Excitement

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

  I made it back to my desk, and sank into my chair with a pleased look plastered across my face. Even Carol noticed it when she looked at me and said, “Damn, Ayeesha, that must have been some break. You looking like a whole new woman.” I smiled and thought, If she only knew. • • • After work, I rode east with Raheem in his new 2007 S-Class, gleaming black Benz. He had his hand up my skirt finger-popping me as he did eighty miles an hour on the Long Island Expressway as we headed to his ten-acre ranch in Riverhead, Long Island. And of course I sucked his dick in the car for a good twenty minutes! We got there around eight that evening, and I was in awe. His crib was all that. I stepped out of the car amazed. He showed me around, which took damn near an hour, but when we walked out the back of the house and into a barn, my mouth dropped open. It was the same barn I’d been seeing in my dreams! “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” I said, staring at his big black horses. “It’s just funny, because I feel like I’ve seen this place before,” I marveled. “You hungry?” he asked. We ended up having dinner, drinking champagne and having some real good conversation. He introduced me to his butler, Henry, who had been taking care of Raheem since he was in diapers. But the exciting news came when Raheem told me that he’d made up his mind to let my agency handle his account. That would bring a lot of money into the office, and he admitted that he was giving his business to my agency all because of me. He also said that he was going to give Mr. Robinson some really good reports about me, and I was thrilled because his word could help me get a promotion. Around ten that night I found myself in the barn with Raheem, fucking him once again. He had me bent over one of the stable doors, my skirt pulled up, panties on the ground, as he did to me what he did best. Moments later, we were butt naked in the hay wilding the fuck out. I was in the missionary position, legs straddled around him, and screaming at the top of my lungs. He did me justice that night! It seemed like every time we fucked, it just got better and better. It was so good that I passed out nestled against Raheem in the hay, and we slept butt-naked in each other’s arms the whole night.

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  64 seirutneC dr3 dna dn2 eht ni ytinaitsirhC emertxE :9 erutceL As in the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, the prophetic o power of celibate women provides a radical alternative to the domestic roles society imposed on them; thus, the New Prophecy implicitly challenged conventional society. • The Montanist movement was strongly ascetical; it forbade second marriages, imposed strict rules for fasting, and advocated the willing acceptance of martyrdom rather than flight in times of persecution. It was sufficiently popular to have converted the intellectual o Tertullian in North Africa in the year 206; his last writings are marked by Montanist tendencies. The prediction that the “New Jerusalem” would appear in the o village of Pepuza probably hastened, by its nonrealization, the fading of the movement. It was condemned by Asian synods before the year 200 and by o the bishop of Rome Zephyrinus (d. 217). • Later prophetic figures in Christianity, both male and female, would make appeals to a new age of the Holy Spirit (see Joachim of Fiore) or to visions (see the female medieval mystics), but ecstatic speech tended always to be suspect as a manifestation of unreliable “enthusiasm.” Dualistic Visions of Christian Existence • The third manifestation of radical Christianity came through a number of powerful teachers in the 2nd century who advocated strongly dualistic visions of Christian existence that posed a challenge both to societal conventions and the very order of creation. The geographical distribution of these teachers and their followers suggests the popularity of this dualistic ideology among many followers of Christ. • A teacher known only as Tatian came from Assyria to Rome around 150 to become a disciple of Justin. He wrote a deeply learned but

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

  I wanted to feel that dick raw. I cried out as he began thrusting about ten inches into me, hitting spots that no man had ever hit before. I mean, fuck the stomach! I felt his dick in my chest! I had to push against his stomach because the weight was too much for me to handle. Raheem continued to pound and pound into me, and with each hard thrust that niggah heard how loud my vocals were. I’m surprised the whole eighth floor didn’t hear my screaming and raving, but I’m sure the people in the next two rooms did. “Raheem, I’m cumming!” I screamed out. “Oh shit, you making me cum!” Raheem continued to fuck the shit out of me, until my whole body quivered and went limp from the strong orgasm he put on me. I lay motionless for a moment, trying to collect myself, until I glanced at the time again and yelped, “Oh shit!” It was five minutes after two. I jumped out of bed and quickly collected my things. Raheem stayed in bed, grinning at me. “What time do you get off?” he asked. “Five,” I said, fastening my skirt. “I wanna see you again.” “Not a problem.” I quickly buttoned my blouse. “How about tonight, after you get off work? I have a ranch in Riverhead.” “Not tonight. But tomorrow night is cool,” I told him. “Okay. So I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning?” “Yeah.” I ran out the door and rushed to my car. I got back to the office at 2:20 P.M., but surprisingly no one noticed I was late. I sighed with relief, sat down at my desk, and grinned inside as I thought about what I had just done and how much I couldn’t wait to do it again. • • • That night I got home tired and hungry at around six, only to see a bunch of niggahs chilling in my crib smoking, drinking, and making a mess out of my living room. I got agitated and asked, “Where’s Tears?” “What up, ma . . . he in the bedroom,” one of his goons said, looking high as fuck. I strutted into the bedroom and saw Tears sitting on the bed in a black tank top, with the phone clutched to his ear. He glanced up, but never acknowledged me—it was like, Whatever, you home. I sighed and closed the bedroom door. He finally hung up the phone and took a pull from the burning blunt he had between his fingers. His .45 was resting on the nightstand and I noticed about a pound of marijuana on my bed. “Tears, why you got niggahs in my crib like this?” I asked in frustration. “Them my peoples. We just chillin’, baby,” he said. He grabbed my chin between his fingers and placed a kiss on my forehead. “How was work?”

