Errotic literature

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Errotic literature

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Even with temperatures below zero, he would grow hard whenever, from her coffin, she enticed him like this. He had learned to stand with his back to the north so that the icy wind did not blow directly on his dick but still he had to remove one of his gloves to jerk off successfully, and sometimes the gloveless hand would get so cold that he would have to put that glove back on and switch to the other hand.

He came on her grave many nights. Make Degradation Sexy Again—or Bad Behavior, as the cover has it—proves that Gaitskill is still our foremost literary authority on whips, bondage, and sadomasochism.

Her landmark collection resists facile sermons and cartoonish kink. Her men are brutal and unredeemable, her women hell-bent on absolution through annihilation.

If that setup leaves you craving a walk on the very wild side, we hope the dungeon masters and dominatrixes you encounter aren't half as cruel as Gaitskill's.

She is actually a nice person. For a moment he had an impulse to embrace her. He had a stronger impulse to beat her.

In What Belongs to You, the narrator reminisces about an early sexual encounter: As a youth, he was forced to watch a boy he loved fool around with a girlfriend.

The narrator, hurt but aroused, recalls the "combination of exclusion and desire I felt in his room, beneath the pain of exclusion the satisfaction of desire.

Their relationship ultimately reveals "how helpless desire is outside its little theater of heat. This was reality, I felt with a strange relief, this was where I belonged.

But his third novel, published fourteen years later, reads like the ultimate erotic fantasia of Plimpton's louche postwar set.

The book's hero, a Yale dropout in possession of nothing but a convertible that he may not even own, seduces a young woman in a small town in central France.

After a slow start, the narrative follows their affair in terms explicit enough to still count as startling. He tries to find it.

His arms are trembling. Suddenly he feels her flesh give way and then, deliciously, the muscle close about him.

He tries not to press against anything, to go in straight. She is breathing quickly, and as he withdraws on the first stroke he can feel her jerking with pleasure.

It's the short movements she likes. She thrusts herself against him. Moans escape her. Dean comes—it's like a hemorrhage—and afterwards she clasps him tightly.

Keats longed for a brighter word than bright ; Written on the Body calls for a more luscious word than lush. This revelatory crossbreed of prose poem, erotic ode, and philosophical text unspools like silk and offers surprises at every turn.

What begins as the story of an affair—the gender-ambiguous narrator falls for a dying married woman—hurtles into an arousing dreamscape of exaltation and loss.

She nuzzles her cunt into my face like a filly at the gate. She smells of the sea. She smells of rockpools when I was a child.

She keeps a starfish in there. I crouch down to taste the salt, to run my fingers around the rim. She opens and shuts like a sea anemone.

She's refilled each day with fresh tides of longing. Here come the sexy bits. But when Charles Highway finally wins the good graces of Rachel, whom he's been lusting after for a hundred-plus pages, he's kind enough to warn us about what is soon, ahem, to come.

Eliot—assisted climax. Well, mostly uncomplicated. I've got the next day off and spend the morning pottering around in Camden Market.

I try to see Te Quiero through his eyes. How will he see me now I'm finally realising my ambition to run my own restaurant?

After finding a s mirror, a cashmere throw and a box of wine glasses for the flat, I cart my new purchases back on the bus. When I get to the door of my building there's a tall, tanned man holding a massive bunch of sunflowers at my door.

It's Tom, grinning at me widely. How did you know where I lived? You look so well? These are so beautiful," I cry, ecstatic and flustered and utterly surprised.

By this point we're climbing the stairs to my flat. I'm juggling the flowers and all of my bags. Tom looks awkward, as though he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

He's not looking at the room at all but staring at me, really staring. Not "You look well. He's tanned, toned and bigger than I remember him being, he seems to fill the whole flat, towering above me.

He doesn't say anything but cups my chin in his hand, stroking my cheek with his thumb. I freeze. I don't know how to react, I don't want to breeze over this gesture and spoil the moment.

I want to press myself up against his hard, warm body. This is not the Tom that I remember. It's disorientating that he can seem at once so familiar and so utterly new and exciting.

I can feel how much he means it and I rush towards him for a hug, but as I go to press my face into his chest he lifts it upwards gently and kisses me full on the mouth.

