Jealousy

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 Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "It's a poor little tea, though," said Mrs. Flint. "It's much nicer than at home," said Connie truthfully. "Oh-h!" said Mrs. Flint, not believing, of course. But at last Connie rose. "I must go," she said. "My husband has no idea where I am. He'll be wondering all kinds of things." "He'll never think you're here," laughed Mrs. Flint excitedly. "He'll be sending the crier round." "Good-bye, Josephine," said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair. Mrs. Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm's little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich. "Lovely auriculas," said Connie. "Recklesses, as Luke calls them," laughed Mrs. Flint. "Have some." And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers. "Enough! Enough!" said Connie. They came to the little garden gate. "Which way were you going?" asked Mrs. Flint. "By the warren." "Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they're not up yet. But the gate's locked, you'll have to climb." "I can climb," said Connie. "Perhaps I can just go down the close with you." They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture. "They're late, milking, tonight," said Mrs. Flint severely. "They know Luke won't be back till after dark." They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty. "There's the keeper's empty bottle for his milk," explained Mrs. Flint. "We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself." "When?" said Connie. "Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, good-bye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you." Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. Mrs. Flint went running back across the pasture, in a sunbonnet, because she was really a school-teacher. Constance didn't like this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flints' baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs. Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that Connie hadn't got, and apparently couldn't have. Yes, Mrs. Flint had flaunted her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn't help it. She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  Whenever I came across any of these, I used to go through them cover to cover, and it was a habit with me to forget what I did not like, and to carry out in practice whatever I liked. Lifelong faithfulness to the wife, inculcated in these booklets as the duty of the husband, remained permanently imprinted on my heart. Furthermore, the passion for truth was innate in me, and to be false to her was therefore out of the question. And then there was very little chance of my being faithless at that tender age. But the lesson of faithfulness had also untoward effect. ‘If I should be pledged to be faithful to my wife, she also should be pledged to be faithful to me,’ I said to myself. The thought made me a jealous husband. Her duty was easily converted into my right to exact faithfulness from her, and if it had to be exacted, I should be watchfully tenacious of the right. I had absolutely no reason to suspect my wife’s fidelity, but jealousy does not wait for reasons. I must needs be for ever on the look-out regarding her movements, and therefore she could not go anywhere without my permission. This sowed the seeds of a bitter quarrel between us. The restraint was virtually a sort of imprisonment. And Kasturbai was not the girl to brook any such thing. She made it a point to go out whenever and wherever she liked. More restraint on my part resulted in more liberty being taken by her, and in my getting more and more cross. Refusal to speak to one another thus became the order of the day with us, married children. I think it was quite innocent of Kasturbai to have taken those liberties with my restrictions. How could a guileless girl brook any restraint on going to the temple or on going on visits to friends? If I had the right to impose restrictions on her, had not she also a similar right? All this is clear to me today. But at that time I had to make good my authority as a husband! Let not the reader think, however, that ours was a life of unrelieved bitterness. For my severities were all based on love. I wanted to make my wife an ideal wife. My ambition was to make her live a pure life, learn what I learnt,and identify her life and thought with mine. I do not know whether Kasturbai had any such ambition. She was illiterate. By nature she was simple, independent, persevering and, with me at least, reticent. She was not impatient of her ignorance and I do not recollect my studies having ever spurred her to go in for a similar adventure. I fancy, therefore, that my ambition was all one- sided. My passion was entirely centred on one woman, and I wanted it to be reciprocated.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "It's a poor little tea, though," said Mrs. Flint. "It's much nicer than at home," said Connie truthfully. "Oh-h!" said Mrs. Flint, not believing, of course. But at last Connie rose. "I must go," she said. "My husband has no idea where I am. He'll be wondering all kinds of things." "He'll never think you're here," laughed Mrs. Flint excitedly. "He'll be sending the crier round." "Good-bye, Josephine," said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair. Mrs. Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm's little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich. "Lovely auriculas," said Connie. "Recklesses, as Luke calls them," laughed Mrs. Flint. "Have some." And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers. "Enough! Enough!" said Connie. They came to the little garden gate. "Which way were you going?" asked Mrs. Flint. "By the warren." "Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they're not up yet. But the gate's locked, you'll have to climb." "I can climb," said Connie. "Perhaps I can just go down the close with you." They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture. "They're late, milking, tonight," said Mrs. Flint severely. "They know Luke won't be back till after dark." They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty. "There's the keeper's empty bottle for his milk," explained Mrs. Flint. "We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself." "When?" said Connie. "Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, good-bye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you." Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. Mrs. Flint went running back across the pasture, in a sunbonnet, because she was really a school-teacher. Constance didn't like this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flints' baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs. Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that Connie hadn't got, and apparently couldn't have. Yes, Mrs. Flint had flaunted her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn't help it. She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.

