Smut Quotes

You know on TV when there’s one of those awkward, shocking moments and all you hear are the crickets in the background? Well chirp fucking chirp...this is one of those moments.

Cassian had named about two dozen poses for Nesta at this point. Ranging from I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast to I Don't Want Cassian to Know I'm Reading Smut. The latter was his particular favorite.

Violence and smut are of course everywhere on the airwaves. You cannot turn on your television without seeing them, although sometimes you have to hunt around.

I vow. You vow. We vow.

I moaned then, tilting my head back to give him better access. His hands clamped on my waist, then moved—one going to cup my rear, the other sliding between us. This—this moment, when it was him and me and nothing between our bodies … His tongue scraped the roof of my mouth as he dragged a finger down the center of me, and I gasped, my back arching. “Feyre,” he said against my lips, my name like a prayer more devout than any Ianthe had offered up to the Cauldron on that dark solstice morning. His tongue swept my mouth again, in time to the finger that he slipped inside of me. My hips undulated, demanding more, craving the fullness of him, and his growl reverberated in my chest as he added another finger. I moved on him. Lightning lashed through my veins, and my focus narrowed to his fingers, his mouth, his body on mine. His palm pushed against the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and I groaned his name as I shattered

Tumbling into a dark, Lewis Carroll labyrinth of filth, pursuing a white rabbit of smut!

Tamlin let out a low snarl of approval, and I bit my bottom lip as he removed his pants, along with his undergarments, revealing the proud, thick length of him. My mouth went dry, and I dragged my gaze up his muscled torso, over the panes of his chest, and then— “Come here,” he growled, so roughly the words were barely discernable. I pushed back the blankets, revealing my already naked body, and he hissed.

Besides....... who wants a boy? The only boys in our books are the little baby ones the man hero puts inside the heroine.

1984 was the most boring book ever. But now I understand why people read smut

“You’ll have to excuse my shock. When the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen tells me she’s a virgin… I think I’ve just hit the lottery...” - Jonathan di Luca

No one should be judged for what they read, nor should authors by what they write.

Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.

A snow globe,” I say slowly, waiting for her to look up, which she doesn’t do. “You made a severed finger into a feckin’ snow globe.” “It was almost Christmas,” she says with a shrug. “It felt … festive.

there’s nothing wrong with a man who enjoys a good romance book. My dad always said the best way to learn what a woman wants is to pick up some of the smut they love to read so much. Written by a woman, it might as well be a road map to instant pleasure.

I can hear banging and rustling before I even open the door, and part of me is worried I’m about to walk in on Sabrina and Robbie doing something weird on the couch, but instead I open the door and Russ is standing in my living room, looking like a deer in headlights, holding a box labeled SMUT in huge letters.

My idea of romance is a guy who will take me to see an Avengers film and doesn’t mind dressing up like Loki afterwards.

Trellis wants his salutary book to be read by all. He realizes that purely a moralizing tract would not reach the public. Therefore he is putting plenty of smut into his book.

My Kindle is full of highly enjoyable, unequivocally filthy smut.

Good turn to you, gentlefriends. It’s lovely to see you again. I confess, I missed you in our time apart. And now, reunited, would that I could simply greet you with a smile, and let you be about the business of murder and revenge and occasional lashings of tastefully written smut.

There are all different kinds of smut,” Pandora said, warming to the subject. “Smut balls, loose smut, stinking smut—” “Pandora,” West interrupted in an undertone, “for the love of mercy, stop saying that word in public.

I want to be his love slave. An image of me in a black corset wearing a collar with a leash attached to it pops into my head. Maybe stupid Lydia was right to cut the smut from the book club for a while.

I would go to hell and back if it meant I got to fuck you raw again.

The most important part of individual life, which cannot be subsumed in communal life, is love. So comradeship has its special weapon against love: smut.

He longed for smut, but heard little and contributed less, and his chief indecencies were solitary.

Please,” I gasped out. He just brushed his lips against my jaw, my neck, my mouth. “Tamlin,” I begged. He palmed my breast, his thumb flicking over my nipple. I cried out, and he buried himself in me with a mighty stroke. For a moment, I was nothing, no one. Then we were fused, two hearts beating as one, and I promised myself it always would be that way as he pulled out a few inches, the muscles of his back flexing beneath my hands, and then slammed back into me. Again and again. I broke and broke against him as he moved, as he murmured my name and told me he loved me. And when that lightning once more filled my veins, my head, when I gasped out his name, his own release found him. I gripped him through each shuddering wave, savoring the weight of him, the feel of his skin, his strength. For a while, only the rasp of our breathing filled the room. I frowned as he withdrew at last—but he didn’t go far. He stretched out on his side, head propped on a fist, and traced idle circles on my stomach, along my breasts.

