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 Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “And what sort of a young man is he?” “As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.” “And is _that_ all you can say for him?” cried Marianne, indignantly. “But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?” Sir John was rather puzzled. “Upon my soul,” said he, “I do not know much about him as to all _that_. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?” But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby’s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. “But who is he?” said Elinor. “Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?” On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, “Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care.” “I do not believe,” said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, “that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him_. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible.” “He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,” repeated Sir John. “I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o’clock till four, without once sitting down.” “Did he indeed?” cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, “and with elegance, with spirit?” “Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.” “That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue.” “Aye, aye, I see how it will be,” said Sir John, “I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_ the Doctor’s favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before them.” She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first. “Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly, “people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars’s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain.” “I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,” said Elinor.

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne’s imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her mother’s plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures. “He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,” she added, “and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs.” Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for _him;_ he might always get one at the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much. “You are mistaken, Elinor,” said she warmly, “in supposing I know very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  “And what sort of a young man is he?” “As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England.” “And is that all you can say for him?” cried Marianne, indignantly. “But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?” Sir John was rather puzzled. “Upon my soul,” said he, “I do not know much about him as to all that. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?” But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby’s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind. “But who is he?” said Elinor. “Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?” On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, “Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care.” “I do not believe,” said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, “that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of my daughters towards what you call catching him. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible.” “He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,” repeated Sir John. “I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o’clock till four, without once sitting down.” “Did he indeed?” cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, “and with elegance, with spirit?” “Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.” “That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue.” “Aye, aye, I see how it will be,” said Sir John, “I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon.”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions. When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  Thuc, δ. 177.) 8; 90; but mostly with neut. Adj., mp. τοῦτο, ὕπως .. Antipho l.c.; μηδὲν ἄλλο ἢ τοῦτο Plat. Phaedo 64 A, cf. Rep. 460 Ὁ, 472 E, al. ;—also, mp. περί τι Arist. H. A. 7. 1, 4. προθυμητέον, verb. Adj. one must be eager, c. inf., Plat. Phaedo go E, al.; so in pl. -τέα, 14. Legg. 770 B. προθυμία, Ion. -ίη. ἡ, readiness, willingness, eagerness, zeal, ἧσι προ- θυμίῃσι [1] πεποιθώς, i.e. πρόθυμος ὦν, Il. 2. 588; then in Hat. and Att.; opp. to ἀθυμία, Xen. Cyr. 1.6, 13; τῶν πέρι καί τινα ἐνάγει Tp. ἀποθνήσκειν Hdt. 5. 49; προθυμίας οὐδὲν ἐλλείπειν Aesch. Pr. 341; μηδὲν ἀπολείπειν mp. Plat. Legg. 961 C; ἀνιέναι τῆς νῦν mp. Eur. Hipp. 285; mp. ἐμβαλεῖν τινι Xen. Cyr. 1.6, 13, εἴς. ; πάσῃ προθυμίᾳ with | all zeal, Plat. Rep. 412 E; διὰ τὴν mp. Polyb. 1. 20, 15; zealously, Plat. Phaedo gt C:—pl., τὰς ἄγαν προθυμίας Eur. Or. 708. 2. c. gen. pers., ἐκ τῆς Κλεομένεος προθυμίης at his desire, Hdt. 6. 