Tenderness

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She sat on his thighs, her head against his breast, and her ivory-gleaming legs loosely apart, the fire glowing unequally upon them. Sitting with his head dropped, he looked at the folds of her body in the fireglow, and at the fleece of soft brown hair that hung down to a point between her open thighs. He reached to the table behind, and took up her bunch of flowers, still so wet that drops of rain fell on to her. "Flowers stops out of doors all weathers," he said. "They have no houses." "Not even a hut!" she murmured. With quiet fingers he threaded a few forget-me-not flowers in the fine brown fleece of the mount of Venus. "There!" he said. "There's forget-me-nots in the right place!" She looked down at the milky odd little flowers among the brown maiden-hair at the lower tip of her body. "Doesn't it look pretty!" she said. "Pretty as life," he replied. And he stuck a pink campion bud among the hair. "There! That's me where you won't forget me! That's Moses in the bulrushes." "You don't mind, do you, that I'm going away?" she asked wistfully, looking up into his face. But his face was inscrutable, under the heavy brows. He kept it quite blank. "You do as you wish," he said. And he spoke in good English. "But I won't go if you don't wish it," she said, clinging to him. There was silence. He leaned and put another piece of wood on the fire. The flame glowed on his silent, abstracted face. She waited, but he said nothing. "Only I thought it would be a good way to begin a break with Clifford. I do want a child. And it would give me a chance to, to--" she resumed. "To let them think a few lies," he said. "Yes, that among other things. Do you want them to think the truth?" "I don't care what they think." "I do! I don't want them handling me with their unpleasant cold minds, not while I'm still at Wragby. They can think what they like when I'm finally gone." He was silent. "But Sir Clifford expects you to come back to him?" "Oh, I must come back," she said: and there was silence. "And would you have a child in Wragby?" he asked. She closed her arm round his neck. "If you wouldn't take me away, I should have to," she said. "Take you where to?" "Anywhere! away! But right away from Wragby." "When?" "Why, when I come back." "But what's the good of coming back, doing the thing twice, if you're once gone?" he said. "Oh, I must come back. I've promised! I've promised so faithfully. Besides, I come back to you, really." "To your husband's gamekeeper?" "I don't see that that matters," she said. "No?" He mused a while. "And when would you think of going away again, then; finally? When exactly?"

