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.

Page 26 of 182 · 20 per page

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

  So hot you have to let it cool on your fork or you’ll burn your delicate mouth tissues. This is with ice and a straw and you suck it up greedily.” “Shall we summon another?” said Jackie. Again she made one of her expert signals to the bartender. Then she paused, listening. Across the room, the pianist had begun playing. “What song is it?” asked Cardell. “It’s very familiar.” “It’s Hoagy Carmichael, of course,” she said. “ ‘I get along without you very well.’ ” “God, these names. ‘Martin Chuzzlewit,’ ‘Hoagy Carmichael.’ You know, when I’m sitting in some lecture hall, listening to some talk by some really deadly historian—no offense to your profession—my head just gorges itself on obscene images. I can’t help it.” “Like what obscene images?” Jackie said. “Be specific.” “Oh, you know—” Cardell did some quick self-censorship. “Specifically two people tied together at the knees. Loosely tied together.” “Not tied. Oh, please.” “What?” “That’s such a tired trope—people tying each other up and peeing in mayonnaise jars and whatnot,” said Jackie. “You don’t want that, do you?” “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.

• 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)

  She handed Shandee a folded men’s blue shirt and some crocheted leg warmers. “Put these on now.” She walked away. 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.

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

  Lila pondered, then smiled. “Zilka, Cheyenne, take Madame P. to the pussywall and strap her so that her pussy and fanny are exposed for all to see. The last batch of Deprivos are arriving. They’ll take care of her hungry twitchet.” “Oh!” said the Pearloiner, feeling ripples of arousal. [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SW.jpg] Shandee Goes to the Festival [image "decoration" file=image_rsrc2SX.jpg] Shandee got up late and wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She walked through the Cockstorm Room blindfolded and held about seventy stiff and semi-stiff cocks. Then she washed her hands and sat for a while in a darkroom talking to a nice couple who ran a vegetarian restaurant. She went outside and had a sherry cobbler at the Sherry Cobbler and Farewell Festival. It was a fine end-of-summer day; the Garden of the Wholesome Delightful Fuckers was crowded with celebrants, and many brightly painted pedal-powered Masturboats were out on the White Lake. Luna and Chuck churned by, circling each other. There were screams and splashes from the pussysurfers.

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Her breasts were high and ample. She had pads of firm fat upon her thighs, and round dimpled knees. Her swift, tapered hands and little feet were also deeply dimpled. Her high putchy cheeks and great mischievous smile was framed by wide bangs and a short pageboy that was sometimes straightened, sometimes left to wave tightly over her ears . Whenever Ginger went to the beauty parlor she came back feather-bobbed and adorable, but much less real. Shortly after we met at the plant, she began to resist Cora’s nagging, and stopped going to the hairdresser’s altogether . “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” Ginger turned back to me; our hands, still joined, fell apart. “It’s getting late,” I answered. I was hungry. Ginger’s brow puckered and she sucked her teeth into the fading light. “Are you for real? What’d ya mean, it’s getting late? Is that all you can think about?” Oh. Obviously that was not the right thing to say. What am I supposed to do now? Ginger’s round face was a hand’s span away from my own. She spoke softly, with her usual cockiness. Her close voice and the smell of her face powder made me at once both uneasy and excited. “Why don’t you kiss me? I don’t bite.” Her words were bold, but beneath them I could feel fear belying their self-assurance. Oh, hell, I thought. What am I doing here, anyway? I should have known it wasn’t going to stop there—I knew it, I knew it and suppose she wants me to take her to… oh shit! What am I going to do now? Afraid to lose some face I never had, obediently, I bent forward slightly. I started to kiss Ginger’s cupid’s-bow mouth, and her soft lips parted. My heart went snatch-grab. Down the hill, the car radio was just finishing the news. I felt Ginger’s quick breath upon my face, expectant and slightly tinged with cough drops and cigarettes and coffee. It was warm and exciting in the chilly night air and I kissed her again thinking, this isn’t a bad idea at all… When Ginger and I got back to the house, Charlie had left for work with his Railroad Express supply truck. Cora and the boys had already eaten dinner, and the two younger ones were ready for bed. As we came in the front door, Cora was just coming downstairs with her husband’s dinner tray. Ginger had explained to me that her father never left his room any more except to go to the bathroom. Cora and CeCe had just come back from marketing, and Cora was tired. Her henna-red curly hair was caught behind each ear with a baby-blue ribbon, and untidy bangs almost covered her heavily made-up eyes. “We ate Chinese tonight to give me a break. And we didn’t leave any for you girls because I didn’t know if you were going to come home.