• From Enchanted: Erotic Bedtime Stories for Women (Erotic Fiction) (2006)

  The princess turned her body so that she was lying beside the maid, but facing the opposite direction. Both were new to the experience but each, as if by instinct, easily found her position before the other. With a quiver of anticipation, they first examined, then gently opened and tentatively licked the delicate flesh of the other. Soft moans escaped their lips as they discovered with delight the pleasure they could give each other in this way. As their passion grew they clung more fervently to each other, and their hips undulated wildly against the tongues that worked at them with such eagerness. So fierce was their embrace that they appeared from a distance more like one creature than two, and their cries echoed through the forest while their horses silently looked on. All too soon it was over, but the princess and her maid continued to hold each other, trembling, and whispering sentiments of love to each other. Later that night, the maid was awakened by a hard object that was lodged in the bedding beneath her. Feeling around in the tangled blankets she discovered the royal ring, which had fallen from the princess’s neck during their lovemaking. She quickly snatched up the ring and hid it within her garments. A terrible plot, meanwhile, was slowly taking shape in her mind. The maid knew that she should be pleased with her position as companion to the princess, for a kinder mistress could not be found in any kingdom. In fact, the princess treated her more like a sister than a servant. Perhaps it was this very benevolence of the princess’s that caused the maid such discontent. Whatever the reason, the maid was intensely jealous of the princess, and coveted her many possessions and her lofty position. Most of all, she was envious that the princess was about to marry a prince. For the maid, marriage to a prince would once and for all give her the freedom and power she longed for. She would be a princess and have anything she desired. Once the idea to betray her mistress had been conceived, it grew quickly, taking control of the maid’s mind and forbidding all other thoughts to interfere. She ignored any feelings of sympathy for the princess, and even when it occurred to her that she may have to threaten the princess’s life in order to realize her dream, she did not back down, though she shuddered at the thought. But she loved her own ambition far more than she loved the gentle princess. Still, she resolved to do all in her power not to harm the princess, as she once again went over the details of her plot in her mind, all the while clinging to the royal ring. On the following day, the maid did not immediately reveal her intentions to the princess. Instead she brooded miserably throughout the morning as they resumed their travels.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  Or if they do achieve a similarity, it unfortunately lasts for only a fleeting moment of illusion. Because, as the girl becomes more bold and the boy more shy, there comes an instant at which they pass each other going in opposite directions, overshooting their mark and passing on beyond to some point where the mark no longer exists. Viewed in this light, my jealousy—jealousy fierce enough to make me tell myself I had renounced my love—was all the more love. I had ended by loving those "things like Omi's" that, by slow degrees, diffidently, were budding in my own armpits, growing, becoming darker and darker. . .. Summer vacation arrived. Although I had looked forward to it impatiently, it proved to be one of those between-acts during which one does not know what to do with himself; although I had hungered for it, it proved to be an uneasy feast for me. Ever since I had contracted a light case of tuberculosis in infancy, the doctor had forbidden me to expose myself to strong ultraviolet rays. When at the seacoast, I was never allowed to stay out in the direct rays of the sun more than thirty minutes at a time. Any violation of this rule always brought its own punishment in a swift attack of fever. I was not even allowed to take part in swimming practice at school. Consequently I had never learned to swim. Later, this inability to swim gained new significance in connection with the persistent fascination the sea came to have for me, with those occasions on which it exercised such turbulent power over me. At the time of which I speak, however, I had not yet encountered this overpowering temptation of the sea. And yet, wanting somehow to while away the boredom of a season which was completely distasteful to me, a season moreover which awakened inexplicable longings within me, I spent that summer at the beach with my mother and brother and sister. . . . Suddenly I realized that I had been left alone on the rock. I had walked along the beach toward this rock with my brother and sister a short time before, looking for the tiny fish that flashed in the rivulets between the rocks. Our catch had not been as good as we had foreseen, and my small sister and brother had become bored. A maid had come to call us to the beach umbrella where my mother was sitting. I had refused crossly to turn back, and the maid had taken my brother and sister back with her, leaving me alone. The sun of the summer afternoon was beating down incessantly upon the surface of the sea, and the entire bay was a single, stupendous expanse of glare.