hanging and what else I saw there and on the lakefront that unforgettable Monday morning. At first Kate went in and out of the room removing dishes as if she were not concerned in the story, but when I told of the women and girls half-naked at the lakeside while the flames behind us reached the zenith in a red sheet that kept throwing flame-arrows ahead and started the ships burning on the water in front of us, she too stopped to listen. At once I caught my cue, to be liked and admired by all the rest; but indifferent, cold to her. So I rose as if her standing enthralled had interrupted me and said: “I’m sorry to keep you: I’ve talked too much, forgive me!” and betook myself to my room in spite of the protests and prayers to continue of all the rest. Kate just flushed; but said nothing. She attracted me greatly: she was infinitely desirable, very good-looking and very young (only sixteen, her mother said later) and her great hazel eyes were almost as exciting as her pretty mouth or large hips and good height. She pleased me intimately but I resolved to win her altogether and felt I had begun well: at any rate she would think about me and my coldness. I spent the evening in putting out my half dozen books, not forgetting my medical treatises, and then slept, the deep sleep of sex recuperation. The next morning I called on Smith again where he lived with the Reverend Mr. Kellogg, who was the Professor of English History in the University, Smith said. Kellogg was a man of about forty, stout and well-kept, with a faded wife of about the same age. Rose, the pretty servant, let me in: I had a smile and warm word of thanks for her: she was astonishingly pretty, the prettiest girl I had seen in Lawrence: medium height and figure with quite lovely face and an exquisite rose-leaf skin! She smiled at me; evidently my admiration pleased her.

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

  “Do you have to rush straight home, or can I get you a beer?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve been kind enough to bring all this over .. .” “Yeah, that'd be great, thanks,” he said, and I went to hunt a couple of cans of ice-cold lager fsom the fridge. When I came back into the living room, he was standing in front of what had once been the chimney breast, looking at the photograph I keep hanging there. It’s an arty, black-and-white shot of a well-muscled man, his face in shadow, wearing nothing but a pair of torn denims. The fly is open enough to show the beginnings of his pubic bush, and his hand is reaching in to cradle his cock. Nothing is explicit; everything implied. “That’s some photo you’ve got there,” he said, taking one of the cans from me. “Is it a Mapplethorpe?” I shook my head, surprised by his knowledge of erotic photography. “Thanks for the compliment, but no. I took it.” “Seriously? It’s fantastic,” he enthused. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a thing about other men or anything, but if I did, it would more than likely turn me on.” “I do quite a bit of that sort of work.” I took a swig from my drink, hoping the lager would cool the fire that was being stoked in me, but standing next to Izzy’s gorgeous errand boy was having entirely the opposite effect. “Well, to be honest, not as much as Id like. I do sets for Dare magazine now and again.” _ “That’s the porn magazine for women, isn’t it? I met a guy at a party who used to be their designer. He told me some pretty wild stories about the stuff they print.” ; 244 Elizabeth Coldwell “Tt’s good fun,” I replied, kicking off my shoes and curling up on the settee, “but they don’t buy many black-and-white sets, which is a shame. I’d love to take some photos for them which really concentrated on the muscles in a man’s body; emphasize how they move, and the power they contain.” I noticed him raise the can to his lips again, and saw the way his biceps pressed against the taut cotton of his T-shirt. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you have really good muscles in your arm. Do you work out at all?” He shook his head. “I play football on Sunday mornings, and ’m helping a mate renovate his flat at the moment. That’s pretty physical work, but I’ve never been in a gym in my life.” He drained his can. “What are you saying, that you reckon I’m worth photographing?” I reckoned far more than that, but I just smiled. “I think you have good muscles. It’s a start.”