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

  “She wants it. She’s switching her tail around. She’s a hot stripy-assed zebra bitch in heat, and she wants him now. Mmm, so natural. She’s not ashamed. She just aims her big swollen privates toward him and lifts her tail and winks her anus. She says, Hey zebra boy, have a look at this.” “Where? God! Where? Shit. You want some wine?” “Thanks.” Henriette took a sip and touched the cord wrapped around her legs. She felt zigzags of black-and-white zebra energy pouring into the flesh of her thighs. She looked over at Ned, who’d gone back to scanning the horizon anxiously for sex. She flipped up her skirt and pulled down her panties to let the air cool her pussylips. Ned missed it. Henriette squinted through the scope again, watching the zebras. “They’re so beautiful together,” she said. “Oh, boy, his penis has flipped up now, my god, is it hard, and big. Big black zebra cock. Now he’s up on her! He’s holding on to her. Oh my god he’s stabbing that big thing in—oooh, that’s big. Oh, Ned, if you’ve got a dick somewhere on you, stuff me with it, this is your chance.” Ned leapt up, fumbling with his pants, breathing the clean thin crazy air. “Here it is, baby.” He slid into her with bone-hard assurance and began bucking and slapping against her backside. “Oh, that’s good, Ned,” said Henriette. “Mm.” But it was too much too soon for Ned. “Woops, can’t hold it!” he said. “Sorry! Aaaaaah!” Henriette was still watching. “He’s down again, he’s done, he’s done, looks like a little clear dribble from his cock, poor old mountain zebra, he’s shot his balls, and it’s all over—but she’s still keyed up!” The quarter dropped in Henriette’s binoculars, and she looked up. Her gaze rested on Ned’s down-pointing cock, shiny with juice and come. “I got carried away,” said Ned, panting. Henriette waved at the couple on the nearest crag. “I think they watched us.” “What about you? Can I, er, lick you?” “That’s sweet, Ned, but no thanks. My clitoris is resting right now. I think I might want to give the Pussyboard a try. Will you ride down with me?” “Sure.” They descended in silence. Henriette flung her panties out the gondola’s window and watched them disappear into the clouds. Krock was waiting at the Pussyboard launching area, which was built like the decking at the top of a ski jump. He unwound the Cable of Induhash from her legs and helped her take off her jingly belt. Ned and Krock lifted her so that she could strap herself into the harness, which pulled her thighs apart. “Breezy,” she said. “This will go fast or slow on the cable according to your control,” Krock said, showing her the control stick. “You’ll want to go fairly slowly when you first skid down into the lake because the fluid is warm and it’s heavy, not heavy like molasses but almost creamy.”

• From Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982)

  Sometimes we roamed through the Village in dirndl skirts and cinch-belts, with flowers in our hair, taking turns strumming Gennie’s guitar and singing songs which we adapted from Pablo Neruda’s early poems. All you red yankees are sons of a shrim Born of a bottle, a bottle of rum. Sometimes we made up our own: Drinking gin goddam drinking gin, drinking gin goddam drinking gin, If you won’t drink gin with me, goddam You’ll drink no gin with no dam man Drinking gin goddam drinking gin… to the most monotonous plunking beat. In the Village, we met Gennie’s friend, Jean, who was a dancer also. She was dark and beautiful and lived around the corner from Gennie and went to the High School of Music and Art. Jean was engaged to a white boy named Alf, who had left school and gone to Mexico to paint with Diego Rivera. Sometimes I accompanied them to one of their dance classes at the New Dance Group on 59th Street. But mostly, Gennie and I went out into the city by ourselves. By tacit agreement, we usually didn’t see each other on weekends that summer because of our families. Weekends became endlessly dull bridges between Friday and Monday. The whole summer was made up of glorious and exciting days with Genevieve, and evenings of war at home, commencing with my mother’s, “Where have you been all day, and why aren’t your clothes done?” Or my room cleaned, or the kitchen floor washed, or the milk bought. We sallied forth in the afternoon sun to launch our joint assault upon the city. On the days when we had no money for carfare downtown, we went to Central Park to watch the bears. Sometimes we just held hands and walked through the streets of Harlem around her house. They seemed so much more alive to me than the streets of Washington Heights where I lived. They reminded me of the streets around where I grew up, on 142nd Street. We bought and ate icies which were scraped up from a block of ice and packed into a little paper cup and then liberally covered with brilliant sticky syrups kept in a rainbow of bottles lined up on either side of the ice. They were sold from rickety homemade wooden wagons with bright umbrellas shielding the ice, which was always slowly melting under an indifferently clean old turkish towel. These chilly cups of shaved ice were the most deliciously cooling confection in the world, made more so by the vehemence with which both of our mothers had forbidden them to us.