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  In my case—it was enough to make me blush with shame—I had had an erection, from the first moment in which I had glimpsed that abundance of his. I was wearing light-weight spring trousers and was afraid the other boys might notice what had happened to me. And, even leaving aside this fear, there was yet another emotion in my heart, which was certainly not unalloyed rapture. Here I was, looking upon the naked body I had so longed to see, and the shock of seeing it had unexpectedly unleashed an emotion within me that was the opposite of joy. It was jealousy. . . . Omi dropped to the ground with the air of a person who had accomplished some noble deed. Hearing the thud of his fall, I closed my eyes and shook my head. Then I told myself that I was no longer in love with Omi. It was jealousy. It was jealousy fierce enough to make me voluntarily forswear my love of Omi. Probably the need I began to feel about this time for a Spartan course in self-discipline was involved in this situation. (The fact that I am writing this book is already one example of my continued efforts in that direction.) Due to my sickliness and the doting care which I had received ever since I was a baby, I had always been too timid even to look people directly in the eye. But now I became obsessed with a single motto —"Be Strong!" To that end I hit upon an exercise that consisted of scowling fixedly into the face of this or that passenger on the streetcars in which I went back and forth to school. Most of the passengers, whom I chose indiscriminately, showed no particular signs of fear upon being scowled at by a pale, weak boy, but simply looked the other way as though annoyed; only rarely would one of them scowl back. When they looked away I counted it a triumph. In this way I gradually trained myself to look people in the eye. . . . Having once decided that I had renounced love, I dismissed all further thought of it from my mind. This was a hasty conclusion, lacking in perception. I was failing to take into account one of the clearest evidences there is of sexual love—the phenomenon of erection.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It presently befell that, the weather being warm, many companies of ladies and gentlemen went, according to the usance of the Neapolitans, to divert themselves on the banks of the sea and there to dine and sup, and Ricciardo, knowing Catella to be gone thither with her company, betook himself to the same place with his friends and was received into Catella's party of ladies, after allowing himself to be much pressed, as if he had no great mind to abide there. The ladies and Catella fell to rallying him upon his new love, and he, feigning himself sore inflamed therewith, gave them the more occasion for discourse. Presently, one lady going hither and thither, as commonly happeneth in such places, and Catella being left with a few whereas Ricciardo was, the latter cast at her a hint of a certain amour of Filippello her husband, whereupon she fell into a sudden passion of jealousy and began to be inwardly all afire with impatience to know what he meant. At last, having contained herself awhile and being unable to hold out longer, she besought Ricciardo, for that lady's sake whom he most loved, to be pleased to make her clear[175] of that which he had said of Filippello; whereupon quoth he, 'You conjure me by such a person that I dare not deny aught you ask me; wherefore I am ready to tell it you, so but you promise me that you will never say a word thereof either to him or to any other, save whenas you shall by experience have seen that which I shall tell you to be true; for that, when you please, I will teach you how you may see it.' [Footnote 175: Or, in modern parlance, to enlighten her.]

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Abiding on this wise, it befell (even as we see it happen all day long that, how much soever things may please, they grow irksome, an one have overgreat plenty thereof) that Restagnone, who had much loved Ninetta, being now able to have her at his every pleasure, without let or hindrance, began to weary of her, and consequently his love for her began to wane. Having seen at entertainment a damsel of the country, a fair and noble young lady, who pleased him exceedingly, he fell to courting her with all his might, giving marvellous entertainments in her honor and plying her with all manner gallantries; which Ninetta coming to know, she fell into such a jealousy that he could not go a step but she heard of it and after harassed both him and herself with words and reproaches on account thereof. But, like as overabundance of aught begetteth weariness, even so doth the denial of a thing desired redouble the appetite; accordingly, Ninetta's reproaches did but fan the flame of Restagnone's new love and in process of time it came to pass that, whether he had the favours of the lady he loved or not, Ninetta held it for certain, whoever it was reported it to her; wherefore she fell into such a passion of grief and thence passed into such a fit of rage and despite that the love which she bore Restagnone was changed to bitter hatred, and blinded by her wrath, she bethought herself to avenge, by his death, the affront which herseemed she had received. Accordingly, betaking herself to an old Greek woman, a past mistress in the art of compounding poisons, she induced her with gifts and promises to make her a death-dealing water, which she, without considering farther, gave Restagnone one evening to drink he being heated and misdoubting him not thereof; and such was the potency of the poison that, ere morning came, it had slain him. Folco and Ughetto and their mistresses, hearing of his death and knowing not of what poison he had died,[235] bewept him bitterly, together with Ninetta, and caused bury him honourably. But not many days after it chanced that the old woman, who had compounded the poisoned water for Ninetta, was taken for some other misdeed and being put to the torture, confessed to this amongst her other crimes, fully declaring that which had betided by reason thereof; whereupon the Duke of Crete, without saying aught of the matter, beset Folco's palace by surprise one night and without any noise or gainsayal, carried off Ninetta prisoner, from whom, without putting her to the torture, he readily got what he would know of the death of Restagnone. [Footnote 235: Sic (_di che veleno fosse morto_), but this is probably a copyist's error for _che di veleno fosse morto_, _i.e._ that he had died of poison.]