65, cf. Eur. Hipp. 1329; κατὰ τὴν τούτου προθυμίην as far as his desire goes, Hdt. 1.124; Tov θεοῦ προθυμίᾳ by the will of the god, Eur. Ion 1385; ἡ ἐμὴ mp. Lys. 129. 27. 3. c. gen, objecti, πάσαν mp. σωτηρίης .. παρέχεσθαι to shew the utmost zeal to save him, Hdt. 4. 98 ; mp. ἔργου readiness for action, the will or purpose to act, Soph. Tr. 669, cf. Eur. 1. T. 616; mp. τοῦ ἐθέλειν κινδυνεύειν Plat. wee 697 D, cf. 935 D, etc. 4. mp. ἔχειν, = = προθυμεῖσθαι, Hdte 7.51.9 Ὁ. int, 1. 204, cf. Eur. Tro. 684; πᾶσαν Tp. ἔχειν Plat. Prot. ἢ cf. 361 C; also c. part., ἔφη πᾶσαν mp. σχεῖν δεόμενος Id. Tim. 23 D; also, mp. ἔχειν ὅπως .. Id. Menex. 247 A. IT. good-will, ready kindness, πᾶσαν mp. παρέχεσθαι ἐπί τινα Hdt. 7.6; ἔν τινι 7. 19; εἰς τινα, περί τινα Xen. Hell. 6. 5, 43, An. 7. 6, 11., 7. 45; ὑπέρ τινος Dem. 11. 13; mp. δεῖξαι Thue, I. 74. TIT. salaciousness, Soran. p. 262 Dietz. προθὑμιάομαι, Med. to fumigate before, Joseph. A. J. 3. 8, 6. προθυμοεργέω, to go zealously to work, Theod. Stud. προθῦμο- ποιέομαι, Dep. to make willing or ready, to encourage, Diod. 14.56. The Act. in Eust. 1393. 43. προθῦμοποίησις, εως, 7: an encouraging, Eust. sek 2.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “Tell it in the minutest detail,” Cardell said. But Jackie had an odd look. “Wait a sec,” she said. She began breathing strangely and put her hand on Cardell’s arm. “I need your help with something. Stand behind me.” Cardell stood behind where she sat on the bar stool. She leaned forward, so that her head was almost on her arms, and pushed her bottom back toward him so that she was almost off the stool. “What’s happening?” Cardell asked. “Put your hand under my dress.” “Here?” “Yeah, just pretend you’re whispering something to me. I’m trying to lay an egg.” The end of the bar where they were was dark and nobody else was sitting nearby, so it was possible to do as she asked. “Now what?” “I’m not sure.” Jackie sat for a moment, leaning forward. Then she straightened and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Nope, not quite yet.” Cardell sat back down and finished his drink. “Ah, Nelly!” he said. “The great breakthrough,” Jackie was saying, “came in 1842 when Charles Dickens came to the U.S. on his speaking tour. Somebody served him up a big, ice-cold sherry cobbler. It was the first drink made with crushed ice, you know.” “No, I didn’t,” Cardell said. “Oh, yes. And the first drink people drank through a straw.” “Doubly revolutionary,” said Cardell. “Did Charles Dickens like it?” “Loved it, and he had his character Martin Chuzzlewit drink one.” “Ah, old Chuzzlewit,” Cardell said, in a wuffly English accent. “And where do you come down on the question of the size of Dickens’s dick? Big? Little? Doesn’t matter?” “We just don’t know,” said Jackie, with a look of mild ex-asperation. “It’s one of the great mysteries. Now shush and let me tell you about the sherry cobbler.” “They’re real good,” said Cardell. “Then let’s have two more immediately,” said Jackie. “They’re best drunk as fast as possible.” She ordered with a practiced move of her fingers—this woman knew her way around a bar. “Watch out for the spins, though. There’s a book of Oxford bar recipes that says that sherry cobblers have ‘more than once induced vertigo.’ Published in 1827.” “1827, that early, really?” She pointed at him. “You see, the straw allowed you to drink the mixture in a supercooled state.” “And that’s why Martin Chuzzlewit’s eyes rolled back in his head and he said, ‘Good Lord Nelson O’Reilly, what is this marvel?’ ” “Right, he gets totally smashed,” said Jackie. “I mean squashed. And that, you see, ushered in the so-called golden age of the sherry cobbler.” “Can I say,” murmured Cardell, wobbling his head seductively, “that I loved feeling the hot heat coming from under your dress?” “That’s what it’s there for,” said Jackie. “That’s what what’s there for?” “My li’l pussy.” “Oh, your li’l private space heater. Your hot wet—pooter. Your kitten. Mhm. You know—”

• From Sense and Sensibility (1811)

  It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each—or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. “Well, Marianne,” said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, “for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby’s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask.” “Elinor,” cried Marianne, “is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful—had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared.” “My love,” said her mother, “you must not be offended with Elinor—she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend.” Marianne was softened in a moment.