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.

Page 35 of 47 · 20 per page

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "'Christ, of course!' quoth Briancourt, shrugging his shoulders. 'You would be able to fathom the influence He must have had over the crowd. My Syrian need not speak to you, he lifts his eyes upon you and you grasp the meaning of his thoughts. Christ, likewise, never wasted His breath spouting cant to the multitude. He wrote on the sand, and could thereby "look the world to law." As I was saying, I shall paint Achmet as the Saviour, and you,' added he to Teleny, 'as John, the disciple He loved; for the Bible clearly says and continually repeats that He loved this favourite disciple.' "'And how will you paint Him?' "'Christ erect, clasping John, who hugs Him, and who leans his head on his friend's bosom. Of course there must be something lovably soft and womanly in the disciple's look and attitude; he must have your visionary violet eyes and your voluptuous mouth. Crouched at their feet there will be one of the many adulterous Marys, but Christ and the other—as John modestly terms himself, as if he were his Master's mistress—look down at her with a dreamy, half-scornful, half-pitiful expression.' "'And will the people understand your meaning?' "'Anybody who has any sense will. Besides, to render my idea clearer, I'll paint a pendant to it: "Socrates—the Greek Christ, with Alcibiades, his favourite disciple." The woman will be Xantippe.' Then turning to me, he added, 'But you must promise to come and sit for Alcibiades.' "'Yes,' said Teleny, 'but on one condition.' "'Name it.' "'Why did you write Camille that note?' "'What note?' "'Come—no gammon!' "'How did you know I wrote it?' "'Like Zadig, I saw the traces of the dog's ears.' "'Well, as you know it's me, I'll tell you frankly, it was because I was jealous.' "'Of whom?' "'Of you both. Yes, you may smile, but it's true.' "Then turning towards me,—'I've known you since we both were but little more than toddling babies, and I've never had that from you,'—and he cracked his thumb-nail on his upper teeth—'whilst he,' pointing to Teleny, 'comes, sees, and conquers. Anyhow, it'll be for some future time. Meanwhile, I bear you no grudge; nor do you for that stupid threat of mine, I'm sure.' "'You don't know what miserable days and sleepless nights you made me pass.' "'Did I? I'm sorry; forgive me. You know I'm mad—everyone says so,' he exclaimed, grasping both our hands; 'and now that we are friends you must come to my next symposium.' "'When is it to be?' asked Teleny. "'On Tuesday week.' "Then turning to me,—'I'll introduce you to a lot of pleasant fellows who'll be delighted to make your acquaintance, and many of whom have long been astonished that you are not one of us.' "The week passed quickly. Joy soon made me forget the dreadful anxiety caused by Briancourt's card. "A few days before the night fixed for the feast,—'How shall we dress for the symposium?' asked Teleny?

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I seem awfully stupid to myself. Was it the result of my present life, or was I so before? The month is drawing to a close—the day after to-morrow. What will she do with me now, or has she forgotten me, and left me to trim hedges and bind bouquets till my dying day? A written order. “The slave Gregor is herewith ordered to my personal service. Wanda Dunajew.” With a beating heart I draw aside the damask curtain on the following morning, and enter the bed-room of my divinity. It is still filled with a pleasant half darkness. “Is it you, Gregor?” she asks, while I kneel before the fire-place, building a fire. I tremble at the sound of the beloved voice. I cannot see her herself; she is invisible behind the curtains of the four-poster bed. “Yes, my mistress,” I reply. “How late is it?” “Past nine o’clock.” “Breakfast.” I hasten to get it, and then kneel down with the tray beside her bed. “Here is breakfast, my mistress.” Wanda draws back the curtains, and curiously enough at the first glance when I see her among the pillows with loosened flowing hair, she seems an absolute stranger, a beautiful woman, but the beloved soft lines are gone. This face is hard and has an expression of weariness and satiety. Or is it simply that formerly my eye did not see this? She fixes her green eyes upon me, more with curiosity than with menace, perhaps even somewhat pityingly, and lazily pulls the dark sleeping fur on which she lies over the bared shoulder. At this moment she is very charming, very maddening, and I feel my blood rising to my head and heart. The tray in my hands begins to sway. She notices it and reached out for the whip which is lying on the toilet-table. “You are awkward, slave,” she says furrowing her brow. I lower my looks to the ground, and hold the tray as steadily as possible. She eats her breakfast, yawns, and stretches her opulent limbs in the magnificent furs. She has rung. I enter. “Take this letter to Prince Corsini.” I hurry into the city, and hand the letter to the Prince. He is a handsome young man with glowing black eyes. Consumed with jealousy, I take his answer to her. “What is the matter with you?” she asks with lurking spitefulness. “You are very pale.” “Nothing, mistress, I merely walked rather fast.” At luncheon the prince is at her side, and I am condemned to serve both her and him. They joke, and I am, as if non-existent, for both. For a brief moment I see black; I was just pouring some Bordeaux into his glass, and spilled it over the table-cloth and her gown. “How awkward,” Wanda exclaimed and slapped my face. The prince laughed, and she also, but I felt the blood rising to my face.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "It was early, yet I waited for some time in the street, watching for Teleny to come out. I had made up my mind that if he was alone, I would go and beg his pardon for my rudeness. "After a short time, I saw him appear at the door with Briancourt. "My jealousy was at once rekindled, I turned on my heels and walked off. I did not want to see him again. On the morrow I would take the first train and go—anywhere, out of the world if I could. "This state of feeling did not last long; and my rage being somewhat subdued, love and curiosity prompted me again to stop. I did so. I looked round; they were nowhere to be seen; still I had wended my steps towards Teleny's house. "I walked back. I glanced down the neighbouring streets; they had quite disappeared. "Now that he was lost to sight, my eagerness to find him increased. They had, perhaps, gone to Briancourt's. I hurried on in the direction of his house. "All at once, I thought I saw two figures like them at a distance. I hastened on like a madman. I lifted up the collar of my coat, I pulled my soft felt hat over my ears, so as not to be recognized, and followed them on