Surprise

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 Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  "I had Teleny on my couch beside me, and Dr. Charles was my next neighbour. He was a fine, tall, well-built, broad-shouldered man, with a fair-flowing beard, for which—as well as for his name and size—he had been nicknamed Charlemagne. I was surprised to see him wear round his neck a fine Venetian gold chain, to which was hanging—as I first thought—a locket, but which, on closer examination, proved to be a gold laurel wreath studded with brilliants. I asked him if it were a talisman or a relic? "He, thereupon, standing up,—'My friends, Des Grieux here—whose lover I fain would be—asks me what this jewel is; and as most of you have already put me the same question, I'll satisfy you all now, and hold my peace for evermore about it. "'This laurel wreath,' said he, holding it up between his fingers, 'is the reward of merit—or rather, I should say, of chastity: it is my couronne de rosière. Having finished my medical studies and walked the hospitals, I found myself a doctor; but what I could never find was a single patient who would give me not twenty, but a single franc piece for all the physic I administered him. When, one day, Dr. N——n seeing my brawny arms'—and in fact he had arms like a Hercules—'recommended me to an old lady, whose name I'll not mention, for massage. In fact I went to this old dame, whose name is not Potiphar, and who, as I took off my coat and tucked up my sleeves, cast a longing glance upon my muscles and then seemed lost in meditation; afterwards I concluded that she was calculating the rule of proportions. "'Dr. N——n had told me that the weakness of the nerves in her lower limbs was from the knees downwards. She, however, seemed to think that it was from the knees upwards. I was ingenuously puzzled, and—not to make a mistake—I rubbed from the foot upwards; but soon I remarked that the higher I went the more softly she purred. "'After about ten minutes,—"I am afraid I am tiring you," said I; "perhaps it is enough for the first time." "'"Oh," replied she, with the languishing eyes of an old fish, "I could be rubbed by you the whole day. I already feel such a benefit. You have a man's hand for strength, a woman's for softness. But you must be tired, poor fellow! Now, what will you take—Madeira, or dry sherry?" ""Nothing, thank you." "'"A glass of champagne and a biscuit?" "'"No, thanks." "'"You must take something. Oh, I know!—a tiny glass of Alkermes from the Certosa of Florence. Yes, I think I'll sip one with you myself. I already feel so much better for the rubbing." And thereupon she pressed my hand tenderly. "Will you have the kindness to ring?"

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

  But after a look of circumspection, which I saw the eldest cast every way round the room, probably in too much hurry and heat not to overlook the very small opening I was posted at, especially at the height it was, whilst my eye close to it kept the light from shining through and betraying it, he said something to his companion that presently changed the face of things. For now the elder began to embrace, to press and kiss the younger, to put his hands into his bosom, and give him such manifest signs of an amorous intention, as made me conclude the other to be a girl in disguise: a mistake that nature kept me in countenance for, for she had certainly made one, when she gave him the male stamp. In the rashness then of their age, and bent as they were to accomplish their project of preposterous pleasure, at the risk of the very worst of consequences, where a discovery was nothing less than improbable, they now proceeded to such lengths as soon satisfied me what they were. For presently the eldest unbuttoned the other’s breeches, and removing the linen barrier, brought out to view a white shaft, middle sized, and scarce fledged, when after handling and playing with it a little, with other dalliance, all received by the boy without other opposition than certain wayward coyness, ten times-more alluring than repulsive, he got him so turned round, with his face from him, to a chair that stood hard by; when knowing, I suppose, his office, the Ganymede now obsequiously leaned his head against the back of it, and projecting his body, made a fair mark, still covered with his shirt.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  “And this particular Indian stranger was holding a very beautiful powwow dance outfit, a woman’s powwow dance outfit. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was all beaded blue and red and yellow with a thunderbird design. It must have weighed fifty pounds. And I couldn’t imagine the strength of the woman who could dance beneath that magical burden.” Every woman in the world could dance that way. “Well, this Indian stranger said he was in a desperate situation. His wife was dying of cancer and he needed money to pay for her medicine. I knew he was lying. I knew he’d stolen the outfit. I could always smell a thief.” Smell yourself, Ted. “And I knew I should call the police on this thief. I knew I should take that outfit away and find the real owner. But it was so beautiful, so perfect, that I gave the Indian stranger a thousand dollars and sent him on his way. And I kept the outfit.” Whoa, was Ted coming here to make a confession? And why had he chosen my grandmother’s funeral for his confession? “For years, I felt terrible. I’d look at that outfit hanging on the wall of my Montana cabin.” Mansion, Ted, it’s a mansion. Go ahead; you can say it: MANSION! “And then I decided to do some research. I hired an anthropologist, an expert, and he quickly pointed out that the outfit was obviously of Interior Salish origin. And after doing a little research, he discovered that the outfit was Spokane Indian, to be specific. And then, a few years ago, he visited your reservation undercover and learned that this stolen outfit once belonged to a woman named Grandmother Spirit.” We all gasped. This was a huge shock. I wondered if we were all part of some crazy reality show called When Billionaires Pretend to be Human. I looked around for the cameras. “Well, ever since I learned who really owned this outfit, I’ve been torn. I always wanted to give it back. But I wanted to keep it, too. I couldn’t sleep some nights because I was so torn up by it.” Yep, even billionaires have DARK NIGHTS OF THE SOUL. “And, well, I finally couldn’t take it anymore. I packed up the outfit and headed for your reservation, here, to hand-deliver the outfit back to Grandmother Spirit. And I get here only to discover that she’s passed on to the next world. It’s just devastating.” We were all completely silent. This was the weirdest thing any of us had ever witnessed. And we’re Indians, so trust me, we’ve seen some really weird stuff. “But I have the outfit here,” Ted said. He opened up his suitcase and pulled out the outfit and held it up. It was fifty pounds, so he struggled with it. Anybody would have struggled with it. “So if any of Grandmother Spirit’s children are here, I’d love to return her outfit to them.”