• From The Sexual Outlaw (1977)

  One single encounter may bind him inextricably to the chain of insane repression—handcuffs, beatings, trials, jail. Daily, nightly, he confronts cops and maniacs. But once chosen, it's a world that carries him to the pinnacle of sexual freedom—the high that only outlaw sex can bring—as well as to the abyss of suicide. Because within the hunt is the core of the mystery. The search for what is not to be found. The search is the end. Not the answer—the riddle. The ultimate life-hunt, without object. Everything is found in nothing. In the sex moments pressurized into high intensity by life-crushing strictures challenged, the sexual outlaw experiences to the utmost the rush of soul, blood, cum through every channel of his being into the physical and psychical discharge of the fully awakened, living, defiant body. The greater the repression, the greater the defiance. Each time a mass sweep of outlaws occurs, promiscuous revolution increases across the very street raided. Board one place, we'll find two more. Block park roads into sexual arenas, and we'll discover better ones below. And we'll do it in Los Angeles, New York, Atlanta, El Paso, Dallas, New Orleans, St. Louis, San Francisco, Denver, Chicago—and Broumsville, MacAllen, Prairie Ridge, Waukegan, Morgan-field, Twenty-Nine Palms. Why is the amassing of money acceptable and not the amassing of sex experiences?—the first is hoarded, the latter shared. Why may semi-nude men attack each other's bodies to the approving roar of spectators but not press them together in sex? Why is the naked body forbidden? Why may one touch a hand, openly touch lips—but not genitals? Sex in the streets. Reality or shock proposal? On Hollywood Boulevard, Times Square, in the French Quarter, San Jacinto Plaza, Newberry Square, Market Street, throughout the country, throughout the world, at an appointed sun-bright time—let it be high noon—mass orgies! Televise it all, the kissing, the fucking, masturbating, sucking, rubbing, rimming, touching, licking, loving. Thousands of bodies stripped naked joined in a massive, loving orgy—and in Los Angeles, let it be on our boulevard, Hollywood Boulevard. Yes, and let it happen before the cops, right in front of them that we would fuck, with joy. Would the cops break ranks? Flee? Join? Not an outrageous suggestion—we have seen filmed orgies before. Dachau. My Lai. Others. Cum instead of blood. Satisfied bodies instead of dead ones. Death versus orgasm. Would they bust everyone? With cum-smeared tanks would they crush all? Release the heterosexual pressures on our world—convert the rage—and you release a creative energy to enrich two worlds. Pressurize the homosexual world further, and it may yet set your straight world on fire. And when the sexual revolution is won— if it is ever won— what of the fighters of that war? Doesn't a won revolution end the life of the revolutionary? What of the sexual outlaw? One will mourn his passing.

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

  She said, ‘I want you to sit right down and rock on this big thick piece of rhubarb.’ So I straddled her, and I let myself sink down, and oh, shoot, was that nice. I started bouncing up and down on it, and it nailed me so good. She said, ‘Now tickle your clit, and you will come.’ So I found my clit, which was, as I say, a tiny little thing but quite sensitive, and I started rubbing and nubbing and scrubbing on it, and meanwhile I was bouncing up and down like a horse thief.” “Mmm,” said Mindy, dipping a finger deep and then circling. “And I think all the nerve connections were still being sketched in because I had something that I think was a very teeny orgasm, and then another little one, but bigger. And I thought, Shit, that’s it? That’s all? That’s a woman’s pussy orgasm? And then, whoa, my clit screamed out, and this incredible shaky feeling tore like a wrecking ball through my whole body.” “Was it mainly in your vagina or your clit?” “I don’t know, clit, vagina—it was all over the county, and I held her tits and looked up at her pretty face and let everything just flow through me, huhhh, huhhh.” Mindy’s breathing got fast and she said, “I’m going to come, Dune, mercy, I’m going to come!” Dune shuttled his finger over his clit, spanking it once, and he lifted himself up and he went, “Ahhhh, errrrrr, aaaahhh!” He frigged himself with the microphone and then he started hip-jouncing on the bed, and after he came he laughed and swore. He said, “This is just plain daffy, Mindy. I need my old dick back. Marcela’s going to want her pussy back soon, I know it. Will you go with me to Lila and dip your hands in the blue bowl and be the go-between?” “Sure,” said Mindy, “if I can get it on film.” Rhumpa Visits the Pornmonster A keeper named Harry, who wore short pants and had a little goatee, took Rhumpa to see the pornmonster. They went into the first airlock, and after the pressure equalized there they went into a second. It was darker there. The air was close, if not fetid. The hatch made a sucking sound and opened. They stood on the shore of a large underground lake, now the repository of the distilled contents of all the House of Holes’s pornsucker missions. Harry and Rhumpa went up a set of stairs hewn into the rock and stood on a balcony overlooking the lurid water, which glowed and glopped and slopped around the edges of the cavern. “It’s not terribly nice in here, is it?” said Rhumpa. Harry shook his head despairingly. “The more porn we’ve sucked out of the world, the larger the monster has grown,” he said. “This wasn’t in our forecasts.

