Desire

Passages

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

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  From time to time, by recounting other tales of a similar kind, Bruno added further fuel to the flames of the physician’s longings, until, very late one evening, when Bruno was busy painting the battle between the cats and the mice by the light of a lantern being held aloft by Master Simone, the physician decided that Bruno was by now sufficiently in his debt for him to bring his feelings into the open. And since they were alone in the house, he said: ‘As God is my witness, Bruno, there isn’t anyone on earth for whom I would do all the things I would do for you. Why, even if you were to ask me to go all the way from here to Peretola,11 I almost believe I would do it. So I trust you will not take it amiss if I speak to you now as an intimate friend, and ask you a favour in strict confidence. As you know, you spoke to me not long ago about the doings of your merry company, and ever since that day, I’ve been positively dying to attend your meetings. I have good reason for wanting to come, as you’ll see for yourself if I should happen to be invited, for I assure you here and now that if I don’t get those magicians of yours to fetch the comeliest serving wench you’ve seen for many a long day, I deserve to be taken for an idiot. I fell passionately in love with the girl from the moment I clapped eyes on her, last year in Cacavincigli,12 and I swear to God that I offered her ten Bolognese groats, but she turned them down. So I implore you, from the bottom of my heart, to tell me what I have to do to become a member, and I beg you to use all your power and influence to bring it about, for I can assure you that you could never have a better or more loyal comrade, nor one who would bring you greater credit. I don’t suppose, for instance, that any of your members is a doctor of medicine, and you can see for yourself what a handsome fellow I am, with a fine pair of shanks and a face like a rose. Besides, I know lots of good stories and some excellent songs. Would you like to hear one?’ And without waiting for an answer, he burst into song. Bruno was so amused by all this that he had a job to keep a straight face; and when the song was finished, the Master said: ‘Well, Bruno, what do you think of that?’ ‘It’s fantastic,’ said Bruno. ‘With a cacophonous voice like that, you could charm the vultures out of the trees.’ ‘If you hadn’t heard it with your own ears,’ said the Master, ‘you wouldn’t have believed it possible, would you?’ ‘I certainly wouldn’t,’ said Bruno.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  And one day, around noon, having emerged from the bedroom in a flimsy white shift, her hair tied up in a bun, she happened to be washing her hands and face at a well in the courtyard when Calandrino came to the well for some water. He gave her a friendly greeting, which she acknowledged, then she began to stare at him, not because she found him the least bit attractive, but because she was fascinated by his odd appearance. Calandrino returned her gaze, and on seeing how beautiful she was, began to think of various excuses for not returning with the water to his companions. However, not knowing who she was, he was afraid to address her, and the girl, perceiving that he was still staring at her, mischievously rolled her eyes at him a couple of times and fetched a few little sighs, so that Calandrino instantly fell in love with her and stood rooted to the spot till she was called inside by Filippo. On returning to his work, Calandrino did nothing but heave one huge sigh after another; and Bruno, who always kept an eye on him because he found him so entertaining, noticed this and said: ‘What the devil’s the matter, comrade Calandrino? You do nothing but sigh the whole time.’ ‘Comrade,’ said Calandrino, ‘if only I had someone to help me, I could be the happiest man alive.’ ‘What do you mean?’ said Bruno. ‘Don’t tell a soul,’ said Calandrino, ‘but there’s a girl down there who’s lovelier than a nymph, and she’s so much in love with me that you’d be astonished. I came across her just now when I went to fetch the water.’ ‘Good heavens!’ said Bruno. ‘You’d better be careful, in case it’s Filippo’s wife.’ ‘That’s exactly who I think she is,’ said Calandrino, ‘for he called to her from the bedroom, and she went in to him. But anyway, what does it matter? For a girl like that, I’d slip one over on Jesus Christ, let alone Filippo. The truth is, comrade, that I’m so wild about her that I can’t begin to tell you how I feel.’ Then Bruno said: ‘I’ll make one or two inquiries for you, comrade, and find out who she is. If she turns out to be Filippo’s wife, I’ll fix things up for you in a trice, because she happens to be a very close friend of mine. But how are we to prevent Buffalmacco from finding out? I never get a chance to speak to her except when he is with me.’ ‘I’m not worried about Buffalmacco,’ said Calandrino, ‘but we must keep it a secret from Nello, because Tessa 4 is a kinswoman of his and he would ruin everything.’ ‘That’s true,’ said Bruno. Now, Bruno knew perfectly well who she was, for he had seen her arriving at the house, and Filippo had told him in any case.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  The totem gods hanging above us swayed, nodding in approval as he pushed his pelvis against mine. I had never experienced a man moving his body on mine like that before, and it seemed so natural, so right. He raised himself with one arm and ran his fingertips from my nipples down my abdomen, sending shivers of pleasure through me. Then he lowered his frame over mine again on the cot. I could feel the satin of his shorts protruding against the nylon of my crotch. I looked down and caught sight of his penis coming through the opening in his shorts. I had the impulse to touch it, because a girlfriend had told me that touching a penis felt like petting a horse’s nose, and I loved the soft nose of a horse. I slipped one hand between us as he rose up and let my fingers brush against it. I was surprised by its heat and pulled my hand away. The great totems were watching from above, saying yes, touch it, feel it, do it; it is right, it is nature. I closed my hand over it. He stopped moving then. “What do you want?” “I don’t know,” I said and pulled my hand away again. What I wanted was to stay unknowing, just moving. I thrust my pelvis upward and he pushed against me, his rhythm my rhythm, the rhythm of the totems, again and again, as I looked up at the swaying gods, watching us, pulling us through a spinning siphon of pleasure into their world.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  He confirmed her thoughts. “I’ve given you the freedom to explore whatever and whomever you wish in the name of your creativity. I understood. The artist needs to be able to play, to experiment, to try out ideas, and a writer, especially, needs to know lots of different kinds of people.” He parroted her words sarcastically, but then smiled. “Now we’ll have a chance to play together.” Play? With Hugo? It was hard to imagine. “It’s too late,” she said. “No it isn’t. You have to give this a chance.” She needed time to think. “What’s your third surprise?” He told her to open a leather satchel in the corner and in it she found a sixteen-millimeter movie camera. He explained that with his new freedom he was going to make experimental films and he wanted her to be his star. Actually, that idea delighted her. Being in Hollywood, overhearing actors, directors, and producers talk shop, she’d found herself wishing she were younger so that she could be involved in moviemaking. “Let’s just play and see what we come up with.” Hugo grinned boyishly. “We can experiment with your idea that film is the best medium for replicating our dream life.” Suddenly, she could see the twenty-three-year-old she had fallen madly in love with and married, the young idealist who wrote poetry and to whom every night she’d read her diary or her untutored attempts at short stories. He had always believed in her talent when she had no faith in herself. How could she deny him the same encouragement now? [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Lovemaking with Hugo was not as athletic and physically fulfilling as with Rupert, but it was emotionally fulfilling. All their years of marriage resounded like a 120-string orchestra: all the times they had touched, told each other their dreams at breakfast, decorated new dwellings, packed and unpacked, argued and made up, shared disappointments, consoled each other, helped each other dress to go out, slept side by side, melded as one vibrant harmony. With Rupert, making love was like the Liebestod, orchestrated to achieve a huge climax. With Hugo, it was the vibration of an infinite, encompassing resonance. While Hugo went to straighten out the realtor who had sold Anaïs the romantic shack she no longer wanted, she luxuriated at the hotel spa. Over a lobster dinner at the spotless restaurant of the American Hotel, Hugo told her proudly, “I got the realtor to return half your down payment and tear up the contract.” “He should return the whole down payment! It’s all that was left of my advance.” “Don’t worry about the money. We’ll have plenty of investment income.” “But my book advance was different. It was my own money that I made from my writing. And look what I did, I wasted half of it.”