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “Well, no, of course not, but.” Cardell could feel a joywave gathering, a tingling in his lips at the exhilaration of saying what was now in his head. “Imagine two chairs, facing each other. I’m in one, you’re in the other.” “Please, Cardell, let’s not make it quite so personal.” “Okay, Charles Dickens is in one chair—” “Not Dickens.” “Okay, that hunky bar pianist is in one and you’re in the other, but you’re not really you, because your mind is gonzo on apple cobblers. I mean sherry. Shorry. And you’re both in your fashionable underwear, and your knees are tied together with long colorful scarves.” “Indian-print scarves?” “Absolutely. Not tightly, but not loosely, either. You’re toying with your slobbering kitty, and he’s doing his bulldog—and your mouths are murmuring filthy nothings that neither of you can quite hear. Then he takes hold of your waist and tries to pull you toward him, and you hold his shoulders and try to pull him toward you. But no can do.” She frowned. “Why?” “Because of the scarves. His knees and your knees are made to share the same fate. You see? Their bony places and their soft places. The knees are your point of mutual contact. You’re kneecapping. The harder you try to pull toward him, and the harder he tries to pull toward you, the more it forces your legs apart. It’s sad, really. Then he sees your hand going fast and you start to go, ‘Ooh, mm, ah, mm, oh,’ and your brow goes all furrowy, and your eyes go all glittery, the way they are now, you throw your head back, exposing your swanlike neck, and just when you’re at that moment when you’re starting to feel yourself come, suddenly you really desperately need him inside you, and just at that moment the scarves come loose and Charles Dickens is there—I mean the bar pianist—and you feel his dick find you, and it starts to push and to muscle its way in, slowly at first, and then wom, oh shit, he’s slamming it up there, old twinkle fingers is in you, and his hips are humping, it’s out of his control.” Cardell did pelvisy things on the bar stool. “Ngong, bong, ung, fung!” Jackie closed her eyes and smiled. “Well,” she said, “you’ve made little missy pussy just a little bit horny, baby, because you talk dirty, and I sure do love a bar pianist.” “Good,” said Cardell. Jackie held her head still, averted, listening to the songs; then she relaxed and got a sad look. “They play their hearts out in hotel bars where nobody can hear the twelve clever things they’re doing with the harmony.” She pointed. “See the big brandy snifter for tips there on the top of the piano? Not much in it.” “So maybe we should casually drop a ten-spot in the snifter as we walk on by.” “When?”

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “You hold the left and I’ll hold the right,” said Krock. Henriette felt the two suction cups embrace and conform themselves to her cheeks, and then there was a sound of a vacuum motor starting and jiggly vibrating sensations, and she felt pressure as both men leaned against the suction cups, holding the seal in place. “Oooooooffff,” she said. It felt strange but strange in a delectable way and then, when Mischa and Krock together started rotating their suction cups—“to distribute the energy uniformly,” Krock explained—she put her head down and gave herself up to their ministrations, feeling her privacies stretched and held open and then squeezed shut. “God dang!” she said. “Holy effing shitter wiggle.” And then she started to feel the growing—she felt a heaviness to her ass as it grew and grew and grew and grew and grew. “Don’t let the cups slip off as she gets bigger,” Mischa warned, “keep pressing.” Finally they were finished. The groan of the vacuum pump stopped. The vibrating suction pads released themselves with a juicy kissing sound. “Okay, baby,” said Krock. “You have now got some seriously heavy assjunk. Mmm, mmm, mmm!” He rolled a full-length mirror over. Henriette stood. “Holy cow!” she said. She reached back and squeezed it—it was like squeezing two soft smooshy pillows. She tightened one crumpet muscle and then the other and felt how that felt. “I hope Number 53 likes this,” she said, “because this is one major derriere.” She turned toward the two of them, wearing only her bra. “What’s your verdict?” They were both open-mouthed. Her eyes flitted to Krock’s nethers, and she saw what looked like a stack of Duplo blocks. “The verdict is yes.” Mischa said, “And now, the fixative.” “What’s that?” asked Henriette. “I will excuse myself and Krock here will come on your new humongous ass.” “What? I didn’t know about that. What happens if he doesn’t come on my ass?” “It shrinks back to normal size in ten minutes.” “No!” “Yes. You have to have the fixative. For each man who comes on your ass, it’ll remain humongous for a full hour, up to a total of twenty-four hours. How much fixative do you want?” “The full twenty-four.” “Then you’ll need us to summon the beginning of the Man Line. Kneel on the couch and Krock will come on your ass, and when he’s done I’ll wipe you down and send in the next man. Okay?” Henriette knelt on the couch and waited, jiggling her amazingly huge ass a few times to get used to how it moved. “Okay,” she said. “Bring on the Man Line.” [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SW.jpg] Dave Trespasses