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

  “Mindy, that’s just how much microphone I need to give you a good in-depth cuntpussy interview.” “Okay,” said Mindy. Dune fished out a condom from his wallet and unrolled it over the end of the microphone. “Now shove it in me and I’ll show you something.” Mindy eased the condom-covered microphone into Dune’s pussyhole. “Oooh, that’s it, while I whale on this clit,” said Dune. “You like the way my clit sticks straight up like a tiny little dick? It’s amazing you can get this much feeling out of a little pink bean of a thing, but you can, if you work at it. Now let go of the microphone for a second. I’ll show you my muscles. I’ve been exercising them.” Dune clenched himself and said, “Mmm, mmmm, mmmm.” The microphone end wigwagged obscenely. “Nice muscles,” said Mindy. “Please go on. What tips did you give Marcela?” “I said to her, ‘Sometimes I pull on the nutsack a little and shake the whole package to make it aware of the fact that it’s going to be getting hard soon.’ She said, ‘Like this?’ And she shook my cock, or her cock, whoever’s cock it was, and I said, ‘Yeah, like that.’ Then I said, ‘Marcie, while you do that I wonder if you’d mind if I squeezed on your titties.’ And she was okay with that, so I squeezed her tits my special way, up from below, and a really amazing thing happened, which was that her dick, my own dick, started to lean out into space, and I realized I was making her dick hard by squeezing her tits, and ooooh, shit, that was some nice madness.” Mindy put one leg on the bed, nodding. “And then she stood up, and she turned herself around,” Dune went on, “and I had a view of her that was like”—he held up his hands. “I looked up at her eyes and her face looking down at me and then these nice heavy, hanging tits and then her big hips and then, look out, there’s my heavy cock on her.” “She must have wanted you to jerk her off,” said Mindy. “Yes, she said, ‘Now I want you to help me get my dick off.’ I said, ‘Marcie, it’s just as much my dick as it is yours.’ And now, Mindy, that’s all I’m going to say about this unless you promise me one thing.” “What’s that?” said Mindy. “Promise me that when I get my penis back you’ll give some serious thought to fucking me, because you attract me sexually.” Mindy said, “I’ll think about it. But right now how about let’s jill off together side by side, and you keep telling me what happened, because I can’t resist playing with myself, Dune, but I also need to get your story.” “I’m glad to hear it, Mindy, honey—come on and sit next to me,” said Dune, scooting himself back on her bed.

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

  “She likes to get her ass drilled,” said Koizumi. “All my women do. It’s the very last thing I do with each sculpture.” Marcela looked around the sculpture garden, and, sure enough, each of the four Koizumi women had a small hole drilled in her bottom. One had a drill bit left in place. Marcela looked from the moon face of the sculpture to the thin, intent face of the sculptress. Koizumi saw her and smiled. “Would you like to give it a few turns?” “Can I?” “Just apply steady pressure while you turn the crank—not too hard.” Koizumi put her hands on Marcela’s hands and showed her how to hold the pommel and the handle of the drill. Marcela leaned and turned the drill and it ground into the wooden woman. A long curl of wood peeled up and fell away. “It’s rather straightforwardly erotic, isn’t it?” said Marcela. “Are you her, in this case, or are you the drill?” “Both, neither, I don’t know,” said Koizumi. She raised her hand. “That’s probably deep enough.” Marcela pulled the drill out, and Koizumi bent and blew away the sawdust. Then she took a rag with some linseed oil on it and pushed the rag into the hole with her pinkie and worked it around. “Do you want to try oiling the hole, too?” she asked. “Sure.” Marcela moved her pinkie finger in the wooden woman’s new hole and felt a strange tingling clench deep in her bottom. “When I push the rag I feel my muscles tighten,” she said. “Is that normal?” “Which muscles?” Marcela patted her behind. “These. The back ones.” “Yes,” said Koizumi, solemnly, “that happens to me, too.” “Oof, I’m all confused,” said Marcela in a small voice. “I feel like I want to fuck a football team.” “Put your finger in the hole for a moment and wait, and you will be taken to a place where you can be made love to any way you like, by anyone you choose,” said Koizumi. “Okay.” Marcela pushed with her finger and waited. She felt herself turning sparkly and growing narrower. Her finger, and then her hand, and then her arm flowed into the carven woman’s asswood, and then she found herself swimming deep into the wooden woman’s body. She smelled the smells of linseed oil and cherry bark. Things went dark for a moment. When she became solid again, she was facedown on a wooden rolling table with a soft, thin mattress, moving down a dimly lit hall. Two nice-looking naked men with towels around their necks were pushing the table by its railing. To the first naked man, Marcela said, “Where is this?” “This is the House of Holes, where you can do whatever you want.” “Whatever I want? For instance, I can just reach out and hold your penis right now if I want?”