• 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)

  You can tell the younger woman has a very different bearing than the woman on the bed, even though her position argues against this. She is bent over, with her hands tied with black velvet behind her back ... her ass curving up like ... like the ass the older woman wished she had. It is round and rude, and yet exquisitely shaped, so that even in its intense lewdness, there is some sheltered modesty. Completely exposed. Flaunted. The skin is the same color as the inside of a snow apple, the kind that only come into season very suddenly and then are gone. So sweet it’s like tiny crystals of sugar have been ladled into full cream ... and yet savory too...a confliction of tastes ... a flavored ice treat and a chunk of just shot game, cooked hot and fast on spit-burst charcoal. A perfect ass, bent over in total supplication . . the skin and curve of the young girl, the flow into her lower back and up the spine, all suggestive of that hint of divinity the ancients used to claim lay hidden for all to see in the white meat within a single walnut. . This delicacy intrigues you, and saddens you. For the girl too is neatly groomed, so that her tender pussy lips are visible between her legs, as pink as a shellfish, but thick and tactile, like a puckered fig. There are other things in the room. Objects of disturbing implications. Hairbrushes that look too sharp, too big. A kind of chair seemingly made of bones — and iron. A draped veil that looks more like a net to catch something in. Paper masks hang from long hooks in the shape of hard penises. Masks of distorted faces, some animal-like ... goats, pigs, wolves. Some like faces of the damned. Swirled and cracked ... or bloated and leering. . You begin to realize that this is not a single scene, but a ritual you are witnessing . .. something which has happened before. More details emerge then. The wood and leather crop that lies beside the . just fallen from the hand of the older woman perhaps. bed . You notice a faint but still cruel line of blush across the full rounded cheek of the younger woman’s buttocks that you hadn’t seen before. And you see that the light reflects off the minotaur’s mask in a strange way that hadn’t earlier caught your eye — the stack and line of his carved body and the massive organ having distracted you. He is not staring at the woman on the bed, eager to ream her — to plunge inside her and thrust her inside out. He is mindful of the girl on the floor. The serving girl with the ass made by God’s own artisan. Rain and the Library 293

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

  “Open your legs; this needs to pass between your pussy lips,” I told her, keeping my voice dispassionate. I manipulated the strap until it sat inside her labia, pressing directly against her clitoris. I lined up the ring with her vaginal entrance, then pulled the strap upwards between her bottom cheeks, performing the same alignment exercise over her hidden rosette. “Is that tight enough, do you think?” I asked Mr Fox, tensing the strap as much as I could. “That seems just about right,’ he opined. “Let me check.” He pinched and felt his way around the new features, nodding approval as he did so. “She certainly won’t be able to forget she is wearing it. Even less so when the extras are added.” “Shall we try them out?” “Oh, yes, I think so.” I picked up the thicker of the dildoes, relaxed the strap enough to screw it into place in its ring and then ordered Mrs Fox to bend over on the desk with her legs as wide as possible. “Is she wet enough to take this straight in?” I wondered aloud. “Why don’t you test her with a finger?” suggested her husband. I took him up on it, giving her clit a good workout before pushing two fingers into the soaked void. She was wet enough all right, Advanced Corsetry 71 wiggling her bum frantically and trying to pull me in further. Oh no, she was not getting that yet. “She’s saturated,’ I laughed to Mr Fox. “I don’t often see a customer as satisfied as this!”’ He laughed back at me. “Not satisfied yet. Not until permission is granted, at least.” “TI quite understand. Now let’s stretch that dripping little quim, shall we?” I pushed the dildo inside in one swift move; her hips rotated, desperate to suck it in further, but she would get no more than the four inches of smooth black silicone. Now I was too involved in my work to think about donning gloves; I affixed the anal plug to its ring and lubricated her clenching and unclenching arsehole with some of the copious juices of her pussy. I took my time with this operation, keeping the cheeks spread wide while I worked, talking to her in a low voice as one would to a skittish horse, for she was trying to hump the dildo in her cunt like a woman possessed.