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor forlorn thing, she was nicer than she knew, and oh! so much too nice for the tough lot she was in contact with. Poor thing, she too had some of the vulnerability of the wild hyacinths, she wasn't all tough rubber-goods and platinum, like the modern girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Somewhere she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinths, something that has gone out of the celluloid women of today. But he would protect her with his heart for a little while. For a little while, before the insentient iron world and the Mammon of mechanised greed did them both in, her as well as him. He went home with his gun and his dog, to the dark cottage, lit the lamp, started the fire, and ate his supper of bread and cheese, young onions and beer. He was alone, in a silence he loved. His room was clean and tidy, but rather stark. Yet the fire was bright, the hearth white, the petroleum lamp hung bright over the table, with its white oil-cloth. He tried to read a book about India, but tonight he could not read. He sat by the fire in his shirtsleeves, not smoking, but with a mug of beer in reach. And he thought about Connie. To tell the truth, he was sorry for what had happened, perhaps most for her sake. He had a sense of foreboding. No sense of wrong or sin; he was troubled by no conscience in that respect. He knew that conscience was chiefly fear of society, or fear of oneself. He was not afraid of himself. But he was quite consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a malevolent, partly-insane beast. The woman! If she could be there with him, and there were nobody else in the world! The desire rose again, his penis began to stir like a live bird. At the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his shoulders. She, poor young thing, was just a young female creature to him; but a young female creature whom he had gone into and whom he desired again.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  She was with me in a split second, and, for a miracle, my urethra did not lock itself back up. Her arms tightened around me, and I knew the sound was arousing her. It was a very intimate moment. I felt closer to her then than I’ve felt to some women who had their tongues in my mouth. When I was done, she wiped me neatly, took off my boots and socks, and told me to step out of my jeans. She hung all my clothes up behind the door. The leash (her scarf) was slipped off my throat and hung there as well. “Temporarily,” she reassured me. She handled and examined me, squeezing my breasts and buttocks, slapping me lightly a couple of times on the ass. When the tub was full, she handed me into the water, then settled back to watch me bathe. Jessie obviously spent a lot of time in her bathtub. There were several different brushes, washcloths, soaps, scrubbers, and sponges arranged on a bathwheel. There were enough towels around for four people. Enough room in the tub for them, too. I lathered myself thoroughly and slowly, rinsing with equal care. She made me stand up and face her to wash my cunt, smiled, and told me to wash it again. When I got out, she dried me, using a very soft towel. All she had to do was pat me gently all over, and the moisture vanished from my skin. She would not let me dress (or pee) again, just wrapped me in another towel and ordered me to kneel for the leash. I was so glad she did not forget that small detail. It is easy to forget a promise made to someone who is in your power. But it is by such small things that adoration flourishes or withers away. Using the silk leash, she guided me across the hall into another room. I was in candlelight again, so I couldn’t see clearly, but I picked out the vague shape of a piano in the corner. One wall was plastered with posters—no, they were blown-up photographs. I recognized Patti Smith, Chrissie Hynde, Joan Jett, Girlschool. “Where did all those pictures come from?” I asked. “I’m a photographer,” she said briefly. “And a groupie.” “Oh.” What else could I say? I have to admit, if any of those women made her feel the way she made me feel, I didn’t want to know about it. At least, not right now.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up against 'em." "And do you think you're not tame?" "Maybe not quite!" At length she saw in the distance a yellow light. She stood still. "There is a light?" she said. "I always leave a light in the house," he said. She went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why she was going with him at all. He unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. As if it were a prison, she thought! The kettle was singing by the red fire, there were cups on the table. She sat in the wooden armchair by the fire. It was warm after the chill outside. "I'll take off my shoes, they are wet," she said. She sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. He went to the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. She was warm: she took off her coat. He hung it on the door. "Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?" he asked. "I don't think I want anything," she said, looking at the table. "But you eat." "Nay, I don't care about it. I'll just feed the dog." He tramped with a quiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him anxiously. "Ay, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it!" he said. He set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by the wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog, instead of eating, came to him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled. He slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer. "What's amiss wi' thee then? Art upset because there's somebody else here? Tha'rt a female, tha art! Go an' eat thy supper." He put his hand on her head, and the bitch leaned her head sideways against him. He slowly, softly pulled the long silky ear. "There!" he said. "There! Go an' eat thy supper! Go!" He tilted his chair towards the pot on the mat, and the dog meekly went, and fell to eating. "Do you like dogs?" Connie asked him. "No, not really. They're too tame and clinging." He had taken off his leggings and was unlacing his heavy boots. Connie had turned from the fire. How bare the little room was! Yet over his head on the wall hung a hideous enlarged photograph of a young married couple, apparently him and a bold-faced young woman, no doubt his wife. "Is that you?" Connie asked him. He twisted and looked at the enlargement above his head. "Ay! Taken just afore we was married, when I was twenty-one." He looked at it impassively. "Do you like it?" Connie asked him.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments passed. A dimness came over her, like a swoon. All her consciousness died, and she stood there wide-eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing nothing any more. He looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide-eyed and lost. And as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body, which somehow felt hurt right through. And there he held her, and there she remained. Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under the clothing to where she was smooth and warm. "Ma lass!" he murmured. "Ma little lass! Dunna let's fight! Dunna let's niver fight! I love thee an' th' touch on thee. Dunna argue wi' me! Dunna! Dunna! Dunna! Let's be together." She lifted her face and looked at him. "Don't be upset," she said steadily. "It's no good being upset. Do you really want to be together with me?" She looked with wide, steady eyes into his face. He stopped, and went suddenly still, turning his face aside. All his body went perfectly still, but did not withdraw. Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, with his odd, faintly mocking grin, saying: "Ay-ay! Let's be together on oath." "But really?" she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Ay really! Heart an' belly an' cock." He still smiled faintly down at her, with the flicker of irony in his eyes, and a touch of bitterness. She was silently weeping, and he lay with her and went into her there on the hearthrug, and so they gained a measure of equanimity. And then they went quickly to bed, for it was growing chill, and they had tired each other out. And she nestled up to him, feeling small and enfolded, and they both went to sleep at once, fast in one sleep. And so they lay and never moved, till the sun rose over the wood and day was beginning. Then he woke up and looked at the light. The curtains were drawn. He listened to the loud wild calling of blackbirds and thrushes in the wood. It would be a brilliant morning, about half-past five, his hour for rising. He had slept so fast! It was such a new day! The woman was still curled asleep and tender. His hand moved on her, and she opened her blue, wondering eyes, smiling unconsciously into his face. "Are you awake?" she said to him. He was looking into her eyes. He smiled, and kissed her. And suddenly she roused and sat up. "Fancy that I am here!" she said.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Of course she knows your Ladyship! She's just showing off," said Mrs. Flint, glowing and looking up with a sort of flushed confusion, "but it's so long since she's seen you. I do hope you are better." "Yes thanks, I'm all right." "We've hardly seen you all winter. Will you come in and look at the baby?" "Well!" Connie hesitated. "Just for a minute." Mrs. Flint flew wildly in to tidy up, and Connie came slowly after her, hesitating in the rather dark kitchen where the kettle was boiling by the fire. Back came Mrs. Flint. "I do hope you'll excuse me," she said. "Will you come in here." They went into the living-room, where a baby was sitting on the rag hearthrug, and the table was roughly set for tea. A young servant-girl backed down the passage, shy and awkward. The baby was a perky little thing of about a year, with red hair like its father, and cheeky pale-blue eyes. It was a girl, and not to be daunted. It sat among cushions and was surrounded with rag dolls and other toys in modern excess. "Why, what a dear she is!" said Connie, "and how she's grown! A big girl! A big girl!" She had given it a shawl when it was born, and celluloid ducks for Christmas. "There, Josephine! Who's that come to see you? Who's this, Josephine? Lady Chatterley--you know Lady Chatterley, don't you?" The queer pert little mite gazed cheekily at Connie. Ladyships were still all the same to her. "Come! Will you come to me?" said Connie to the baby. The baby didn't care one way or another, so Connie picked her up and held her in her lap. How warm and lovely it was to hold a child in one's lap, and the soft little arms, the unconscious cheeky little legs. "I was just having a rough cup of tea all by myself. Luke's gone to market, so I can have it when I like. Would you care for a cup, Lady Chatterley? I don't suppose it's what you're used to, but if you would." Connie would, though she didn't want to be reminded of what she was used to. There was a great relaying of the table, and the best cups brought and the best teapot. "If only you wouldn't take any trouble," said Connie. But if Mrs. Flint took no trouble, where was the fun! So Connie played with the child and was amused by its little female dauntlessness, and got a deep voluptuous pleasure out of its soft young warmth. Young life! And so fearless! So fearless, because so defenceless. All the older people, so narrow with fear! She had a cup of tea, which was rather strong, and very good bread and butter, and bottled damsons. Mrs. Flint flushed and glowed and bridled with excitement, as if Connie were some gallant knight. And they had a real female chat, and both of them enjoyed it.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor forlorn thing, she was nicer than she knew, and oh! so much too nice for the tough lot she was in contact with. Poor thing, she too had some of the vulnerability of the wild hyacinths, she wasn't all tough rubber-goods and platinum, like the modern girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Somewhere she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinths, something that has gone out of the celluloid women of today. But he would protect her with his heart for a little while. For a little while, before the insentient iron world and the Mammon of mechanised greed did them both in, her as well as him. He went home with his gun and his dog, to the dark cottage, lit the lamp, started the fire, and ate his supper of bread and cheese, young onions and beer. He was alone, in a silence he loved. His room was clean and tidy, but rather stark. Yet the fire was bright, the hearth white, the petroleum lamp hung bright over the table, with its white oil-cloth. He tried to read a book about India, but tonight he could not read. He sat by the fire in his shirtsleeves, not smoking, but with a mug of beer in reach. And he thought about Connie. To tell the truth, he was sorry for what had happened, perhaps most for her sake. He had a sense of foreboding. No sense of wrong or sin; he was troubled by no conscience in that respect. He knew that conscience was chiefly fear of society, or fear of oneself. He was not afraid of himself. But he was quite consciously afraid of society, which he knew by instinct to be a malevolent, partly-insane beast. The woman! If she could be there with him, and there were nobody else in the world! The desire rose again, his penis began to stir like a live bird. At the same time an oppression, a dread of exposing himself and her to that outside Thing that sparkled viciously in the electric lights, weighed down his shoulders. She, poor young thing, was just a young female creature to him; but a young female creature whom he had gone into and whom he desired again.