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

  I want you to look me right in the eyes and stroke that big meat wagon for me. Isn’t that a nice dingaling he has, Crackers?” Crackers felt Wade’s cock and smiled and nodded. “Nice,” she said. Wade smiled at her gratefully, then pumped himself. “Oh, yeah, I like when your balls hop like that in the cloth!” said Lila. “You want to see some tit cleavage to keep that dick hard? Here’s some tit cleavage for you. Make those balls jump for me. That’s it.” Wade stared at Lila’s boobs, one and then the other. He was as hard as a flügelhorn by now. He put his thumb on the side of his dick at the base and moved it and watched his dick wang lewdly this way and that. Lila leaned forward. “Pardon me, I want a whiff of that.” She tipped her nose and sniffed as Wade pointed the head of his dick at her face. “Mmmmm, that is a musky little fucker, isn’t it? Makes me want to shake my boobs around for you. Want to see them really shake? Crackers, help me free up one of these bad babies for Wade.” She pulled off her sweater. Underneath was a huge pink-and-white bra. She reached into one of the bra cups and pulled out something shaped a little like a baby seal. Wade had never seen anything so big and so beautiful in his life. “Oh, my, that’s a massive tit!” Wade said. Then Lila and Crackers scooped the other tit out, and Lila leaned forward, and when Wade touched the crinkly skin around her nipple she shivered and said, “My cookies are very sensitive.” She hauled the tits together and pointed them at Wade and shook them. Then she held the shallow jade cup under one of her huge pancake nipples. “Now, my young friend, empty your stones all over this nipple and fill up this cup. I want to see the miracle of your come.” “I don’t know if it’s going to be all that miraculous,” Wade said. “All orgasms are marvels, so shoot that wad for me, darlin’,” said Lila. Wade, pumping slower and squeezing harder, approached the moment of abandonment. He could feel his squirter chamber filling as his sack crinkled and his balls tossed everything they had in the jizz hopper. “Mgonna come, mgonna come,” he whuffled, and then he said, “Nnnnnnggggggggaaaaaaaw!” and there came the fluid catapult. His dickhole pushed open and a doublethick sackshot pitched out onto Lila’s nipple and dripped down into the jade cup. “Ooh, cream my tit, milk that cockmeat all over it, get it all out!” Lila said, frowning and shaking drops of come from her nipple into the cup.

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

  He moved his hips a little so that it poked and shuttled through her loose fingers. “It’s been so so long,” she said. “Your fingers feel good. So long since what?” “Since I’ve held a really nice big cock. I went out with a boy in college for about a month. He was big. Not this big, though. Uh. It’s so heavy. I’m going to stop now though. Self-control. I have something for you.” “Your mouth?” “No, here.” She handed Dave a flash drive. “This is the movie I made of myself last night.” “Great, we’ll pop into the Porndecahedron and watch it. I’m signed up for a block of time.” Dave readjusted his clothes, and they walked out into the sunlight squinting and shading their eyes and smiling at each other. “I’m so horny I can barely walk,” Chilli said, giggling. “Where is this filthy Frigahedron?” “Right through here,” said Dave. At the upload station he keyed in his password and loaded Chilli’s movie into his playlist. “I warn you, this is pretty immersive. It may just be too much for you. All I’ve got on this playlist is women making themselves come. Plus a few titty cumshots to spice the mix. I love those.” “That’s okay. I’ll be a part of it. I want to see what you do when you watch me.” Dave got them a pack of Red Vines and opened a door, and they walked into the staging area and sat together in a tandem chair. Once Chilli had gotten herself buckled in, they were lifted up into the center of the Porndecahedron. Dave tapped a button on his handrest and they started watching. There were movies above them and below them and on all sides, and all the soundtracks merged and mingled and were confusingly present, although some people muted all but one of them or overlaid a music track. “So this is it, huh?” she said. “She looks like she’s enjoying it. Oh my goodness, that’s a lot of sperm. Don’t you find this a bit overwhelming?” “Hell, I could probably handle twenty-four screens,” said Dave. He was biting his lips, watching, his eyes ping-ponging around from clip to clip. “I love the way she moves her knees,” he said. “Now that woman looks sexy to me,” Chilli said, pointing off to the left. “Whoa, was that her orgasm? She really came hard.” Then Dave spotted Chilli’s face. It was on one of the screens just above his head and to the right. “There you are!” he said. “Where? Uh-oh. This is incredibly embarassing.” “No, it’s not, it’s beautiful. Is that your living room?” On the screen, Chilli was taking off her shirt and undoing her bra and looking at herself in the mirror of her laptop screen. “You are so sexy! Jesus. Mmm.