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

  As I had guessed, her figure was slight and lissom, with narrow hips but she had a great bush of hair on her Mount of Venus and her breasts were not so round and firm as Jessie’s: still she was very pretty and well-formed with the _fines attaches_ (slender wrists and ankles) which the French are so apt to over-estimate. They think that small bones indicate a small sex; but I have found that the exceptions are very numerous, even if there is any such rule. After I had kissed her breasts and navel, and praised her figure, she disappeared in the bathroom but was soon with me again on the sofa which we had left an hour or so before. “Do you know” she began, “my husband assured me that only the strongest young man could go twice with a woman in one day? I believed him; aren’t we women fools? You must have come a dozen times?” “Not half that number”, I replied smiling. “Aren’t you tired?” was her next question, “even I have a little headache” she added: “I never was so wrought up: at the end it was too intense: but you must be tired out.” “No,” I replied, “I feel no fatigue, indeed I feel the better for our joy ride!” “But surely you’re an exception?” she went on; “most men have finished in one short spasm and leave the woman utterly unsatisfied, just excited and no more.” “Youth”, I said, “that, I believe, makes the chief difference.” “Is there any danger of a child?” she went on, “I ought to say ‘hope’,” she added bitterly, “for I’d love to have a child, your child” and she kissed me. “When were you ill last?” I asked. “About a fortnight ago”, she replied, “I often thought that had something to do with it.” “Why?” I asked: “tell truth!” I warned her and she began: “I’ll tell you anything; I thought the time had something to do with it for soon after I am well each month my ‘pussy’ that’s what we call it, often burns and itches intolerably; but after a week or so I’m not bothered any more till next time. Why is that?” she added. “Two things I ought to explain to you” I said, “your seed is brought down into your womb by the menstrual blood: it lives there a week or ten days and then dies and with its death your desires decrease and the chance of impregnation. But near the next monthly period, say within three days, there is a double danger again; for the excitement may bring your seed down before the usual time and in any case, my seed will live in your womb about three days, so if you wish to avoid pregnancy, wait for ten days after your monthly flow is finished and stop say four days before you expect it again, then the danger of getting a child is very slight.”

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

  We usually sat in a sort of rustic summerhouse in the garden. This afternoon Lucille was seated leaning back in an armchair right in front of the door, for the day was sultry-close, and when Edwards went, I threw myself on the doorstep at her feet: her dress clung to her form, revealing the outlines of her thighs and breasts seductively. I was wild with excitement. Suddenly I noticed her legs were apart; I could see her slim ankles. Pulses awoke throbbing in my forehead and throat: I begged for a kiss and got on my knees to take it: she gave me one; but when I persisted, she repulsed me, saying: “Non, non! sois sage!” As I returned to my seat reluctantly, the thought came, “put your hand up her clothes”; I felt sure I could reach her sex. She was seated on the edge of the chair and leaning back. The mere idea shook and scared me: but what can she do, I thought: she can only get angry. I thought again of all possible consequences: the example with E… came to encourage and hearten me. I leaned round and knelt in front of her smiling, begging for a kiss, and as she smiled in return, I put my hand boldly right up her clothes on her sex. I felt the soft hairs and the form of it in breathless ecstasy; but I scarcely held it when she sprang upright: “how dare you!” she cried trying to push my hand away. My sensations were too overpowering for words or act; my life was in my fingers; I held her cunt. A moment later I tried to touch her gently with my middle finger as I had touched E…: ’twas a mistake: I no longer held her sex and at once Lucille whirled round and was free. “I have a good mind to strike you”, she cried; “I’ll tell Mrs. Edwards”, she snorted indignantly. “You’re a bad, bad boy and I thought you nice. I’ll never be kind to you again: I hate you!” she fairly stamped with anger. I went to her, my whole being one prayer. “Don’t please spoil it all”, I cried. “You hurt so when you are angry, dear.” She turned to me hotly: “I’m really angry, angry”, she panted, “and you’re a hateful rude boy and I don’t like you any more”, and she turned away again, shaking her dress straight. “Oh, how could I help it?” I began, “You’re so pretty, oh, you are wonderful, Lucille.” “Wonderful”, she repeated, sniffing disdainfully, but I saw she was mollified. “Kiss me”, I pleaded, “and don’t be cross.” “I’ll never kiss you again”, she replied quickly, “you can be sure of that.” I went on begging, praising, pleading for ever so long, till at length she took my head in her hands, saying: “If you’ll promise never to do that again, never, I’ll give you a kiss and try to forgive you.”

