Best 865 quotes in «lust quotes» category

Storytelling? God started that. Discovery. Lust. Murder. Revenge. Power. Sin. Redemption. Forgiveness. Miracles. We simply retell the stories in the language of our generation.

Strip my soul bare. Run your fingers through my hair. Make forget I have a care. Show me no one can compare.

Suddenly the look in Norah’s eyes changed. The nervous air she had walked in with, lifted from her face. Her eyes closed slightly and then opened wide, revealing pools of chocolate confidence. The change in her facial expression forced me to take a breath. How could you not love a creature like this — Angel by day, vixen by night.

Sudden. Lust is. But long in waiting. Like a bullet from a gun locked in my father’s chest since the day I was born. And even, perhaps, before then. Resting in wait. Since the day Adam woke to his first sun. Outside of Eden.

Sweet Goddess! she thought suddenly. I have never even spoken to him. I know nothing about the man, nothing at all. What if he tries to get me into some sordid little room and force himself on me, like an animal? How will I fight him off? All alone, not able to cry for help? No, it will not be like that, it could not be. I would have known if he were that kind of man, and felt repelled. He could not sing and write such beautiful verses, and look so fine if he were not the man I want him to be. Yes, when we meet, it will be as it is in his songs. He will obey, do exactly what I tell him and no more. Oh, I have hoped so long for this. Goddess of Love, let it be beautiful.

Tanned, toned, curves in the right places and that small waist…lips, hair, eyes all packaged up like a siren. If she’s a siren, I heard her call, and I’m diving in hook, line, and sinker. - Drew Donovan

Tell me to stop,” Nicholas said earlier when he led me here. “Tell me to stop,” he said when he fastened my arms to the headboard. “Tell me to stop,” he says now when he lifts up my shirt. He waits for my answer. Again, I say nothing and let him pull it up to my collarbone.

Tell me again about the girl whose hands have no color. Whose hands are completely white. This time make them damned, or untouched, or have her open a red umbrella or point at some maple leaves and damned near cry. Those hands. As freakish goes, I wish I had a tail. Maybe then you’d know how much I like you. It shakes me through, damn through. It shakes me. When she carries a peacock feather. When she touches her neck or thighs. You’re a person. It’s not so bad. You have hands. You are a person with hands to hold things. Things you like. Tremendous things. Tell me what you will hold today. I know there is room for everything. There is no need to be ceremonious. Tell what gets let go.

The ability to engage the reader, to stir feelings deep within their being, is the ultimate goal of erotic fiction. When the reader takes the place of the characters in my story, I have succeeded

Ten seconds is the distance between silence and a smile...

The air between them was electric, the scent of his aftershave was intoxicating and she could feel the testosterone bouncing off him. She could immediately tell he was a powerful man.

The acts of the flesh are obvious: sexual immorality, impurity, and debauchery. Galatians 5:19

The air felt thick with the feeling between us, like it was filling the room: a room full of our carnal heat, our hot desire for each other. Both my hands were clenched on the tablecloth, bunching it tightly, as he continued to swipe the belt against my quivering ass cheeks, and I could feel his tight fist yank repeatedly on my hair.

The air smelled like testosterone and manflesh again. (That was a thing, right?)

The covert conversation between fingers and flesh feverishly heightens the senses and emboldens the soul when the prospect of discovery is inevitable...

The devil never sleeps. He keeps me company.

The death of her father and mother and the rich acres of and that had come down to her had set a train of suitors on her heels. For two years she saw suitors almost every evening. Except two they were all alike. They talked to her of passion and there was a strained eager quality in their voices and in their eyes when they looked at her. The two who were different were much unlike each other. One of them, a slender young man with white hands, the son of a jeweler in Winesburg, talked continually of virginity. When he was with her he was never off the subject. The other, a black-haired boy with large ears, said nothing at all but always managed to get her into the darkness, where he began to kiss her. For a time the tall dark girl thought she would marry the jeweler's son. For hours she sat in silence listening as he talked to her and then she began to be afraid of something. Beneath his talk of virginity she began to think there was a lust greater than in all the others. At times it seemed to her that as he talked he was holding her body in his hands. She imagined him turning it slowly about in the white hands and staring at it. At night she dreamed that he had bitten into her body and that his jaws were dripping. She had the dream three times, then she became in the family way to the one who said nothing at all but who in the moment of his passion actually did bite her shoulder so that for days the marks of his teeth showed.