• From The Story of My Experiments with Truth (An Autobiography) (1927)

  6. PLAYING THE HUSBAND About the time of my marriage, little pamphlets costing a pice, or a pie (I now forget how much), used to be issued, in which conjugal love, thrift, child marriages, and other such subjects were discussed. Whenever I came across any of these, I used to go through them cover to cover, and it was a habit with me to forget what I did not like, and to carry out in practice whatever I liked. Lifelong faithfulness to the wife, inculcated in these booklets as the duty of the husband, remained permanently imprinted on my heart. Furthermore, the passion for truth was innate in me, and to be false to her was therefore out of the question. And then there was very little chance of my being faithless at that tender age. But the lesson of faithfulness had also untoward effect. ‘If I should be pledged to be faithful to my wife, she also should be pledged to be faithful to me,’ I said to myself. The thought made me a jealous husband. Her duty was easily converted into my right to exact faithfulness from her, and if it had to be exacted, I should be watchfully tenacious of the right. I had absolutely no reason to suspect my wife’s fidelity, but jealousy does not wait for reasons. I must needs be for ever on the look-out regarding her movements, and therefore she could not go anywhere without my permission. This sowed the seeds of a bitter quarrel between us. The restraint was virtually a sort of imprisonment. And Kasturbai was not the girl to brook any such thing. She made it a point to go out whenever and wherever she liked. More restraint on my part resulted in more liberty being taken by her, and in my getting more and more cross. Refusal to speak to one another thus became the order of the day with us, married children. I think it was quite innocent of Kasturbai to have taken those liberties with my restrictions. How could a guileless girl brook any restraint on going to the temple or on going on visits to friends? If I had the right to impose restrictions on her,

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The jealous wretch, who thought to have very adroitly surprised his wife's secrets, hearing this, avouched himself befooled and without answering otherwhat, held the lady for virtuous and discreet; and whenas it behoved him to be jealous, he altogether divested himself of his jealousy, even as he had put it on, what time he had no need thereof. Wherefore the discreet lady, being in a manner licensed to do her pleasures, thenceforward no longer caused her lover to come to her by the roof, as go the cats, but e'en brought him in at the door, and dealing advisedly, many a day thereafter gave herself a good time and led a merry life with him." THE SIXTH STORY [Day the Seventh] MADAM ISABELLA, BEING IN COMPANY WITH LEONETTO HER LOVER, IS VISITED BY ONE MESSER LAMBERTUCCIO, OF WHOM SHE IS BELOVED; HER HUSBAND RETURNING, [UNEXPECTED,] SHE SENDETH LAMBERTUCCIO FORTH OF THE HOUSE, WHINGER IN HAND, AND THE HUSBAND AFTER ESCORTETH LEONETTO HOME The company were wonder-well pleased with Fiammetta's story, all affirming that the lady had done excellently well and as it behoved unto such a brute of a man, and after it was ended, the king bade Pampinea follow on, who proceeded to say, "There are many who, speaking ignorantly, avouch that love bereaveth folk of their senses and causeth whoso loveth to become witless. Meseemeth this is a foolish opinion, as hath indeed been well enough shown by the things already related, and I purpose yet again to demonstrate it. In our city, which aboundeth in all good things, there was once a young lady both gently born and very fair, who was the wife of a very worthy and notable gentleman; and as it happeneth often that folk cannot for ever brook one same food, but desire bytimes to vary their diet, this lady, her husband not altogether satisfying her, became enamoured of a young man called Leonetto and very well bred and agreeable, for all he was of no great extraction. He on like wise fell in love with her, and as you know that seldom doth that which both parties desire abide without effect, it was no great while before accomplishment was given to their loves. Now it chanced that, she being a fair and engaging lady, a gentleman called Messer Lambertuccio became sore enamoured of her, whom, for that he seemed to her a disagreeable man and a tiresome, she could not for aught in the world bring herself to love. However, after soliciting her amain with messages and it availing him nought, he sent to her threatening her, for that he was a notable man, to dishonour her, an she did not his pleasure; wherefore she, fearful and knowing his character, submitted herself to do his will.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Ascot and Goodwood, just names to Stephen; names that she had despised in her youth, yet which now seemed not devoid of importance since they stood for something beyond themselves — something that ought to belong to Mary. She would pick up a copy of The Tatler or The Sketch, which Lady Massey received from England, and turning the pages would stare at the pictures of securely established, self-satisfied people — Miss this or that sit- ting on a shooting stick, and beside her the man she would shortly marry; Lady so-and-so with her latest offspring; or perhaps some group at a country house. And quite suddenly Stephen would feel less assured because in her heart she must envy these people, Must envy these commonplace men and women with their rather ridiculous shooting sticks; their smiling fiancés; their husbands; their wives; their estates, and their well cared for, placid children, Mary would sometimes look over her shoulder with a new and perhaps rather wistful interest. Then Stephen would close the paper abruptly: ‘ Let’s go for a row on the lake,’ she might say, * it’s no good wasting this glorious evening.’ But then she would remember the invitation to spend Christ- mas with Lady Massey in Cheshire, and would suddenly start to build castles in the air; supposing that she herself bought a small place near Branscombe Court — near these kind new friends who seemed to have grown so fond of Mary? Mary would also have THE WELL OF LONELINESS 425 her thoughts, would be thinking of girls like Agnes Massey for whom life was tranquil, easy and secure; girls to whom the world must seem blessedly friendly. And then, with a little stab of pain, she would suddenly remember her own exile from Morton. After such thoughts as these she must hold Stephen’s hand, must al- ways sit very close to Stephen. 3 Tuar autumn they saw a good deal of the Masseys, who had taken their usual suite at the Ritz, and who often asked Mary and Stephen to luncheon. Lady Massey, Agnes and Colonel Fitz- maurice, a pleasant enough man, came and dined several times at the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob, and those evenings were always exceedingly friendly, Stephen talking of books with Colonel Fitzmaurice, while Lady Massey enlarged upon Brans- combe and her plans for the coming Christmas party. Sometimes Stephen and Mary sent flowers to the Ritz, hot-house plants or a large box of special roses — Lady Massey liked to have her rooms full of flowers sent by friends, it increased her sense of importance. By return would come loving letters of thanks; she would write: “I do thank my two very dear children.’