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

  I was however already so moved at the piteous sight, that I from my heart repented the undertaking, and would willing had given over, thinking he had full enough; but, he encouraging and beseeching me earnestly to proceed, I gave him ten more lashes; and then resting, surveyed the increase of bloody appearances. And at length, steeled to the height, by his stoutness in suffering, I continued the discipline, by intervals, till I observed him wreathing and twisting his body, in a way that I could plainly perceive was not the effect of pain, but of some new and powerful sensation: curious to dive into the meaning of which, in one of my pauses of intermission, I approached, as he still kept working, and grinding his belly against the cushion under him: and first stroking the untouched and unhurt side of the flesh-mount next me, then softly insinuating my hand under his thigh, felt the posture things were in forwards, which was indeed surprising: for that machine of him, which I had, by its appearance, taken for an impalpable, or at least a very diminutive subject, was now, in virtue of all that smart and havoc of his skin behind, grown not only to a prodigious stiffness of erection, but to a size that frighted even me: a non-pareil thickness indeed! the head of it alone filled the utmost capacity of my grasp. And when, as he heaved and wriggled to and fro, in the agitation of his strange pleasure, it came into view, it had something of the air of a round fillet of veal, and like its owner, squab, and short in proportion to its breadth; but when he felt my hand there, he begged I would go on briskly with my jerking, or he should never arrive at the last stage of pleasure. Resuming then the rode and the exercise of it, I had fairly worn out three bundles, when, after an increase of struggles and motion, and a deep sigh or two, I saw him lie still and motionless; and now he desired me to desist, which I instantly did; and proceeding to untie him, I could not but be amazed at his passive fortitude, on viewing the skin of his butchered, mangled posteriors, late so white, smooth and polished, now all one side of them a confused cut-work of weals, livid flesh, gashes and gore, insomuch that when he stood up, he could scarce walk; in short, he was in sweet-briars. Then I plainly perceived, on the cushion, the marks of a plenteous effusion, and already had his sluggard member run up to its old nestling-place, and enforced itself again, as if ashamed to shew its head; which nothing, it seems, could raise but stripes inflicted on its opposite neighbours, who were thus constantly obliged to suffer for his caprice.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  You all remember me when I was twelve. And when I was younger. Skinny and sickly and smart and smart-ass and wearing those government glasses that weighed about thirty pounds. A lot of kids bullied me. Some of you in this room, some of you bullied me. You know who you are. I certainly remember you. Ha! Yeah, it’s good to laugh. It’s good to tease. We’re Indians. So we know that teasing can be an act of love. But you old bullies shouldn’t worry too much about how mean you used to be. I forgive you. A little bit. But I really wonder how many of you remember hurting me? And maybe I hurt some of you, too, and I don’t remember it. If I ever hurt you, then I am sorry. We were all young and foolish. We were reservation Indian kids, and that was difficult for all of us. I like to joke and tell people that I’m not one of those Indians who believe in magic, but I believe in interpreting coincidence exactly the way I want to. I don’t know if it was a coincidence that Randy came to Well-pinit in sixth grade. He lived only fifteen miles away from my house. But he went to school in Springdale. And I had never met him. The world was a different place back then. It was bigger and smaller at the same time. You could belong to the same tribe, and live on the same reservation only fifteen miles apart, and be the same age, but you could still be strangers to each other. So I didn’t know Randy on his first day of school in Wellpinit. He was small. But he looked mean and tough. Like he was a fighter. You all remember how much we used to punch one another? Boys fighting boys. Girls fighting girls. Girls fighting boys. And almost everybody beating me up. It seemed like that, anyway. I know a lot of you were good kids. I know a lot of you were just as scared and hurting as I was. But you don’t notice that stuff when you’re a kid. Your own life feels so huge that it’s hard to see anybody else’s life. So Randy walks into the classroom. He struts on his little Peone legs. He looks like he will fight anybody. Like he will fight the weather. And I think, “Oh, great, somebody else to bully me.” So I avoid him all day. I even hide in the speech therapy room so I don’t have to go outside at recess and maybe get punched. But it turns out that Randy was getting bullied, instead of the other way around. And Stevie was the worst. You all remember how mean Stevie could be? He went after Randy, the new kid, the new Indian. So Stevie pushes and pushes and pushes Randy, and then Randy pushes back and says, “We’re fighting after school.”