• From Soaking Wet: Lesbian Sex Stories (2014)

  Again, that urgent desperation to connect filled me. I leaned away and drew the shirt over my head, then leaned back again, letting the fire warm my front, her supple body heat my back. I reached behind me and sank my fingers in her silky hair, waiting. Lips trailed along my neck. “Wanna fuck?” she whispered and bit my earlobe. I smiled, then shivered because her fingers plucked my nipple a little too hard. “So long as I get a taste and soon.” Soft laughter gusted against my skin, and she pulled away. I turned to watch as she stripped. She walked naked toward her backpack and drew out a long, thick dildo—one I hadn’t seen before. “I’ve been saving this.” I lay on my back and shimmied out of my jeans and panties. Watching her rub the gel-shaft around her lips as she walked to me made me wonder again whether she was seeing anyone—someone with a set of balls, because she did love cock. “Shall I?” I asked, rising on my elbows. Kari liked to be shafted while I sucked her clit. “Later. I’m going to play first.” She pressed her heel into my shoulder and shoved me to my back. Then she placed her feet on either side of my hips and squatted. “You have been way too uptight lately.” “I’ve missed you.” “You missed this, don’t you mean?” Her eyes narrowed into catlike slits. “Margot’s a grumpy girl when she doesn’t get some.” She dropped the dildo on the rug and leaned over me, the change of angle rubbing her wet pussy against my mound. The humid heat seeped into my skin; the scent of her, musky and pungent, lured my fingers down to play. Kari groaned as I slid my thumb over her clit. “No fair. I’m supposed to be the one in charge.” “You are.” I grinned. “I wouldn’t be tempted if you would quit rubbing your pussy there.” Her laugh was sharp and pained. “Fffuck!” Her eyes closed and she jerked her hips forward and back, grinding her clit on my finger while her moisture dribbled through my own pulsing lips. She gave one last sexy slide and then pushed down my body. “Did I ever tell you I love a bald pussy?” “A time or two,” I gasped. Two fingers stroked inside me, swirling and stretching my entrance. I cupped my breasts and began to rock my hips, trying to lure her deeper or seduce her into putting her mouth where I needed it most. The flat of her tongue lapped the swelling folds. “I like it almost as much as I like you.” I glanced down and caught her gaze. Her nose wrinkled. “I know I haven’t been around much. I needed to think.” “You get things figured out?”

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  And exactly at midnight, in the first of these halls, something crashed, jangled, spilled, leaped. And all at once a high male voice desperately cried out ‘Hallelujah!’ to the music. The famous Griboedov jazz band struck up. Sweat-covered faces seemed to brighten, it was as if the horses painted on the ceiling came alive, the lamps seemed to shine with added light, and suddenly, as if tearing loose, both halls broke into dance, and following them the veranda broke into dance. Glukharev danced with the poetess Tamara Polumesyats, Quant danced, Zhukopov the novelist danced with some movie actress in a yellow dress. Dragunsky danced, Cherdakchi danced, little Deniskin danced with the enormous Bos’n George, the beautiful Semeikina-Gall, an architect, danced in the tight embrace of a stranger in white canvas trousers. Locals and invited guests danced, Muscovites and out-of-towners, the writer Johann from Kronstadt, a certain Vitya Kuftik from Rostov, apparently a stage director, with a purple spot all over his cheek, the most eminent representatives of the poetry section of Massolit danced—that is, Baboonov, Blasphemsky, Sweetkin, Smatchstik and Adelphina Buzdyak—young men of unknown profession, in crew cuts, with cotton-padded shoulders, danced, someone very elderly danced, a shred of green onion stuck in his beard, and with him danced a sickly, anaemia-consumed girl in a wrinkled orange silk dress. Streaming with sweat, waiters carried sweating mugs of beer over their heads, shouting hoarsely and with hatred: ‘Excuse me, citizen!’ Somewhere through a megaphone a voice commanded: ‘One Karsky shashlik! Two Zubrovkas! Home-style tripe!’ The high voice no longer sang, but howled ‘Hallelujah!’ The clashing of golden cymbals in the band sometimes even drowned out the clashing of dishes which the dishwashers sent down a sloping chute to the kitchen. In short—hell. And at midnight there came an apparition in hell. A handsome dark-eyed man with a dagger-like beard, in a tailcoat, stepped on to the veranda and cast a regal glance over his domain. They used to say, the mystics used to say, that there was a time when the handsome man wore not a tailcoat but a wide leather belt with pistol butts sticking from it, and his raven hair was tied with scarlet silk, and under his command a brig sailed the Caribbean under a black death flag with a skull and crossbones. But no, no! The seductive mystics are lying, there are no Caribbean Seas in the world, no desperate freebooters sail them, no corvette chases after them, no cannon smoke drifts across the waves. There is nothing, and there was nothing! There is that sickly linden over there, there is the cast-iron fence, and the boulevard beyond it . . . And the ice is melting in the bowl, and at the next table you see someone’s bloodshot, bovine eyes, and you’re afraid, afraid . . . Oh, gods, my gods, poison, bring me poison! . . . And suddenly a word fluttered up from some table: ‘Berlioz!!’

