Best 7189 quotes in «sex quotes» category

Anything someone gets conned into will never be that great.

A paedophile is someone whose sexual attraction towards children their own age did not grow with them.

A pink razor is like a mouse, where ever it is the pussy will follow.

Approaching the trail, he broke through the thicket a short distance ahead of the Empath. Causing the Empaths horse to startle as the surprised rider jerked on the reins. Cap was equally surprised to find a young girl before him instead of an older, experienced male Empath. Cap brought his horse to a quick halt. The young girl pulled a small knife from her boot and cautioned him. "I don't know where you came from, but I'm not easy prey.” Her voice shook slightly with fear as she raised the knife. Not sure how to proceed, they stared silently at each other. Cap had always believed that Empaths didn't carry weapons. This pretty, chestnut haired girl couldn't be more than 18 years old. Her long straight tresses covered the spot on her jacket where the Empathic Emblem was usually worn, causing Cap to doubt she was the one he sought. Not wanting to frighten her any more than he already had, Cap tried to explain. "I'm Commander Caplin Taylor. I’m looking for an Empath that is headed for the Western Hunting Lodge.” "My name is Kendra; I am the Empath you seek.” She answered cautiously, still holding the blade. A noise from the brush drew her attention as a small rodent pounced out, trying to evade an unseen predator. Cap was just close enough to lurch forward and snatch the dirk from her hand. Her head jerked back in alarm. "Bosen May has been mauled by a Sraeb, his shoulder is a mass of pulp." Cap spoke quickly not wanting to hesitate any longer. That was all Kendra needed to hear. She pushed her horse past him and headed quickly down the trail. "Wait!" Cap called after her, turning his horse around. Reining in the horse, she turned back to face him annoyed by the delay. "Are you a good horseman?" Cap asked, as he stuffed her dirk in his jacket. "I've been in the saddle since I was a child." She answered, abruptly. "Okay so just a few years then?" Cap's rebuke angered her. Jerking the horse back toward the trail, she ignored him. "Wait, I'm sorry!" Cap called after her. "It's just that I know a quicker way, if you can handle some rough terrain." "Let’s go then." Kendra replied, gruffly, turning back to face him. Without another word, Cap dove back into the brush and the girl followed.

A philosophical discussion ensued about right and wrong, and good and bad. Also about things to be ashamed of and things to be feel guilty about. Could anything carried out between two consensual adults be wrong? And why should they be embarrassed by something a loving partner wanted to try? Right then they made a pact to never lie to each other, and to live out their sexual fantasies together. If two intelligent, loving and happily married people couldn't be honest with each other about their most hidden sexual desires, then who could?

A relationship is not just about sex – it is much more than that. Sex is only a tool in love, not love itself.

A relationship will devalue when one puts a price on it..

Aretha Franklin doğallığının teyit edilmesinden ziyadesiyle memnun görünmesine rağmen, bu teyidin hiç bir zaman güvence altına alınmamış olması, doğallığının etkisinin ancak o heteroseksüel tanınma uğrağının sonucunda sağlanması konusunda tamamen ve paradoksal bir ihtiyatlılık içindedir de. Yine de Aretha'nın 'Bana kendimi doğal bir kadın gibi hissettiriyorsun' şarkısı, bunun bir tür metaforik ikame, bir hilekarlık, sıradan heteroseksüel transvestitlik eyleminin doğurduğu bir ontolojik yanılsama kapsamında bir tür yüceltme ve anlık katılım olduğunu akla getirmektedir.

As a citizen of the world, I will not confine myself within the gates of one nation or religion. I will not identify with only one species, sex, class or race; for I am a complete being, and that means that I embrace all of humanity, all of nature, every star and universe within the greater universe as a part of me. If we were all created in the image of God, and his love is unconditional, then why can't we love all living things with the same eyes as God? How can anybody say that one race is more superior than another, when we were all created in God's reflection?

As a culture, we place great stock in external appearance. Our attachment to physical beauty is something that we need to let go of, yet it seems that the majority of people are racing toward it.