The book was not new. Dates were stamped on the front endpaper, in and out dates. A rent book. A lending library of elaborate smut. I rewrapped the book and locked it up behind the seat. A racket like that, out in the open on the boulevard, seemed to mean plenty of protection. I sat there and poisoned myself with cigarette smoke and listened to the rain and thought about it.

Barbara had really missed her calling. She should have been a gynecologist. Nothing pleased her more than having her face between another woman’s legs.

His smile is infectious. But again, so was the plague.

I'd set the world on fire, including myself, if it meant saving her.

Fucking hell, you’re sweet. You’re so goddamn sweet, I just want to sink my teeth into every inch of you.

You can’t blackball people out of a book club.” “Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.

I couldn't hear anything or anyone, there was only the sound of our sex and the smell of books.

L.O.R.D. - Leader, Order, Ruler, and Deity

For all of us who love a lil’ horror with our smut.

Nobody speaks smut to my wife and gets away with it.

Okay, so reading smut in class is a terrible idea. Who would’ve thought, huh?

Then Night came down like the feathery soot of a smoky lamp, and smutted[9] first the bedquilt, then the hearth-rug, then the window-seat, and then at last the great, stormy, faraway outside world. But sleep did not come. Oh, no! Nothing new came at all except that particularly wretched, itching type of insomnia which seems to rip away from one's body the whole kind, protecting skin and expose all the raw, ticklish fretwork of nerves to the mercy of a gritty blanket or a wrinkled sheet. Pain came too, in its most brutally high night-tide; and sweat, like the smother of furs in summer; and thirst like the scrape of hot sand-paper; and chill like the clammy horror of raw fish.

After a few seconds, she continues. “I admire you more than I can say for being one of far too few people willing actually to do something to save them. The world needs more people like you, Zade.” “Maybe,” I murmur, giving in and placing a soft kiss on the corner of her lips. “But all I need is you.

I don't want to fix him. I want fix me. And he's the only thing that seems to be working.

I simply argue that the cross be raised again, at the centre of the marketplace as well as on the steeple of the church. I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles but on a cross between two thieves; on a town garbage heap; at a crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan that they had to write His title in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek … and at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse, and soldiers gamble. Because that is where He died, And that is what He died about. And that is where Christ’s own ought to be, And that is what church people ought to be about.

Writing is hard…It gets harder when it becomes your career, your job, because it’s no longer a hobby, it’s no longer a manuscript hidden in your desk drawer. It becomes a platform from which the world can judge you. Your soul becomes target practice, and the critics hold the arrows.

It is dangerous to leave written that which is badly written. A chance word, upon paper, may destroy the world. Watch carefully and erase, while the power is still yours, I say to myself, for all that is put down, once it escapes, may rot its way into a thousand minds, the corn become a black smut, and all libraries, of necessity, be burned to the ground as a consequence. Only one answer: write carelessly so that nothing that is not green will survive. ― William Carlos Williams, Paterson. (New Directions; Revised Edition edition April 17, 1995) Originally published 1946.

My girl has proven that I own her, and I an't wait to show her just what that means.

For all the dirty minded, filthy mouthed, smut loving readers out there: May you always come so hard, your mind and body GLITCH.

Is a newspaper prints a sex crime, it's smut, but when The New York Times prints it, it's a sociological study. [Adolph S. Ochs - Publisher New York Times]

Because he loves… what? That I’m antisocial enough to read smut in the middle of a crowded bar instead of hanging out with my cousin and his friends?

It's not the violence I crave (...) Although I like it rough, I think it's more of the idea of a man being so overcome with desire for me that he can't be stopped. And the fact I have no say over what he does. The feeling of having no control makes me feel in control. I let him catch me even though I run. I let him do it even though I fight him.

Maiden, mother, virgin, whore. They don't write our stories anymore..." Cady began. "Vampires, lairds, pirates, earls - we're taking smut back for the girls," Vee, Gemma and Myrtle recited in unison.

I may have loved to read my romance and smut novels, but I was not blinded by the 'fiction' part of it all. I knew the difference between what was real and what came from a hopeless romantic's imagination.

Ryat Archer is a killer, and all I can think of is I wish I could prove my love for him the way he has for me. He deserves that much. Blood for blood. He's spilled so much for me. I'm not afraid to bleed for him.

Once a prisoner, always a prisoner. My Alessio would never give up the Mafia. It was no longer an occupation but a fucking lifestyle.