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Shandee’s heart fluttered as she shook hands with the new arrivals: Dune, absurdly handsome in an old suede jacket, with an ironic, off-kilter smile, and Hax, West Indian, keen-eyed and devastatingly white T-shirted, with a broad forehead and long tawny dreadlocks and a light beard. “Hello,” said Hax. “Hey, folks,” Dune said, as he signed the form on the clipboard, after which he took several long seconds to look Shandee over. “You’re pretty, shit. Tight little body on you, too. Look at you! Your mama must be proud.” Then he cocked his head to the side. “Is that somebody’s arm you’ve got tucked away in your lap?” Shandee told the story. “So you’re a little bit in love, that’s sweet,” said Dune. “Makes sense to go for just an arm, though. Forget the head. Men are bullshitters. They’ll always feed you a line.” “Hey, man,” said Hax, turning, “don’t go all loungey on the girl. Relax.” “Loungey? Who are you, shrimp locker?” Hax looked at him. “I’m a masseur.” “Oh ho, a masseur.” “And I remove tattoos as well, manually.” “I’ve got a tattoo on my asscheek that says ‘Remember Sputnik,’ ” Dune said. “I forget why. Can you get rid of it?” “Hey, hey,” said Ruzty, looking nervously from Dune to Hax. “I cannot help you,” said Hax to Dune. “Only women.” Dune snorted, then repented. “Sorry, I’ll be nice,” he said, and he looked back at Shandee. “So can your arm lover hear us chatting?” Whereupon Dave’s arm flipped the bird at him. Dune chuckled and said, “I guess so.” He picked up the copy of Contemporary Crochet and began flipping through it. “Oops, dicks in hammocks,” he said. He handed the magazine to Hax, who grunted and put it down. To be conversational, Shandee asked Hax how he got there. “A fine woman came up to me on the street where I sell my belt buckles,” answered Hax. “She asked me would I like to go to a handjob festival.” “You as well!” said Ruzty. “Me, too,” said Dune. “Smackdown. Longest cumshot wins the prize.” “It’s a cumshot contest at a handjob festival?” said Shandee, puzzled. “Goodness, that’s rather crude.” “Maybe it is crude, or maybe it’s very beautiful for some people to see a healthy man showing all his healthy ways by letting a woman shake her boobies for him and pull out all his jizm,” said Hax. “Five thousand, I could pay off my motorcycle,” said Dune. Shandee stood. “Guys, please look away for a moment, I have to change.” The three men looked politely away while Shandee took off her jeans and pulled on the leg warmers. Then she took off her shirt and put on the men’s shirt, buttoning three of its buttons. “Okay to look now,” she said. “Ta-dah.” “Nice!” said Hax, sitting up. Dune sprawled and smiled, lifting an eyebrow of approval. Ruzty blushed. Dave’s arm drummed his fingers.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “Good, well, good. Now grab your cock and get it in its comfort zone, honey, and do just what you want to do with it. I’m going to screw myself with this screwy fucker, I’m going to—hooo. I’m going to let it go in till my asshole muscle locks on the—almost, almost—handle’s—there it is—narrower part. Hoh, it’s locked in. Hoo yeah. Fuck. I’ve got this shiny silver screwdriver pointing straight out my ass, I wish you could see it.” Cardell scanned the room for reflective surfaces. He thought he could almost see some of what was going on behind him in the curve of a glass vase filled with colored sand. “Me, too,” he said. “Well, do the next best thing and jerk your bull cock while I abuse myself with this thing, just jerk and jack and pound it like you love to do every single day and night. And if you can, tighten your buns again so I get something to look at besides your arms and elbow moving, although I must say they’re nice arms.” “Okay.” He breathed little panting breaths, his hips rocking as he flummoxed his beatstick. “I’m going to take a moment to check in on my nipples now. Yep, crinkling up nice. And now I’m going to—oh, lord god—pull the handle out, because that empty feeling feels so good, when I feel my ass closing down again, I tighten it on itself, and it’s suddenly all, like, empty but concentrating hard on its memories, all the nerves in a huddle, and when it goes tight that always makes me want to work my clit, like right na-ha-ha-how! But then when I do my clitty, that makes me need to feel my ass tingle again, so I’m going to circle it with my fingers and feel it go soft again and oh, god, I need something in my cunt now. I think I’ll shove this tube of Push in my cunt, oooh!” “I’m jacking, Betsy, you’ve got to know I’m jacking it now.” “Back up toward me, I need to feel those balls when I come. I need a heaping handful of hot hairy balls! Don’t turn around.” Cardell backed toward her and stood with his legs parted and felt her hand enclose his balls and tug on them. “Big warm balls,” she said. “You’ve got a lot of come in these, I can tell.” “I’m close, Betsy!” “Come all over my coffee table, baby, just shoot it every-where.” “Betsy, no, I can’t come on your coffee table! Those are your husband’s hiking magazines.” She spoke in a quiet voice. “You’re right. Then close your eyes tight and turn around.” “Okay.” He turned, and just before he closed his eyes he saw her with her legs jackknifed back, propped against the arm of the couch, and the screwdriver in one hand and her other hand pincering.