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

  I was however already so moved at the piteous sight, that I from my heart repented the undertaking, and would willing had given over, thinking he had full enough; but, he encouraging and beseeching me earnestly to proceed, I gave him ten more lashes; and then resting, surveyed the increase of bloody appearances. And at length, steeled to the height, by his stoutness in suffering, I continued the discipline, by intervals, till I observed him wreathing and twisting his body, in a way that I could plainly perceive was not the effect of pain, but of some new and powerful sensation: curious to dive into the meaning of which, in one of my pauses of intermission, I approached, as he still kept working, and grinding his belly against the cushion under him: and first stroking the untouched and unhurt side of the flesh-mount next me, then softly insinuating my hand under his thigh, felt the posture things were in forwards, which was indeed surprising: for that machine of him, which I had, by its appearance, taken for an impalpable, or at least a very diminutive subject, was now, in virtue of all that smart and havoc of his skin behind, grown not only to a prodigious stiffness of erection, but to a size that frighted even me: a non-pareil thickness indeed! the head of it alone filled the utmost capacity of my grasp. And when, as he heaved and wriggled to and fro, in the agitation of his strange pleasure, it came into view, it had something of the air of a round fillet of veal, and like its owner, squab, and short in proportion to its breadth; but when he felt my hand there, he begged I would go on briskly with my jerking, or he should never arrive at the last stage of pleasure. Resuming then the rode and the exercise of it, I had fairly worn out three bundles, when, after an increase of struggles and motion, and a deep sigh or two, I saw him lie still and motionless; and now he desired me to desist, which I instantly did; and proceeding to untie him, I could not but be amazed at his passive fortitude, on viewing the skin of his butchered, mangled posteriors, late so white, smooth and polished, now all one side of them a confused cut-work of weals, livid flesh, gashes and gore, insomuch that when he stood up, he could scarce walk; in short, he was in sweet-briars.

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

  He looks, he feels, and satisfies himself: there driving on with fury, its prodigious stiffness, thus impacted, wedgelike, breaks the union of those parts, and gained him just the insertion of the tip of it, lip deep; which being sensible of, he improved his advantage, and following well his stroke, in a straight line, forcibly deepens his penetration; but put me to such intolerable pain, from the separation of the sides of that soft passage by a hard thick body, I could have screamed out; but, as I was unwilling to alarm the house, I held in my breath, and crammed my petticoat, which was; turned up over my face, into my mouth, and bit it through in the agony. At length, the tender texture of that tract giving way to such fierce tearing and rending, he pierced something further into me: and now, outrageous and no longer his own master, but borne headlong away by the fury and over-mettle of that member, now exerting itself with a kind of native rage, he breaks in, carries all before him, and one violent merciless lunge, sent it, imbrued, and reeking with virgin blood, up to the very hilt in me... Then! then all my resolution deserted me: I screamed out, and fainted away with the sharpness of the pain; and, as he told me afterwards, on his drawing out, when emission was over with him, my thighs were instantly all in a stream of blood, that flowed from the wounded torn passage. When I recovered my senses, I found myself undressed and a-bed, in the arms of the sweet relenting murderer of my virginity, who hung mourning tenderly over me, and holding in his hand a cordial, which, coming from the still dear author of so much pain, I could not refuse; my eyes, however, moistened with tears, and languishingly turned upon him, seemed to reproach him with his cruelty, and ask him, if such were the rewards of love.