• From Laura Middleton; Her Brother and Her Lover (1890)

  This, however, I did not allow, but I sat down on the arm of the chair allowing him to put his arm round my waist. He exhibited some more illustrations of luscious scenes, many of which were new to me, and I did not attempt to conceal the effect which was produced upon me, while I told him, which was the case, that I had never seen anything of the kind more beautifully designed and executed. I could see that he was watching the impression made not only on my face but also on another part of my person, which had now become somewhat prominent. He seemed satisfied with this, and then opened the other packet, which was a series of drawings executed by a first-rate artist in the most admirable style delineating the seduction of a beautiful young boy of about fifteen by another handsome youth a few years older. Every scene in the progress was illustrated by an appropriate and admirably drawn portrait of the two characters, commencing with taking him on his knee and impressing the first amorous kiss; the laying of his hand upon the organ of pleasure; the maiden bashfulness of first feeling the naked weapon grasped by a strange hand; the first starting out of the beautiful object on the trousers being unloosened; the full development of all its beauties on their being removed; the drawing his bridle over the fiery little head of the charger; the playing with the beautiful little appendices; the opening the thighs to get a glimpse of the seat of pleasure behind; the turning him round to obtain a full view of the exquisite hindquarters; the first exposure to his gaze of the second actor in the scene of pleasure; the making him caress and play with it; the complete exposure of all their naked charms as their shirts are drawn over their heads; the close embrace as they strain each other in their arms; the turning him round to present the altar for the sacrifice; the entrance; the combat; the extasy; the offering the recompensing pleasure; the introducing the virgin weapon for the first time; the ardour of the first enjoyment; the first tribute and the mutual embrace of thanks as they kissed and caressed each other's organs of pleasure after the work happily was accomplished. All these were depicted with a beauty and a truth to nature that forcibly reminded me of my own sweet experience of similar enjoyment on my first initiation in the secrets of pleasure. As I gazed with admiration upon them, he could not help observing how much I was interested, and was no doubt encouraged to think, as I intended he should be, that there would be little objection on my part to his proceeding to enact a similar scene. His hand gradually slipped down over my stiffly distended weapon. I made a little faint resistance, but gradually allowed him, without much difficulty, to handle and feel it, to unloosen my trousers and make it appear on the stage. He had no sooner got possession of it, than he loaded it with kisses and caresses, declaring that he had never seen anything to surpass it in beauty. He had not much more difficulty in loosening my braces and completely removing my trousers so as to give him a full opportunity of seeing and handling my naked person.

• From The Master and Margarita (1966)

  Perched on their shoulders were merry chimpanzees with concertinas. Two hamadryads with manes like lions played grand pianos, but these grand pianos were not heard amidst the thundering, squeaking and booming of saxophones, fiddles and drums in the paws of gibbons, mandrills and marmosets. On the mirror floor a countless number of couples, as if merged, amazing in the deftness and cleanness of their movements, all turning in the same direction, swept on like a wall threatening to clear away everything in its path. Live satin butterflies bobbed above the heads of the dancing hordes, flowers poured down from the ceiling. In the capitals of the columns, each time the electricity went off, myriads of fireflies lit up, and marsh-lights floated in the air. Then Margarita found herself in a room with a pool of monstrous size bordered by a colonnade. A giant black Neptune spouted a wide pink stream from his maw. A stupefying smell of champagne rose from the pool. Here unconstrained merriment held sway. Ladies, laughing, gave their handbags to their cavaliers or the negroes who rushed about with towels in their hands, and with a cry dived swallow-like into the pool. Foamy columns shot up. The crystal bottom of the pool shone with light from below that broke through the density of the wine, and in it the silvery swimming bodies could be seen. The ladies got out of the pool completely drunk. Loud laughter resounded under the columns, booming like the jazz band. All that was remembered from this turmoil was the completely drunken face of a woman with senseless and, even in their senselessness, imploring eyes, and only one name—Frieda—was recalled. Margarita’s head began to spin from the smell of the wine, and she was about to leave when the cat arranged a number in the pool that detained her. Behemoth performed some magic by Neptune’s maw, and at once the billowing mass of champagne, hissing and gurgling, left the pool, and Neptune began spewing out a stream neither glittering nor foaming but of a dark-yellow colour. The ladies—shrieking and screaming ‘Cognac!’—rushed from the pool-side and hid behind the columns. In a few seconds the pool was filled, and the cat, turning three times in the air, dropped into the heaving cognac. He crawled out, spluttering, his bow-tie limp, the gilding on his whiskers gone, along with the opera glasses. Only one woman dared to follow Behemoth’s example—that same frolicsome dressmaker, with her cavalier, an unknown young mulatto. The two threw themselves into the cognac, but here Koroviev took Margarita under the arm and they left the bathers. It seemed to Margarita that she flew somewhere, where she saw mountains of oysters in huge stone basins. Then she flew over a glass floor with infernal furnaces burning under it and devilish white cooks darting among them.

• From The Girls (2016)

  —Tom drove his small Japanese car at exactly the speed limit, looking over his shoulder before changing lanes. His plaid shirt was thinning at the elbows but clean and tucked, a boyishness to his slim wrists that moved me. He took me all the way to the ranch, though it was an hour from Berkeley. He’d claimed to be visiting friends at the junior college in Santa Rosa, but he was a bad liar: I could see his neck get pink. He was polite, a student at Berkeley. Premed, though he liked sociology, too, and history. “LBJ,” he said. “Now there was a president.” He had a large family, I learned, and a dog named Sister, and too much homework: he was in summer school, trying to get through prereqs. He’d asked me what my major was. His mistake excited me—he must have thought I was eighteen, at least. “I don’t go to college,” I said. I was about to explain I was only in high school, but Tom immediately got defensive. “I was thinking of doing that, too,” he said, “dropping out, but I’m gonna finish the summer classes. I already paid fees. I mean, I wish I hadn’t, but—” He trailed off. Gazing at me until I realized he wanted my forgiveness. “That’s a bummer,” I said, and this seemed like enough. He cleared his throat. “So do you have a job or something? If you’re not in school?” he said. “Gee, unless that’s a rude question. You don’t have to answer.” I shrugged, affecting ease. Though maybe I was feeling easy on that car ride, like my occupation of the world could be seamless. These simple ways I could meet needs. Talking to strangers, dealing with situations. “The place I’m going now—I’ve been staying there,” I said. “It’s a big group. We take care of each other.” His eyes were on the road, but he was listening closely as I explained the ranch. The funny old house, the kids. The plumbing system Guy had rigged in the yard, a knotty mess of pipes. “Sounds like the International House,” he said. “Where I live. There are fifteen of us. There’s a chore board in the hall, we all take turns with the bad ones.” “Yeah, maybe,” I said, though I knew the ranch was nothing like the International House, the squinty philosophy majors arguing over who’d left the dinner dishes unwashed, a girl from Poland nibbling black bread and crying for a faraway boyfriend. “Who owns the house?” he said. “Is it like a center or something?” It was odd to explain Russell to someone, to remember that there were whole realms in which Russell or Suzanne did not figure. “His album’s gonna come out around Christmas, probably,” I remember saying. I kept talking about the ranch, about Russell. The way I tossed free Mitch’s name, like Donna had that day on the bus, with studied, careful deployment. The closer we got, the more worked up I became.