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Everyone politely suppressed a gasp at the massive rude cockitude of Dave’s equipment as Lanasha unfolded it and shook it free from the confines of Dave’s pants. Shandee was mesmerized. She and Lanasha together worked their fists up and down on its length, and as their hands rose and fell, pulling the cockskin, Dave’s mobile balls hopped up and down in their hairy handbag. “Oh, my god, I’ve got so much dick going on here!” said Shandee. “Keep fucking Glenn and meanwhile always suck and jack on Dave,” said Daggett. “Keep the flow going.” Everyone went quiet, watching Shandee do her strenuous double service. She pulled up on and then slumped down on Glenn’s rigid stonker, and she gave simultaneous attention to Dave’s jaw-dropping mouthful of dickstick. “Both genitals are going plasmic—they’re about to flow,” Daggett announced, wrapping a bra strap tightly around his balls. “Are you ready for the transfer? It’ll happen fast.” Shandee nodded yes as her ass rose and fell, and then she involuntarily grunted as a huge molten mass of shifting sexmeat crissed and crossed through her body. She grabbed Dave’s hips to steady herself and felt the enormity of the testosterodick travel from her mouth down through her middlemost uterine self and into Glenn’s rapidly growing loinstem. Dave’s cock was still hard, but it was shrinking in girth and length. Shandee popped her head off of it for an instant, working it with her hands instead. “More and more of the dick is going down through me, oh, my god!” she said. She chewed one side of her cheek. “It’s growing huge in my vagina! Oh, there’s so much hot, bad ball-hopping dick in me now! Oh, this feels so good, oh, Dave, this dick! This dick! This dick! How can you possibly give up this massive dick, it feels so fucking full in my cunt canal, aaaaaaaaaaaaah, shit, shit, oh, shit, Glenn, unbelievable!” She caught her breath for a moment and looked around the room. Daggett, balls a-waggle, was slamming himself into Lanasha, and Jason was doing Zilka. Betsy had her legs hooched and the beardwater sprayer-wand up her ass and was jiggling it lasciviously.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  All at once she was liquefying into pure blue. When the light went away, she was standing in front of the House of Holes concert hall, wearing her black dress and black stockings, still out of breath from her recent exertions. She looked at her shoulders—they were perfectly tanned, not too dark, just right. Chuck came up wearing a rumpled blazer, carrying floppy tickets. His shock of hair excited her. “Hello, hello,” he said. “You look lovely. I got us the Velvet Room.” They went inside, past the bar, and up a wide red stairway to the balcony level. It was very warm, and there were gold sconces in the shape of mermaids. “Where’s the rest of the audience?” Luna asked. “It’s a special kind of concert,” said Chuck. They came to room 28L. The door said “Velvet Room.” They went inside. It was very quiet, very private, and there were two holes in the wall. A strangely shaped low chair was positioned in front of the two holes. “This is nice, but I can’t see the stage,” said Luna. “You can’t see the stage in the Velvet Room. It’s not about seeing.” Chuck smiled and moved his hand lightly over her hair. His eyes had an inner level, through the irises—it felt as if she was looking down a spiral staircase. “Now you must take off your shoes and your black stockings, although they’re very nice, and sit in the chair.” “Okay,” said Luna. She slipped off her stockings and handed them to him. He folded them and put them on a little side table. “Good,” said Chuck. “And now I sit?” Chuck nodded. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. She sat and looked up at him, taking another hit of his eyes. The chair was low, and her dress rode up. “Sorry, a little indelicate here,” she said, hitching to cover the sight of her red panties. “Don’t worry. You’re going to put your legs through the holes.” “Now?” Chuck nodded. She pointed her right foot and put it through the hole. Then her left foot. “Good,” said Chuck. “All the way now.” Luna scooted forward on the seat. “A little further,” said Chuck, taking a position behind her in the chair. Luna felt her legs dangling out in space, and then she felt a man’s hand touch her and cradle her right heel. “I do believe someone is holding my foot,” she said. “That’s Alexander,” said Chuck. The touch was gentle, and Luna sensed that Alexander had a little French-style goatee, perhaps. She could hear him murmuring. Her main thought was: Boy am I glad I shaved my legs this morning. “What’s he saying?” she asked Chuck. Chuck turned up a volume dial. “You can speak to him if you’d like,” he said. “May I ask who you are?” she asked politely.