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  He smiled and said, “Thank you, Mistress,” and wondered why the act he was performing gave him so much pleasure. Would she, he wondered, let him remove her stockings and actually kiss her feet, lick them? She took the joint away from him and passed it up the stairs, then rested the foot that was still shod upon his crotch. “Do you like my shoes?” she asked. He nearly fainted as the spike pressed between his balls, and the sole threatened to flatten the shaft of his hardening penis. This was a very lucky night. Back at the bar, someone noticed this spontaneous interaction and felt jealousy gnaw at his heart. He was one of a gaggle of submissives dancing attendance upon a very lovely, very young professional who styled herself The Goddess Domina. For a moment, he stopped competing for her attention and watched the mistress seated on the stairs grind her heel into the boy’s crotch while he leaned back, yielding to her, suffering written all over his face. She was older and plainer than Domina, but she was calm and self-assured, handling her young man with such understanding, easily claiming him for her service. Domina, on the other hand, was already drunk, a criminal waste of the small fortune in cocaine she had snorted before coming to Purgatory. Her jealous submissive knew exactly how much coke there had been because that was the price of being brought to this club with her. Why did he always have to pay? He told himself that Domina was the best-looking woman in the club. The other submissives must surely be jealous of him because he belonged to such a gorgeous bitch-goddess. Why, then, did he want to keep watching the foot-slave and his newly found mistress instead of keeping track of Domina’s tiresome antics and pretending it was a privilege to light her cigarettes? His Goddess was uncoiling a short bullwhip, only four feet long, and ordering one of her submissives to crawl away from her. She tried to hit him as he scuttled away and wound up tangling the end of her whip in the taps behind the bar. Before anything could get broken, Teddy plucked it from her hands. “Domina,” he said sharply, “you know we don’t allow bullwhips in here. The club just isn’t large enough.” The rebuke was administered in a way intended to save her face. After all, he had not told her what he really thought, which was that she was an incompetent alcoholic who ought not to be allowed to hit anyone with so much as a feather duster. She gave him an evil look anyway, the ungrateful, spoiled twit. Let her sulk, Teddy told himself. “Let’s go the Mine Shaft,” one of the leathermen urged his partner, slapping his gloves against one palm. He was wearing a shiny, custom-made leather jacket and chaps that were so new, they creaked.