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

  A spirit of curiosity, far from sudden, since I do not know when I was without it, prompted me, without any particular suspicion, or other drift or view, to see what they were, and examine their persons and behaviour. The partition of our rooms was one of those moveable ones that, when taken down, served occasionally to lay them into one, for the conveniency of as larger company; and now, my nicest search could not shew me the shadow of a peep-hole, a circumstance which probably had not escaped the review of the parties on the other side, whom much it stood upon not to be deceived in it; but at length I observed a paper patch of the same colour as the wainscot, which I took to conceal some flaw; but then it was so high, that I was obliged to stand upon a chair to reach it, which I did as soft as possible, and, with a point of a bodkin, soon pierced it, and opened myself espial room sufficient. And now, applying my eye close, I commanded the room perfectly, and could see my two young sparks romping and pulling one another about, entirely, to my imagination, in frolic and innocent play. The eldest might be, on my nearest guess, towards nineteen, a tall comely young man, in a white fustian frock, with a green velvet cape, and cut bob-wig. The youngest could not be above seventeen, fair, ruddy, completely well made, and to say the truth, a sweet pretty stripling: he was too, I fancy, a country lad, by his dress, which was a green plush frock, and breeches of the same, white waistcoat and stockings, a jockey cap, with his yellowish hair, long and loose, in natural curls. But after a look of circumspection, which I saw the eldest cast every way round the room, probably in too much hurry and heat not to overlook the very small opening I was posted at, especially at the height it was, whilst my eye close to it kept the light from shining through and betraying it, he said something to his companion that presently changed the face of things. For now the elder began to embrace, to press and kiss the younger, to put his hands into his bosom, and give him such manifest signs of an amorous intention, as made me conclude the other to be a girl in disguise: a mistake that nature kept me in countenance for, for she had certainly made one, when she gave him the male stamp. In the rashness then of their age, and bent as they were to accomplish their project of preposterous pleasure, at the risk of the very worst of consequences, where a discovery was nothing less than improbable, they now proceeded to such lengths as soon satisfied me what they were.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  Just then, a school bus pulled up, full of kids from a religion class at the Pacific Palisades high school. Taylor recalled with alarm that they were coming to take a tour that she had previously arranged. The wide-eyed teens watched as Taylor explained to the teacher that this wasn’t the best time for the tour. (They never rescheduled.) Within the church, the explanation for the raid was that some Scientologists were being charged with stealing the Xerox paper they used when they had copied the reports on the church in government files—in other words, it was just another example of jackbooted government goons twisting the Constitution in order to crack down on religious freedom. But when the indictments came out the following year, the scale of Operation Snow White was plainly exposed. Eleven Scientology executives, including Mary Sue Hubbard, were indicted in Operation Snow White. Her husband was named as an unindicted co-conspirator, although it had arisen from his original plan. Saturday Night Fever premiered at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in Hollywood in December. Travolta had spent five months training for the film, running two miles a day and dancing three hours a night. He recognized the opportunity that the film provided, and he supplied a singular, electrifying performance. But when he walked down the red carpet past the fusillade of camera flashes, he looked dazed. “ When I got out of the limo in front of Grauman’s, I was dumbfounded, I didn’t know how to take it,” he said in a televised interview at the after-party. “It was like a fantasy, it was like a dream tonight.” He was twenty-three years old, now an international star. He was also the most conspicuous Scientologist in the world, after only L. Ron Hubbard himself. And who is to say that Scientology didn’t help make his dreams come true? [image file=Image00010.jpg] YVONNE GILLHAM HAD fallen ill. She complained of headaches and was losing weight. She wanted desperately to go to Flag, where she could get the upper-level auditing she thought could cure her, but she was told there wasn’t money for that. Instead, she was sent on a mission to Mexico with her husband, Heber Jentzsch, an actor and musician who later became president of the church, a largely ceremonial post. They had married five years earlier. On her fiftieth birthday, October 20, 1977, while still in Mexico, Yvonne suffered a stroke. Jentzsch sent her back to Los Angeles, while he completed the tour. After that, her daughter Janis, one of Hubbard’s original Messengers, received a beautiful suitcase from her. Inside there was a letter, but it made no sense. Janis tried to find out what was wrong, but no one would say. Her sister, Terri, went to the Sea Org berthing and found Yvonne lying in her room unattended. Finally, she was sent to a hospital, where doctors found a tumor in her brain, which had caused the stroke in the first place.

• From The Liars' Club: A Memoir (1995)

  Flipping back the lid unleashed no winged demons, only the smell of wet newsprint, like a paper you’d picked off a dew-soaked lawn. The top tray held a scattering of sepia photos and letters tied with twine. I also found four jewelry boxes lined up neat as soldiers. Two were covered in black velvet, one in royal-blue satin, another in a deep raspberry grosgrain. Each clicked wide to show some version of a wedding ring. The family jewels, I figured. I squatted on my haunches to lift the whole tray, to tote it down to the kitchen. Mother had fixed iced tea before I’d gone up. I could picture the swollen crockery pitcher beaded with frost in the dark fridge, little pinwheels of lemon floating in the brown tea. The instant I stood, though, what lay in the trunk bottom startled me into dropping the tray. It fell heavy on the tops of my bare feet, as if some huge fist had smashed down on it dead center. The wedding rings and snapshots and letter bundles went spilling around. At the same time, I stumbled back into a swollen box of Christmas decorations. The box edge caught me behind my knees, which buckled. My hands shot down to stop the fall. They plunged up to the elbows in a rat’s nest of tinsel and colored lights. Glass balls in thin containers crunched under my weight like boxed eggs blown hollow. A spiky plastic star raked a scratch up the inside of one arm. But all this barely slowed my panicked, backward-scrambling motion, for lying in the trunk bottom was Grandma Moore’s prosthetic leg. The mortician had left the thick stocking stretched on and tied off in a silly top-knot where her thigh should have been. The same stiff black shoe was stuck on the rigid foot, which was carved toeless, like a doll’s stub. Maybe a coiled rattler weaving its head and shaking out a rasp would’ve panicked me more, but I doubt it. Mother found me standing in the cool green light of the icebox. She bore her laundry hamper of linens into the kitchen behind me. The bleach smell preceded her so I turned from the open fridge door. I’d been scooping out the heart of a deep watermelon round, using my bare hands to claw out chunks, letting the sticky juice go down my chin, swallowing the black patent-leather-looking seeds along with the fruit, which was sweet and cold in a way that made my back fillings ache. If this pose struck Mother as odd, she didn’t say. She just wanted to know did I find anything useful in the attic. But when I asked about that line-up of wedding rings, whose they were, the whole tenor of the room altered.