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

  Lila pondered, then smiled. “Zilka, Cheyenne, take Madame P. to the pussywall and strap her so that her pussy and fanny are exposed for all to see. The last batch of Deprivos are arriving. They’ll take care of her hungry twitchet.” “Oh!” said the Pearloiner, feeling ripples of arousal. Shandee Goes to the Festival Shandee got up late and wasn’t sure what to do with herself. She walked through the Cockstorm Room blindfolded and held about seventy stiff and semi-stiff cocks. Then she washed her hands and sat for a while in a darkroom talking to a nice couple who ran a vegetarian restaurant. She went outside and had a sherry cobbler at the Sherry Cobbler and Farewell Festival. It was a fine end-of-summer day; the Garden of the Wholesome Delightful Fuckers was crowded with celebrants, and many brightly painted pedal-powered Masturboats were out on the White Lake. Luna and Chuck churned by, circling each other. There were screams and splashes from the pussysurfers. As Shandee came closer to the dock and the tent, she heard Lila’s loudspeakered voice announcing the handjob cumshot contest. She paused to watch a little of the proceedings. The contestants stood on a raised dais dressed in crotchless tuxedos, their arms tied at the wrists behind their backs, while Lila, pacing with her cordless microphone and her wild hair, urged on the strokers, who knelt in position beside or behind the cocks they stroked. Women who wanted to be jizz-splashed stood in the shallows of the lake wearing waders with blue butterflies painted on them, holding their mouths open, making beckoning gestures. “Okay, we’re in the final ejaculatory launch window,” Lila was saying to the cheering audience. “Our contestants must shoot hot sauce within the next ninety seconds. Lift your tops and show them your titties, my friends, floof out your hair, stick out your tongues, and let’s get some nice moneyshots out of these bad beautiful cocks and these gorgeous sexy hardworking cockstrokers. Because, boy, are they at it! That’s it, my lovely strokers, jack the big dicks off, work them, bring that cream to market, don’t hold back, jack them harder, that’s it, Trix, honey, jack Pendle off, come on, Jessica, closer, closer, really fast now, that’s it, wank those hunky spunk pipes!” There were male groans of amplified pleasure. “And here goes Pendle first, oooh, lovingly stroked by the delightful Trix—well climaxed, you two, and let’s hear it for the Heftyshot bathing suit that’s down around Pendle’s ankles!” Applause, followed by another moan and more airborne come-drops flying through the air. “And now our Kathy’s got Ned launching—there it goes! And Hax, oh, my goodness, three big squirting jizz bombs from Hax, our tattoo master, smoothly cockstroked by Jessica—thank you, Hax and Jessica, with your beautiful smiles!

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

  “That’s fine.” So Lanasha held Marcela’s knees together and pushed her legs back over her stomach. Then Marcela could feel the cut edges of the Kentucky Lime on the tender skin around her bottom hole. “I’m going to squeeze the fruit now, don’t freak,” said Lanasha. She frowned and Marcela felt her bottom flooded with juice. Her asshole opened blindly for a moment and gulped some of it. She could feel the burning warmth going far inside her. “How do you feel now?” asked Lanasha. Marcela didn’t speak for a moment. She cleared her throat. Then she said, “How do I feel? Lanasha, frankly I need two yellow school buses of dick to drive right through me. Each filled with a whole soccer team.” Lanasha made a satisfied chuckle. “I thought you said foot-ball,” she said. “Okay, one football team, one soccer team.” Lanasha rang a bell. “I think she’s ready for you, Ross,” she called. Ross and Bono walked in. “Hot show,” said Ross. “I loved when your titties were hanging.” Marcela began to turn slowly, smiling, and put her ass up. “You liked it when I was like this?” “Yeah, just like that!” Bono was standing to the side, staring at Marcela while Lanasha gently stroked his pecker. “Ross, sweetheart,” said Marcela, “where’s that nice young peeny wanger of yours? Is it still full of gobs of nice hot come?” Ross said nothing, but Marcela watched Bono’s eyes follow something happening around back of her. Then Marcela felt two hands on her hips and a heavy, knobby pressure moving around the folds of her pussy, seeking a way in. She arched her back and suddenly, because she was so wet, a stiff immensity went deep and filled her up. She made a surprised groan and answered instinctively by slapping her ass back hard against Ross’s hips, then she pulled partway off his cock and let him slam into her again—once, twice, thrice, four times, and then she heard Ross say, in a fierce whisper, “Shit, baby, I’m coming!” She felt the thickness twitch hard inside her. “I’m sorry! Your pussy was just too hot for me.” “That’s okay, honey, I like that you had to come right away—that’s supersexy.” Marcela turned and smiled at him reassuringly. He gave her an embarrassed shrug and grinned. Lanasha spoke. “I think Bono’s got something all ready for you,” she said. “Bono? You got something for me? My ass is still up. La-nasha, can you help this nice boy find his way? I’m still open for business.”