The DARRYL part of him that exploded on stage made its spellbinding, turbulent presence most felt off stage when we made love. He was a symphony of contradiction; tender, yet fierce; sweet, yet riotous; impassioned, yet leisurely; giving, yet unquenchable. We lay there naked on the carpet a long time afterward, both too depleted—and too content—to move.

The debauched reign of Tiberius now looks almost irreproachable, the riotous city of ancient Babylon seemingly incorruptible, and the old harems of the Sublime Port practically nunneries. For something is dangerously wrong, and yet there are few if any who question the prevalent moral paradigm.

The first stanza of Eyes In Moonlight Drown, a poem from DeadVerse. With your face framed in a halo of stars, your hair melts into trailing clouds, and your eyes in moonlight drown. A man could lose himself in those freckled irises, reflecting the galaxies above; surely he could fall into their promise of eternity, of Heaven, of love. Your lips glisten, part, and beckon, a smile of warm invitation, a suggestion of sweet intensity, a loss of self in addictive agony. For we translate these aesthetics into something mystical; ideas of fantasy, of fiction, obscuring the clinical truth of chemical reactions, electric sparks, responses as sure as gravity, measurable yet beyond cold, above philosophy and below truth.

The eternal relief is in finding peace after doing your work bereft of lust, anger, greed, infatuation, ego, and envy.

The first summer that we spent together, we did so many obscene things to each other, that by the end of it, the trees blushed a shy shade of scarlet, leaves falling to the ground, scandalized by our acts.

The first time I heard you laugh, I only wanted to say funny things so you would always be laughing. You know what happens to chocolate when you leave it out in the sun? I’m that unfortunate chocolate and you, you are the laughing sun. For this reason, I am offering myself to you not as a martyr or some selfless fool, but as a self-indulgent moth who actively pursues the light without much fear for the flame. The moth who revels in the heat and declares: Burn me.

The journey was brutal, the results were glorious.

The heart lusts, but the soul loves.

The initial confrontation of the root is the most critical part of this journey.

The massive lump of flesh that has created you, me, and maybe, animals, everything that has life will forever live.

The magistrate's expression changed as quickly as if a gust of wind had blown his anger away. What replaced it forced me to glance away. It struck me too much as the same look Papinias got on his face when he discovered a new book to add to his ever-growing collection.

The Marquis de V... - whose falsetto voice and little watery eyes I have always detested - was saying to me with a wicked smile: 'Then again, the master gymnast might break his neck at any moment. What he is doing now is very dangerous, my dear, and the pleasure you take in his performance is the little frisson that danger affords you. Wouldn't it be thrilling, if his sweaty hand failed to grip the bar? The velocity acquired by his rotation about the bar would break his spine quite cleanly, and perhaps a little of the cervical matter might spurt out as far as this! It would be most sensational, and you would have a rare emotion to add to the field of your experience - for you collect emotions, don't you? What a pretty stew of terrors that man in tights stirs up in us! 'Admit that you almost wish that he will fall! Me too. Many others in the auditorium are in the same state of attention and anguish. That is the horrible instinct of a crowd confronted with a spectacle which awakens in it the ideas of lust and death. Those two agreeable companions always travel together! Take it from me that at the very same moment - see, the man is now holding on to the bar by his fingertips alone - at the very same moment, a good number of the women in these boxes are ardently lusting after that man, not so much for his beauty as for the danger he courts.' The voice subtly changed its tone, suddenly becoming more interested. 'You have singularly pale eyes this evening, my dear Freneuse. You ought to give up bromides and take valerian instead. You have a charming and curious soul, but you must take command of its changes. You are too ardently and too obviously covetous, this evening, of the death - or at least the fall - of that man.' I did not reply. The Marquis de V... was quite right. The madness of murder had taken hold of me again; the spectacle had me in its hallucinatory grip. Straitened by a penetrating and delirious anguish, I yearned for that man to fall. There are appalling depths of cruelty within me.

The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us the less taste we shall have for the destruction of our race. Wonder and humility are wholesome emotions, and they do not exist side by side with a lust for destruction. {Speech accepting the John Burroughs Medal}

Then as we passed down this Passage we were knocked against certain Women of the Town, who gave us Eye-language, since there were many Corners and Closets in Bedlam where they would stop and wait for Custom: indeed it was known as a sure Market for Lechers and Loiterers, for tho' they came in Single they went out by Pairs. This is a Showing-room for Whores, I said. And what better place for Lust, Sir Chris. replied, than among those whose Wits have fled?