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

  Cole’s place of retirement lying in my way, was not amongst the least of the pleasures I had proposed to myself in this expedition. I had taken nobody with me but a discreet decent woman, to figure it as my companion, besides my servants; and was scarce got into an inn, about twenty miles from London, where I was to sup and pass the night, when such a storm of wind and rain come on, as made me congratulate myself on having got under shelter before it began. This had continued a good half an hour, when bethinking me of some directions to be given to the coachman, I sent for him, not caring that his shoes should soil the very clean parlour, in which the cloth was laid, I stept into the hall kitchen, where he was, and where, whilst I was talking to him, I slantingly observed two horsemen driven in by the weather, and both wringing wet; one of whom was asking if they could not be assisted with a change, while their clothes were dried. But, heavens! who can express what I felt at the sound of a voice, ever present to my heart, and that it now rebounded at! or when pointing my eyes towards the person it came from, they confirmed its information, in spite of so long an absence, and of a dress one would have studied for a disguise: a horseman’s great coat, with a stamp-up cape, and his hat flapped... but what could escape the alertness of a sense truly guided by love?

• From Going Clear (2013)

  When Hana Eltringham saw she wasn’t on the list, she wrote Hubbard, pleading to be included, saying she would be willing to perform any duty. To her surprise, Hubbard appointed her chief officer. One very dark, overcast night in 1968, the Avon River dropped anchor on the western coast of Sicily, in the bay of Castellammare del Golfo, beside a steep promontory topped by an ancient watchtower. Hubbard gave his “missionaires” a treasure map he had drawn up based on his past-life recollections. The crew set out in one of the rafts toward the rocky shoreline, lugging ropes, shovels, and metal detectors. Giggling and tripping over one another, they scrambled up a ten-foot cliff. It was so dark they couldn’t see more than a foot in front of their faces. Each had a hand on another’s shoulder as they picked their way through stands of cactus along the rocky outcropping. At one point, the leader of the expedition bumped into a cow. The cow started mooing, then a dog barked, and a light went on in a house nearby. Everyone stood dead still until the scene quieted down. Finally, the clouds parted enough for the moon to shine through. The missionaires found some old bricks they thought might have been the ruins of a castle beside the watchtower. The metal detectors found nothing. Hubbard decided to come along the next day to inspect the site himself. “Yes, yes, this is the place!” he said excitedly. He explained the absence of treasure by saying that it must have been hidden in a portion of the ruined castle that had fallen into the sea. The expedition moved on to Sardinia, where Hubbard claimed to have had an affair with the priestess in a temple—“ liaisons in the moonlight,” he told his enchanted missionaires—when he was a Carthaginian sailor. “ We had a lot of good-looking girls in Carthage but they didn’t come up to her.” The Avon River next stopped in Calabria, on the toe of Italy, where Hubbard had buried gold in his days as a tax collector in the Roman Empire. None was found, however. Near Tunis, where the missionaires hoped to dive on the ruins of an ancient underwater city, Hubbard found fault with the captain of the Avon River , Joe van Staden, and booted him off the ship. Eltringham was sitting at her desk on the ’tween deck when Hubbard called her into his office and told her she was the new captain of the four-hundred-ton trawler, starting in the morning. Eltringham went back to her desk and put her head in her hands. She was twenty-six years old. Everything she knew about sailing she had learned from Hubbard. To his credit, he had been a good teacher. He had taken a dozen members of the original Sea Org crew and taught them the semaphore code, how to navigate using a sextant, and basic laws of the sea.

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

  As soon as she was gone, the table was removed from the middle, and became a side-board; a couch was brought into its place, of which when I whisperingly inquired the reason, of my particular, he told me, “that as it was chiefly on my account that his convention was met, the parties intended at once to humour their taste of variety in pleasures, and by an open public enjoyment, to see me broke of any taint of reserve or modesty, which they looked on as the poison of joy; that though they occasionally preached pleasure, and lived up to the text, they did not enthusiastically set up for missionaries, and only indulged themselves in the delights of a practical instruction of all the pretty women they liked well enough to bestow it upon, and who fell properly in the way of it; but that as such a proposal might be too violent, too shocking for a young beginner, the old standers were to set an example, which he hoped I would not be averse to follow, since it was to him I was devolved in favour of the first experiment; but that still I was perfectly at my liberty to refuse the party, which being in its nature one of pleasure, supposed an exclusion of all force or constraint.” My countenance expressed, no doubt, my surprise as my silence did my acquiescence. I was now embarked, and thoroughly determined on any voyage the company would take me on.