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

  “Oh my god, your balls are like sheep balls. Wow.” She breathed in with a sipping sound, fondling Dave’s cock. He moved his hips a little so that it poked and shuttled through her loose fingers. “It’s been so so long,” she said. “Your fingers feel good. So long since what?” “Since I’ve held a really nice big cock. I went out with a boy in college for about a month. He was big. Not this big, though. Uh. It’s so heavy. I’m going to stop now though. Self-control. I have something for you.” “Your mouth?” “No, here.” She handed Dave a flash drive. “This is the movie I made of myself last night.” “Great, we’ll pop into the Porndecahedron and watch it. I’m signed up for a block of time.” Dave readjusted his clothes, and they walked out into the sunlight squinting and shading their eyes and smiling at each other. “I’m so horny I can barely walk,” Chilli said, giggling. “Where is this filthy Frigahedron?” “Right through here,” said Dave. At the upload station he keyed in his password and loaded Chilli’s movie into his playlist. “I warn you, this is pretty immersive. It may just be too much for you. All I’ve got on this playlist is women making themselves come. Plus a few titty cumshots to spice the mix. I love those.” “That’s okay. I’ll be a part of it. I want to see what you do when you watch me.” Dave got them a pack of Red Vines and opened a door, and they walked into the staging area and sat together in a tandem chair. Once Chilli had gotten herself buckled in, they were lifted up into the center of the Porndecahedron. Dave tapped a button on his handrest and they started watching. There were movies above them and below them and on all sides, and all the soundtracks merged and mingled and were confusingly present, although some people muted all but one of them or overlaid a music track. “So this is it, huh?” she said. “She looks like she’s enjoying it. Oh my goodness, that’s a lot of sperm. Don’t you find this a bit overwhelming?” “Hell, I could probably handle twenty-four screens,” said Dave. He was biting his lips, watching, his eyes ping-ponging around from clip to clip. “I love the way she moves her knees,” he said. “Now that woman looks sexy to me,” Chilli said, pointing off to the left. “Whoa, was that her orgasm? She really came hard.” Then Dave spotted Chilli’s face. It was on one of the screens just above his head and to the right. “There you are!” he said. “Where? Uh-oh. This is incredibly embarassing.”

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

  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.

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

  She rested for a second and then moved her hand very fast and said, “Right here on my tongue, Chief.” She pulled hard on his dick, and she could hear the Chief thump into the wall on the other side. “Let all that blookie out, slutfucker,” she said. She opened her mouth as wide as she could, and she felt his whole body course down into his penis. A spume, a trilateral spray of jizm came out like light through a prism. It was a jizm prism, split into three parts, all of them white, and some of it slapped against Polly’s cheek and some against the roof of her mouth. She could feel it running down the back of her throat, and as she was swallowing it she thought with a triumphant inner chuckle, I have just busted this man’s nut. She gave the cock a few last love jerks and then released it with a final full-length squeeze, watching it subside and draw back on itself like an aged parliamentarian. “Bye-bye, Chief,” she said, and then the penis was gone. She turned. Donna was putting on her makeup. Saucie was talking through the hole to her ex. Polly sensed someone else in the room. Jeff, her boyfriend, was standing at the door. He walked up to her and saw the shine of come on her face. He had a fascinated, horrified expression. Unconsciously, he checked his fly. “It’s all over, Jeff,” she said. Pendle Buys a Bathing Suit Pendle called up Lila and asked her how he could improve his cumshot. “Mine just kind of curves over the tip and drips off. Can you recommend some kind of herbal supplement?” “People talk a lot about lecithin,” said Lila, “but lecithin only takes you so far. Here’s what I’d recommend. Go buy yourself a Thompson Heftyshot bathing suit. It’s got the patented Active Grid inner pouch. Wear that around for a couple of days. It goes to work on all your glands, and you’ll be amazed. I’ve seen some sad dribblers transformed.” Pendle took a moment to think about that. “Where would I get this bathing suit?” “At Big Top Sports on O Street. The blue ones with the big yellow flowers work best.” Pendle went to Big Top Sports on O Street and walked down the center aisle past the vibrating kayaks. “Can I help you find something?” asked a woman in a yellow polo shirt. Her name tag said Trix, and she was a nice handful of prettiness and eyelashes. “Could you point me in the direction of the, ah—” Pendle consulted his notes. “Thompson Heftyshot bathing suits?” “Men’s?” Trix asked. Pendle was surprised. “There’s a women’s Heftyshot?” “Sure,” the girl said. “Some girls want to be gushers. They don’t understand that it’s rare. All guys shoot, but only a few girls gush.” “I see what you’re saying. Actually, though, I don’t shoot.