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

  I wanted to feel that dick raw. I cried out as he began thrusting about ten inches into me, hitting spots that no man had ever hit before. I mean, fuck the stomach! I felt his dick in my chest! I had to push against his stomach because the weight was too much for me to handle. Raheem continued to pound and pound into me, and with each hard thrust that niggah heard how loud my vocals were. I’m surprised the whole eighth floor didn’t hear my screaming and raving, but I’m sure the people in the next two rooms did. “Raheem, I’m cumming!” I screamed out. “Oh shit, you making me cum!” Raheem continued to fuck the shit out of me, until my whole body quivered and went limp from the strong orgasm he put on me. I lay motionless for a moment, trying to collect myself, until I glanced at the time again and yelped, “Oh shit!” It was five minutes after two. I jumped out of bed and quickly collected my things. Raheem stayed in bed, grinning at me. “What time do you get off?” he asked. “Five,” I said, fastening my skirt. “I wanna see you again.” “Not a problem.” I quickly buttoned my blouse. “How about tonight, after you get off work? I have a ranch in Riverhead.” “Not tonight. But tomorrow night is cool,” I told him. “Okay. So I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning?” “Yeah.” I ran out the door and rushed to my car. I got back to the office at 2:20 P.M., but surprisingly no one noticed I was late. I sighed with relief, sat down at my desk, and grinned inside as I thought about what I had just done and how much I couldn’t wait to do it again. • • • That night I got home tired and hungry at around six, only to see a bunch of niggahs chilling in my crib smoking, drinking, and making a mess out of my living room. I got agitated and asked, “Where’s Tears?” “What up, ma . . . he in the bedroom,” one of his goons said, looking high as fuck. I strutted into the bedroom and saw Tears sitting on the bed in a black tank top, with the phone clutched to his ear. He glanced up, but never acknowledged me—it was like, Whatever, you home. I sighed and closed the bedroom door. He finally hung up the phone and took a pull from the burning blunt he had between his fingers. His .45 was resting on the nightstand and I noticed about a pound of marijuana on my bed. “Tears, why you got niggahs in my crib like this?” I asked in frustration. “Them my peoples. We just chillin’, baby,” he said. He grabbed my chin between his fingers and placed a kiss on my forehead. “How was work?”

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

  Rasheeda had been promoted to the top of the alternate list, but hadn’t graduated yet because she’d gotten on my last fuckin’ nerve. Her ghetto ass had gotten a PR job, and she’d tried to put the B in bourgeoisie because her paycheck was legit and mine was legitimately counterfeit, until I’d flipped that ass over and leveled the field and made her take every inch of my swerve. But the real reason I kept her around was because she gave good head. Hitting her up on the home number, I hung up after three rings. She’ll see my name on her caller ID and get back to me later, I thought, powering up my computer and logging onto www.aroundthenati.com. There had to be something going on in the city. If I couldn’t get some ass from one of my girls, I had to find something to distract my mind from sex. Before I ran up on something, my cell rang. Rasheeda’s name flashed on the screen and her phat ass flickered in my mind. “What up?” I answered. “You! I just got in from work and saw that you called. What’s goin’ on wit you?” “Nothing much. Just wondering if you were interested in a brotha this evening.” “You know I am!” she replied, excited. “I would love to tickle you again!” I frowned. That was another reason I hadn’t moved her ass into rotation. She played too damn much. Instead of just giving me the pussy, she was always trying to tickle me. Acted like that shit was foreplay. Don’t get me wrong, a little sex play here and there is nice. But tickling me off and on until I rolled around on the floor screaming like a bitch was downright irritating. “I got something you can tickle . . . with your tongue.” “But you’re so cute! I love to see you laugh,” she said as I sighed heavily. “I know another way you can make me smile . . .” She giggled softly. “I bet you do. Tell me what you have in mind.” “I was thinking . . . you . . . in something form-fitting. A couple of drinks and your fireplace.” “Ummmmm, I can do that,” she purred. “And no tickling! Just you and me, one-on-one, rolling around on the floor.” “I can’t promise that. But you’re going to get the pussy, baby. Don’t worry.” I was in my ride in an instant. Turning onto Gilbert Avenue, I skirted scenic Eden Park as I headed toward Hyatt Park, where Rasheeda lived. I clicked on my CD player and jumping to track four I grooved to Reem Raw’s cut “A Day in the Life.” Not only was it a gully driving song, the lyrics were appropriate for me.