• From Confessions of a Mask (1958)

  But as I thought about it, the idea became exceedingly tiresome, and I finally decided it would be a ludicrous business. I had an inherent dislike of admitting defeat. Moreover, I told myself, there's no need for me to take such decisive action myself, not when I'm surrounded by such a bountiful harvest of so many types of death—death in an air raid, death at one's post of duty, death in the military service, death on the battlefield, death from being run over, death from disease—surely my name has already been entered in the list for one of these: a criminal who has been sentenced to death does not commit suicide. No—no matter how I considered it, the season was not auspicious for suicide. Instead I was waiting for something to do me the favor of killing me. And this, in the final analysis, is the same as to say that I was waiting for something to do me the favor of keeping me alive. Two days after my return to the arsenal I received an impassioned letter from Sonoko. There was no doubt that she was truly in love. I felt jealous. Mine was the unbearable jealousy a cultured pearl must feel toward a genuine one. Or can there be such a thing in this world as a man who is jealous of the woman who loves him, precisely because of her love? . . .She wrote that after parting from me at the station she got on her bicycle and went to work. But she was so absentminded that her fellow workers asked if she felt well. She made many errors in filing the papers. Then she went home to lunch, but as she was returning to work after lunch she made a detour by way of the golf course, where she stopped. She looked around and saw where the yellow camomile lay trampled just as we had left it. Then, as the fog dissolved, she saw the flanks of the volcano shining brightly with the color of burnt ochre, looking as though the mountain had been washed. She also saw traces of dark fog arising from the gorges in the mountain, and saw the two silver birch, like loving sisters, their leaves trembling as with some faint premonition. . . . And at that very time I had been on the train, cudgeling my brain for a way to escape the very love which I myself had implanted in Sonoko! . . . And yet there were moments in which I felt reassured, surrendering myself to a plea of self-justification that, however pitiful, was probably nearest the truth. This was the plea that I had to escape from her for the very reason that I did love her.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Clarissa was waiting patiently for her to resume talking or begin the caning. Berenice collected herself, and returned to the task at hand. She must think of nothing else. No scattered concentration could be allowed to make her hand waver. “The marks will move up your legs from the back of the knee to the top of your hips. They will be evenly space and parallel to each other. You will not move.” Berenice’s voice was calm and deadly. Clarissa froze. Training exercises performed in previous sessions had convinced her that, when explicitly ordered not to move, she had best not stir even one-eighth of an inch. A few seconds to allow tension to build, to gather and slow her breathing, to take the most careful aim—then—swick! swick! swick! Each stripe was awful. Berenice alternated sides so that each thigh would match. She paused before marking Clarissa’s behind, to give them both a chance to take courage. Then she struck out like a tigress and left her with a perfect row of weals from the tender roll of baby fat just beneath the buttock to the thin, tightly stretched skin at the tip of her tailbone. Clarissa babbled pleas for forgiveness and release. Berenice fingered her lightly, evoking a painful moan. She repeated her caress, more insistently, and Clarissa’s whole body begged for more. “Please go into me,” Clarissa cried. “Take my maidenhead. I don’t want to give it to anyone else but you, Mother. Elise says she loves having you inside her, more than anything. I can’t stand it when you won’t give me what you give her. Please! Please!” Berenice frowned. “You’re jealous,” she said. “I find that very unattractive. Do you think you can coerce me into anything? Hmm?” She tickled her pudenda, applied light pressure over her hymen, but would not enter. Then she returned to Clarissa’s pink pearl and took her to the brink of orgasm. “Apologize,” she said through gritted teeth. “And you’d better make me believe it, or I’ll deny you satisfaction and send you to school in a chastity belt!” Their voices raised to shouts, a disjointed cacophony of curses and humiliating confessions, they urged each other on. “I’m nothing,” Clarissa cried in ecstasy. “I deserve nothing but the most brutal and rigorous punishment. I beg your forgiveness, your clemency, your correction. I plead for the opportunity to expunge my guilt, to redress my failing. Oh—I am sorry, sorry, sorry!” “Ah, yes, that. Will a little more of this do it? It usually does,” spat Berenice. “Yes, my little abused angel. Come to me. You will come to me. Now. Yes, now.”

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "It's a poor little tea, though," said Mrs. Flint. "It's much nicer than at home," said Connie truthfully. "Oh-h!" said Mrs. Flint, not believing, of course. But at last Connie rose. "I must go," she said. "My husband has no idea where I am. He'll be wondering all kinds of things." "He'll never think you're here," laughed Mrs. Flint excitedly. "He'll be sending the crier round." "Good-bye, Josephine," said Connie, kissing the baby and ruffling its red, wispy hair. Mrs. Flint insisted on opening the locked and barred front door. Connie emerged in the farm's little front garden, shut in by a privet hedge. There were two rows of auriculas by the path, very velvety and rich. "Lovely auriculas," said Connie. "Recklesses, as Luke calls them," laughed Mrs. Flint. "Have some." And eagerly she picked the velvet and primrose flowers. "Enough! Enough!" said Connie. They came to the little garden gate. "Which way were you going?" asked Mrs. Flint. "By the warren." "Let me see! Oh yes, the cows are in the gin close. But they're not up yet. But the gate's locked, you'll have to climb." "I can climb," said Connie. "Perhaps I can just go down the close with you." They went down the poor, rabbit-bitten pasture. Birds were whistling in wild evening triumph