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

  Then she said, “How do I feel? Lanasha, frankly I need two yellow school buses of dick to drive right through me. Each filled with a whole soccer team.” Lanasha made a satisfied chuckle. “I thought you said foot-ball,” she said. “Okay, one football team, one soccer team.” Lanasha rang a bell. “I think she’s ready for you, Ross,” she called. Ross and Bono walked in. “Hot show,” said Ross. “I loved when your titties were hanging.” Marcela began to turn slowly, smiling, and put her ass up. “You liked it when I was like this?” “Yeah, just like that!” Bono was standing to the side, staring at Marcela while Lanasha gently stroked his pecker. “Ross, sweetheart,” said Marcela, “where’s that nice young peeny wanger of yours? Is it still full of gobs of nice hot come?” Ross said nothing, but Marcela watched Bono’s eyes follow something happening around back of her. Then Marcela felt two hands on her hips and a heavy, knobby pressure moving around the folds of her pussy, seeking a way in. She arched her back and suddenly, because she was so wet, a stiff immensity went deep and filled her up. She made a surprised groan and answered instinctively by slapping her ass back hard against Ross’s hips, then she pulled partway off his cock and let him slam into her again—once, twice, thrice, four times, and then she heard Ross say, in a fierce whisper, “Shit, baby, I’m coming!” She felt the thickness twitch hard inside her. “I’m sorry! Your pussy was just too hot for me.” “That’s okay, honey, I like that you had to come right away—that’s supersexy.” Marcela turned and smiled at him reassuringly. He gave her an embarrassed shrug and grinned. Lanasha spoke. “I think Bono’s got something all ready for you,” she said. “Bono? You got something for me? My ass is still up. La-nasha, can you help this nice boy find his way? I’m still open for business.” Ross slapped hands with Bono. Marcela felt Lanasha’s strong practiced hands pulling her asscheeks open, and then she felt a middle finger twiddle purposefully in her ass. And then, finally, Bono’s length of badness stuffed her gasping twat full of warm, brown dick muscle. Bono had more control. He said little, but he developed an oval rhythm, angling and slamming his smooth musclemeat in and out. He slammed fourteen strokes, and then he said, “It’s gonna pop soon!” “Wait, stop, not quite yet,” she said, freezing. “I want to frig myself off while you’re still hard in me.” “Okay, but if you move the tiniest bit I’ll come for sure.”

• From Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953)

  It was a deadlock; he could not tighten his hold, John could not break it. And so they turned, battling in the narrow room, and the odour of Elisha’s sweat was heavy in John’s nostrils. He saw the veins rise on Elisha’s forehead and in his neck; his breath became jagged and harsh, and the grimace on his face became more cruel; and John, watching these manifestations of his power, was filled with a wild delight. They stumbled against the folding-chairs, and Elisha’s foot slipped and his hold broke. They stared at each other, half grinning. John slumped to the floor, holding his head between his hands. ‘I didn’t hurt you none, did I?’ Elisha asked. John looked up. ‘Me?’ No, I just want to catch my breath.’ Elisha went to the sink, and splashed cold water on his face and neck. ‘I reckon you going to let me work now,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t me that stopped you in the first place.’ He stood up. He found that his legs were trembling. He looked at Elisha, who was drying himself on the towel. ‘You teach me wrestling one time, okay?’ ‘No, boy,’ Elisha said, laughing. ‘I don’t want to wrestle with you . You too strong for me.’ And he began to run hot water into the great pail. John walked past him to the front and picked up his broom. In a moment Elisha followed and began mopping near the door. John had finished sweeping, and he now mounted to the pulpit to dust the three throne-like chairs, purple, with white linen squares for the headpieces and for the massive arms. It dominated all, the pulpit: a wooden platform raised above the congregation, with a high stand in the centre for the Bible, before which the preacher stood. There faced the congregation, flowing downwards from this height, the scarlet altar cloth that bore the golden cross and the legend: Jesus Saves. The pulpit was holy. None could stand so high unless God’s seal was on him. He dusted the piano and sat down on the piano stool to wait until Elisha had finished mopping one side of the church and he could replace the chairs. Suddenly Elisha said, without looking at him: ‘Boy, ain’t it time you was thinking about your soul?’ ‘I guess so,’ John said with a quietness that terrified him. ‘I know it looks hard,’ said Elisha, ‘from the outside, especially when you young.