I kiss the inside of each knee and up, farther, the roughness of my cheek raising redness on her skin.

Brothers, look how fucking hot she is with our cum dripping out of her greedy holes.

He cleared his throat. “Filthy mind.” He flicked her cheek. “Too much smut.

I can’t wait to fuck you again and again, leaving you sore yet begging me for more. You’ll never know when I’m going to drag you into the darkness, pumping my cock into one of your tight holes. And you’ll take every inch like a good little girl. If you don’t, there will be severe punishment.

Sunflower poised against the sunset, crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye— corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face, soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays obliterated on its hairy head like a dried wire spiderweb, leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear

Yes ma’am," he teased. “However long it takes to make me yours.

I believe that is what they call an erection. ~ Double Teamed

A text from Rio comes in: I just paid my weed guy with a check. I think I’ve got the hang of this adulting thing.

Who is she? Who is this girl who would allow me to do this, here, now? And how am I allowed to have her?

I am going to touch your pussy ..If you are wet, I am going to make you cum all over my fingers, begging for more, in a fucking church.

Does he know you’re with me? Does he know about me? Does he know we fuck each other in our dreams every night? ~ Ripp Collins

She will know hell, but for now, I shall be her devil.

Amy, amante, amour, he whispered, as if the words themselves were smuts of ash rising and falling, as though the candle were the story of his life and she the flame. He lay down in his haphazard cot. After a time he found and opened a book he had been reading that he had expected to end well, a romance which he wanted to end well, with the hero and heroine finding love, with peace and joy and redemption and understanding. Love is two bodies with one soul, he read, and turned the page. But there was nothing—the final pages had been ripped away and used as toilet paper or smoked, and there was no hope or joy or understanding. There was no last page. The book of his life just broke off. There was only the mud below him and the filthy sky above. There was to be no peace and no hope. And Dorrigo Evans understood that the love story would go on forever and ever, world without end. He would live in hell, because love is that also.

You listen to me, and listen good!" she shouted, shocking me. "I am not evil because I have a thousand years of demon smut on my soul!" she exclaimed, the tips of her hair trembling and her face flushed. "Every time you disturb reality, nature has to balance it out. The black on your soul isn't evil, it's a promise to make up for what you have done. It's a mark, not a death sentence. And you can get rid of it given time." "Ceri, I'm sorry," I fumbled, but she wasn't listening. "You're an ignorant, foolish, stupid witch," she berated, and I cringed, my grip tightening on the copper spell pot and feeling the anger from her like a whip. "Are you saying because I carry the stink of demon magic, that I'm a bad person?" "No..." I wedged in. "That God will show no pity?" she said, green eyes flashing. "That because I made one mistake in fear that led to a thousand more that I will burn in hell?" "No. Ceri -" I took a step forward. "My soul is black," she said, her fear showing in her suddenly pale cheeks. "I'll never be rid of it all before I die, but it won't be because I'm a bad person but because I was a frightened one.

I've never understood people who return books after they've obviously read them. "Oh no, that dog-eared page was there when I bought it." Like hell it was. How about I punch you in the bloody face and tell you that bruise was there before and then we'll call it even.

Keep it in your pants.” I pause, trying to keep my eyes from staying on his crotch. “Wait, are you saying you’re hard right now?” He scratches at the scruff of his chin, eyes dancing. “Pretty much, considering what I’m writing. Just say the word cock again.” “Fuck you.” “Well what do you know,” he says lazily. “The word fuck works too.

...apparently "London" gave out my address! that's what they're saying...not just London, though! Brazzaville, too!...and said that I'm a dirty pornographer...a letch besides being the most despicable traitor of the century!...I'd make a urinal blush! that what we need is to cleanse France and the French language of this smut-writing, demoralizing, grammaclast who's sullying our sacred homeland and its literary heritage!

Oh, God,” I cursed. A grin crept onto her lips. “Pretty fucking close,” she said, breathing heavily. A pause followed. “But no. The opposite.” A wicked smile appeared on my face. She was sent to me by Satan himself.

Some have patience. I do not.

She’s a nerd on the streets and a freak in the sheets. “I

Riding Hard: A bad boy crime boss MC menage forbidden second chance romance standalone.

I’m gonna fuck you now. It’s gonna be fast and hard because I’ve waited too long for this, but we’ll go again right after, and then I’ll take it slow.

I want to fuck you back to hell, where you belong.

I’m paying,” he says. “And driving. Go nuts.” I push the drink away. “I’ll behave.” He waits a beat, licking his lips, before he says, “I wish you wouldn’t.

