Buxom Quotes

She wasn't much over five feet and a hundred pounds, and she looked a little scrawny around the neck and ankles. But that was all right. It was perfectly all right. The good Lord had known just where to put that flesh where it would really do some good.

Life may not be exactly pleasant, but it is at least not dull. Heave yourself into Hell today, and you may miss, tomorrow or next day, another Scopes trial, or another War to End War, or perchance a rich and buxom widow with all her first husband's clothes. There are always more Hardings hatching. I advocate hanging on as long as possible.

Even the receptionist was new, a pretty, young, buxom blonde named Eden, according to her nameplate. Micah must have handpicked her from the Garden.

Inside, a mother superior, ethereal, delicate, who took me under her wing. She caressed me with her slender, soft hands, she sat next to me as if I were a friend. One day she disappeared. In her place arrived a buxom Swiss from Canton Uri. It's common knowledge that a new leader will hate the predecessors' favourites. A boarding school is like a harem.

In the suburbs of Delaware, spring meant not young love and damp flowers but an ugly divorce from winter and a second marriage to buxom summer.

yowled, and Mrs. Chisholm—who was a rather buxom

Greetings people of Earth, we have come for your chocolate and your buxom women. We will negotiate only with Skyler Luiken's penis.

Maureen was a buxom, smiling redhead who had grown up something of a roughneck in an Irish-Slavic family in the Bronx and had a blunt way of talking that was

By the bounteous bottom of sweet Vashtilulu the Buxom! I'm looking forward to this, Our Kandar!

The woman, one of those usually known as a good-time girl, was famous for the premature portliness which had earned her the nickname Boule de Suif. Small, round as a barrel, fat as butter and with fingers tightly jointed like strings of small sausages, her glowing skin and the enormous bosom which strained under the constraints of her dress — as well as her freshness, which was a delight to the eye — made her hugely desirable and much sought after. She had a rosy apple of a face, a peony bud about to burst into bloom. Out of it looked two magnificent dark eyes shaded by thick black lashes. Further down was a charming little mouth complete with invitingly moist lips and tiny, gleaming pearly-white teeth. She was said to possess a variety of other inestimable qualities.

Are you disappointed?” Cullen glanced to her face as she drew the linens up, covering herself. “In what?” “I am not as buxom, or big, or tall as little Maggie,” she pointed out quietly. He almost laughed, but then realized she was serious. Women were a strange breed, Cullen decided. The truth was he liked her body. He’d liked Maggie’s, too. They were both beautiful in their own ways. Evelinde’s was slim and graceful like a rosebud rising out of the earth. Maggie had been full and ripe like a rose in full bloom. Both were roses and both beautiful.

By the pink left nipple of sweet Vashtilulu the Buxom! I feel you have Koztivkure slung on your back! Strike down the foul wizard, and have done!" "Aye," squeaked Tosho, "for what he had you do to me, do as Krak says, and strike his blasphemous head from his loathsome shoulders!

In the medieval marriage service the wife had pledged to be ‘bonner and buxom in bed and in board’. This has the nice alliteration of an older language. Now both partners were asked to ‘love and to cherish’ ‘for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health’.

I had lost myself in a romance a la Radcliffe, constructed on the juridical base given me by Monsieur Regnault, when the door, opened by a woman’s cautious hand, turned on the hinges. I saw my landlady come in, a buxom, florid dame, always good-humored, who had missed her calling in life.

I have been forced to believe that neither the scholarly grace of my friend Elliott nor the buxom beauty of my friend Rowden have touched that heart of ice." Elliot and Rowden, boiling with indignation, cried out, "And you!" "I," said Clifford blandly, "do fear to tread where you rush in.

You aren’t a monster, Nivellen,” the witcher said dryly. “Pox, that’s something new. So what am I? Cranberry pudding? A flock of wild geese flying south on a sad November morning? No? Maybe I’m the virtue that a miller’s buxom daughter lost in spring? Well, Geralt, tell me what I am. Can’t you see I’m shaking with curiosity?