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

  I saw Dushawn from a mile down on the highway. His mouth dropped and his dick pointed to the left like a traffic cop when I hopped out my ride. The eighteen months had been good to me. I was thicker and curvier than ever. I had figured plenty of things out about men and sex and seduction. What I hadn’t read, I’d learned from experience. When my heels hit the asphalt, they clicked with absolute confidence. One look and Dushawn knew I wasn’t the nervous little girl he had sucked and fucked out of her mind in the factory. When we got inside the room he must have said, “Damn. . .” ten times in a row. He asked, “You wanna get some’m to eat?” I said, “Sho! . . . after we fuck!” He pulled the drapes open wide and sat me in a cushioned chair facing the ocean. He ran both hands through my braids and across my scalp and gave me a kiss that made me know how much I had been missed. I bent the dial when I slapped it back on him. He praised my new skillz, “You’ve learned a few things, huh, La La?” “I sure have. Thanks for that bomb first lesson, Dushawn.” He slowly untied each strap on my bikini until it fell away from my body, revealing all. He asked, “This one?” as he dove tongue first into my juicy cunt, joined by his big thick fingers. This time he reached deeply and twisted his fingers in and out of me while he sucked and tongued my clit with a hot new rhythm. He picked me up and sat me on top of the dark wood dresser on the other side of the room. I dug my heels lightly into his shoulders and gapped my thighs wide for him. Dushawn took slow deep fuckin’ to the Olympic Gold level. Just when he was starting to lose it, he put me back in the chair and sucked my pussy like a pro. I was more than ready to come, and when I did I shuddered and let loose an animal-like grunt as Dushawn tongued me back down to earth. “Your turn, Mr. Lambert.” I twirled the head of his slippery dick in my mouth and popped it from side to side until he called out my name. I stroked his dick from the tip to the back of his thick shaft— soft and slow, and then wild, fast, and hard. Suddenly I stopped and made him sit in the chair. I knelt in front of him and let him look out at the ocean. I sucked him into a wicked pulse and ran my fingers through his curly black hair. He was just about to pop, but he pulled away just in time and said, “Let’s fuck watchin’ the ocean together, La La.” I asked, “How we gon’ do that?”

• From Laura Middleton; Her Brother and Her Lover (1890)

  Laura was now afraid to venture to the summer house every morning, so we had few opportunities of meeting. But ascertaining that her mother and her aunt were going two days afterwards to pay a visit at a distance, which would occupy them the whole forenoon, I arranged with her that if she were left alone, she should come to my room where I would be waiting for her. I then arranged with Frank that at breakfast he should say he was going to take a ride to call upon a companion in the neighbourhood, but that instead of doing so he should conceal himself in a closet in my room and upon my giving a certain signal he should make a noise which would lead to his discovery without it appearing that I knew he was there. Everything happened as I anticipated. As soon as the carriage drove off with her mother, Laura came to my room, where I was awaiting her. Saying that it seemed an age since I had had the opportunity of fully enjoying the sight and touch of all her charms, I at once stripped myself quite naked and proceeded to perform the same operation upon her. As she enjoyed this as much as I did, she made no objection whatever, and even assisted in getting rid of her clothes as fast as possible. I placed her in several different postures, in order to allow the delighted boy to enjoy the voluptuous sensations I was sure her charms would produce upon him, and then proceeded to the final enjoyment. When this had been completed to our mutual satisfaction, I again displayed all her attractions, and when by kisses and caresses and lascivious touches I had again roused her desires for a repetition of the encounter, I made the agreed-on signal to Frank. He immediately responded by pushing down some article of furniture. Laura started up, exclaiming, "Good heavens, what is that? Can anyone be there?" I jumped out of the bed and seized a pistol which was lying on the dressing table and opened the door saying I would take good care to silence any intruder so that he should never be able to tell upon us. On opening the door and disclosing Frank, I exclaimed, "So it is you, Master Peeping Tom. Well, it is lucky it is only you, for anyone else would have had a good chance of having a bullet through his head. But I shall deal somewhat differently with you. Don't suppose, however, you are to get off unpunished for thus stealing in upon us. I see there is a good rod here, and you shall have a sound flogging for your impertinence and curiosity. So strip instantly and remember the longer you are about it the more severe your punishment will be." Frank appeared nothing loth to submit to the proposed infliction and with my assistance was soon as naked as we were.

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

  Kareem took the game up a notch when he lifted her off of the bed while he was still inside of her. He pounded her insides relentlessly as he leaned her up against the bedroom door. Next, he carried her across the room and sat her down on the dresser as they continued fucking. The heat coming off Mikala’s back steamed up the mirror on the back of the dresser. “Hit this ass, baby. Damn, my pussy ain’t never felt this good before!” Mikala screamed. Her legs began to tremble from the good vibrations Kareem was giving her. Each orgasm released miles of pent-up sexual frustration that had built up in her. Kareem knew how to hit all the right spots on her body to get a response from her. Jamel had never made her cum this many times in one night! Kareem turned her around and tapped that thing from behind as he watched himself in the mirror. He grabbed her hips with both hands. Watching her ass jiggle with every stroke made him more and more excited. He took his finger and stuck it in her asshole. Mikala lost any composure that she had left as she screamed at the top of her lungs for him to keep doing what he was doing. The double penetration sent her into convulsions as her body shook uncontrollably. Kareem couldn’t contain himself any longer. He pulled his penis outta her and instructed her to turn around. Mikala lay on her back on the bed and eagerly awaited his eruption as he stroked his member. Kareem took his enlarged penis and placed it between Mikala’s breasts. The friction between her twins left him invigorated and craving more. When he couldn’t control his dick any longer, he ejaculated all over her mouth and face. She eagerly received his semen until there wasn’t a drop left. Drained, the tired lovers pushed the top mattress back onto the box spring and passed out from exhaustion. They awoke the next morning in each other’s arms. “So did you enjoy yourself?” Kareem asked her. “No, you were a lousy lover! Sike, Kareem, I was just playing. If you ask me a stupid question, then expect to get a stupid answer,” she laughed. “Oh, I thought so. I know I can handle my business,” Kareem said cockily. “Yeah, I can’t even front, you’re a stud. You had my body tingling in ways I have never felt before.” “So where do we go from here?” Kareem asked. “I’m not sure. I’m not really looking for a man right now. You know I just got out of a bad situation. I’m just trying to do me for a while. I say we just enjoy the moment and let tomorrow take care of itself when it comes,” Mikala replied. “I’m cool with that,” Kareem said. “But I’m digging you already, boo, and I would really like something more.”