When you look at me, tease my desire with a mere gaze, it shreds the edges of my soul… ~ Ripp Collins

I wanted to rip her apart. I wanted to eat her alive.

A sky without stars, a home without heart

A Lord does not show mercy. Blood and tears are what we demand from those who betray us.

In my early teens, I heard about Naked Lunch and its mutating typewriters and talking cockroaches. While I would hardly classify its dystopic vision as erotica now, at the time, Naked Lunch was my first foray into consuming smut. It was because of Burroughs that I knew about the particular musk that blooms when a rectum is penetrated, and that death-by-hanging produces spontaneous trouser tents. The first Burroughs I read was Naked Lunch, but I buried myself in a few of his stories, and thus the arc of my recollection is just as non-linear as his narrative.

I had a dream about you. We were two lovers disguised as librarians. We met in the non-fiction section, and that’s the truth. Or at least that’s what we told your parents. They didn’t need to know where we really met—in the smut section, the corner with all the political biographies.

I put my hand on top of hers and squeeze. “And you’ve got me.” She rolls her eyes. “No,” I tell her, my voice rough. She blinks at me in surprise. “I mean you really have me. If you’ll have me.

You look so f---- good right now, with your tits out,” he said, gripping my hair to pull me back for better access to my neck. “I wanna do so many nasty things to you.” I smiled shyly. “What kind of things?

Casper wanted to be a little bit more than your friend." Alessio lowers his voice. I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. "And is that a crime?" I cross my arms defensively. He takes a step closer and my breath hitches. "When it comes to you, Maya. Yes, it is.

They say love is patient and kind. I'm not either one of those things when it comes to Blakely. I'm controlling, possessive, and madly jealous. Which can only mean one thing - I'm obsessed with her. To the point I want to hide her from the world. I don't want another man looking at her, let alone talking to her.

In his long, eternal life, he had never witnessed a mortal who could defeat his creatures. He purposely created these monsters to be indestructible. And yet the little mortal murdered like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Even if I only wrote erotica, I wouldn’t care what you have to say. I make people happy! Blake and I provide readers with fun and entertainment and an escape from their lives, which is a damn good thing because life is hard and really sucks sometimes. Life isn’t a fairy-tale and not everyone in gets a happily-ever-after, but in our book world they do.

I thought you’d be entirely self-sufficient.”“Oh I am,” I shoot back. “You should see my vibrator collection.

I’ll do anything you tell me. Tell me, what do you want Athena?

He and his brilliant mind had created torture machines which would inevitably murder his wife and dozens more. And if the Council could control minds, it could control everything.

Should I put it in my mouth?” “If you’re feeling brave enough.” “How much of it?” “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that before. My answer to that question will always be the more the fucking better, Sweetheart.

Remember. You are a physician. You are not a policeman nor are you a minister of religion. You must take people as they come. Remember, too that though you will generally know more about the condition than the patient, it is the patient who has the condition and this if nothing else bestows on him or her a kind of wisdom. You have the knowledge but that does not entitle you to be superior. Knowledge makes you the servant not the master.

Now, who could possibly find smut interesting?" "Not that kind of smut," West said hastily, as he saw the duke's brows lift. "You're referring to the multicellular fungi that inflicts grain crops, of course," Kingston said blandly. "There are all different kinds of smut," Pandora said, warming to the subject. "Smut balls, loose smut, stinking smut-" "Pandora," West interrupted in an undertone, "for the love of mercy, stop saying that word in public." "Is it unladylike?" She heaved a sigh. "It must be. All the interesting words are.

My nickname in high school, aside from Amanda Panda, Lord of the Geeks, and Tits McGee, was Sir Pukes-A-Lot. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t a sir. I still got sick every time I got really nervous, which led to many embarrassing moments during presentations, PE, and drama class.

Sex is sex. Even for women. Intimacy is great, but you can absolutely enjoy sex without making the world of it. I've had it both ways. There have been men I loved and there have been men I fucked. Both scenarios meant a great deal to me, just in different ways. Hell, your boss could even be your muse.