Her father's old books were all she could command, and these she wore out with much reading. Inheriting his refined tastes, she found nothing to attract her in the society of the commonplace and often coarse people about her. She tried to like the buxom girls whose one ambition was to "get married," and whose only subjects of conversation were "smart bonnets" and "nice dresses." She tried to believe that the admiration and regard of the bluff young farmers was worth striving for; but when one well-to-do neighbor laid his acres at her feet, she found it impossible to accept for her life's companion a man whose soul was wrapped up in prize cattle and big turnips.

The countess is barely dressed and receiving guests in her garden. And that other woman, she’s obviously a wanton.” “Aye, that she is.” Something in Ravencroft’s tone prompted Cole to glance up at the man. “You say that like you know her.” “I do. That buxom, wanton wench would be my wife, Mena Mackenzie, the Marchioness of Ravencroft.

A woman’s magnetism is not a body measurement.

The men could pick up girls along that road if they promised to take them where they wanted to go, buxom, young, homely, grinning girls with missing teeth whom they could drive off the road and lie down in the wild grass with, and Yossarian did whenever he could, which was not nearly as often as Hungry Joe, who could get a jeep but couldn’t drive, begged him to try.

Most people will likely encounter Ingeborg’s showy Display variants: the decorative fill and shadow of Block, and the buxom swashes of Fat Italic. These are indeed finely crafted crowd-pleasers, but the typeface’s more important contribution to typography is in the text weights. Michael Hochleitner managed to comfortably combine the neoclassical glamour of Didones, the readability of other Rational typefaces like the Scotch Romans, and the sturdiness of a slab serif. The result is a very original design that is both beautiful and practical. Good for: Books. Magazines. Substance and style.

Two strangers alone, we had entered the clumsy, uncomfortable time of prospective lovers—uncomfortable because we have all seen it rehearsed again and again on a million television screens. You find yourself sliding into the practiced routines of the buxomed starlets and the square-jawed heros, so that even the honest gesture of affection begins to ring untrue. So I was content to steer Sniper toward a pretty little harbor I knew—a deepwater retreat within the confines of a pine-swept island called Punta Blanco. I did not put my arm around her, nor did she lay her head on my shoulder, but there was still the physical awareness, the deep wanting—yet we were both content to simply ride and enjoy the night.

A buxom woman, Gran wore an apron every day, her hair always up in a tight bun. She was nearly always smiling and full of hugs and cuddles. I loved her immensely. It was Gran who said many times, as she hugged and kissed me on the head, ‘Ruthie, I know you try to be good, but you just aren’t.

January 29: A buxom Marilyn, arching her back so that her breasts are especially prominent, appears in a gold dress on the cover of the Australasian Post.

Wild Rose   In a forgotten garden after all its occupants had long since receded into the ground, wild rose, native beauty of flower and thorn, stood rooted, still reaching through blight and neglect on a landscape of absence and exile. I have witnessed this fixity of green life ‘long game trails unsullied by hoe or human resolve, adorning the floor of the forest as finery, so simple, so forthright, so attuned to the unity. So, I took up this rose to the house there transplanted as if house were tree and sidewalk, the trail. Pruning only the matter that died in years of despair before I arrived, wild rose now thrived, buxom splendor, alive, your pedagogy truth and goodness your virtue, a revelation and substance of creaturely being. I root and I reach for becoming a man belonging as native to this my new land among those in presence as I am of flowers and of thorns.

And buxom, which means only obedient, is now made, in familiar phrases, to stand for wanton; because in an ancient form of marriage, before the Reformation, the bride promised complaisance and obedience, in these terms: "I will be bonair and buxom in bed and at board.

Damien glared at the buxom beauty before him and almost gave in to the urge to strangle her himself.

I'm sorry I don't conform to your standards of feminine perfection, but I'm quite happy the way I am—anyway, I wasn't born to be buxom.