• From The History of Christianity: From the Disciples to the Dawn of the Reformation (2012)

  37 o Distinctions from Jews were harder, because they shared the same symbolic world of Torah. Should believers, then, be circumcised, or observe the Sabbath, or practice purity regulations? • The assembly that meets “in Christ” has egalitarian ideals: There is not Jew or Greek, male or female, slave or free (Gal. 3:28), but meeting in the stratified location of the household (oikos) meant complications for those ideals. o Did the Jew have an advantage over the Gentile? Why or why not? What did that mean for common table fellowship? o Did males continue to have supremacy in all matters or only those in the household? Did the Spirit represent a liberation for females? o If all are “brothers and sisters” within the worship assembly, why did that not change the social status of master and slave when the worship ended? o The rich should not be honored if poverty is the ideal, but rich members of the community served as benefactors. Should they not be leaders, as well? The Vibrancy of the Early Christian Movement • Paul’s letters also bear witness to the vibrancy and energy of the nascent Christian movement as it exploded across the empire. • If early Christianity were simply the “Jesus movement” as a sect within Judaism, many of these issues would not have been raised; Jesus would simply have been another prophet or teacher. It was the power of the religious experience of the Resurrection that generated these great tensions. • Paul’s vision of the church as a “new creation” in which members are a “new humanity” in the “body of Christ” is a utopian conception 38 Lecture 5: Paul and Christianity’s First Expansion of community that had great appeal, but it also had the capacity to disrupt the order of society. • Already in Paul’s letters, it is possible to see how Christianity forced open accustomed cultural values and began to reshape them—not all at once, never completely, and not always successfully, but it is difficult to account for Christianity’s appeal through the centuries without recognizing this power for social change as one of its elements. Hemer, The Book of Acts in the Setting of Hellenistic Historiography. Meeks and Fitzgerald, The Writings of Saint Paul. Murphy-O’Connor, Paul: A Critical Life. 1. How is the diversity of earliest Christianity—reflected in the writings of the New Testament—grounded in the conditions of its first expansion? 2. Discuss the proposition that Paul is the real “founder” of Christianity. Does this accurately capture his role? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider

• From The Girls (2016)

  There was sourness in his tone, a sting of real resentment. Maybe I should have been frightened of him. This older man who saw that I was alone, who felt like I owed him something, which was the worst thing a man like that could feel. But I wasn’t afraid. I was protected, a hilarious and untouchable giddiness overtaking me. I was going back to the ranch. I would see Suzanne. Claude seemed barely real to me: a paper clown, innocuous and laughable. —“This good?” Claude said. He’d pulled over near the campus in Berkeley, the clock tower and stair-step houses thickening the hills behind. He turned off the ignition. I felt the heat outside, the close wend of traffic. “Thanks,” I said, gathering my purse and duffel. “Slow down,” he said as I started to open the door. “Just sit with me a second, hm?” I sighed but sat back in the seat. I could see the dry hills above Berkeley and remembered, with a start, that brief time in winter when the hills were green and plump and wet. I hadn’t even known Suzanne then. I could feel Claude looking at me sideways. “Listen.” Claude scratched at his neck. “If you need some money—” “I don’t need money.” I was unafraid, shrugging a quick goodbye and opening the door. “Thanks again,” I said. “For the ride.” “Wait,” he said, grabbing my wrist. “Fuck off,” I said, wrenching my arm away from the bracelet of his grasp, an unfamiliar heat in my voice. Before I slammed the door, I saw Claude’s weak and sputtering face. I was walking away, breathless. Almost laughing. The sidewalk radiating even heat, the pulse of the abrupt sunshine. I was buoyed by the exchange, as if suddenly allowed more space in the world. “Bitch,” Claude called, but I didn’t turn back to look. —Telegraph was packed: people selling tables of incense or concho jewelry, leather purses hung from an alley fence. The city of Berkeley was redoing all the roads that summer, so piles of rubble collected on the sidewalks, trenches cracking through the asphalt like a disaster movie. A group in floor-length robes fluttered pamphlets at me. Boys with no shirts, their arms pressed with faint bruising, looked me up and down. Girls my age lugged carpetbags that banged against their knees, wearing velvet frock coats in the August heat. Even after what had happened with Claude, I wasn’t afraid of hitchhiking. Claude was just a harmless floater in the corner of my vision, drifting peacefully into the void. Tom was the sixth person I approached, tapping his shoulder as he ducked into his car. He seemed flattered by my request for a ride, like it was an excuse I’d made up to be near him. He hurriedly brushed off the passenger seat, raining silent crumbs onto the carpet. “It could be cleaner,” he said. Apologetic, as if I might possibly be picky.