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

  I had now lived near seven months with Mr. H.... when one day returning to my lodgings, from a visit in the neighbourhood, where I used to stay longer, I found the street door open, and the maid of the house standing at it, talking with some of her acquaintance, so that I came in without knocking and, as I passed by, she told me Mr. H.... was above. I slept up stairs into my own bed-chamber, with no other thought than of pulling off my hat etc., and then to wait upon him in the dining room, into which my bed-chamber had a door, as is common enough. Whilst I was untying my hat strings, I fancied I heard my maid Hannah’s voice and a sort of tustle, which raised my curiosity; I stole softly to the door, where a knot in the wood had been slipped out, and afforded a very commanding peep-hole to the scene then in agitation, the actors of which had been to earnestly employed to hear my opening my own door, from the landing place of the stairs, into my bedchamber. The first sight that struck me was Mr. H.... pulling and hauling this coarse country strammel towards a couch that stood in a corner of the dining-room; to which the girl made only a sort of awkward holdening resistance, crying out so loud, that I, who listened at the door, could scarce hear her: “Pray Sir, don’t.., let me alone... I am not for your turn... You cannot, sure, demean yourself with such a poor body as I... Lord! Sir, my mistress may come home... I must not indeed... I will cry out...” All of which did not hinder her from insensibly suffering herself to be brought to the foot of the couch, upon which a push of no mighty violence served to give her a very easy fall, and my gentleman having got up his hands to the strong hold of her Virtue, she, no doubt, thought it was time to give up the argument, and that all further defense would be vain: and he, throwing her petticoats over her face, which was now as red as scarlet, discovered a pair of stout, plump, substantial thighs, and tolerably white; he mounted them round his haps, and coming out with his drawn weapon, stuck it in the cloven sport, where he seemed to find a less difficult entrance than perhaps he had flattered himself with (for, by the way, this blouse had left her place in the country, for a bastard), and, indeed, all his motions shewed he was lodged pretty much at large. After he had done, his Deare gets up, drops her petticoats down, and smooths her apron and handkerchief. Mr. H.... looked a little silly, and taking out some money, gave it her, with an air indifferent enough, bidding her be a good girl, and say nothing.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  So I sort of, er, physically reacted to her hug. And the thing is, Miss Warren was hugging me so tight that I was pretty sure she could feel my, er, physical reaction. I was kind of proud, you know? “Arnold, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I just got a phone call from your mother. It’s your sister. She’s passed away.” “What do you mean?” I asked. I knew what she meant, but I wanted her to say something else. Anything else. “Your sister is gone,” Miss Warren said. “I know she’s gone,” I said. “She lives in Montana now.” I knew I was being an idiot. But I figured if I kept being an idiot, if I didn’t actually accept the truth, then the truth would become false. “No,” Miss Warren said. “Your sister, she’s dead.” That was it. I couldn’t fake my way around that. Dead is dead. I was stunned. But I wasn’t sad. The grief didn’t hit me right away. No, I was mostly ashamed of my, er, physical reaction to the hug. Yep, I had a big erection when I learned of my sister’s death. How perverted is that? How inappropriately hormonal can one boy be? “How did she die?” I asked. “Your father is coming to get you,” Miss Warren said. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. You can wait in my office.” “How did she die?” I asked again. “Your father is coming to get you,” Miss Warren said again. I knew then that she didn’t want to tell me how my sister had died. I figured it must have been an awful death. “Was she murdered?” I asked. “Your father is coming.” Man, Miss Warren was a LAME counselor. She didn’t know what to say to me. But then again, I couldn’t really blame her. She’d never counseled a student whose sibling had just died. “Was my sister murdered?” I asked. “Please,” Miss Warren said. “You need to talk to your father.” She looked so sad that I let it go. Well, I mostly let it go. I certainly didn’t want to wait in her office. The guidance office was filled with self-help books and inspirational posters and SAT test books and college brochures and scholarship applications, and I knew that none of that, absolutely none of it, meant shit. I knew I’d probably tear her office apart if I had to wait there. “Miss Warren,” I said, “I want to wait outside.” “But it’s snowing,” she said. “Well, that would make it perfect, then, wouldn’t it?” I said. It was a rhetorical question, meaning there wasn’t supposed to be an answer, right? But poor Miss Warren, she answered my rhetorical question. “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait in the snow,” she said. “You’re very vulnerable right now.” VULNERABLE!