Buxom mixed with brains is a deadly combination

When she added that graduates were known for having a “natural physical endowment,” Darby could have sworn she looked right at her, and not in a good way. What the heck did that mean? Pretty? Buxom? She’d pulled her shoulders back and sat up straighter. The classes were tedious, for the most part: typing, shorthand, communication, and spelling tests.

As always, the pictures on the wardroom walls caught my eye: framed reproductions of covers from ancient pulp magazines well over a hundred years old. The magazines themselves, crumbling and priceless, were bagged and hermetically sealed within a locker in the Captain’s quarters. Lurid paintings of fishbowl-helmeted spacemen fighting improbable alien monsters and mad scientists which, in turn, menaced buxom young women in see-through outfits. The adolescent fantasies of the last century—“Planets In Peril,” “Quest Beyond The Stars,” “Star Trail To Glory”—and above them all, printed in a bold swath across the top of each cover, a title… CAPTAIN FUTURE Man of Tomorrow

Her buxomness stood before him, waiting for his touch.

The first one was wearing a kind of ancient Tyrolean (?) hat whose ragged edges were maybe an inch wide; the second had a straw hat that looked like an open snuffbox with a broken cover. The Agitated on the right had an evil laugh that bared his stumps of tarnished nuggets; the Agitated on the left foamed with rage. The laugher started dancing, doing somersaults and dancing again, like a circus ballerina; then he jumped up and down, tirelessly, saying “Opa! Opa!” and guffawing. He smiled less and looked satisfied, almost happy. He obviously thought he was funny and was playing nice, but all of a sudden, he started yelling, rolling on the ground and jumping back up. He kept yelling and jumping and then finally fell down on the floor of his cage and wiggled around in a kind of epileptic fit. After maybe 20 seconds, he got up and started dancing; and the whole time he was scratching himself and smiling absent-mindedly. The furious one climbed the bars of the window, tried to spit on us, shook the bars, moaned and groaned and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. He tore at his rags, scratched his face until it bled, howled and cried in frustration—at not being able to bite us, to wring our necks and tear off our skin. He aimed his claws at us; he choked; his face turned purple, almost black! “OK, Leonard! Now I’ve had enough of looking at these monsters! They’re hurting me. Not to mention that us being here is not good for them. These crises must wear them out. When they’re alone. they can hide in the corner, curl up and go to sleep, or whatever, but they’ll calm down. I’m getting out of here!” “Good! Good! Let’s go,” my guardian said very seriously. “They’re very gentle, almost proper. It’s the others I don’t wanna show you, no matter what Bid’homme says. The others, ah! They’re nightmares! If there’s any like them outside of here, they’re only found in jars—and drowned in alcohol—again!” Just then two young, buxom nurses passed by us. The two sad anthropoids whinnied—literally—like horses and threw themselves against the bars—then tore off some of their clothes, seized by an exhibitionist rage, and slobbered and roared. The nurses ran away and Leonard finally agreed to get away from the awful scene—so sad that it was almost not disgusting.

As soon as the half-red, half-gray Honda Civic peeled out of the lot, I turned back to Champ with a puffed-up sense of pride at my success. “Am I forgiven?” “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll ask my husband. The gun-toting drag queen.” I pointed at him. “May you be so lucky. If you weren’t a workaholic, you could totally land a nice buxom queen instead of that big, callused hand you’re married to now.

In one corner of the large bar room I saw a pit filled with mud and a pig. I watched a buxom, mature woman as she rolled around in this soup, trying to catch a pig that seemed to be more elusive than expected. Squealing the pig escaped from the pit and ran for his life. Everyone joined in trying to catch the critter and eventually some guys did return him to the pit he called home. Picking him up with a mud covered towel the woman and her pig disappeared behind a curtain, only to be replaced by two other women who started wrestling each other. It was an expected typically crude performance that everyone seemed to enjoy. After finishing my overpriced beer I hightailed out of there and took the city rapid transit back to the ship.

You’re saying that on Friday night I have an equal chance of getting vomited on as I do of getting kissed?” “Welcome to high school.

buxom redhead passed by, dressed in scarlet and purple silks with feathers in her hair.