• From Saint Augustine (Penguin Lives) (1999)

  It was the siren song of asceticism that pierced Augustine’s soul when he read Hortensius: “I was elevated by that language, I was enkindled, I was aflame” (T 3.8). Cicero’s dialogue, it is clear from the fragments preserved by Augustine and others, was a motivational exercise (protrepticon) urging the reader to pursue wisdom by renunciation of ambition and pleasure—and even of rhetoric (Grilli 24–25). Augustine would later quote from it the grim comparison of the soul’s manacling to its body with the Etruscan pirates’ torture of prisoners by strapping a dead corpse to them, buckled face to face (Grilli 52). The call to tame one’s body as one would a wild horse had great appeal to Augustine—in theory. It was from this, his nineteenth year, that Augustine began aspiring to chastity—but not yet. Cicero’s dialogue embodied a paradox that Augustine would later live out himself, of the great rhetorician rhetorically dismissing rhetoric. Not the least part of its appeal to Augustine was no doubt the dialogue form. Unable to read Plato’s more sinewy Socratic dialogues, Augustine loved Cicero’s urbane tone, the high-minded exchange of views between interlocutors (exemplified in all Cicero’s extant dialogues). Augustine’s Manichean friends were, in that respect at least, Ciceronians. All Augustine’s own earlier works would be dialogues, reflections of his view that all thought is an effort best pursued with others. Even when pastoral pressures made him give up the more leisurely dialogue form, there was a contrapuntal quality to his exchanges with a congregation in sermons, or his exchanges with God in prayer forms like The Testimony. Given this immersion in the sophisticated conversation of Cicero, it is not surprising that Augustine was offended by the brutal directness of the Jewish Scriptures he turned to when impelled to seek wisdom by Hortensius. There was no dialoguing with Yahveh. He did not explain his demands to Job or Isaac. He was as imperious and punitive as Augustine’s own father. It is usually assumed that Augustine missed the verbal felicity of Ciceronian style in the African Latin of the translated Bible. What he actually says is that the scriptural approach (modus) fell below Cicero’s seriousness (dignitas, T 3.9). The long passage that follows, rehearsing Manichean criticisms of the Bible, shows that it was the “childish” stories of the Old Testament that seemed unworthy of a classical seeker after lofty doctrine (T 3.13–18).

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

  Harlem is too hot. It’s time to get the fuck out, she thought, her body undulating with movements on its own. She’d been working the G-Spot for over two years now, and she couldn’t believe how fast her luck had suddenly changed. That dumb bitch Juicy had fucked around and betrayed G by getting caught on camera suckin’ off his very own son, and right now Granite McKay’s main bitch was downstairs chained to a bed in the Dungeon, beat down and fucked the hell out. That left all the room in the world for Monique and Pluto to take over the G-Spot2 when it opened in Baltimore, the same joint that G was fronting all the money for and had been planning to hand over to his son, Gino. Monique was down on the floor now. Laying on her side, her right leg doing a wide scissor dance as niggahs drooled and tried to push their eyeballs up into her uterus. She rolled over on her back and slid her body around the long way. She knew how delicious she looked from the side. Bodacious titties rising into the air like two firm brown hills, each one with a shiny little cherry on top. Her shoulders were pressed back and her waist arched up high, a gap of light showing between her lower back and the stage floor due to the thick mound of ass she was packing. She waved her legs in the air. They were shapely and in perfect proportion. Already Monique could see herself flossin’ down there in B-More. She’d step up in that brand-new territory like a bad-ass bitch for real. She’d shop for some fly New York gear before she left, then take all her banging fashions right down I-95 along with her. Of course she’d come back to Harlem to get her hair whipped all the time, but no more poles and stages and fuck rooms for her. She’d be too busy managing her own stable of strippers and hoes. She’d be pushing Pluto’s Porsche and staying iced the fuck out seven days a week. The excitement of her thoughts had Monique moving her body on the floor like a snake, slithering and shivering as her nipples hardened and her pussy began to leak. Just imagining herself as a classy bitch running a high-powered joint kicked her sex-o-meter into automatic. Her heat was turned up extra-high, and every niggah in the room was dying to stick his tongue in the pool of hot juices that were bubbling between her thighs. Monique closed her eyes and tuned out the noise of the crowd. C-notes fluttered down on her body, some of the green bills sticking to the dampness of her skin. She bounced her ass to the beat, then shocked them all by spinning around on her butt until she was facing the crowd with her curvy legs gapped wide open.