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Rimsky-Korsakov?” “One moment!” said Rimsky. “And now, my cock, too!” There was another resilient stiffness against her toes. Luna pushed back with both feet and felt both cocks standing hard against the composers’ taut bellies. They both seemed surprisingly fit for musicians. “How’s the music going for you?” Chuck murmured into her hair. “It feels good to have two stiff Russians pushing against the soles of my feet,” said Luna, smiling up at him. “Good,” said Chuck. Then convulsively he whispered some-thing in her hair that she didn’t catch. “What’s that?” “Nothing.” “No, Chuck, please tell me what you said.” “I said, ‘I wish I could fuck you in the mouth with my cock and come all over your pretty lips.’” “Woo, Chucky.” Luna got a melty feeling in her shoulders. She turned and squashed her face against his lap, inhaling his warm cocoa-bean smell through his dress pants. The smell went right to her head. “Hurry, because this pussy cradle is feeling way too good.” Out flopped the enormity of Chuck’s dick, poking stiffly between his white shirttails. It came to rest on her lips. “Jesus, that’s a nice dick, Chuck. My god. Rimsky, Alex, don’t stop!” She bucked against the pussy cup. “Nnnnnng! This is way too good!” She threw her head back and opened her mouth for Chuck’s cockness. “Fuck my mouth!” she said. Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov were squeezing her calves and doing mad cocky things at her toes. “My penis is coming right now!” moaned Borodin. “My penis is coming, too!” said Rimsky-Korsakov. “Oh god, Chuck, I can’t hold back much longer,” said Luna. “Stuff my mouth with that fucking beast!” She ground her pussytwat against the crotchy holder, lifting her hips high to hold the moment in suspense. “Nnnnng-aaaaa!” She let her orgasm wave crash down just as she felt two hot blasts of white Russian semen drizzle against her toes. “Phew,” she said, breathing deeply, but she wanted more. She pulled her legs from the holes. “Now really fuck me, Chuck. No pussy cradle. I want to feel you inside.” Chuck turned the chair around. “You ready?” She nodded, feeling the Russian sperm cooling on her feet. Chuck’s thundertube of dickmeat started sliding in. It pushed her frilly doilies of labial flesh aside, and it kept on going till it couldn’t go any farther. She grabbed his hips and pulled him in, and then he pulled out, leaving her empty and waiting, and then he slammed into her train station again. His cock train was commuting in and out of her pussyhole, filling and emptying it by turns, and she loved it.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Henriette felt the two suction cups embrace and conform themselves to her cheeks, and then there was a sound of a vacuum motor starting and jiggly vibrating sensations, and she felt pressure as both men leaned against the suction cups, holding the seal in place. “Oooooooffff,” she said. It felt strange but strange in a delectable way and then, when Mischa and Krock together started rotating their suction cups—“to distribute the energy uniformly,” Krock explained—she put her head down and gave herself up to their ministrations, feeling her privacies stretched and held open and then squeezed shut. “God dang!” she said. “Holy effing shitter wiggle.” And then she started to feel the growing—she felt a heaviness to her ass as it grew and grew and grew and grew and grew. “Don’t let the cups slip off as she gets bigger,” Mischa warned, “keep pressing.” Finally they were finished. The groan of the vacuum pump stopped. The vibrating suction pads released themselves with a juicy kissing sound. “Okay, baby,” said Krock. “You have now got some seriously heavy assjunk. Mmm, mmm, mmm!” He rolled a full-length mirror over. Henriette stood. “Holy cow!” she said. She reached back and squeezed it—it was like squeezing two soft smooshy pillows. She tightened one crumpet muscle and then the other and felt how that felt. “I hope Number 53 likes this,” she said, “because this is one major derriere.” She turned toward the two of them, wearing only her bra. “What’s your verdict?” They were both open-mouthed. Her eyes flitted to Krock’s nethers, and she saw what looked like a stack of Duplo blocks. “The verdict is yes.” Mischa said, “And now, the fixative.” “What’s that?” asked Henriette. “I will excuse myself and Krock here will come on your new humongous ass.” “What? I didn’t know about that. What happens if he doesn’t come on my ass?” “It shrinks back to normal size in ten minutes.” “No!” “Yes. You have to have the fixative. For each man who comes on your ass, it’ll remain humongous for a full hour, up to a total of twenty-four hours. How much fixative do you want?” “The full twenty-four.” “Then you’ll need us to summon the beginning of the Man Line. Kneel on the couch and Krock will come on your ass, and when he’s done I’ll wipe you down and send in the next man. Okay?” Henriette knelt on the couch and waited, jiggling her amazingly huge ass a few times to get used to how it moved. “Okay,” she said. “Bring on the Man Line.” Dave Trespasses Dave was out for a walk in the middle of a quiet road near the House of Holes.