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

  But the man seemed to collect himself and he loosened his hold somewhat, although not enough so that she could escape him. For several moments he simply held her close to him, and she could feel his heart hammering inside his chest. His face was buried in her hair and, momentarily mesmerized by the smell of it; he relaxed his hold on her slightly as he inhaled the sweet scent. Thinking this her opportunity to bolt, she twisted herself out of his grasp and turned to flee. In that instant, the enchanted comb fell from her hair, releasing it, even as her captor reached out for her. Her loosened tresses fell directly into one of his hands and he closed it tightly around them. She was abruptly obliged to halt her escape. Very slowly, and purposefully, he wound her hair around his hand, round and round, bringing her closer and closer to him, until her face was only inches from his own. Something within her stirred. With his hand still clutching her hair, he gently pulled backwards, forcing her head back and positioning her lips directly below his own. She felt his familiar warm breath on her lips before he claimed them in a gentle kiss, just like the old familiar kisses she now remembered. She shuddered to think that she had almost run away from him. But why had he been so violent with her when she first approached him? She blushed suddenly as she imagined her prince standing there in the dark, listening to the sounds of her lovemaking with those impostors who managed to fool her into thinking that they were him. She realized that it was anger that had made him grab her so brutally. But he was tender with her now, as his body entered her right there where he was obliged to stand until she released him. They clung to each other in the darkness and, finally certain of her true prince, she whispered, “I love you.” Upon this admission, they were at once returned to the castle of the white bear, where they were both once again lying together in their very own bed. There were one hundred candles lit about the room, and the two gazed at each other, amazed by all that had happened. The prince and his true love were married, of course, and have lived happily together since that day. And though she loves nothing more than the sight of her handsome prince, his wife sometimes dreams about that unknown lover, and, on such occasions, he comes to her. Even now, this very evening, the prince is waiting outside her bedchamber door until it is fully dark, when he will slip quietly in…