As a house can be only be built satisfactorily and durably when there is a foundation, and a picture can be painted only when there is something prepared to paint it on, so carnal love is only legitimate, reasonable, and lasting when it is based on the respect and love of one human being for another.

A salary is, to a man's employer, what his wife's vagina is to his wife: a tool used to (1) reward; and (2) control him.

As Angelica opened up her eyes, she shuddered in fear at the massive animal that was holding her and fondling her body. I have been captured by a Bigfoot, she thought. The natives were right. There are Bigfoots in the jungles of Elysia. Her body stiffened as she tried to twist away and out of the imprisoning arms of the massive creature that was holding her capture.

As a rule of thumb, four consecutive lines of dialogue is about as much as you want to have without a tag.

A sane man is at his sanest just after he has orgasmed.

A seemingly simple task like taking a bath or wearing a condom feels like multitasking to someone who suffers from hemiplegia or has only one hand.

As Feministing.com commenter electron-Blue noted in response to the 2008 New York Times Magazine article “Students of Virginity,” on abstinence clubs at Ivy League colleges, “There were a WHOLE LOTTA us not having sex at Harvard . . . but none of us thought that that was special enough to start a club about it, for pete’s sake.

As for sex. Well, of course I could’ve had sex. Guys will have sex with a watermelon if they’re desperate enough. Lots of girls try to prove their love by having sex. It only proves they’re having sex.

Apes have a wide variety of sexual arrangements. That means, by the way, that there is no such thing as an “ape legacy” that humans are doomed to live by.

A quick and brutal fuck from behind usually served as an effective reminder of where you stood in the pack hierarchy.

Are you gay, Cherie? Me, No… I’m not anything… I-I mean I prefer not to indulge, I stammered. “Really... how do you mean?” Well love has been an elusive story, like a fairytale adults tell children but I have never known any of it to be true. In reality it reminds me of religion. I am not sure God is real either, if God is real why do so many innocents suffer? Innocents suffer because it is their destiny to suffer. What? What does that mean?” I’m annoyed. God has nothing to do with it. We are born into this world to experience all that is not God-like, so we can then be inspired to reach for higher spiritual goals. I have never thought of it that way before. If that is so then I must be preparing for sainthood. Am I to think that all of my suffering as a child has been to prepare me for greatness?

Are you going to spank me, daddy? I'm a very bad girl! (bending over naked) "Oh yeah daddy - spank my ass harder!!!

As he seemed to be losing control, Hope licked the palm of her left hand, slid it into his already unbuttoned pants, and reached for his soul.

A ring around the finger does not cause a nerve block to the genitals.

Armel stepped towards her, ready to claim her in the way every other Ren claimed their mate. It might not be as magical as having a silver fox say a few words about destiny and choice but it was love and lust combined in the perfect dance of two souls.

As he fills me, I wonder if—in the same way that sex makes its own unique perfume—we don’t really “make” love. As in create, manufacture, evoke an independent element in the air around us, and if enough of us did it really well, for real, not just for the hell of it, we could change the world. Because when he’s in me, I feel the space around us changing, charging, and it seems to set off some kind of feedback loop, where the more he touches me, the more I need him to. Having sex with Barrons sates my need. Then feeds it. Sates, then feeds. It’s a never-ending cycle. I get out of bed with him, frantic to be back in it again. And I— “—hated you for it,” he says gently. That was my line. “I never get enough, Mac. Drives me bug-fuck. I should kill you for what you make me feel.” I understand perfectly. He is my vulnerability. I would become Shiva, the world-eater, for him.

As for woman, she touches herself in and of herself without any need for mediation, and before there is any way to distinguish activity from passivity. Woman touches herself all the time, and moreover no one can forbid her to do so... ~from Red Queen Black Queen

As if we’d have sex in a cave surrounded by hordes of demons. This is reality, not your fevered imagination.