Walk openly, Marian used to say. Love even the threat and the pain, feel yourself fully alive, cast a bold shadow, accept, accept. What we call evil is only a groping towards good, part of the trial and error by which we move toward the perfected consciousness… God is kind? Life is good? Nature never did betray the heart that loved her? Why the reward she received for living intensely and generously and trying to die with dignity? Why the horror at the bridge her last clear sight of earth?...I do not accept, I am not reconciled. But one thing she did. She taught me the stupidity of the attempt to withdraw and be free of trouble and harm... She said, “You wondered what was in whale’s milk. Now you know. Think of the force down there, just telling things to get born, just to be!” I had had no answer for her then. Now I might have one. Yes, think of it, I might say. And think how random and indiscriminate it is, think how helplessly we must submit, think how impossible it is to control or direct it. Think how often beauty and delicacy and grace are choked out by weeds. Think how endless and dubious is the progress from weed to flower. Even alive, she never convinced me with her advocacy of biological perfectionism. She never persuaded me to ignore, or look upon as merely hard pleasures, the evil that I felt in every blight and smut and pest in my garden- that I felt, for that matter, squatting like a toad on my own heart. Think of the force of life, yes, but think of the component of darkness in it. One of the things that’s in whale’s milk is the promise of pain and death. And so? Admitting what is so obvious, what then? Would I wipe Marion Catlin out of my unperfected consciousness if I could? Would I forgo the pleasure of her company to escape the bleakness of her loss? Would I go back to my own formula, which was twilight sleep, to evade the pain she brought with her? Not for a moment. And so even in the gnashing of my teeth, I acknowledge my conversion. It turns out to be for me as I once told her it would be for her daughter. I shall be richer all my life for this sorrow.

Sex makes things messy.” “Messy is good.” “And according to you, so is greed and we won’t even get a chance to be greedy if we’re too preoccupied with sex.” “Believe me, you’ll be greedy,” he says lazily. “You’ll have the greediest cunt around once I’ve gotten through to you.” My cheeks flame. Damn. “You’re speechless,” he says after a beat. I clear my throat a few times. “I’m trying to think of a witty comeback.” “Don’t think so much then.

So the great waves of fear rose yet higher and higher, and all his strength was drained out of his body, and his face was white as death, so that it would have been God's mercy for him to die. He was afraid he might stumble and fall there in the street, so he went into our little park, which is no park at all but only a piece of the grass country fenced in and planted with trees, and there he sat on a seat and said, God have mercy upon me, O Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon me. And all the people went by in the street, and saw only the lieutenant taking a few moments from his duty to sit on a seat in the park, and did not know it was a man in agony, calling on God for mercy. For to them the sun was shining, and the doves were calling in the trees, and they had no trouble greater than General Smuts or the Government, or the rumor that the black people were planning a great strike and procession in Johannesburg.

Varför skall kärleken vara trollguldet, som andra dagen blir vissna löv, eller smuts, eller ölsupa? Ur människornas längtan efter kärlek har ju hela den sidan av kulturen spirat upp, som icke direkt syftar till hungerns stillande eller försvar mot fiender. Vårt skönhetssinne har ingen annan källa. All konst, all dikt, all musik har druckit ur den. Den tarvligaste moderna historiemålning likaväl som Rafaels madonnor och Steinlens små parisiska arbeterskor, "Dödens ängel" likaväl som Höga visan och Buch der Lieder, koralen och Wienervalsen, ja varje gipsornament på det tarvliga hus där jag bor, varje figur i tapeten, formen på porslinsvasen där och mönstret i min halsduk, allt som vill pryda och försköna, det må nu lyckas eller misslyckas, stammar därifrån, fast på mycket långa omvägar ibland. Och det är intet nattligt hugskott av mig, utan bevisat hundra gånger. Men den källan heter icke kärleken, utan den heter: drömmen om kärlek. Och å andra sidan är allt, som står i samband med drömmens fullbordan, med driftens tillfredsställelse, och som följer av den, inför vår djupaste instinkt något oskönt och oanständigt. Detta kan icke bevisas, det är bara en känsla: min känsla, och jag tror egentligen allas. Människorna behandla alltid varandras kärlekshistorier som något lågt eller komiskt och göra ofta icke ens undantag för sina egna.

One may, in a case of exigency, introduce the reader in to a nuptial chamber, not into a virginal chamber. Verse would hardly venture it, prose must not. It is the interior of a flower that is not yet unfolded, it is whiteness in the dark, it is the private cell of a closed lily, which must not be gazed upon by man so long as the sun has not gazed upon it. Woman in the bud is sacred. That innocent bud which opens, that adorable half-nudity which is afraid of itself, that white foot which takes refuge in a slipper, that throat which veils itself before a mirror as though a mirror were an eye, that chemise which makes haste to rise up and conceal the shoulder for a creaking bit of furniture or a passing vehicle, those cords tied, those clasps fastened, those laces drawn, those tremors, those shivers of cold and modesty, that exquisite affright in every movement, that almost winged uneasiness where there is no cause for alarm, the successive phases of dressing, as charming as the clouds of dawn,—it is not fitting at all that all this should be narrated, and it is too much to have even called attention to it.