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She was very deft, with a soft, lingering touch, a little slow. At first he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her fingers on his face. But now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness. He let her shave him nearly every day: her face near his, her eyes so very concentrated, watching that she did it right. And gradually her fingertips knew his cheeks and lips, his jaw and chin and throat perfectly. He was well-fed and well-liking, his face and throat were handsome enough, and he was a gentleman. She was handsome too, pale, her face rather long and absolutely still, her eyes bright, but revealing nothing. Gradually, with infinite softness, almost with love, she was getting him by the throat, and he was yielding to her. She now did almost everything for him, and he felt more at home with her, less ashamed of accepting her menial offices, than with Connie. She liked handling him. She loved having his body in her charge, absolutely, to the last menial offices. She said to Connie one day: "All men are babies, when you come to the bottom of them. Why, I've handled some of the toughest customers as ever went down Tevershall pit. But let anything ail them so that you have to do for them, and they're babies, just big babies. Oh, there's not much difference in men!" At first Mrs. Bolton had thought there really was something different in a gentleman, a _real_ gentleman, like Sir Clifford. So Clifford had got a good start of her. But gradually, as she came to the bottom of him, to use her own term, she found he was like the rest, a baby grown to a man's proportions: but a baby with a queer temper and a fine manner and power in its control, and all sorts of odd knowledge that she had never dreamed of, with which he could still bully her. Connie was sometimes tempted to say to him: "For God's sake, don't sink so horribly into the hands of that woman!" But she found she didn't care for him enough to say it, in the long run. It was still their habit to spend the evening together, till ten o'clock. Then they would talk, or read together, or go over his manuscript. But the thrill had gone out of it. She was bored by his manuscripts. But she still dutifully typed them out for him. But in time Mrs. Bolton would do even that. For Connie had suggested to Mrs. Bolton that she should learn to use a typewriter. And Mrs. Bolton, always ready, had begun at once, and practised assiduously. So now Clifford would sometimes dictate a letter to her, and she would take it down rather slowly, but correctly. And he was very patient spelling for her the difficult words, or the occasional phrases in French. She was so thrilled, it was almost a pleasure to instruct her.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Tame, and nasty with it: like most such fellows, when you come up against 'em." "And do you think you're not tame?" "Maybe not quite!" At length she saw in the distance a yellow light. She stood still. "There is a light?" she said. "I always leave a light in the house," he said. She went on again at his side, but not touching him, wondering why she was going with him at all. He unlocked, and they went in, he bolting the door behind them. As if it were a prison, she thought! The kettle was singing by the red fire, there were cups on the table. She sat in the wooden armchair by the fire. It was warm after the chill outside. "I'll take off my shoes, they are wet," she said. She sat with her stockinged feet on the bright steel fender. He went to the pantry, bringing food: bread and butter and pressed tongue. She was warm: she took off her coat. He hung it on the door. "Shall you have cocoa or tea or coffee to drink?" he asked. "I don't think I want anything," she said, looking at the table. "But you eat." "Nay, I don't care about it. I'll just feed the dog." He tramped with a quiet inevitability over the brick floor, putting food for the dog in a brown bowl. The spaniel looked up at him anxiously. "Ay, this is thy supper, tha nedna look as if tha wouldna get it!" he said. He set the bowl on the stairfoot mat, and sat himself on a chair by the wall, to take off his leggings and boots. The dog, instead of eating, came to him again, and sat looking up at him, troubled. He slowly unbuckled his leggings. The dog edged a little nearer. "What's amiss wi' thee then? Art upset because there's somebody else here? Tha'rt a female, tha art! Go an' eat thy supper." He put his hand on her head, and the bitch leaned her head sideways against him. He slowly, softly pulled the long silky ear. "There!" he said. "There! Go an' eat thy supper! Go!" He tilted his chair towards the pot on the mat, and the dog meekly went, and fell to eating. "Do you like dogs?" Connie asked him. "No, not really. They're too tame and clinging." He had taken off his leggings and was unlacing his heavy boots. Connie had turned from the fire. How bare the little room was! Yet over his head on the wall hung a hideous enlarged photograph of a young married couple, apparently him and a bold-faced young woman, no doubt his wife. "Is that you?" Connie asked him. He twisted and looked at the enlargement above his head. "Ay! Taken just afore we was married, when I was twenty-one." He looked at it impassively. "Do you like it?" Connie asked him.