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

  When she returned a few weeks later, I felt as if she were new and unknown and I had to win her again; but as soon as my hand touched her sex, the strangeness disappeared and she gave herself to me with renewed zest. I teased her to tell me just what she felt and at length she consented. “Begin with the first time” I begged, “and then tell what you felt in Kansas City.” “It will be very hard”, she said, “I’d rather write it for you.” “That’ll do just as well”, I replied, and here is the story she sent me the next day. [Illustration] “I think the first time you had me,” she began “I felt more curiosity than desire: I had so often tried to picture it all to myself. When I saw your sex, I was astonished, for it looked very big to me and I wondered whether you could really get it into my sex which I knew was just big enough for my finger to go in. Still I did want to feel your sex pushing into me, and your kisses and the touch of your hand on my sex made me even more eager. When you slipped the head of your sex into mine, it hurt dreadfully; it was almost like a knife cutting into me, but the pain for some reason seemed to excite me and I pushed forward so as to get you further in me; I think that’s what broke my maidenhead. At first I was disappointed because I felt no thrill, only the pain; but when my sex became all wet and open and yours could slip in and out easily, I began to feel real pleasure. I liked the slow movement best; it excited me to feel the head of your sex just touching the lips of mine and when you pushed in slowly all the way, it gave me a gasp of breathless delight; when you drew your sex out, I wanted to hold it in me. And the longer you kept on, the more pleasure you gave me. For hours afterwards my sex was sensitive; if I rubbed it ever so gently, it would begin to itch and burn.

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

  “But that night in the hotel at Kansas City I really wanted you and the pleasure you gave me then was much keener than the first time. You kissed and caressed me for a few minutes and I soon felt my love-dew coming and the button of my sex began to throb. As you thrust your shaft in and out of me, I felt such a strange sort of pleasure: every little nerve on the inside of my thighs and belly seemed to thrill and quiver: it was almost a feeling of pain. At first the sensation was not so intense, but when you stopped and made me wash, I was shaken by quick, short spasms in my thighs and my sex was burning and throbbing; I wanted you more than ever. “When you began the slow movement again, I felt the same sensations in my thighs and belly, only more keenly, and as you kept on, the pleasure became so intense that I could scarcely bear it. Suddenly you rubbed your sex against mine and my button began to throb: I could almost feel it move. Then you began to move your sex quickly in and out of me; in a moment I was breathless with emotion and I felt so faint and exhausted that I suppose I fell asleep for a few minutes, for I knew nothing more till I felt the cold water trickling down my face. When you began again, you made me cry; perhaps because I was all dissolved in feeling and too, too happy. Ah, love is divine: isn’t it?” Kate was really of the highest woman-type, mother and mistress in one. She used to come down and spend the night with me oftener than ever and on one of these occasions she found a new word for her passion: she declared she felt her womb move in yearning for me when I talked my best or recited poetry to her in what I had christened her Holy Week. Kate, it was, who taught me first that women could be even more moved and excited by words than by deeds: once, I remember, when I had talked sentimentally, she embraced me of her own accord and we had each other with wet eyes. Another effect of Smith’s absence was important; for it threw me a good deal with Miss Stevens. I soon found that she had inherited the best of her father’s brains and much of his strength of character. If she had married Smith, she might have done something noteworthy: as it was, she was very attractive and well-read as a girl and would have made Smith, I am sure, a most excellent wife.