In that moment I'm undone. My desire floods to the surface and my hands run up to his face, kissing him fast and hard. He meets each of my kisses, pulling me closer, his hands up under my T-shirt, bringing every inch of skin to life with his touch.

We pull each other's tops off, hungrily, as he pushes me down to the floor, undressing and kissing me all at once.

When I'm right down to my pants, opening my legs to him, he stops, kneeling above me, his chest rippling above the waistband of his jeans. He moves up along the inside of my legs, licking and kissing and stroking my skin with his cheek.

He is everything that I've ever fantasised about and more. As he kisses my stomach, he slides his hand inside of me and he must feel how aroused I am, because he groans.

And I feel it. More beautiful than I've ever felt in my life. My hips are raised off the floor, tense and expectant, willing him to go deeper and deeper inside of me.

He answers each of my groans but then teases me, withdrawing his fingers with a stroke and entering again until I'm ready to explode.

I reach into his jeans and tug at him, but he keeps whispering, "Not yet Jess, not yet. I expect him to take his hand away but he leaves it in there, slowly stroking me, reaching further and further with his fingertips whilst his other hand kneads my breast, kissing my back the whole time.

Another orgasm shudders through me. I'm still clenching and releasing in pleasure when he takes his hand away. I glance back over my shoulder and see that he's pulled a condom out of his pocket.

My mind reels, how did he know to bring a condom? Did he plan for this to happen? I expect myself to feel outraged but instead I'm even more turned on.

He slips inside of me, controlling my movements with his hands gripping my waist. It's totally overwhelming, but at the same time, I never want it to stop.

I swivel round and wrap my legs around his back, gripping onto the back of his neck and looking straight into his beautiful blue eyes.

When I see that he's about to orgasm I feel so aroused, so full of desire. When I see that he's about to orgasm I feel so aroused, so full of desire, that I climax again, clutching him closer as we shiver against each other.

We lie back on the carpet and Tom rests his head on my stomach, slowly stroking my legs. There's so much to say but we're both too exhausted to speak and I wouldn't know where to begin.

After fifteen minutes of just lying there, he props his head up on one elbow and stares at me, his eyes twinkling with a smile. I thought about you so much when I was away, and when I heard that you'd broken up with Sam…".

But while we've been lying there in silence, my mind has been running away with me. I'm not ready to dive into another relationship yet; I don't know what Tom's plan is or even where he's going to live.

I've just got my best friend back and I don't want to loose him again. Pain,pleasure,first time at 17 was a different feeling altogether.

I didn't know my bf would ask for sex that evening.. Don't judge! So, apologies if I write a bit impatiently. The story of my relationship with my aunt Read full story.

Sex with my naughty step-mom Mr Juicy - September 25, Views. I interrupted. Then you will come to me on this chair where I will spank that little ass of your red.

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She slowly started to kiss me paying attention to every nook and crevice of my body, exploring me, finding new erogenous zones never before encountered with my many trysts with the male race.

This was my first Lesbian encounter. I was almost cumming before she had even reached my nipples. Her kiss wandered from my mouth to my ears and neck then down to my chest and had my body bucking wanting more.

Some people would call me easy. Others would call me a slut. However it had all been on a one on one basis until one hot summer night. Gail grabbed my ass pushing my cock deeper into her mouth as my cum shot out load after built up load she sucked and played guzzling down my man juice completely until I had finished.

Then she licked my shaft to ensure she got it all. Teenage Dream meganmorgan - May 27, Views. She stretched her long legs out on the seat, barefoot as she'd left her sandals on the floorboard up front.

He took in the sight of her breasts, her smooth, flat stomach, and the little slip of gauzy white fabric around her waist, barely hiding what was underneath.

She looked so sensual, so sexy, bathed in the afternoon light. Her hair spread out around her head like shimmering, copper-gold silk. He moved down her body, hands on the seat on either side of her slim waist.

He pushed her skirt up over her hips and immediately buried his head between her thighs. He breathed in the warm, musky scent of her pussy, and then plunged his tongue into her.

She was already wet. I'd always known from our first date that my wife loved to suck cock. But once we were married I found out just how much when we started going to gloryholes.

I lost a bet littleass45 - May 15, Views. Never could stand football.

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Password: Forgot your password? Security code:. Now that I've finally bagged a serious job, it's time to have a place of my own as well.