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

  Yet in spite of my knowledge that my fast was bound to put pressure upon them, as in fact it did, I felt I could not help it. The duty to undertake it seemed to me to be clear. I tried to set the mill-owners at ease. ‘There is not the slightest necessity for you to withdraw from your position,’ I said to them. But they received my words coldly and even flung keen, delicate bits of sarcasm at me, as indeed they had a perfect right to do. The principal man at the back of the mill-owners’ unbending attitude towards the strike was Sheth Ambalal. His resolute will and transparent sincerity were wonderful and captured my heart. It was a pleasure to be pitched against him. The strain produced by my fast upon the opposition, of which he was the head, cut me, therefore, to the quick. And then, Sarladevi, his wife, was attached to me with the affection of a blood-sister, and I could not bear to see her anguish on account of my action. Anasuyabhen and a number of other friends and labourers shared the fast with me on the first day. But after some difficulty I was able to dissuade them from continuing it further. The net result of it was that an atmosphere of goodwill was created all round. The hearts of the mill-owners were touched, and they set about discovering some means for a settlement. Anasuyabehn’s house became the venue of their discussions. Sjt. Anandshankar Dhruva intervened and was in the end appointed arbitrator, and the strike was called off after I had fasted only for three days. The mill-owners commemorated the event by distributing sweets among the labourers, and thus a settlement was reached after 21 days’ strike. At the meeting held to celebrate the settlement, both the mill-owners and the Commissioner were present. The advice which the latter gave to the mill-hands on this occasion was: ‘You should always act as Mr. Gandhi advises you.’ Almost immediately after these events I had to engage in a tussle with this very gentleman. But circumstances were changed, and he had changed with the circumstances. He then set about warning the Patidars of Kheda against following my advice! I must not close this chapter without noting here an incident, as amusing as it was pathetic. It happened in connection with the distribution of sweets. The mill- owners had ordered a very large quantity, and it was a problem how to distribute it among the thousands of labourers. It was decided that it would be the fittest thing to distribute it in the open, beneath the very tree under which the pledge had been taken, especially as it would have been extremely inconvenient to assemble them all together in any other place.

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  When she turned around, he was swinging a pair of handcuffs. “You’ll have to go out in these,” he said. So she turned around again, and he manacled her. He had the perfect cop knack of doing it, hitting the wrist with just the right speed and force to make the ratchet fly over and catch, snugging them up automatically till the cold steel rested against her skin, not needing to look when he set the end of the key in the tiny hole that would stop them from getting any tighter. Suddenly, she wanted to cry. They paused at the door. Mike and Joe were sprawled over one another. “I’ll wake ’em up on my way back,” Don said. “Let them sleep.” He put his shades back on and escorted her from the room. They retraced their route through the hotel to the street. Outside, it was daylight, and the brightness of it hurt her eyes. He led her to his bike, removed the cuffs, got on, and motioned her to join him. “Hang on,” he said gruffly, and made a wide U-turn. She wrapped her arms tightly around his chest, then laid her head against his broad back. The leather was crinkled, dusty, but cool and comforting. It also felt a little dry. That no-good houseboy of his must be neglecting his leather. He drove right up to her house, told her to hop off, then turned the bike off and put the kickstand down. Without dismounting, he caught her arm. “I got something for you,” he said. She waited, wide-eyed. Here, in front of the neighbors? He reached into his jacket and came back with her wallet, opened it, and dropped in a condom. She laughed and put it back in her pocket, then turned to go. But his hand caught her upper arm again. He dragged her back to the bike and took her chin, brought her mouth to his and kissed her. His tongue was large but quite supple, and his mustache was coarse against her upper lip. One of his hands pressed her hand into his crotch, and she squeezed him one last time. “Now I know where you’re at,” he said, “I may have to drop by for further questioning.” “You bastard.” “Watch your mouth, bitch. Go home and count your lucky stars.” She ran for the door. She felt more like counting sheep. It was Saturday. Thank God, she could go back to bed. On the kitchen table was a note: “Honey, I let myself in. Don called last night and said he and a couple of his friends were taking you to a surprise party for your birthday, so I’m not surprised to find you gone. I just climbed into your bed to wait for you. Come join me and tell me about it. I brought some homemade blintzes for breakfast. I love you slavishly. Fran.”

• From Macho Sluts (1988)