the opposite side-walk. "I was not mistaken. Then they branched off; I after them. Whither were they going in these lonely parts? "So as not to attract their attention I stopped where I saw an advertisement. I slackened, and then quickened my pace. Several times I saw their heads come in close contact, and then Briancourt's arm encircled Teleny's waist. "All this was far worse than gall and wormwood to me. Still, in my misery, I had one consolation; this was to see that, apparently, Teleny was yielding to Briancourt's attentions instead of seeking them. "At last they reached the Quai de ——, so busy in the daytime, so lonely at night. There they seemed to be looking for somebody, for they either turned round, scanned the persons they met, or stared at men seated on the benches that are along the quay. I continued following them. "As my thoughts were entirely absorbed, it was some time before I noticed that a man, who had sprung up from somewhere, was walking by my side. I grew nervous; for I fancied that he not only tried to keep pace with me but also to catch my attention, for he hummed and whistled snatches of songs, coughed, cleared his throat, and scraped his feet. "All these sounds fell upon my dreamy ears, but failed to arouse my attention. All my senses were fixed on the two figures in front of me. He therefore walked on, then turned round on his heels, and stared at me. My eyes saw all this without heeding him in the least.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  SondraSondra has a funny habit of always feeling that new women she meets are more “jealous natured” than most other people think they are. Perhaps this is mild projection on Sondra’s own part—she keeps a very fond, but very careful eye on her husband Tom. Actually, I like her; she is very pretty, bright, has a funny acid wit and a good reputation as a literary agent. Both she and Tom were married before, and their large house is filled with half a dozen kids from each of their previous marriages. As for Tom, he himself shares Sondra’s interest in jealousy; they play a game in which he comes on with other ladies, and she—well, as Tom put it abruptly one night, “I suppose you’re wondering why my eye is red?” I said No, I hadn’t noticed. “Sondra did it,” he snorted. “We had one hell of a fight last night.” After that it occurred to me that I rarely see them when one of them isn’t bandaged or bruised. » Music is playing on the record player. As I sit listening to the plucking of the harpsichord, I wonder if Dali must have dreamed up this fantasy to torment me. You see, one of my fantasies concerns him… not that I want a wispy end of his mustache to tickle my cunt (a word I prefer to clitoris, which sounds so clinical, or clit, which is so flip) but I want that big black octopus to take me in every way all at once, with every tentacle going full force at the same time—since I tire so easily. The big black octopus, I must explain, was in a gallery off Fifth Avenue. It was a Dali vernissage and included a huge painting of Jesus preaching his Sermon on the Mount. Well, exactly opposite this hedonism were several beautiful and erotic drawings, and the one I really fancied was this octopus having a girl. As I stared at it, I lived it… each black rhythmic finger in and out of her body and my body, winding all the way up (because I’m a very deep person) and ending in a thin point—not like a knife, but all the same gentle and definite. A corkscrew arrangement follows the end of the point with a kind of rubbing, twisting power and force; it makes me reel and scream with delight. One after the other, each tentacle makes me come again and again, many comings per black thing, and there is Jesus still talking to these poor infidels from his lofty place, but really He is watching me while I gaze into the eyes of my taker, this huge body-head like the end of a giant orchid penis as it fucks me and engulfs the whole of me with those spent fingers but with many more still poised, still ready to come as I come again and again… aaaahhhhhh! “Bless you, my child…” [Conversation]

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "I was powerless to applaud, I sat there dumb, motionless, nerveless, exhausted. My eyes were fixed upon the artist who stood there bowing listlessly, scornfully; while his own glances full of 'eager and impassioned tenderness,' seemed to be seeking mine and mine alone. What a feeling of exultation awakened within me! But could he love me, and me only? For a trice the exultation gave way to bitter jealousy. Was I growing mad, I asked myself? "As I looked at him, his features seemed to be overshadowed by a deep melancholy, and—horrible to behold—I saw a small dagger plunged in his breast, with the blood flowing fast from the wound. I not only shuddered, but almost shrieked with fear, the vision was so real. My head was spinning round, I was growing faint and sick, I fell back exhausted in my chair, covering my eyes with my hands." "What a strange hallucination, I wonder what brought it about?" "It was, indeed, something more than an hallucination, as you will see hereafter. When I lifted up my head again, the pianist was gone. I then turned round, and my mother—seeing how pale I was—asked me if I felt ill. I muttered something about the heat being very oppressive. "'Go into the green room,' said she, 'and have a glass of water.' "'No, I think I had better go home.' "I felt, in fact, that I could not listen to any more music that evening. My nerves were so utterly unstrung that a maudlin song would just then have exasperated me, whilst another intoxicating melody might have made me lose my senses. "As I got up I felt so weak and exhausted that it seemed as if I were walking in a trance, so, without exactly knowing whither I wended my steps, I mechanically followed some persons in front of me, and, a few moments afterwards, I unexpectedly found myself in the green room. "The saloon was almost empty. At the further end a few dandies were grouped round a young man in evening dress, whose back was turned towards me. I recognized one of them as Briancourt." "What, the General's son?" "Precisely." "I remember him. He always dressed in such a conspicuous way." "Quite so. That evening, for instance, when every gentleman was in black, he, on the contrary, wore a white flannel suit; as usual, a very open Byron-like collar, and a red Lavalliére cravat tied in a huge bow." "Yes, for he had a most lovely neck and throat." "He was very handsome, although I, for myself, had always tried to avoid him. He had a way of ogling which made you feel quite uncomfortable. You laugh, but it is quite true. There are some men who, when staring at a woman, seem all the while to be undressing her. Briancourt had that indecent way of looking at everybody. I vaguely felt his eyes all over me, and that made me shy."