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

  “What?” Rasheeda was shocked. “Awwwww . . . I see a bitch is gonna have to . . .” She walked over to the nightstand at the side of the bed and retrieved a small metallic container. She got back between my legs and opened the container. A can of Altoids. “Awwwww shit!” I exclaimed. “Uhhhhh-huh!” she replied as she put six Altoids in her mouth and a few cubes of ice she took from a cup. “Awwwwwww shit!” I yelled out again. Rasheeda attacked the dick. Holding it firmly at the base while going up and down on it at a frantic pace. Monster felt as if he was burning and freezing at the same time. I had never felt a sensation like that before and my mind fought to record everything I was feeling from my numb dick. Rasheeda kept at it as she dripped melted ice and liquefied mint out of her mouth. It ran down the length of me, leaving hot/cold sensations on Monster as it trickled down between my legs. “Whose dick is this?” she asked again. I looked down and deep into her eyes before I replied, “You don’t know her!” Holding my dick, she inched off the bed until her knees were on the floor. Since she held my most prized possession hostage, I had no choice but to follow her. When my butt was at the edge of the bed, she got on all fours, looking up into my eyes as she prepared to suck my dick in the position where it could be done best. She stuck her tongue out and licked my balls in an upward motion to the very tip of my love muscle. My body shuddered uncontrollably after just the first lick. “Whose dick is this?” “You . . . don’t . . . know . . . her!” I grunted through gritted teeth. Monster was so hard that he pointed at the ceiling. “Dick,” Rasheeda said simply. I pushed the tip of Monster down until he was pointed at Rasheeda’s full lips. She rocked forward on her knees and slurped at the tip of my dick. “Ohhhhh fuck!” Sluuurp! “Whose dick is this?” “Ohhh fuck! I’m . . . gonna . . . cum . . . all ova ya face . . .” I breathed, warning her. Sluuuurp! “A bitch might like—” The second I knew Rasheeda didn’t mind me cumming on her, Monster threw a bolt of pearl white lightning onto her face. “Uuugghh!” I groaned as Monster flexed. He flexed his muscles again, casting another bolt of white lightning. Rasheeda moaned loudly as my liquid heat dripped from her face. Monster cast another bolt and her eyes snapped open. “Damn, baby!” she exclaimed, aroused by the abundance of semen splashing on her. She cooed and took my dick back into her mouth, absorbing the rest of my liquid bolts down her throat. I growled loudly then fell back on the bed, spent.

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

  “I feel you inside me. I feel you inside me, Papi,” I said, finding myself picking up on his accent. It was a force of habit. After only hearing Papi say a few words to me, I found myself replying to him with a slight accent myself. He never took it as though I was trying to imitate or make fun of him, though. As a matter of fact, it made him even more excited. I think he probably pictured a nice, coconut-complected, clammy Boriqua, with her hair sweated out, sprawled across her bed, him plunging his dick inside her pussy and bustin’ a nut deep up inside of her hole instead of inside his fist. “You feel it? You feel that shit, puta?” he moaned, breathing heavily into my ear. “You’re hurting me, Papi. Not so hard.” “Shut the fuck up and take this shit like a real puta!” “Oh, Papi!” I let out a screech that sounded as though it was on the verge of pleasure and pain. “Yeah, that’s right. See, it hurts so good, don’t it?” “Yes, yes, yes. It hurts so good, but I can take it. I can take all of it. Give it to me, Papi. Give it to me harder!” I began damn near yelling at the top of my lungs. “Oh shit,” he yelled. I could hear the thumping of him jacking off. “Oh yeah.” He got louder. I knew it was time. “Oh, Papi, I want you to pull out and nut all over me. I want your babies all over me. I want to rub it in like lotion, Papi. Come on, Papi. Now! Now! Now!” “Oh shit,” I heard him yell. I then heard a large thump, the phone dropping. Because of the distance Papi was now away from the phone, his muffled tone informed me that he was cumming. Over and over he screamed it. “I’m cummin’. I’m cummin’. Oh, you fuckin’ cunt, look what you made me do!” “Here, listen to this,” I said in a whisper as I took the phone off my ear and put it next to Sam’s, who was sitting right there next to me in the bed, butt naked, and working on a crossword puzzle. I watched Sam’s eyes light up at the drama going down on the other end of the line. The laughter that wanted to burst out of Sam’s mouth had to be contained, and I quickly placed my hand over those gorgeous lips. Sam looked at me with sparkling gray eyes, bright and full of life, listening in amusement at how I had just made Papi nut all over himself with my bomb-ass phone sex skills.

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

  Kareem rolled up a phat Philly and they all took turns taking it straight to the dome. Mikala choked on her first toke, but it took her no time to get the hang of how to properly partake of the cannabis sativa. They shared several more blunts as the night went on. “Aiight, it’s two games apiece. This last game right here is for whoever wants it the most. The winner takes all. Let’s put some money on the table. Are y’all scared?” Kareem asked. “Fuck money, niggah! We want something hotter than that. If we win, we get to have our way with y’all. If y’all win, then y’all get to do whatever y’all want with us. How does that sound?” Chastity asked. “Are you sure that your girl is game for that?” Kareem asked, staring into Mikala’s eyes. “Hell yeah, I’m game. Now stop talking shit and let’s play cards,” Mikala said. Pierre dealt the first hand and from the start it was no contest. They set Mikala and Chastity three straight times to win the bet. It was almost as though the girls lost those hands on purpose, which wasn’t a problem because Kareem and Pierre were only too eager to collect on their debt. Without a word Chastity followed Pierre into her bedroom. Kareem was left alone with Mikala in the living room. “So, I finally got you to myself. Don’t get scared on me now,” Kareem joked. “I ain’t never scared, niggah. You lead the way and I’m right behind you,” Mikala boasted. The liquor and the weed had deadened all of her inhibitions and she was one hundred percent down to get freaked tonight. Kareem lifted her off the couch and carried her into Chastity’s spare bedroom. He placed her gently down on the bed and began to unzip her jeans. He pulled them down to her ankles and took off her sandals one at a time. Mikala pulled off her shirt and removed her bra, exposing her breasts for him to see. He took her left foot and ran it across his muscular, smooth chest. Her foot took a southbound journey down his stomach until it reached his rock solid penis. She playfully teased it with her toes. Kareem got down on his knees and kissed her thighs passionately while his hands held a tight grip around her waist. He pulled off her thong and threw it to the floor. Mikala sighed in ecstasy when his kisses reached her secret place and his tongue corralled her clitoris into his mouth. He licked it like a lollipop and sucked it until she begged him to stop. Kareem lifted his head from between her thighs as her juices dripped from his chin. “I want you to taste me too, baby,” Kareem said. He took off his pants and lay on the bed next to her. He guided Mikala between his legs and down to his stiff member.