  Clarissa snuggled between her breasts. In their shelter, she was almost reassured. “Six months isn’t such a long time,” she murmured, trying to sound grown up. “Are you sleepy?” “No.” “Fetch my brandy. Elise is doing your packing. We’ll spend your last night home together, in the discipline chamber.” Clarissa shivered, then slipped off her lap and took up the snifter of brandy. The lamplight shone through the liqueur so that a small amber circle floated, shimmering, below her clavicle. Berenice remained seated, enjoying the sight of the tiny steps permitted by the silver chain (which was thin enough to break) and the high-heeled shoes. She was proud of this fair child, and determined not to spoil her by slacking in correction or stinting in affection. Seeing that Clarissa was prepared to mince after her, she strode out of the room and down the hall. The discipline chamber, that shrine to domestic tranquility, was only a short distance away. Berenice surveyed the room from the threshold. Everything was in good order. Elise, the maid, was meticulous. She reminded herself that while Clarissa was away at finishing school, she would have more time to spend with Elise. Her maid was too well trained to complain about neglect, but the performance of any loved one will slacken and become slovenly if they are left unsupervised too long. Clarissa’s absence would not be intolerable, she told herself firmly. They must all be separated if Clarissa was to become a grown woman. The school was the next logical step to the development of her sexuality. Elise would be very entertaining, she promised herself. There were certain things one could not demand of a mere child. Perhaps it was time to throw another party for their friends. Elise had been kept so busy at the last one. Quite the belle of the ball.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  She sat on his thighs, her head against his breast, and her ivory-gleaming legs loosely apart, the fire glowing unequally upon them. Sitting with his head dropped, he looked at the folds of her body in the fireglow, and at the fleece of soft brown hair that hung down to a point between her open thighs. He reached to the table behind, and took up her bunch of flowers, still so wet that drops of rain fell on to her. "Flowers stops out of doors all weathers," he said. "They have no houses." "Not even a hut!" she murmured. With quiet fingers he threaded a few forget-me-not flowers in the fine brown fleece of the mount of Venus. "There!" he said. "There's forget-me-nots in the right place!" She looked down at the milky odd little flowers among the brown maiden-hair at the lower tip of her body. "Doesn't it look pretty!" she said. "Pretty as life," he replied. And he stuck a pink campion bud among the hair. "There! That's me where you won't forget me! That's Moses in the bulrushes." "You don't mind, do you, that I'm going away?" she asked wistfully, looking up into his face. But his face was inscrutable, under the heavy brows. He kept it quite blank. "You do as you wish," he said. And he spoke in good English. "But I won't go if you don't wish it," she said, clinging to him. There was silence. He leaned and put another piece of wood on the fire. The flame glowed on his silent, abstracted face. She waited, but he said nothing. "Only I thought it would be a good way to begin a break with Clifford. I do want a child. And it would give me a chance to, to--" she resumed. "To let them think a few lies," he said. "Yes, that among other things. Do you want them to think the truth?" "I don't care what they think." "I do! I don't want them handling me with their unpleasant cold minds, not while I'm still at Wragby. They can think what they like when I'm finally gone." He was silent. "But Sir Clifford expects you to come back to him?" "Oh, I must come back," she said: and there was silence. "And would you have a child in Wragby?" he asked. She closed her arm round his neck. "If you wouldn't take me away, I should have to," she said. "Take you where to?" "Anywhere! away! But right away from Wragby." "When?" "Why, when I come back." "But what's the good of coming back, doing the thing twice, if you're once gone?" he said. "Oh, I must come back. I've promised! I've promised so faithfully. Besides, I come back to you, really." "To your husband's gamekeeper?" "I don't see that that matters," she said. "No?" He mused a while. "And when would you think of going away again, then; finally? When exactly?"