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  “She disappeared, and I immediately ceased my demonstrations. An hour later the old servant came to me and said that my wife was in a fit of hysterics. I went to see her. She sobbed and laughed, incapable of expressing anything, her whole body in a tremble. She was not shamming, she was really sick. We sent for the doctor, and all night long I cared for her. Toward daylight she grew calmer, and we became reconciled under the influence of that feeling which we called ‘love.’ The next morning, when, after the reconciliation, I confessed to her that I was jealous of Troukhatchevsky, she was not at all embarrassed, and began to laugh in the most natural way, so strange did the possibility of being led astray by such a man appear to her. “‘With such a man can an honest woman entertain any feeling beyond the pleasure of enjoying music with him? But if you like, I am ready to never see him again, even on Sunday, although everybody has been invited. Write him that I am indisposed, and that will end the matter. Only one thing annoys me,—that any one could have thought him dangerous. I am too proud not to detest such thoughts.’ “And she did not lie. She believed what she said. She hoped by her words to provoke in herself a contempt for him, and thereby to defend herself. But she did not succeed. Everything was directed against her, especially that abominable music. So ended the quarrel, and on Sunday our guests came, and Troukhatchevsky and my wife again played together.” CHAPTER XXIII. “I think that it is superfluous to say that I was very vain. If one has no vanity in this life of ours, there is no sufficient reason for living. So for that Sunday I had busied myself in tastefully arranging things for the dinner and the musical soirée. I had purchased myself numerous things for the dinner, and had chosen the guests. Toward six o’clock they arrived, and after them Troukhatchevsky, in his dress-coat, with diamond shirt-studs, in bad taste. He bore himself with ease. To all questions he responded promptly, with a smile of contentment and understanding, and that peculiar expression which was intended to mean: ‘All that you may do and say will be exactly what I expected.’ Everything about him that was not correct I now noticed with especial pleasure, for it all tended to tranquillize me, and prove to me that to my wife he stood in such a degree of inferiority that, as she had told me, she could not stoop to his level. Less because of my wife’s assurances than because of the atrocious sufferings which I felt in jealousy, I no longer allowed myself to be jealous.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "No, the Count returned unexpectedly; and then both he and the Countess started for Nice. "A short time afterwards, however, as I was always on the watch, I saw Teleny leave the theatre with Briancourt. "There was nothing strange in that. They walked arm-in-arm, and wended their way towards Teleny's lodgings. "I lingered behind, following them step by step at some distance. I had been jealous of the Countess; I was ten times more so of Briancourt. "If he is going to pass every night with a new bed-fellow, said I to myself, why did he tell me that his heart was yearning for mine? "And still within my soul I felt sure that he loved me; that all these other loves were caprices; that his feelings for me were something more than the pleasure of the senses; that it was real, heart-sprung, genuine love. "Having reached the door of Teleny's house, both the young men stopped and began to talk. "The street was a solitary one. Only some belated home-goers were every now and then to be seen, trudging sleepily onward. I had stopped at the corner of the street, pretending to read an advertisement, but in reality to follow the movements of the two young men. "All at once I thought they were about to part, for I saw Briancourt stretch out both his hands and grasp Teleny's. I shivered with gladness. After all, I have wronged Briancourt, was the thought that came into my mind; must every man and woman be in love with the pianist? "My joy, however, was not of long duration, for Briancourt had pulled Teleny towards him, and their lips met in a long kiss, a kiss which for me was gall and wormwood; then, after a few words, the door of Teleny's house was opened and the two young men went in. "When I had seen them disappear, tears of rage, of anguish, of disappointment started to my eyes, I ground my teeth, I bit my lips to the blood, I stamped my feet, I ran on like a madman, I stopped for a moment before the closed door, and vented my anger in thumping the feelingless wood. At last, hearing footsteps approaching, I went on. I walked about the streets for half the night, then fagged out mentally and bodily, I returned home at early dawn." "And your mother?" "My mother was not in town just then, she was at——, where I shall tell you her adventures some other time, for I can assure you they are worth hearing." "On the morrow, I took a firm resolution not to go to Teleny's concerts any more, not to follow him about, but to forget him entirely. I should have left the town, but I thought I had found out another means of getting rid of this horrible infatuation.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  “And this is it. A young man speaks to my wife. He looks at her with a smile, and, as it seems to me, he surveys her body. How does he dare to think of her, to think of the possibility of a romance with her? And how can she, seeing this, tolerate him? Not only does she tolerate him, but she seems pleased. I even see that she puts herself to trouble on his account. And in my soul there rises such a hatred for her that each of her words, each gesture, disgusts me. She notices it, she knows not what to do, and how assume an air of indifferent animation? Ah! I suffer! That makes her gay, she is content. And my hatred increases tenfold, but I do not dare to give it free force, because at the bottom of my soul I know that there are no real reasons for it, and I remain in my seat, feigning indifference, and exaggerating my attention and courtesy to him. “Then I get angry with myself. I desire to leave the room, to leave them alone, and I do, in fact, go out; but scarcely am I outside when I am invaded by a fear of what is taking place within my absence. I go in again, inventing some pretext. Or sometimes I do not go in; I remain near the door, and listen. How can she humiliate herself and humiliate me by placing me in this cowardly situation of suspicion and espionage? Oh, abomination! Oh, the wicked animal! And he too, what does he think of you? But he is like all men. He is what I was before my marriage. It gives him pleasure. He even smiles when he looks at me, as much as to say: ‘What have you to do with this? It is my turn now.’ “This feeling is horrible. Its burn is unendurable. To entertain this feeling toward any one, to once suspect a man of lusting after my wife, was enough to spoil this man forever in my eyes, as if he had been sprinkled with vitriol. Let me once become jealous of a being, and nevermore could I re-establish with him simple human relations, and my eyes flashed when I looked at him. “As for my wife, so many times had I enveloped her with this moral vitriol, with this jealous hatred, that she was degraded thereby. In the periods of this causeless hatred I gradually uncrowned her. I covered her with shame in my imagination. “I invented impossible knaveries. I suspected, I am ashamed to say, that she, this queen of ‘The Thousand and One Nights,’ deceived me with my serf, under my very eyes, and laughing at me.

• From My Secret Garden (1973)

  A lot of times I make it with B, too, of course, but it’s always different with him. He’s not so freaky as A. He likes it when I take the lead. Sometimes, with him, I get the feeling that it’s almost like having a baby in bed with me. Once A got mad at something I’d done, and slapped me across the face so hard that I fell down. Then A took whatever loot we had in the house at the moment and split. But B stayed with me, and he was so tender, even trying to explain A’s psychology to me, so that I wouldn’t hate him so much. He’s so cool that he dug it that down beneath, I really liked A so much it would be bad for me to hate him. Sometimes I get the feeling that B is in love with A. Maybe A thinks so, too. He often calls him “sweetie” or “dearie” or some other faggoty name. In fact, I think the reason B gets so excited when I’m screwing A is because he doesn’t know which of us he’d rather be fucking himself, A or me. Or both. In fact, we’ve tried that, too, a few times. Talk about a chick living in a dream, having the two of them in me at the same time and groping each other, too, all at once. But we don’t do it often, because after one of those scenes A gets mad and disappears for a day or two, and I hear that he’s balling some other chick somewhere. So you see, I don’t have to make up any stories to turn myself on. I’m really living in one. I don’t like the word “fantasy.” It sounds like some neurotic thing you’re into, and the next thing they’re coming for you with the psycho nets. So I wouldn’t say I have a fantasy about sex. Or if I do, it’s my whole life. [Letter] BobbieI am only fifteen years old, so I don’t want to tell you my name, so that I can be sure that my parents won’t find out any of this. I saw your questionnaire in one of my big brother’s magazines, and I just felt like replying to it because I guess I think about sex quite a bit of the time. I pet with boys a lot, but the only guy I ever tried to go all the way with came before he was able to get his penis into me. I thought you ought to know that so it would help you understand my answers better.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "Soon that acrid milk, like the sap of the fig tree or the euphorbia, which seems to flow from the brain and the marrow, spouted out, and in its stead a jet of caustic fire was coursing through every vein and artery, and all my nerves were vibrating as if set in motion by some strong electric current. "Finally, when the very last drop of spermatic fluid had been sucked out, then the paroxysm of pleasure which is the delirium of sensuality began to abate, and I was left crushed and annihilated; then a pleasant state of torpor followed, and my eyes closed for a few seconds in happy oblivion. "Having recovered my senses, my eyes again fell on the repulsive, anonymous note; and I shuddered and nestled myself against Teleny as if for protection, so loathsome was truth, even then, to me. "'But you have not told me yet who wrote those horrible words.' "'Who? Why, the general's son, of course.' "'What! Briancourt?' "'Who else can it be. No one except him can have an inkling of our love; Briancourt, I am sure, has been watching us. Besides, look here,' added he, picking up the bit of paper, 'not wanting to write on paper with his crest or initials, and probably not having any other, he has written on a card deftly cut out of a piece of drawing paper. Who else but a painter could have done such a thing? By taking too many precautions, we sometimes compromise ourselves. Moreover, smell it. He is so saturated with attar of roses that everything he touches is impregnated with it.' "'Yes, you are right,' said I, musingly. "'Over and above all this, it is just a thing for him to do, not that he is bad at heart——' "'You love him!' said I, with a pang of jealousy, grasping his arm. "'No, I do not; but I am simply just towards him; besides you have known him from his childhood, and you must admit that he is not so bad, is he?' "'No, he is simply mad.' "'Mad? Well, perhaps a little more so than other men,' said my friend, smiling. "'What! you think all men crazy?' "'I only know one sane man—my shoemaker. He is only mad once a week—on Monday, when he gets jolly drunk.' "'Well, don't let us talk of madness any more. My father died mad, and I suppose that, sooner or later——' "'You must know,' said Teleny, interrupting me, 'that Briancourt has been in love with you for a long time.' "'With me?' "'Yes, but he thinks you dislike him.' "'I never was remarkably fond of him.' "'Now that I think it over, I believe that he would like to have us both together, so that we might form a kind of trinity of love and bliss.' "'And you think he tried to bring it about in that way.'