• From The City of God

  324 Books That Matter: The City of God Second, in contrast to the first, we must also be constantly growing in ever-deepening anticipation of the joy to come in the end of time, the eschaton. And while this anticipation is no physical pain or suffering at all, it definitely dislodges us from slothful ease in our world today. After all, anticipation of future goods can be painful in the present, as the 20 th -century philosopher Elizabeth Anscombe put it, “Possibility is the destruction of contentment.” In sum then, we must keep looking out for the resurrection of the body; we must live in the body now as if it were a problem, but not a tragedy as the Platonists do. Both of these emotional practices are premised on a deepening understanding of the belief in the doctrine of the resurrection, which is both restoration and transfiguration for Augustine. It will be a restoration since the bodies of saints will be restored to their originally intended obedient integrity. But they will also be made better than the bodies of Adam and Eve. He says it will not even be such as it was in the first human beings, before their sin. Why is this? Because unlike Adam’s animal body, the blessed will be resurrected into Christ’s spiritual body. What exactly this difference amounts to is hard to see in Augustine, though he clearly thinks the spiritual body is real—it was into the side of Christ’s spiritual body that Thomas stuck his finger, and it was the hands of this spiritual body that bore the marks of the nails. So it won’t be a ghostly immaterial cloud. It is not a body that has been transmuted into spirit, but flesh sustained by a quickening spirit, he says. So perhaps it will be especially vigorous flesh. And yet it has some crucial differences from our animal bodies today. Resurrected bodies won't need nourishment since they will be spiritual, though they’ll be able to eat just like Christ after the resurrection ate. So while we are not fleeing the body in this restoration, we are on the lookout for not quite what the body was initially, but something else. This is Augustine’s attempt to work through the paradox of what

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  When the light went away, she was standing in front of the House of Holes concert hall, wearing her black dress and black stockings, still out of breath from her recent exertions. She looked at her shoulders—they were perfectly tanned, not too dark, just right. Chuck came up wearing a rumpled blazer, carrying floppy tickets. His shock of hair excited her. “Hello, hello,” he said. “You look lovely. I got us the Velvet Room.” They went inside, past the bar, and up a wide red stairway to the balcony level. It was very warm, and there were gold sconces in the shape of mermaids. “Where’s the rest of the audience?” Luna asked. “It’s a special kind of concert,” said Chuck. They came to room 28L. The door said “Velvet Room.” They went inside. It was very quiet, very private, and there were two holes in the wall. A strangely shaped low chair was positioned in front of the two holes. “This is nice, but I can’t see the stage,” said Luna. “You can’t see the stage in the Velvet Room. It’s not about seeing.” Chuck smiled and moved his hand lightly over her hair. His eyes had an inner level, through the irises—it felt as if she was looking down a spiral staircase. “Now you must take off your shoes and your black stockings, although they’re very nice, and sit in the chair.” “Okay,” said Luna. She slipped off her stockings and handed them to him. He folded them and put them on a little side table. “Good,” said Chuck. “And now I sit?” Chuck nodded. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. She sat and looked up at him, taking another hit of his eyes. The chair was low, and her dress rode up. “Sorry, a little indelicate here,” she said, hitching to cover the sight of her red panties. “Don’t worry. You’re going to put your legs through the holes.” “Now?” Chuck nodded. She pointed her right foot and put it through the hole. Then her left foot. “Good,” said Chuck. “All the way now.” Luna scooted forward on the seat. “A little further,” said Chuck, taking a position behind her in the chair. Luna felt her legs dangling out in space, and then she felt a man’s hand touch her and cradle her right heel. “I do believe someone is holding my foot,” she said. “That’s Alexander,” said Chuck. The touch was gentle, and Luna sensed that Alexander had a little French-style goatee, perhaps. She could hear him murmuring. Her main thought was: Boy am I glad I shaved my legs this morning. “What’s he saying?” she asked Chuck. Chuck turned up a volume dial. “You can speak to him if you’d like,” he said. “May I ask who you are?” she asked politely. The hands stopped. “I am Alexander Borodin, the very famous Russian composer,” said the voice.