As if all that weren't enough, factor in the whole tedious millenial saga of female virtue, modesty, shame, repression, male ineptitude...in short, a cruel combo of anatomical inheritance and sexual inhibition for the gal set; a nature-culture one-two punch, right to the female pleasure principle.

As for sex, the last of the great words, it was just a cocktail term for an excitement that bucked you up for a while, then left you more raggy than ever

As long as I'm holding you, all of my dreams have already come true.

Ask yourself something. Have you ever thought about why guys want you gone the next day? It’s not because they’ve got things to do, though I’m sure there are a few assholes who think like that, either because they repeated the folly so often they learned to bury the guilt or because they didn’t have a conscience to begin with but, truthfully, it’s because they can’t stand to look at the reason they feel a hole in their chest. They don’t like reminders of who helped put that sick feeling in the pits of their stomachs. As long as they had a decent mama, the guilt is always substantial. Always. If they say differently, they’re liars." - Spencer Blackwell, GREED

Ask yourself what a man without guile might do to your body in the dark.

As long as he lived, it would always be a pleasure and a gift to fill his hands with the weight of her flesh.

As mandatory reporting laws and community awareness drove an increase its child protection investigations throughout the 1980s, some children began to disclose premeditated, sadistic and organised abuse by their parents, relatives and other caregivers such as priests and teachers (Hechler 1988). Adults in psychotherapy described similar experiences. The dichotomies that had previously associated organised abuse with the dangerous, external ‘Other’ had been breached, and the incendiary debate that followed is an illustration of the depth of the collective desire to see them restored. Campbell (1988) noted the paradox that, whilst journalists and politicians often demand that the authorities respond more decisively in response to a ‘crisis’ of sexual abuse, the action that is taken is then subsequently construed as a ‘crisis’. There has been a particularly pronounced tendency of the public reception to allegations of organised abuse. The removal of children from their parents due to disclosures of organised abuse, the provision of mental health care to survivors of organised abuse, police investigations of allegations of organised abuse and the prosecution of alleged perpetrators of organised abuse have all generated their own controversies. These were disagreements that were cloaked in the vocabulary of science and objectivity but nonetheless were played out in sensationalised fashion on primetime television, glossy news magazines and populist books, drawing textual analysis. The role of therapy and social work in the construction of testimony of abuse and trauma. in particular, has come under sustained postmodern attack. Frosh (2002) has suggested that therapeutic spaces provide children and adults with the rare opportunity to articulate experiences that are otherwise excluded from the dominant symbolic order. However, since the 1990s, post-modern and post-structural theory has often been deployed in ways that attempt to ‘manage’ from; afar the perturbing disclosures of abuse and trauma that arise in therapeutic spaces (Frosh 2002). Nowhere is this clearer than in relation to organised abuse, where the testimony of girls and women has been deconstructed as symptoms of cultural hysteria (Showalter 1997) and the colonisation of women’s minds by therapeutic discourse (Hacking 1995). However, behind words and discourse, ‘a real world and real lives do exist, howsoever we interpret, construct and recycle accounts of these by a variety of symbolic means’ (Stanley 1993: 214). Summit (1994: 5) once described organised abuse as a ‘subject of smoke and mirrors’, observing the ways in which it has persistently defied conceptualisation or explanation.

As my muscles marginally relax, the tension flicks from anger to fevered desire. I want to tear each wisp of clothing off her and tie her to this f**king desk. I’ll know next time, to bring my satin ribbon.

As much as I think about sex, I can only with extreme difficulty conceive of myself actually performing the act. And here's another thing I wonder about. How could you ever look a girl in the eye after you've had your winkie up her wendell? I mean, doesn't that render normal social conversation impossible? Apparently not.

As selfishness and complaint pervert and cloud the mind, so sex with its joy clears and sharpens the vision.

A spouse who refuses to cultivate or fan physical intimacy first devalued the marriage in their mind and priorities. Spouses who defile their marriage bed first lost honor for their marriage.