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  Am I mad or is she? Does all this arise out of an inventive, wanton woman’s brain with the intention of surpassing my supersensual fantasies, or is this woman really one of those Neronian characters who take a diabolical pleasure in treading underfoot, like a worm, human beings, who have thoughts and feelings and a will like theirs? What have I experienced? When I knelt with the coffee-tray beside her bed, Wanda suddenly placed her hand on my shoulder and her eyes plunged deep into mine. “What beautiful eyes you have,” she said softly, “and especially now since you suffer. Are you very unhappy?” I bowed my head, and kept silent. “Severin, do you still love me,” she suddenly exclaimed passionately, “can you still love me?” She drew me close with such vehemence that the coffee-tray upset, the can and cups fell to the floor, and the coffee ran over the carpet. “Wanda—my Wanda,” I cried out and held her passionately against me; I covered her mouth, face, and breast with kisses. “It is my unhappiness that I love you more and more madly the worse you treat me, the more frequently you betray me. Oh, I shall die of pain and love and jealousy.” “But I haven’t betrayed you, as yet, Severin,” replied Wanda smiling. “Not? Wanda! Don’t jest so mercilessly with me,” I cried. “Haven’t I myself taken the letter to the Prince—” “Of course, it was an invitation for luncheon.” “You have, since we have been in Florence—” “I have been absolutely faithful to you,” replied Wanda, “I swear it by all that is holy to me. All that I have done was merely to fulfill your dream and it was done for your sake. “However, I shall take a lover, otherwise things will be only half accomplished, and in the end you will yet reproach me with not having treated you cruelly enough, my dear beautiful slave! But to-day you shall be Severin again, the only one I love. I haven’t given away your clothes. They are here in the chest. Go and dress as you used to in the little Carpathian health-resort when our love was so intimate. Forget everything that has happened since; oh, you will forget it easily in my arms; I shall kiss away all your sorrows.” She began to treat me tenderly like a child, to kiss me and caress me. Finally she said with a gracious smile, “Go now and dress, I too will dress. Shall I put on my fur-jacket? Oh yes, I know, now run along!”

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I am standing there and had to lean against the wall for support so as not to fall down with envy and rage—no, rage isn’t the right word; it was a mortal fear. I saw her in her box dressed in blue moire, with a huge ermine cloak about her bare shoulders; he sat opposite. I saw them devour each other with their eyes. For both of them the stage, Goldoni’s Pamela, Salvini, Marini, the public, even the entire world, were non-existant to-night. And I—what was I at that moment?— * * * * * To-day she is attending the ball at the Greek ambassador’s. Does she know, that she will meet him there? At any rate she dressed, as if she did. A heavy sea-green silk dress plastically encloses her divine form, leaving the bust and arms bare. In her hair, which is done into a single flaming knot, a white water-lily blossoms; from it the leaves of reeds interwoven with a few loose strands fall down toward her neck. There no longer is any trace of agitation or trembling feverishness in her being. She is calm, so calm, that I feel my blood congealing and my heart growing cold under her glance. Slowly, with a weary, indolent majesty, she ascends the marble staircase, lets her precious wrap slide off, and listlessly enters the hall, where the smoke of a hundred candles has formed a silvery mist. For a few moments my eyes follow her in a daze, then I pick up her furs, which without my being aware, had slipped from my hands. They are still warm from her shoulders. I kiss the spot, and my eyes fill with tears. * * * * * He has arrived. In his black velvet coat extravagantly trimmed with sable, he is a beautiful, haughty despot who plays with the lives and souls of men. He stands in the ante-room, looking around proudly, and his eyes rest on me for an uncomfortably long time. Under his icy glance I am again seized by a mortal fear. I have a presentiment that this man can enchain her, captivate her, subjugate her, and I feel inferior in contrast with his savage masculinity; I am filled with envy, with jealousy. I feel that I am a queer weakly creature of brains, merely! And what is most humiliating, I want to hate him, but I can’t. Why is that among all the host of servants he has chosen me. With an inimitably aristocratic nod of the head he calls me over to him, and I—I obey his call—against my own will. “Take my furs,” he quickly commands. My entire body trembles with resentment, but I obey, abjectly like a slave. * * * * *