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

  The truth is, I was glad to get away: novelty is the soul of passion. There’s an old English proverb: “fresh cunt, fresh courage.” On my way home I thought oftener of the slim, dark figure of Lily than of the woman every hill and valley of whose body was now familiar to me, whereas Lily with her narrow hips and straight flanks must have a tiny sex I thought;—“D—n Lily” and I hastened to Smith. We went down to supper together and I introduced Smith to Kate: they were just polite; but when she turned to me she scanned me curiously, her brows lifting in a gesture of “I know what I know” which was to become familiar to me in the sequel. After supper I had a long talk with Smith in his room, a heart to heart talk which altered our relations. I have already mentioned that Smith got ill every fortnight or so. I had no inkling of the cause, no notion of the scope of the malady. This evening he grew reminiscent and told me everything. He had thought himself very strong, it appeared, till he went to Athens to study. There he worked prodigiously and almost at the beginning of his stay came to know a Greek girl of a good class who talked Greek with him and finally gave herself to him passionately. Being full of youthful vigor always quickened by vivid imaginings, he told me that he usually came the first time almost as soon as he entered and that in order to give his partner pleasure, he had to come two or three times and this drained and exhausted him. He admitted that he had abandoned himself to this fierce love-play day after day in and out of season. When he returned to the United States, he tried to put his Greek girl out of his head; but in spite of all he could do, he had love-dreams that came to an orgasm and ended in emissions of seed about once a fortnight. And after a year or so these fortnightly emissions gave him intense pains in the small of his back which lasted some twenty-four hours, evidently till some more seed had been secreted. I could not imagine how a fortnightly emission could weaken and distress a young man of Smith’s vigor and health; but as soon as I had witnessed his suffering I set my wits to work and told him of the trick by which I had brought my wet-dreams to an end in the English school.

• From Jesus and John Wayne: How White Evangelicals Corrupted a Faith and Fractured a Nation (2020)

  Spawning dozens of copycat books that borrowed copiously from Eldredge’s formula, it would frame evangelical explorations of masculinity for years to come.1 For Eldredge, masculinity was thoroughly militaristic. Little boys loved to play with capes and swords, bandannas and six-shooters. Yearning to know they were powerful and dangerous, someone to be reckoned with, they specialized in inventing games “where bloodshed is a prerequisite for having fun.” God made men to be dangerous, Eldredge explained. Women didn’t start wars or commit many violent crimes. But the very strength that made men dangerous also made them heroes. If a neighborhood was safe, it was because of the strength of its men. Men, not women, brought an end to slavery, apartheid, and the Nazis. Men gave up their seats on the Titanic ’s lifeboats. And, crucially, “it was a Man who let himself be nailed to Calvary’s cross.”2 According to Eldredge, God created all men to long for “a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to rescue.” But society offered confusing messages. For thirty years people had been redefining masculinity into something “sensitive, safe, manageable and, well, feminine,” yet now they berated men for not being men. The church bore a large share of the blame. A “crisis in masculinity” pervaded both church and society because a warrior culture no longer existed, but men needed a place where they could learn “to fight like men.” Eldredge dismissed the charge that Jesus instructed his followers to turn the other cheek: “You cannot teach a boy to use his strength by stripping him of it. ” Eldredge’s Jesus more closely resembled William Wallace than either Mother Teresa or Mister Rogers. Attempts to pacify men only emasculated them. “If you want a safer, quieter animal, there’s an easy solution: castrate him.” Sadly, “clingy mothers”—and the public-school system—effectively did just that.3 Eldredge opened his book with a portion of Matthew 11:12: “The kingdom of heaven suffers violence, and violent men take it by force.” Much of his inspiration, however, came from popular culture. It wasn’t women, after all, who made Braveheart one of the best-selling movies that decade. Mel Gibson’s William Wallace was one of Eldredge’s favorite heroes, but the American cowboy also occupied a special place in Eldredge’s vision of masculinity. The cowboy embodied a yearning every man felt, the desire “to ‘go West,’” to be “wild, dangerous, unfettered and free.” Eldredge also showcased the heroic masculinity of Teddy Roosevelt, tenacious American soldiers, Indiana Jones, James Bond, and Bruce Willis in Die Hard .4 It was from popular culture that Eldredge discovered the underlying truth that it was not enough for a man to be a hero; he must be the hero to the woman he loves. James Bond, Indiana Jones, young soldiers going off to war—every man required his own beauty to rescue.