As the arrangements of life no longer allow time for pleasure conscious of itself, replacing it by the performance of physiological functions, de-inhibited sex is itself de-sexualized. Really, they no longer want ecstasy at all, but merely compensation for an outlay that, best of all, they would like to save as superfluous.

As if, for one powerful, engulfing moment, they were the same person, giving and receiving, as the stars faded into the predawn sky.

Assuming that all ‘unschooled’ people to lack education is akin to assuming that a salary is the only means to make money, or, that a vagina or a penis is the only source of an orgasm.

As she uttered the words of the prayer, she glanced up at him as if he were God Himself. He watched her with growing pleasure. In front of him was kneeling the directress, being humiliated by a subordinate; in front of him a naked revolutionary was being humiliated by prayer; in front of him a praying lady was being humiliated by her nakedness. This threefold image of degradation intoxicated him and something unexpected suddenly happened: his body revoked its passive resistance. Edward was excited! As the directress said, 'And lead us not into temptation,' he quickly threw off all his clothes. When she said, 'Amen,' he violently lifted her off the floor and dragged her onto the couch.

As the blizzard roared outside we prepared for the night. “The sandwiches on the kitchen table wouldn’t be our only food. The sandwiches we would have that night would just be the beginning of a feast. After supper we threw some blankets and a quilt down in front of the stove in the living room. “Can’t trust the two of you for a minute,” she said, laughing. “Come to bed when you’re ready.” With that she went into what should have been the dining room, which now had a big Victorian style bed in it. There must have been bedrooms upstairs, but everything we needed was on the main floor. Damn, I thought, how did this ever happen? Rita called out. “Come to bed now, children. I’m freezing!

A SWELTERING EXCHANGE   She presses my lips, running her fingers across them gently, looking at my lips as though she has just kissed them for the very first time. She gently pries them apart, running her fingertips across the bottom of my lip with a curious childlike fixation.   I realize that she has been as needful for me as I am of her. I pull her left leg in crossed with mine. My lips now close around the ring of her tiny finger, tasting her and loving her. Piece by piece she lets me have every part of her. She smiles at me with a wonder that again grows into a series of sweltering exchanges. She is the one woman who literally takes my breath away.   She embraces me as I indulge myself in her the way that she indulges herself in me. She makes the kind of noise that might easily secure a carnivore to its prey. She wishfully leans into me with her lips that become free for me to cradle. I catch her lips with my entirety, giving her all of me and nothing less. She is now free of those questions that have all been answered with a single kiss. Here is where our souls unite as one for all of time–time ceasing to exist whenever we are in the company of each other. Inseparably smitten we have become, here marinating within each other’s grasp.

As we sat there, the door opened, just barely, and a hand slid inside and dropped a set of keys on a side table. "Thanks, Garrett!" I called out. He gave me a thumbs-up and closed the door. "How do you suppose he knew we were performing sexual favors on each other?" I asked, snuggling against my man again. "Possibly because you screamed my name about seven times.

As women, our ability to multitask can be a blessing, but it becomes a huge liability when we take on too much and then use our busyness as an excuse to get out of our intimacy responsibilities.

A teen boy's wet dream, right here, right in front of him. Elliott closed his eyes, trying to reason with his raging erection, which argued, Come on, come on, it's been fifty years.

A tramp, therefore, is a celibate from the moment when he takes to the road. He is absolutely without hope of getting a wife, a mistress, or any kind of woman except — very rarely, when he can raise a few shillings — a prostitute. It is obvious what the results of this must be: homosexuality, for instance, and occasional rape cases. But deeper than these there is the degradation worked in a man who knows that he is not even considered fit for marriage. The sexual impulse, not to put it any higher, is a fundamental impulse, and starvation of it can be almost as demoralizing as physical hunger. The evil of poverty is not so much that it makes a man suffer as that it rots him physically and spiritually. And there can be no doubt that sexual starvation contributes to this rotting process. Cut off from the whole race of women, a tramp feels himself degraded to the rank of a cripple or a lunatic. No humiliation could do more damage to a man’s self-respect.

A touch communicates what can't be said.