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  I was kind of proud, you know? “Arnold, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I just got a phone call from your mother. It’s your sister. She’s passed away.” “What do you mean?” I asked. I knew what she meant, but I wanted her to say something else. Anything else. “Your sister is gone,” Miss Warren said. “I know she’s gone,” I said. “She lives in Montana now.” I knew I was being an idiot. But I figured if I kept being an idiot, if I didn’t actually accept the truth, then the truth would become false. “No,” Miss Warren said. “Your sister, she’s dead.” That was it. I couldn’t fake my way around that. Dead is dead. I was stunned. But I wasn’t sad. The grief didn’t hit me right away. No, I was mostly ashamed of my, er, physical reac tion to the hug. Yep, I had a big erection when I learned of my sister’s death. How perverted is that? How inappropriately hormonal can one boy be? “How did she die?” I asked. “Your father is coming to get you,” Miss Warren said. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. You can wait in my office.” “How did she die?” I asked again. “Your father is coming to get you,” Miss Warren said again. I knew then that she didn’t want to tell me how my sister had died. I figured it must have been an awful death. “Was she murdered?” I asked. “Your father is coming.” Man, Miss Warren was a LAME counselor. She didn’t know what to say to me. But then again, I couldn’t really blame her. She’d never counseled a student whose sibling had just died. “Was my sister murdered?” I asked. “Please,” Miss Warren said. “You need to talk to your father.” She looked so sad that I let it go. Well, I mostly let it go. I certainly didn’t want to wait in her office. The guidance office was filled with self-help books and inspirational posters and SAT test books and college brochures and scholarship applications, and I knew that none of that, absolutely none of it, meant shit. I knew I’d probably tear her office apart if I had to wait there. “Miss Warren,” I said, “I want to wait outside.” “But it’s snowing,” she said. “Well, that would make it perfect, then, wouldn’t it?” I said. It was a rhetorical question, meaning there wasn’t supposed to be an answer, right? But poor Miss Warren, she answered my rhetorical question. “No, I don’t think it’s a good idea to wait in the snow,” she said. “You’re very vulnerable right now.” VULNERABLE! She told me I was vulnerable. My big sister was dead.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  And I’d never heard anybody say that she was smarter than me. I was happy and jealous at the same time. My sister, the basement mole rat, was smarter than me? “Well,” I said, “My mom and dad are pretty smart, too, so I guess it runs in the family.” “Your sister wanted to be a writer,” Mr. P said. “Really?” I asked. I was surprised by that. She’d never said anything about that to me. Or to Mom and Dad. Or to anybody. “I never heard her say that,” I said. “She was shy about it,” Mr. P said. “She always thought people would make fun of her.” “For writing books? People would have thought she was a hero around here. Maybe she could have made movies or something, too. That would have been cool.” “Well, she wasn’t shy about the idea of writing books. She was shy about the kind of books she wanted to write.” “What kind of books did she want to write?” I asked. “You’re going to laugh.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.” “No, I’m not.” “Yes, you are.” Jeez, we had both turned into seven-year-olds. “Just tell me,” I said. It was weird that a teacher was telling me things I didn’t know about my sister. It made me wonder what else I didn’t know about her. “She wanted to write romance novels.” Of course, I giggled at that idea. “Hey,” Mr. P said. “You weren’t supposed to laugh.” “I didn’t laugh.” “Yes, you laughed.” “No, I didn’t.” “Yes, you did.” “Maybe I laughed a little.” “A little laugh is still a laugh.” And then I laughed for real. A big laugh. “Romance novels,” I said. “Those things are just sort of silly, aren’t they?” “Lots of people—mostly women—love them,” Mr. P said. “They buy millions of them. There are lots of writers who make millions by writing romance novels.” “What kind of romances?” I asked. “She never really said, but she did like to read the Indian ones. You know the ones I’m talking about?” Yes, I did know. Those romances always featured a love affair between a virginal white schoolteacher or preacher’s wife and a half-breed Indian warrior. The covers were hilarious: “You know,” I said, “I don’t think I ever saw my sister reading one of those things.” “She kept them hidden,” Mr. P said. Well, that is a big difference between my sister and me. I hide the magazines filled with photos of naked women; my sister hides her tender romance novels that tell stories about naked women (and men). I want the pictures; my sister wants the words. “I don’t remember her ever writing anything,” I said. “Oh, she loved to write short stories. Little romantic stories. She wouldn’t let anybody read them. But she’d always be scribbling in her notebook.” “Wow,” I said.