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  “Yes. And there’s a restaurant where people stand on the balcony to watch the pussyboarders come zooming downward to the lake one by one. Men, mostly Deprivos, line up afterward, if that’s what you want. It’s totally up to you. Some women feel so fresh from the lake that they want sex immediately.” “Got it,” said Henriette. She looked at Ned and Ned looked at her, and they shrugged—what the hell? Then a small cable-car gondola arrived, swaying and circling around on a metal track. The cables made gentle zinging sounds of tautness, and the door whished open. They got in, waving good-bye to Krock. The gondola rocked a little as the doors closed, and it began silently ascending toward a very high craggy tower. Ned and Henriette smiled embarrassedly at each other. “This is fun, I think,” said Ned. “It’s quiet,” said Henriette. “Very quiet,” said Ned. “Oh, look at the little herd of mountain zebra! So elegant.” Ned looked, but he couldn’t see them. They rose up up up, till the trees thinned out and stopped, and the mountains changed color and became turquoise and orange and red, and then they turned past a tall tower where there was a sudden dinging and an urgent pull of acceleration, and then they went higher still, through an impossibility of mist, and then finally out again into very bright deep-blue daylight. As they slowed, Henriette yawned to adjust her ears. The gondola’s door opened, and they disembarked on the flat smooth top of a crag. There were two chairs and a table with a linen tablecloth, and each chair had a shiny chrome double-scoped observation telescope in front of it. It was sunny and, fortunately, not too windy. The strange swooshing silence was even deeper here. “We’re really up high,” said Ned. The table was laid with some fruit, some grapes, some crackers, and a bottle of House red and two glasses. Henriette looked out, chewing a grape, letting her eyes adjust. They seemed to be about a mile up on an irregular, brittle, wind-eroded obelisk with a flat top and a low railing. There were about fifty other pillars, or spears, needling up from the clouds around them—each looking like the chemical mountains that grow in toy aquariums. The closest mountain was about five hundred yards away. Henriette spied a couple sitting on it. They, too, seemed to have a table with some delicacies set out. She waved. They waved back. “Have you got a quarter?” Henriette asked. “I think so,” said Ned, looking through his pockets.

• From House of Holes: A Book of Raunch (2011)

  Probably have to suck on it a little. Well, it’s sort of big, not quite as big as yours is. Great. Thanks, honey, I’ll call you later, bye.” Betsy went to work. When Glenn’s cock was good and stiff, he lay on the floor on his back. Dave, still in his pants, sat spread-eagled on a chair directly over Glenn’s head. Shandee, her pussy ring-dinging like mad, got astride Glenn, and Betsy held Glenn’s cock at the right angle. “That pussy spray makes me sick horny,” said Shandee. “When do I sit down on Glenn?” “Right now, Shandee, fuck his pole. Betsy will help you guide it in. Soon you’ll feel the plasmic cockmeat puree begin to move right through your body.” Shandee spiraled slowly down on Glenn’s cock. “Ohhh, that feels so nice,” she said. “Thank you,” said Glenn. “And it’s actually my cock down there, so thank you from me, as well,” said Dave. “Now Lanasha,” said Daggett, “haul out Dave’s current cock and give it a spray of the blue fluid and a good sprinkle of Bohu’s beardwater, too.” Everyone politely suppressed a gasp at the massive rude cockitude of Dave’s equipment as Lanasha unfolded it and shook it free from the confines of Dave’s pants. Shandee was mesmerized. She and Lanasha together worked their fists up and down on its length, and as their hands rose and fell, pulling the cockskin, Dave’s mobile balls hopped up and down in their hairy handbag. “Oh, my god, I’ve got so much dick going on here!” said Shandee. “Keep fucking Glenn and meanwhile always suck and jack on Dave,” said Daggett. “Keep the flow going.” Everyone went quiet, watching Shandee do her strenuous double service. She pulled up on and then slumped down on Glenn’s rigid stonker, and she gave simultaneous attention to Dave’s jaw-dropping mouthful of dickstick. “Both genitals are going plasmic—they’re about to flow,” Daggett announced, wrapping a bra strap tightly around his balls. “Are you ready for the transfer? It’ll happen fast.” Shandee nodded yes as her ass rose and fell, and then she involuntarily grunted as a huge molten mass of shifting sexmeat crissed and crossed through her body. She grabbed Dave’s hips to steady herself and felt the enormity of the testosterodick travel from her mouth down through her middlemost uterine self and into Glenn’s rapidly growing loinstem. Dave’s cock was still hard, but it was shrinking in girth and length. Shandee popped her head off of it for an instant, working it with her hands instead. “More and more of the dick is going down through me, oh, my god!” she said. She chewed one side of her cheek. “It’s growing huge in my vagina! Oh, there’s so much hot, bad ball-hopping dick in me now! Oh, this feels so good, oh, Dave, this dick!