Has your time with your buxom friend destroyed what little sense you had?

suggested that the “Enfeebling Liquor” robbed men of their sexual energies, making them “as unfruitful as those Desarts whence that unhappy Berry is said to be brought.” The unsubtle subtitle of the pamphlet—“Humble Petition and Address of Several Thousands of Buxome Good Women, Languishing in Extremity of Want”—did not mince words: men were spending so much time in coffeehouses, and drinking so much coffee, that they arrived home with “nothing stiffe but their joints.” The men replied with their own pamphlet, claiming that the “Harmless and healing liquor . . . makes the erection more Vigorous, the Ejaculation more full, [and] adds a spiritualescency to the Sperme.” Any problem in this department the pamphleteers wrote off to the “Husband’s natural infirmity” or possibly “your own perpetual Pumping him, not drinking coffee.

because there was a new face in the chorus, and rumor—in the person of his friend Aubrey—said she was a promising possibility as a mistress. And indeed she was, Lucien had to admit—at least, she would be for Aubrey, who had come into his title and had full control of his fortune. But not for someone like Lucien—a young man on a strict allowance and whose title of Viscount Hartford was only a courtesy one, borrowed from his father. Being my lord was, he had found, one of the few benefits of being the only son of the Earl of Chiswick. “She’s quite attractive, as game pullets go,” he told Aubrey carelessly after the play, as they cracked the first bottle of wine at their club. “Have her with my blessing.” Aubrey snorted. “You know, Lucien, it’s just as well you’re not looking for a high-flyer, for you damned well couldn’t afford her.” Lucien forced a smile. “She’s not my sort, as it happens.” “Balderdash—she’s any man’s sort.” Not mine, Lucien thought absently. He might have said it aloud if the sentiment hadn’t been so startlingly true. How odd—for the chorus girl had been a prime piece, buxom and long-limbed and flashy, as well as incredibly flexible as she moved around the stage. How could he not be interested? Aubrey was looking at him strangely, so Lucien said, “If she’s so much to your taste, I’m surprised you didn’t go around to the stage door after the performance and make yourself known.” “Strategy, my friend. Never let a woman guess exactly how interested you are.” Aubrey waved a hand at a waiter to bring another bottle, and as they drank it, he detailed his plan for winning the chorus girl. “It’s too bad you can’t join the fun, for I’m certain she has a friend,” Aubrey finished. “The gossips have it that your father is never without a lightskirt, so why should he object to you having one?” “Oh, not a lightskirt. Only the finest of the demimonde will do for the Earl of Chiswick.” Lucien drained his glass. “I’m meant to be on the road to Weybridge at first light—for the duke’s birthday, you know. A few hours’ sleep before I climb into a jolting carriage will not come amiss.” “Too late.” Aubrey tilted his head toward the nearest window. “Dawn’s breaking now, if I’m not mistaken. You won’t mind if I don’t come to see you off? Deadly dull it is, waving good-bye—and I’ve a mind for a hand or two of piquet before I go home.” Lucien walked from the club to his rooms in Mount Street, hoping a fresh breeze might help clear his head. The post-chaise Uncle Josiah had ordered for him was already waiting. The horses stamped impatiently, snorting in the cool morning air, and the postboys looked bored. Nearby, Lucien’s valet paced—but he

The neighborhood speculated ferociously on what treasures the young man kept behind his boarded windows and his thick walls. Some guessed a fortune in pearls, others supposed ingots of gold gotten from his grandmother’s estate. No one even suspected that he had kept more books in one place than any other on the continent, holiest and heresies and art and trash. Five years ago, he had learned that he could not tolerate people, and so the stacks of books grew to keep him company. There were the slender towers of botany treatises as short and delicate as children, the fat stacks of romances that seemed buxom despite their corners, the stalwart disquisitions of war that could be used to build a fortress themselves. Soon, she hoped, he might open at least a window to the outside; if he would not leave himself, perhaps his books would fly out and live in the hearts of those who needed them, just as she needed the book that lived in her own chest.