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

  I may say that I failed to get from the teachers what they could have given me without any effort on their part. And yet I kept on picking up things here and there from my surroundings. The term ‘religion’ I am using in its broadest sense, meaning thereby self- realization or knowledge of self. Being born in the Vaishnava faith, I has often to go to the Haveli. But it never appealed to me. I did not like its glitter and pomp. Also I heard rumours of immorality being practised there, and lost all interest in it. Hence I could gain nothing from the Haveli. But what I failed to get there I obtained from my nurse, an old servant of the family, whose affection for me I still recall. I have said before that there was in me a fear of ghosts and spirits. Rambha, for that was her name, suggested, as a remedy for this fear, the repetition of Ramanama. I had more faith in her than in her remedy, and so at a tender age I began repeating Ramanama to cure my fear of ghosts and spirits. This was of course short-lived, but the good seed sown in childhood was not sown in vain. I think it is due to the seed by that good woman Rambha that today Ramanama is an infallible remedy for me. Just about this time, a cousin of mine who was a devotee of the Ramayana arranged for my second brother and me to learn Ram Raksha. We got it by heart, and made it a rule to recite it every morning after the bath. The practice was kept up as long as we were in Porbandar. As soon as we reached Rajkot, it was forgotten. For I had not much belief in it. I recited it partly because of my pride in being able to recite Ram Raksha with correct pronunciation. What, however, left a deep impression on me was the reading of the Ramayana before my father. During part of his illness my father was in Porbandar. There every evening he used to listen to the Ramayana. The reader was a great devotee of Rama,- Ladha Maharaj of Bileshvar. It was said of him that he cured himself of his leprosy not by any medicine, but by applying to the affected parts bilva leaves which had been cast away after being offered to the image of Mahadeva in Bileshvar temple, and by the regular repetition of Ramanama. His faith it, it was said, had made him whole. This may or may not be true. We at any rate believed the story. And it is a fact that when Ladha Maharaj began his reading of the Ramayana his body was entirely free from leprosy. He had a melodious voice. He would sing the Dohas (couplets) and Chopais (quatrains), and explain them, losing himself in the discourse and carrying his listeners along with him.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  Still panting with their exertions, each wrapped in an army blanket, but the front of the body open to the fire, they sat on a log side by side before the blaze, to get quiet. Connie hated the feel of the blanket against her skin. But now the sheet was all wet. She dropped her blanket and kneeled on the clay hearth, holding her head to the fire, and shaking her hair to dry it. He watched the beautiful curving drop of her haunches. That fascinated him today. How it sloped with a rich downslope to the heavy roundness of her buttocks! And in between, folded in the secret warmth, the secret entrances! He stroked her tail with his hand, long and subtly taking in the curves and the globe-fulness. "Tha's got such a nice tail on thee," he said, in the throaty caressive dialect. "Tha's got the nicest arse of anybody. It's the nicest, nicest woman's arse as is! An' ivry bit of it is woman, woman sure as nuts. Tha'rt not one o' them button-arsed lasses as should be lads, are ter! Tha's got a real soft sloping bottom on thee, as a man loves in 'is guts. It's a bottom as could hold the world up, it is." All the while he spoke he exquisitely stroked the rounded tail, till it seemed as if a slippery sort of fire came from it into his hands. And his fingertips touched the two secret openings to her body, time after time, with a soft little brush of fire. "An' if tha shits an' if tha pisses, I'm glad. I don't want a woman as couldna shit nor piss." Connie could not help a sudden snort of astonished laughter, but he went on unmoved. "Tha'rt real, tha art! Tha'rt real, even a bit of a bitch. Here tha shits an' here tha pisses: an' I lay my hand on 'em both an' like thee for it. I like thee for it. Tha's got a proper, woman's arse, proud of itself. It's none ashamed of itself, this isna." He laid his hand close and firm over her secret places, in a kind of close greeting. "I like it," he said. "I like it! An' if I only lived ten minutes, an' stroked thy arse an' got to know it, I should reckon I'd lived _one_ life, sees ter! Industrial system or not! Here's one o' my lifetimes." She turned round and climbed into his lap, clinging to him. "Kiss me!" she whispered. And she knew the thought of their separation was latent in both their minds, and at last she was sad.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  He was bent over, lacing his boot, and did not reply. The moments passed. A dimness came over her, like a swoon. All her consciousness died, and she stood there wide-eyed, looking at him from the unknown, knowing nothing any more. He looked up, because of the silence, and saw her wide-eyed and lost. And as if a wind tossed him he got up and hobbled over to her, one shoe off and one shoe on, and took her in his arms, pressing her against his body, which somehow felt hurt right through. And there he held her, and there she remained. Till his hands reached blindly down and felt for her, and felt under the clothing to where she was smooth and warm. "Ma lass!" he murmured. "Ma little lass! Dunna let's fight! Dunna let's niver fight! I love thee an' th' touch on thee. Dunna argue wi' me! Dunna! Dunna! Dunna! Let's be together." She lifted her face and looked at him. "Don't be upset," she said steadily. "It's no good being upset. Do you really want to be together with me?" She looked with wide, steady eyes into his face. He stopped, and went suddenly still, turning his face aside. All his body went perfectly still, but did not withdraw. Then he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, with his odd, faintly mocking grin, saying: "Ay-ay! Let's be together on oath." "But really?" she said, her eyes filling with tears. "Ay really! Heart an' belly an' cock." He still smiled faintly down at her, with the flicker of irony in his eyes, and a touch of bitterness. She was silently weeping, and he lay with her and went into her there on the hearthrug, and so they gained a measure of equanimity. And then they went quickly to bed, for it was growing chill, and they had tired each other out. And she nestled up to him, feeling small and enfolded, and they both went to sleep at once, fast in one sleep. And so they lay and never moved, till the sun rose over the wood and day was beginning. Then he woke up and looked at the light. The curtains were drawn. He listened to the loud wild calling of blackbirds and thrushes in the wood. It would be a brilliant morning, about half-past five, his hour for rising. He had slept so fast! It was such a new day! The woman was still curled asleep and tender. His hand moved on her, and she opened her blue, wondering eyes, smiling unconsciously into his face. "Are you awake?" she said to him. He was looking into her eyes. He smiled, and kissed her. And suddenly she roused and sat up. "Fancy that I am here!" she said.