The only real flesh was the flesh that existed in his imagination. Since, therefore, he regarded the flesh as an ideal abstraction, rather than as a physical fact, he had relied on his spiritual strength to subjugate it.

There is an inimitable yearning in my soul that pines for your soul.

The opposite of lust is intentional, purposeful. The opposite of lust is longing for a ‘particular’ person – because while lust is looking to get, the opposite of lust is looking to give. The opposite of lust is choosing a certain person. The same person. Everyday. For the rest of your life. Despite what they have to offer. Now that’s romantic. The opposite of lust is waking up every morning and saying, “out of everyone else in this world, I choose you.” I choose you. Today, and everyday. I choose you not because you’re perfect for me and you meet all of my qualifications and conditions and because you make me feel loved and cared for. No. I choose you, because I know you’re a lot like me, and you’re going to fall short and mess up and you’re not always going to feel like loving me – but you’re going to want someone to stick around with you despite all that. I choose you, because I know Jesus loves you, and He doesn’t love you because He is impressed by you and He gets a warm feeling in His heart when He’s around you and you complete Him. He loves you so that you might become more like Him. This is a love that isn't dependent on us.

The pain of hunger beneath everything. At the end of all love-making, the dreamless sleep after the orgasm, which is like death.

There are numerous emotions such as love, hatred, fear, anxiety, guilt, grief, anger, surprise, happiness, boredom, lust, compassion and each has an important role to play in our lives. We need to feel and go through all the emotions in our lives. While we may not desire some of them as they can cause pain, their absence can’t complete our lives either.

There are still slave auctions in this day and age. I’ll bet you thought that was impossible, but it is still the world we live in.” -Shenita Etwaroo

There is a correlation between the number of days since a man last had sex, and, the number of things that he is willing to do for a woman.

There is a correlation between the number of days since a man last had sex, and, the number of women that he is convinced he is in love with.

There is a correlation between the number of days since a man last had sex, and, the number of women that he is convinced he is in love with, or, the number of things that he is willing to do for a woman.

There is a very thin line of demarcation dividing true love from unadulterated lust. What is love without the pleasures of the flesh and what is lust sans a fluttering heart?

There is no moment that exceeds in beauty that moment when one looks at a woman and finds that she is looking at you in the same way that you are looking at her. The moment in which she bestows that look that says, "Proceed with your evil plan, sumbitch." The initial smash on glance. The, the drawing near. This takes a long time, it seems like months, although only minutes pass, in fact. Languor is the word that describes this part of the process. Your persona floats toward her persona, over the Sea of Hesitation. Many weeks pass before they meet, but the weeks are days, or seconds. Still, everything is decided. You have slept together in the glance.

The patriarchy longs for the days 'when men were men' and women were oppressed, subservient - and they can see no wrong in it. It justifies its former power and lust to hold on to it - and if possible, to regain it by quoting fundamentalist and radical religion and tradition and calling it 'love'. Some love. How can oppression and power over another person's life ever be 'love'?

The quest to sin always knocks at the door of the heart, but behold! You have the right and will to open your door or never to mind the knocks, no matter how intense it is!

There is no need to impress people; for they don't care about your pride, they are busy in their business. But when you'll fall down, they'll talk about you! Better to live as you are and to enjoy what you have without lust .

There's no way that you're real,” she murmured to his crotch.

The rest of them looked proper when they did it, but somehow Edward made even this gesture appear like in seconds he'd rip off her corset and do away with her skirt.

There's something here, my dear boy, that you don't understand yet. A man will fall in love with some beauty, with a woman's body, or even a part of a woman's body (a sensualist can understand that) and he'll abandon his own children for her, sell his father and mother, and his country, Russia, too. If he's honest, he'll steal; if he's humane, he'll murder; if he's faithful, he'll deceive.

These five words you utter make the sun rise again: “I’m going to come home.” How is it possible for one person to be the sole reason for my existence? When I hear you say these golden words, the warmth spreads from my stomach until it reaches my pulsating fingertips. How is it possible for one person to be the sole reason for my ecstasy? These five words your utter are even more precious when I’m holding you tight and you whisper only four of them. Because then, I’m really home.

There we were, filled with pure animal need, as he pinned me to the wooden table, and cruelly whipped my naked bottom; the two of us sweaty and panting, me screaming, him grunting, our primal sexual natures overprinting the tea room’s pretence at gentility, and refinement.