in the wood. A man was calling up the last cows, which trailed slowly over the path-worn pasture. "They're late, milking, tonight," said Mrs. Flint severely. "They know Luke won't be back till after dark." They came to the fence, beyond which the young fir wood bristled dense. There was a little gate, but it was locked. In the grass on the inside stood a bottle, empty. "There's the keeper's empty bottle for his milk," explained Mrs. Flint. "We bring it as far as here for him, and then he fetches it himself." "When?" said Connie. "Oh, any time he's around. Often in the morning. Well, good-bye Lady Chatterley! And do come again. It was so lovely having you." Connie climbed the fence into the narrow path between the dense, bristling young firs. Mrs. Flint went running back across the pasture, in a sunbonnet, because she was really a school-teacher. Constance didn't like this dense new part of the wood; it seemed gruesome and choking. She hurried on with her head down, thinking of the Flints' baby. It was a dear little thing, but it would be a bit bow-legged like its father. It showed already, but perhaps it would grow out of it. How warm and fulfilling somehow to have a baby, and how Mrs. Flint had showed it off! She had something anyhow that Connie hadn't got, and apparently couldn't have. Yes, Mrs. Flint had flaunted her motherhood. And Connie had been just a bit, just a little bit jealous. She couldn't help it. She started out of her muse, and gave a little cry of fear. A man was there.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  After replacing the chair at the table, she went over to the steaming urn and poured a large mug of coffee for each of them. “Tell me a story,” she said, bringing the blue-and-white cups to Elise. She cleared away the broken eggshells and disposed of them, then dragged a high stool over to the counter. Elise was mixing batter in a green glass bowl. “I’ll hull the strawberries while you talk to me.” Elise was charming in her short black uniform, white apron, and lacy cap. Clarissa admired the ruler-straight seams that ran up the backs of her legs, the high spike heels (two inches higher than her own training shoes), and stared at the rings that pierced Elise’s dainty ears and the fine chains that ran from each earlobe to the ring in each side of her nose. She wondered if Berenice would give her rings when she grew up, or let her wear a little uniform like that. It was darling, so short that it showed off Elise’s bottom every time she bent or moved. Really, her black silk panties were very tight. It never occurred to Clarissa that she might be Berenice’s favorite, despite the fact that Berenice regularly caressed her sex and rarely touched Elise at all (except with a bundle of birch twigs or the nasty lithe cane). She was terribly jealous of Elise’s rings and uniform and the sophisticated psychological games Berenice would play with her. Also, Elise was allowed to wait on the parties. These occasions excited Clarissa to a fever pitch, but she was always sent up to bed after a brief presentation and demonstration of her latest feat of obedience. Elise got to greet the little groups of elegantly dressed women at the door, take their wraps, serve them drinks, bring out trays of canapés, escort their slaves into the cells in the dungeon, worship their high boots, kiss their knees and hands, perform every menial and intimate service they required. On one occasion, she had been relieved of her serving duties and used solely as an ashtray. Clarissa made a resolution to do very well at this awful school they were sending her to, to make Berenice love her the best of all. “What do you want a story about?” Elise said briskly. Her cheeks were flaming red. She was a little out of breath, and not from being too tightly corseted or stirring batter too vigorously. The child had such a direct, piercing gaze! Must she look at her that way, at the hem of her skirt and the chains that brushed her cheeks, with such unflinching calm?

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Here Lauretta made an end of her song, wherein, albeit attentively followed of all, she was diversely apprehended of divers persons, and there were those who would e'en understand, Milan-fashion, that a good hog was better than a handsome wench;[211] but others were of a loftier and better and truer apprehension, whereof it booteth not to tell at this present. Thereafter the king let kindle store of flambeaux upon the grass and among the flowers and caused sing divers other songs, until every star began to decline, that was above the horizon, when, deeming it time for sleep, he bade all with a good night betake themselves to their chambers. [Footnote 211: The pertinence of this allusion, which probably refers to some current Milanese proverbial saying, the word _tosa_, here used by Boccaccio for "wench," belonging to the Lombard dialect, is not very clear. The expression "Milan-fashion" (_alla melanese_) may be supposed to refer to the proverbial materialism of the people of Lombardy.] HERE ENDETH THE THIRD DAY OF THE DECAMERON _Day the Fourth_ HERE BEGINNETH THE FOURTH DAY OF THE DECAMERON WHEREIN UNDER THE GOVERNANCE OF FILOSTRATO IS DISCOURSED OF THOSE WHOSE LOVES HAVE HAD UNHAPPY ENDINGS Dearest ladies, as well by words of wise men heard as by things many a time both seen and read of myself, I had conceived that the boisterous and burning blast of envy was apt to smite none but lofty towers or the highest summits of the trees; but I find myself mistaken in my conceit, for that, fleeing, as I have still studied to flee, from the cruel onslaught of that raging wind, I have striven to go, not only in the plains, but in the very deepest of the valleys, as many manifestly enough appear to whoso considereth these present stories, the which have been written by me, not only in vulgar Florentine and in prose and without [author's] name, but eke in as humble and sober a style as might be. Yet for all this have I not availed to escape being cruelly shaken, nay, well nigh uprooted, of the aforesaid wind and all torn of the fangs of envy; wherefore I can very manifestly understand that to be true which the wise use to say, to wit, that misery alone in things present is without envy.[212] [Footnote 212: Sic (_senza invidia_); but the meaning is that misery alone is without _enviers_.]