The last year with my ex was unbearable. He'd always been jealous, but the further we grew apart, the more suffocating his possessiveness became.

If I went out without him I'd have to 'forget' my phone to avoid getting fifty arsey texts and having to reassure him that no, I hadn't danced with any guys, and yes, it was a crap night without him.

It got so bad that I stopped wanting to see my closest friends — even a night with Nicki would result in a fight. But the worst sacrifice I made was losing contact with Tom.

Nicki's my oldest friend, but Tom was my closest. I met him at my first Saturday job, waitressing at his Dad's restaurant.

He made me laugh on my very first shift and we were inseparable from that moment on, always slinking off on our breaks with bottles of half-finished wine and tasting each course, "just to make sure that it's OK for the customers".

Little did I know that my weekend job would inspire my future career. But even then I guessed that my partner in crime would be a friend for life.

Tom is one of those drop dead gorgeous guys that every girl wants to go out with. Predictably, he's had a string of pretty, dull girlfriends for as long as I've known him.

There's nothing between us, we're just friends, but try telling my ex that. We had so many fights over Tom that I stopped seeing him and allowed us to drift apart completely.

Alright, there was one time when I wondered whether anything would happen between us. We'd been on holiday together to stay with his aunty in Spain.

We had so much fun spending long, lazy days on the beach, sipping cold beers with countless bocadillos. It was one of the only times in eight years of friendship that neither of us were in a relationship.

In fact, I was only there to stand in for a girlfriend he'd broken up with days before. The night before we went home he dared me to go skinny-dipping.

We were sitting on the pier where one of the restaurants had placed a few tables up by the water's edge.

I knew he thought I'd never do it and I was more than a little tipsy so I pulled my strapless dress off there and then and jumped straight in.

The water was freezing and I rushed to the surface, squealing. Tom was bent over with laughter. Reaching down to pull me up out of the water, he gripped me in his tanned arms and a wave of electricity ran between us.

I hadn't been wearing a bra and, as I clambered up to him, I realised my tiny knickers were see-through from the water.

Of course I felt self-conscious, but as his eyes flickered along my body, lingering on my hardened nipples, I almost forgot my embarrassment.

I wanted him to look at me, I felt like it was the first time that he'd really seen me. A wave of energy rushed through me, tingling between my thighs.

If I hadn't seen the waiter walking over just then, well, I don't know for certain, but I felt sure he'd have kissed me.

I pulled my dress on before I was seen and we sat back down to finish our drinks, but the atmosphere had changed completely.

Every other night we'd been howling with laughter and taking the piss out of each other. Suddenly we were quiet, the air between us heavy with expectancy.

I remember how excited I felt, but also how frustrated I was that this was only happening now, the night before we went home. On our way back to his auntie's apartment, he put his arm around me, a gesture that he'd repeated a hundred times, but this one it was different, more tentative, his fingers gently circling my sun-kissed shoulder.

My heart was pounding, my senses felt heightened. The smell of salt water in my hair was mingling with the subtle scent of his skin. The humid night air felt like it was closing in on me with sound of music and people and chatting in the restaurants that we passed.

Everything was intensified and unreal. My mind was already in his auntie's flat, me sat on the edge of her dining table with him stood kissing my neck, pushing my dress up to my waist and slipping inside me.

Tom, my best friend Tom, licking the salt water off my skin and biting down on my breasts. But none of that was meant to be.

His aunty was waiting for us with a room full of friends and neighbours. In front of this crowd of people, we slipped straight back into our familiar roles, Jess and Tom, totally platonic friends.

I wasn't able to sleep that night though; it was infuriating knowing that he was lying there in the next room, tantalisingly close.

I imagined him naked in bed, fighting with the blanket in the heat, as sleepless as me. I couldn't stand it, the desire that he'd awakened in me had to be released.

I slipped my fingers between my legs and imagined Tom's strong hands running up my thighs, his hot, hard lips and soft, wet tongue inside me.

I bit down on my lip and clenched the sheets. With the thought of him, hard and thick, pulsing inside of me, I reached a shuddering orgasm, before falling into a frustrated sleep.

I kiss goodbye to Andreas and Peter and bolt the door of the cafe behind them as they walk out into the dark night. It's been a long, busy day and they've earned their tips, showing every customer the enthusiasm that we take pride in at Te Quiero.