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  So far everything went well. I sat beside Wanda, and she chatted very graciously and intelligently with me, as with a good friend, concerning Italy, Pisemski’s new novel, and Wagner’s music. She wore a sort of Amazonesque travelling-dress of black cloth with a short jacket of the same material, set with dark fur. It fitted closely and showed her figure to best advantage. Over it she wore dark furs. Her hair wound into an antique knot, lay beneath a small dark fur-hat from which a black veil hung. Wanda was in very good humor; she fed me candies, played with my hair, loosened my neck cloth and made a pretty cockade of it; she covered my knees with her furs and stealthily pressed the fingers of my hand. When our Jewish driver persistently went on nodding to himself, she even gave me a kiss, and her cold lips had the fresh frosty fragrance of a young autumnal rose, which blossoms alone amid bare stalks and yellow leaves and upon whose calyx the first frost has hung tiny diamonds of ice. * * * * * We are at the district capital. We get out at the railway station. Wanda throws off her furs and places them over my arm, and goes to secure the tickets. When she returns she has completely changed. “Here is your ticket, Gregor,” she says in a tone which supercilious ladies use to their servants. “A third-class ticket,” I reply with comic horror. “Of course,” she continues, “but now be careful. You won’t get on until I am settled in my compartment and don’t need you any longer. At each station you will hurry to my car and ask for my orders. Don’t forget. And now give me my furs.” After I had helped her into them, humbly like a slave, she went to find an empty first-class coupe. I followed. Supporting herself on my shoulder, she got on and I wrapped her feet in bear-skins and placed them on the warming bottle. Then she nodded to me, and dismissed me. I slowly ascended a third-class carriage, which was filled with abominable tobacco-smoke that seemed like the fogs of Acheron at the entrance to Hades. I now had the leisure to muse about the riddle of human existence, and about its greatest riddle of all—woman. * * * * * Whenever the train stops, I jump off, run to her carriage, and with drawn cap await her orders. She wants coffee and then a glass of water, at another time a bowl of warm water to wash her hands, and thus it goes on. She lets several men who have entered her compartment pay court to her. I am dying of jealousy and have to leap about like an antelope so as to secure what she wants quickly and not miss the train.

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  The scene had a grim attraction for me, which I cannot describe. I felt my heart beat, when, with a smile, she drew back her arm for the first blow, and the whip hissed through the air. He winced slightly under the blow. Then she let blow after blow rain upon him, with her mouth half-opened and her teeth flashing between her red lips, until he finally seemed to ask for mercy with his piteous, blue eyes. It was indescribable. * * * * * She is sitting for him now, alone. He is working on her head. She has posted me in the adjoining room behind a heavy curtain, where I can’t be seen, but can see everything. What does she intend now? Is she afraid of him? She has driven him insane enough to be sure, or is she hatching a new torment for me? My knees tremble. They are talking. He has lowered his voice so that I cannot understand a word, and she replies in the same way. What is the meaning of this? Is there an understanding between them? I suffer frightful torments; my heart seems about to burst. He kneels down before her, embraces her, and presses his head against her breast, and she—in her heartlessness—laughs—and now I hear her saying aloud: “Ah! You need another application of the whip.” “Woman! Goddess! Are you without a heart—can’t you love,” exclaimed the German, “don’t you even know, what it means to love, to be consumed with desire and passion, can’t you even imagine what I suffer? Have you no pity for me?” “No!” she replied proudly and mockingly, “but I have the whip.” She drew it quickly from the pocket of her fur-coat, and struck him in the face with the handle. He rose, and drew back a couple of paces. “Now, are you ready to paint again?” she asked indifferently. He did not reply, but again went to the easel and took up his brush and palette. The painting is marvellously successful. It is a portrait which as far as the likeness goes couldn’t be better, and at the same time it seems to have an ideal quality. The colors glow, are supernatural; almost diabolical, I would call them. The painter has put all his sufferings, his adoration, and all his execration into the picture. * * * * * Now he is painting me; we are alone together for several hours every day. To-day he suddenly turned to me with his vibrant voice and said: “You love this woman?” “Yes.” “I also love her.” His eyes were bathed in tears. He remained silent for a while, and continued painting. “We have a mountain at home in Germany within which she dwells,” he murmured to himself. “She is a demon.” * * * * * The picture is finished. She insisted on paying him for it, munificently, in the manner of queens.

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  “Yes, jealousy, causeless jealousy, is the condition of our debauched conjugal life. And throughout my marriage never did I cease to feel it and to suffer from it. There were two periods in which I suffered most intensely. The first time was after the birth of our first child, when the doctors had forbidden my wife to nurse it. I was particularly jealous, in the first place, because my wife felt that restlessness peculiar to animal matter when the regular course of life is interrupted without occasion. But especially was I jealous because, having seen with what facility she had thrown off her moral duties as a mother, I concluded rightly, though unconsciously, that she would throw off as easily her conjugal duties, feeling all the surer of this because she was in perfect health, as was shown by the fact that, in spite of the prohibition of the dear doctors, she nursed her following children, and even very well.” “I see that you have no love for the doctors,” said I, having noticed Posdnicheff’s extraordinarily spiteful expression of face and tone of voice whenever he spoke of them.