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It presently befell that, the weather being warm, many companies of ladies and gentlemen went, according to the usance of the Neapolitans, to divert themselves on the banks of the sea and there to dine and sup, and Ricciardo, knowing Catella to be gone thither with her company, betook himself to the same place with his friends and was received into Catella's party of ladies, after allowing himself to be much pressed, as if he had no great mind to abide there. The ladies and Catella fell to rallying him upon his new love, and he, feigning himself sore inflamed therewith, gave them the more occasion for discourse. Presently, one lady going hither and thither, as commonly happeneth in such places, and Catella being left with a few whereas Ricciardo was, the latter cast at her a hint of a certain amour of Filippello her husband, whereupon she fell into a sudden passion of jealousy and began to be inwardly all afire with impatience to know what he meant. At last, having contained herself awhile and being unable to hold out longer, she besought Ricciardo, for that lady's sake whom he most loved, to be pleased to make her clear[175] of that which he had said of Filippello; whereupon quoth he, 'You conjure me by such a person that I dare not deny aught you ask me; wherefore I am ready to tell it you, so but you promise me that you will never say a word thereof either to him or to any other, save whenas you shall by experience have seen that which I shall tell you to be true; for that, when you please, I will teach you how you may see it.' [Footnote 175: Or, in modern parlance, to enlighten her.]

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  It seemed like such an obvious error on her part. She was not, apparently, only snarling at me, but very angry at him as well. I was slower to realize that I, too, had asked about something better left alone; if I had never queried him about my encounter with the mousy brunette, A-Man would never have mentioned their blowup. It was us women asking for information that we didn’t really want that precipitated the events that followed. On that day, however, I just listened, feeling somewhat aloof. If anything, I enjoyed that slight thrill of drama in our midst as we proceeded into the glory of ass-fuck #272. But the next day, and the one after that, I realized that I had been given unsolicited confirmation that he was fucking her on occasion and I really hadn’t wanted to know that. This made her real to me in a way that she never had been before. Were we competing for A-Man? She clearly thought so, and was putting up some sort of fight, or at least a protest. I had always assumed that there was no fight, no competition, because I was simply in the far superior position to her or anyone else that A-Man might have been fucking. It was technically impossible that he could have been having anything greater or even equivalent with anyone else—there simply wasn’t time in a day, or cum in his balls . . . Or was there? And thus my mind started working. What was their connection? How was their sex? Was he with her the way he was with me? Did he mold her onto his cock the way he did me? Did he fuck her ass, too? What had he done to make her so attached? And what about her kept his interest? Was she to him what a Hound was for me—a balancing act? Now that his little harem was in my face, I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t there. The jealousy began and I couldn’t stop it. But I was determined to try. This, I reminded myself, was the price of not being monogamous. Perhaps it was time to review the price of monogamy. If I asked A-Man to be monogamous, then I would always know I had taken his freedom, and I loved him basking in his freedom.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The lady fell a-smiling and answered, 'It rejoiceth me mightily to see a wise man led by the nose by a woman, even as one leadeth a ram by the horns to the shambles, albeit thou art no longer wise nor hast been since the hour when, unknowing why, thou sufferedst the malignant spirit of jealousy to enter thy breast; and the sillier and more besotted thou art, so much the less is my glory thereof. Deemest thou, husband mine, I am as blind of the eyes of the body as thou of those of the mind? Certes, no; I perceived at first sight who was the priest that confessed me and know that thou wast he; but I had it at heart to give thee that which thou wentest seeking, and in sooth I have done it. Wert thou as wise as thou thinkest to be, thou wouldst not have essayed by this means to learn the secrets of thy good wife, but wouldst, without taking vain suspicion, have recognized that which she confessed to thee to be the very truth, without her having sinned in aught. I told thee that I loved a priest, and wast not thou, whom I am much to blame to love as I do, become a priest? I told thee that no door of my house could abide locked, whenas he had a mind to lie with me; and what door in the house was ever kept against thee, whenas thou wouldst come whereas I might be? I told thee that the priest lay with me every night, and when was it that thou layest not with me? And whenassoever thou sentest thy clerk to me, which was thou knowest, as often as thou layest from me, I sent thee word that the priest had not been with me. What other than a crack-brain like thee, who has suffered thyself to be blinded by thy jealousy, had failed to understand these things? Thou hast abidden in the house, keeping watch anights, and thoughtest to have given me to believe that thou wast gone abroad to sup and sleep. Bethink thee henceforth and become a man again, as thou wast wont to be; and make not thyself a laughing stock to whoso knoweth thy fashions, as do I, and leave this unconscionable watching that thou keepest; for I swear to God that, an the fancy took me to make thee wear the horns, I would engage, haddest thou an hundred eyes, as thou hast but two, to do my pleasure on such wise that thou shouldst not be ware thereof.'