When the owner told me that he wanted to take a step back to start a new venture, I wouldn't stop at the pay rise he offered me, I reeled off my ideas for a renovation and insisted on being made a shareholder.

It's a tiny amount, but it makes a massive difference. Eliot—assisted climax. It hovers for a full quarter of a minute, then lands, soft but firm, on her cunt.

Minot's short story chronicles the coming of age of a boarding-school coed. Boys and girls in thrall to heady new hormones make out in empty swimming pools, in cars, on couches, and at parties.

As Minot's searing vignettes roll through and across the decades—the rockabilly jives of the fifties, the camping trysts of the seventies, the strobe-lit fraternity bacchanals of the eighties—they form a tableau that can feel timeless.

But in an era of murky sexual politics, this gutting deconstruction of what is politely called "young love," in which each affair hurts more than the last, has never felt more contemporary.

I lay back with my eyes closed, luxuriating because he knew all sorts of expert angles, his hands never fumbling, going over my whole body, pressing the hair up and off the back of my head, giving an extra hip shove, as if to say There.

This extraordinary novel, a retelling of the Don Juan story, follows a rake's progress through Europe on the eve of the First World War. Written by the British art critic, essayist, and novelist Berger, who recently died at ninety, it's shot through with rich visual language, ominous invocations of the social and political forces about to tear the world apart, and erudite meditations on the nature of love, sex, and desire.

Oh, and a few crude drawings of penises. When he enters her, when this throbbing, cyclamen-headed, silken, apoplectic fifth limb of his reaches as near to her center as her pelvis will allow, he, in it, will be returning, she believes, to the origins of his desire.

The taste of his foreskin and of a single tear of transparent first sperm which has broken over the cyclamen head making its surface even softer to the touch than before, is the taste of herself made flesh in another.

This can never stop, she whispers, slowly and calmly. Set against the backdrop of the Prague Spring, The Unbearable Lightness of Being examines the relationships of four flawed, capricious lovers.

Sex, adultery, and intimacy appear in terms both romantic and realistic. In one instance, you're awaiting an impending orgasm during a character's ill-advised tryst with a stranger.

In another, you're contemplating the mechanisms of sewage systems as she takes refuge in the nearest bathroom. The pain and beauty she and the other characters encounter offer a master class in sensual metaphysics, one that stimulates more than just the physical senses.

She hated that distance. She wanted to merge with him. That is why, looking him straight in the eye, she insisted she had not had an orgasm even though the rug was fairly dripping with it.

David Foster Wallace once quoted a friend who'd described Updike as a "penis with a thesaurus. But when you're searching for a story of sexual indulgence, is a thesaurus really so unwelcome?

Cue Couples, Updike's tale of confession, lust, and melodrama within a circle of scandalously adventurous friends in small-town Massachusetts.

Written soon after the advent of birth control, it offers an enthralling celebration of the sexual revolution. She went down on him purring; she was a minx.

This was new, this quality of prostitution, of her frankly servicing him, and taking her own pleasure as a subdivision of his.

Her slick firm body was shameless yet did not reveal, as her more virginal intercourse once had done, the inner petals drenched in helpless nectar.

Spencer's hypnotic novel—not to be confused with the two sappy screen adaptations by directors who clearly stopped reading after the title—insists that the sort of love that knows no bounds is the most dangerous of all.

Two doomed young lovers share sex so intense it borders on the surreal, culminating in a marathon fueled by grief, mania, and menstrual blood.

Ribcage turned into two parallel rollercoaster tracks. Rump puckered. You're not supposed to hold your breath when you have an orgasm.

Jade learned that in a book and taught it to me. The House of Holes is a lot like Westworld: a landscape staged by an enigmatic genius and designed to fulfill your nethermost desires, where few rules apply and the customer is always right.

In the House of Holes, you can have sex with anything you'd like other humans; unripened bananas; sentient, stand-alone arms; screwdrivers; a tree; a "pornmonster" with one hundred penises.

Every man is hung like a Clydesdale, every woman has oxbow curves, and everyone— everyone —is primed to shag. At first you might think that Baker—celebrated author and seemingly well-adjusted family man—has been the victim of identity theft at the hands of a thirteen-year-old horndog.

Then you realize only a mind like his could come up with so many synonyms for human genitalia.

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