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  "On the morrow I again sent word to Teleny that I could not see him, although I longed to do so; but the day after that, seeing that I did not come to him as usual, he called upon me. "Surprised at the physical and moral change which had come over me, he began to think that some mutual friend had been slandering him, so to reassure him, I—after much pressing and many questions—took out that loathsome letter which I as much dreaded to touch as if it had been a viper, and gave it to him. "Although more than myself inured to such matters, his brow grew cloudy and thoughtful, and he even went pale. Still, after pondering over over it for a moment, he began to examine the paper on which those horrible words were written; then he lifted up both card and envelope to his nose, and smelt them both. A merry expression came all at once over his face. 'I have it—I have it—you need not be afraid! They smell of attar of roses,' cried he; 'I know who it is.' "'Who?' "'Why! can't you guess?' "'The Countess?' "Teleny frowned. "'How is it you know about her?' "I told him all. When I had finished, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me again and again. "'I tried in every way to forget you, Camille, you see if I succeeded. The Countess is now miles away and we shall not see each other again.' "As he said these words my eyes fell on a very fine yellow diamond ring—a moonstone—which he wore on his little finger. "'That is a woman's ring,' said I, 'she gave it you?' "He made no answer. "'Will you wear this one in its stead?' "The ring I gave him was an antique cameo of exquisite workmanship, surrounded with brilliants, but its chief merit was that it represented the head of Antinöus. "'But,' said he, 'this is a priceless jewel;' and he looked at it closer. Then taking my head between his hands, and covering my face with kisses,—'Priceless indeed to me, for it looks like you.' "I burst out laughing. "'Why do you laugh?' said he, astonished. "'Because,' was my reply, 'the features are quite yours.' "'Perhaps then,' quoth he, 'we are alike in looks as well as in tastes. Who knows—you are, perhaps, my doppel-gänger? Then, woe to one of us!' "'Why?' "'In our country they say that a man must never meet his alter ego, it brings misfortune to one or to both;' and he shivered as he said this. Then, with a smile, 'I am superstitious, you know.' "'Anyhow,' added I, 'should any misfortune part us, let this ring, like that of the virgin queen, be your messenger. Send it to me and I swear that nothing shall keep me away from you.' "The ring was on his finger and he was in my arms. Our pledge was sealed with a kiss.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "She looked timidly around, and seeing herself in that young man's room alone with him, she blushed and seemed thoroughly ashamed of herself. "'Oh! Réné,' said she, 'what must you think of me?' "'That you love me dearly,' quoth he; 'do you not?' "'Yes, indeed; not wisely, but too well.' "Thereupon, taking off her wrappers, she rushed up and clasped her lover in her arms, showering her warm kisses on his head, his eyes, his cheeks and then upon his mouth. That mouth I so longed to kiss! "With lips pressed together, she remained for some time inhaling his breath, and—almost frightened at her boldness—she touched his lips with the tip of her tongue. Then, taking courage, soon afterwards she slipped it in his mouth, and then after a while, she thrust it in and out, as if she were enticing him to try the act of nature by it; she was so convulsed with lust by this kiss that she had to clasp herself to him not to fall, for the blood was rushing to her head, and her knees were almost giving way beneath her. At last, taking his right hand, after squeezingly it hesitatingly for a moment, she placed it within her breasts, giving him her nipple to pinch, and as he did so, the pleasure she felt was so great that she was swooning away for joy. "'Oh, Teleny!' said she; 'I can't! I can't any more.' "And she rubbed herself as strongly as she could against him, protruding her middle parts against his." "And Teleny?" "Well, jealous as I was, I could not help feeling how different his manner was now from the rapturous way with which he had clung to me that evening, when he had taken the bunch of heliotrope from his button-hole and had put it in mine. "He accepted rather than returned her caresses. Anyhow, she seemed pleased, for she thought him shy. "She was now hanging on him. One of her arms was clasped around his waist, the other one around his neck. Her dainty, tapering bejewelled fingers were playing with his curly hair, and paddling his neck. "He was squeezing her breasts, and, as I said before, slightly fingering her nipples. "She gazed deep into his eyes, and then sighed. "'You do not love me,' at last she said. 'I can see it in your eyes. You are not thinking of me, but of somebody else.' "And it was true. At that moment he was thinking of me—fondly, longingly; and then, as he did so, he got more excited, and he caught her in his arms, and hugged and kissed her with far more eagerness than he had hitherto done—nay, he began to suck her tongue as if it had been mine, and then began to thrust his own into her mouth. "After a few moments of rapture she, this time, stopped to take breath.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  I followed. Supporting herself on my shoulder, she got on and I wrapped her feet in bear-skins and placed them on the warming bottle. Then she nodded to me, and dismissed me. I slowly ascended a third-class carriage, which was filled with abominable tobacco-smoke that seemed like the fogs of Acheron at the entrance to Hades. I now had the leisure to muse about the riddle of human existence, and about its greatest riddle of all—woman. * * * * * Whenever the train stops, I jump off, run to her carriage, and with drawn cap await her orders. She wants coffee and then a glass of water, at another time a bowl of warm water to wash her hands, and thus it goes on. She lets several men who have entered her compartment pay court to her. I am dying of jealousy and have to leap about like an antelope so as to secure what she wants quickly and not miss the train. In this way the night passes. I haven’t had time to eat a mouthful and I can’t