• From Lady Chatterley's Lover (1928)

  "Shall I tell you?" she said, looking into his face. "Shall I tell you what you have that other men don't have, and that will make the future? Shall I tell you?" "Tell me then," he replied. "It's the courage of your own tenderness, that's what it is: like when you put your hand on my tail and say I've got a pretty tail." The grin came flickering on his face. "That!" he said. Then he sat thinking. "Ay!" he said. "You're right. It's that really. It's that all the way through. I knew it with the men. I had to be in touch with them, physically, and not go back on it. I had to be bodily aware of them and a bit tender to them, even if I put 'em through hell. It's a question of awareness, as Buddha said. But even he fought shy of the bodily awareness, and that natural physical tenderness, which is the best, even between men; in a proper manly way. Makes 'em really manly, not so monkeyish! Ay! it's tenderness, really; it's cunt-awareness. Sex is really only touch, the closest of all touch. And it's touch we're afraid of. We're only half-conscious, and half alive. We've got to come alive and aware. Especially the English have got to get into touch with one another, a bit delicate and a bit tender. It's our crying need." She looked at him. "Then why are you afraid of me?" she said. He looked at her a long time before he answered. "It's the money, really, and the position. It's the world in you." "But isn't there tenderness in me?" she said wistfully. He looked down at her, with darkened, abstract eyes. "Ay! It comes an' goes, like in me." "But can't you trust it between you and me?" she asked, gazing anxiously at him. She saw his face all softening down, losing its armour. "Maybe!" he said. They were both silent. "I want you to hold me in your arms," she said. "I want you to tell me you are glad we are having a child." She looked so lovely and warm and wistful, his bowels stirred towards her. "I suppose we can go to my room," he said. "Though it's scandalous again." But she saw the forgetfulness of the world coming over him again, his face taking the soft, pure look of tender passion. They walked by the remoter streets to Coburg Square, where he had a room at the top of the house, an attic room where he cooked for himself on a gas ring. It was small, but decent and tidy. She took off her things, and made him do the same. She was lovely in the soft first flush of her pregnancy. "I ought to leave you alone," he said. "No!" she said. "Love me! Love me, and say you'll keep me. Say you'll keep me! Say you'll never let me go, to the world nor to anybody."

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

  BALASUNDARAM The heart’s earnest and pure desire is always fulfilled. In my own experience I have often seen this rule verified. Service of the poor has been my heart’s desire, and it has always thrown me amongst the poor and enabled me to identify myself with them. Although the members of the Natal Indian Congress included the Colonial-born Indians and the Clerical class, the unskilled wage- earners, the indentured labourers were still outside its pale. The Congress was not yet theirs. They could not afford to belong to it by paying the subscription and becoming its members. The Congress could win their attachment only by serving them. An opportunity offered itself when neither the Congress nor I was really ready for it. I had put in scarcely three or four months’ practice, and the Congress also was still in its infancy, when a Tamil man in tattered clothes, head-gear in hand, two front teeth broken and his mouth bleeding, stood before me trembling and weeping. He had been heavily belaboured by his master. I learnt all about him from my clerk, who was a Tamilian. Balasundaram – as that was the visitor’s name – was serving his indenture under a well-known European resident of Durban. The master, getting angry with him, had lost self-control, and had beaten Balasundaram severely, breaking two of his teeth. I sent him to a doctor. In those days only white doctors were available. I wanted a certificate from the doctor about the nature of the injury Balasundaram had sustained. I secured the certificate, and straightway took the injured man to the magistrate, to whom I submitted his affidavit. The magistrate was indignant when he read it, and issued a summons against the employer. It was far from my desire to get the employer punished. I simply wanted

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

  Yet the incident did not in the least diminish my respect for my teacher. I was by nature, blind to the faults of elders. Later I came to know of many other failings of this teacher, but my regard for him remained the same. For I had learnt to carry out the orders of elders, not to scan their actions. Two other incidents belonging to the same period have always clung to my memory. As a rule I had a distaste for any reading beyond my school books. The daily lessons had to be done, because I disliked being taken to task by my teacher as much as I disliked deceiving him. Therefore I would do the lessons, but often without my mind in them. Thus when even the lessons could not be done properly, there was of course no question of any extra reading. But somehow my eyes fell on a book purchased by my father. It was Shravana Pitribhakti Nataka (a play about Sharavana’s devotion to his parents). I read it with intense interest. There came to our place about the same time itinerant showmen. One of the pictures I was shown was of Shravana carrying, by means of slings fitted for his shoulders, his blind parents on a pilgrimage. The book and the picture left an indelible impression on my mind. ‘Here is an example for you to copy,’ I said to myself. The agonized lament of the parents over Shravana’s death is still fresh in my memory. The melting tune moved me deeply, and I played it on a concertina which my father had purchased for me. There was a similar incident connected with another play. Just about this time, I had secured my father’s permission to see a play performed by a certain dramatic company. This play- Harishchandra- captured my heart. I could never be tired of seeing it. But how often should I be permitted to go? It haunted me and I must have acted Harishchandra to myself times without number. ‘Why should not all be truthful like Harishchandra?’ was the question I asked myself day and night. To follow truth and to go through all the ordeals Harishchandra went through was the one ideal it inspired in me. I literally believed in the story of Harishchandra. The thought of it all often made me weep. My commonsense tells me today that Harishchandra could not have been a historical character. Still both Harishchandra and Shravana are living realities for me, and I am sure I should be moved as before if I were to read those plays again today.