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

  H.... when one day returning to my lodgings, from a visit in the neighbourhood, where I used to stay longer, I found the street door open, and the maid of the house standing at it, talking with some of her acquaintance, so that I came in without knocking and, as I passed by, she told me Mr. H.... was above. I slept up stairs into my own bed-chamber, with no other thought than of pulling off my hat etc., and then to wait upon him in the dining room, into which my bed-chamber had a door, as is common enough. Whilst I was untying my hat strings, I fancied I heard my maid Hannah’s voice and a sort of tustle, which raised my curiosity; I stole softly to the door, where a knot in the wood had been slipped out, and afforded a very commanding peep-hole to the scene then in agitation, the actors of which had been to earnestly employed to hear my opening my own door, from the landing place of the stairs, into my bedchamber. The first sight that struck me was Mr. H.... pulling and hauling this coarse country strammel towards a couch that stood in a corner of the dining-room; to which the girl made only a sort of awkward holdening resistance, crying out so loud, that I, who listened at the door, could scarce hear her: “Pray Sir, don’t.., let me alone... I am not for your turn... You cannot, sure, demean yourself with such a poor body as I... Lord! Sir, my mistress may come home... I must not indeed... I will cry out...” All of which did not hinder her from insensibly suffering herself to be brought to the foot of the couch, upon which a push of no mighty violence served to give her a very easy fall, and my gentleman having got up his hands to the strong hold of her Virtue, she, no doubt, thought it was time to give up the argument, and that all further defense would be vain: and he, throwing her petticoats over her face, which was now as red as scarlet, discovered a pair of stout, plump, substantial thighs, and tolerably white; he mounted them round his haps, and coming out with his drawn weapon, stuck it in the cloven sport, where he seemed to find a less difficult entrance than perhaps he had flattered himself with (for, by the way, this blouse had left her place in the country, for a bastard), and, indeed, all his motions shewed he was lodged pretty much at large. After he had done, his Deare gets up, drops her petticoats down, and smooths her apron and handkerchief. Mr. H.... looked a little silly, and taking out some money, gave it her, with an air indifferent enough, bidding her be a good girl, and say nothing.

• From The Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological Theory of Religion (1967)

  became a rallying point especially for younger theologians disillusioned with neo-orthodoxy, both in America and, a little later, in Europe. The new attitude toward the secular world was strongly stated by Friedrich Gogarten (who had been associated with neo-orthodoxy in the early 1920s and had broken with Barth when the latter turned away from his early existentialist leanings to a new dogmatic objectivity) in a book published in 1953 (8). It was after this that the somewhat dissonant terms “secular theology” or “secular Christianity” began to gain currency. The late works of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, particularly the notion of “religionless Christianity” developed in Bonhoeffer’s correspondence from prison, were widely used to legitimate the new approach, though it is far from clear whether Bonhoeffer would have gone in this direction if he had survived the war (9). The assault on neo-orthodoxy in Germany came to a certain head in a theological manifesto put out by a group of younger theologians in 1963 and, in Barth’s teeth as it were, entitled Revelation as History (10). These developments within academic theology, highly “appropriate” to the postwar situation as we had tried to indicate, were practically begging for popularization. That prayer was answered (if the phrase may be permitted in the context of “demythologization”) by the publication of John Robinson’s Honest to God in 1963 (11). The book immediately led to a storm of public controversy upon its publication in England—this time not in the theological journals but in the daily press and the other media of mass communication. The pattern was followed in America and in other countries where the book appeared in translation. In America the mass-media-covered controversy projected the “new theology” into wide public awareness and was soon followed by the even more “radical” phenomenon of the 190

• From The Surprising Lives of Christian Saints (2023)

  22. Josephine Bakhita: Freed from Slavery When the British announced they would withdraw from the Sudan and evacuate foreigners, there was a hurried exodus. The Legnanis were among the families who fled northward in late 1884, eventually arriving in Genoa. There, they encountered friends from the Sudan: the Michielis, hoteliers who owned a luxury property in the Red Sea port city of Suakin. Maria Turina Michieli pressed her husband for a slave to look after their daughter, and Legnani gave Bakhita to them. Bakhita would have found herself in an entirely strange place, surrounded by people speaking a language she did not yet understand. To be so suddenly and casually cast off from the Legnanis—whom she clearly valued—must have caused her deep shock. The Michielis seem to have led a divided life between their property in Mirano, just outside Venice, and their hotel in Suakin. The situation in Sudan remained unstable for some years. After a calm interlude near Venice, during which Bakhita picked up the Venetian dialect that she spoke for most of her adult life, the Michielis spent nearly a year in Suakin, after which they decided to stay and make it their permanent base. The women of the household were sent back to Italy to wind up the family affairs there, a process that took some 2 years. Finally, unable to sell their property, Maria Turina departed again for Suakin to consult with her husband. She left her daughter and Bakhita in the care of a close friend, Illuminato Cecchini. Bakhita’s Religious Life Cecchini was a devout Catholic and an advocate for peasants. He seems to have begun Bakhita’s conversion to Christianity and to have encouraged further instruction by arranging lodging for Bakhita and her charge in Venice with the Canossian Daughters of Charity, an order of nuns also devoted to serving the poor. They were founded in nearby Verona in the early 1800s, and by the time Bakhita encountered them in 1888, they had multiple houses in Italy and Southeast Asia. By the time Maria Turina Michieli returned to collect them, Bakhita had developed a strong affinity for the sisters and her new faith. She bravely refused to go with Maria Turina, and they argued bitterly. 169