sleep, I have to breathe the same oniony air with Polish peasants, Jewish peddlers, and common soldiers. When I mount the steps of her coupe, she is lying stretched out on cushions in her comfortable furs, covered up with the skins of animals. She is like an oriental despot, and the men sit like Indian deities, straight upright against the walls and scarcely dare to breathe. * * * * * She stops over in Vienna for a day to go shopping, and particularly to buy series of luxurious gowns. She continues to treat me as her servant. I follow her at the respectful distance of ten paces. She hands me her packages without so much as even deigning a kind look, and laden down like a donkey I pant along behind. Before leaving she takes all my clothes and gives them to the hotel waiters. I am ordered to put on her livery. It is a Cracovian costume in her colors, light-blue with red facings, and red quadrangular cap, ornamented with peacock-feathers. The costume is rather becoming to me. The silver buttons bear her coat of arms. I have the feeling of having been sold or of having bonded myself to the devil. My fair demon leads me from Vienna to Florence. Instead of linen-garbed Mazovians and greasy- haired Jews, my companions now are curly-haired Contadini, a magnificent sergeant of the first Italian Grenadiers, and a poor German painter. The tobacco smoke no longer smells of onions, but of salami and cheese.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  “Thus, with each new access of jealousy (I speak always of causeless jealousy), I entered into the furrow dug formerly by my filthy suspicions, and I continually deepened it. She did the same thing. If I have reasons to be jealous, she who knew my past had a thousand times more. And she was more ill-natured in her jealousy than I. And the sufferings that I felt from her jealousy were different, and likewise very painful. “The situation may be described thus. We are living more or less tranquilly. I am even gay and contented. Suddenly we start a conversation on some most commonplace subject, and directly she finds herself disagreeing with me upon matters concerning which we have been generally in accord. And furthermore I see that, without any necessity therefor, she is becoming irritated. I think that she has a nervous attack, or else that the subject of conversation is really disagreeable to her. We talk of something else, and that begins again. Again she torments me, and becomes irritated. I am astonished and look for a reason. Why? For what? She keeps silence, answers me with monosyllables, evidently making allusions to something. I begin to divine that the reason of all this is that I have taken a few walks in the garden with her cousin, to whom I did not give even a thought. I begin to divine, but I cannot say so. If I say so, I confirm her suspicions. I interrogate her, I question her. She does not answer, but she sees that I understand, and that confirms her suspicions. “‘What is the matter with you?’ I ask. “‘Nothing, I am as well as usual,’ she answers. “And at the same time, like a crazy woman, she gives utterance to the silliest remarks, to the most inexplicable explosions of spite. “Sometimes I am patient, but at other times I break out with anger. Then her own irritation is launched forth in a flood of insults, in charges of imaginary crimes and all carried to the highest degree by sobs, tears, and retreats through the house to the most improbable spots. I go to look for her. I am ashamed before people, before the children, but there is nothing to be done. She is in a condition where I feel that she is ready for anything. I run, and finally find her. Nights of torture follow, in which both of us, with exhausted nerves, appease each other, after the most cruel words and accusations.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "I knew but too well what those sounds meant. For the first time I felt the shattering pangs of jealousy. It seemed as if a poisoned dagger had all at once been thrust into my heart; as if an enormous hydra had caught my body between its jaws, and had driven its huge fangs through the flesh of my chest. "Why had I come here? What was I to do now? Where was I to go? "I felt as if I were collapsing. "My hand was already on the door, but before opening it I did what I suppose most people would have done. Trembling from head to foot, sick at heart, I bent down and looked through the key-hole. "Was I dreaming—was this a dreadful nightmare? "I stuck my nails deep into my flesh to convince myself of my self-consciousness. "And yet I could not feel sure that I was alive and awake. "Life at times loses its sense of reality; it appears to us like a weird, optical illusion—a phantasmagoric bubble that will disappear at the slightest breath. "I held my breath, and looked. "This was, then, no illusion—no vision of my over-heated fancy. "There, on that chair—warm yet with our embraces—two beings were seated. "But who were they? "Perhaps Teleny had ceded his apartment to some friend for that night. Perhaps he had forgotten to mention the fact to me, or else he had not thought it necessary to do so. "Yes, surely, it must be so. Teleny could not deceive me. "I looked again. The light within the room being much brighter than that of the hall, I was able to perceive everything clearly. "A man whose form I could not see was seated on that chair contrived by Teleny's ingenious mind to enhance sensual bliss. A woman with dark, dishevelled hair, robed in a white satin gown, was sitting astride upon him. Her back was thus turned to the door. "I strained my eyes to catch every detail, and I saw that she was not really seated but standing on tiptoe, so that, though rather stout, she skipped lightly upon the man's knees. "Though I could not see, I understood that every time she fell she received within her hole the good-sized pivot on which she seemed so tightly wedged. Moreover, that the pleasure she received thereby was so thrilling that it caused her to rebound like an elastic ball, but only to fall again, and thus engulf within her pulpy, spongy, well-moistened lips, the whole of that quivering rod of pleasure down to its hairy root. Whoever she was—grand lady or whore—she was no tyro, but a woman of great experience, to be able to ride that Cytherean race with such consummate skill.