fallenmystic
Tribune
Have you been able to actually read it? If you have, I suppose it must be from a different author.Wasn't that by James Joyce???
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Bdsm scenes in novels that do not deal with the subject.
- Thread starter josé miguel tecles verdú
- Start date
One of my favourite sketches
"garnished in lark's vomit". Ok, maybe you had to be a teenage boy the first time you heard it OMG! I'm so embarrassed!You know how some people will turn away in polite embarrassment and never mention it when you're fly's unzipped or you have a booger on your face? Thank you, Windar, for not turning away. Yes, of course, James Joyce wrote "Ulysses." I haven't read anything by D. H. Lawrence. I did download "The Woman Who Rode Away" and am reading it, and that, I'm pretty sure, at least I have it on good authority, is by D. H. Lawrence. So. . . there's that . . .
Only read two Lawrence. Sons and Lovers at school, which I really disliked, so much so that I independently studied a different book for my final exams. And Kangaroo, which is an interesting study of Australia between the wars, local fascists and all.
Can't remember any sense of bdsm in either one, though 40 years later I still remember the quote from S&L, "Paul liked to sleep with his mother"
poem21045
Tribunus Plebis
OMG! I'm so embarrassed!
Might I recommend Women in Love. It's not his most famous (Lady Chatterley's Lover is because it was so banned). But it's my personal favorite.
Women in Love - Wikipedia
en.wikipedia.org
poem21045
Tribunus Plebis
One of my favourite sketches
Only read two Lawrence. Sons and Lovers at school, which I really disliked, so much so that I independently studied a different book for my final exams. And Kangaroo, which is an interesting study of Australia between the wars, local fascists and all.
Can't remember any sense of bdsm in either one, though 40 years later I still remember the quote from S&L, "Paul liked to sleep with his mother"
I can't think of any work of Lawrence's that includes bdsm. He certainly wrote beautiful erotica. Scenes like Mellors entwining flowers into Lady Chat's pubic hair.
If you want really fine erotica (and there is a difference between that and pornography, which is on the same topic but whose purpose is simply to titillate), look up the erotic poetry of e.e. cummings. It's not well known, but is crazy good. If that's too inaccessable, go to Henry Mlller (Tropic of Cancer). Those three would be a good start!
Migoz2
Senator
That rather assumes we are browsing wearing trousers.....On CF, I imagine everyone's fly is unzipped
Ozz
Executioner
‘Life is like a box of chocolate. You never know what you’re gonna get.’ By believing this, you can be guaranteed to avoid suicide... Although, it would seem, 'a second of horror, a shot and complete calm then'.I respectfully question the idea of this thread. It’s like someone reading out the little card that comes with a box of chocolates describing each one, but we never actually get any chocolates!No offence intended, that’s just my reaction
Ozz
Executioner
Possible... And then it's not a suicide, but self-defense!
Glenarvon
Executioner
Some pages of Notre Dame De Paris are full of BDSM moments... Few "facts" (some torture or execution scenes, very well written), but Hugo describes feelings and sensations of a unwilling sadistic mind perfectly, and he know how to write the same scene as dramatic and horrible and, at the same time, erotic and sinfully enjoyable, forcing you to empathize for both the two carachters...
Plus, he describes a beautiful situation, where the "domninator" has a total power on the victim, but at the same time he is tormented and obessed by her, so, in some way, he is totally in her power.
Plus, he describes a beautiful situation, where the "domninator" has a total power on the victim, but at the same time he is tormented and obessed by her, so, in some way, he is totally in her power.
Glenarvon
Executioner
There are free PDF in english, but it'is a very (VERY) long book, and it's hard to find that pages i read many years ago in another language... Anyway, i hope you appeace those excerpts i found:
"In the fatal cart sat a young girl with her arms tied behind her back, and with no priest beside her. She was in her shift; her long black hair (the fashion then was to cut it off only at the foot of the gallows) fell in disorder upon her half-bared throat and shoulders.
Athwart that waving hair, more glossy than the plumage of a raven, a thick, rough, gray rope was visible, twisted and knotted, chafing her delicate collar-bones and twining round the charming neck of the poor girl, like an earthworm round a flower. Beneath that rope glittered a tiny amulet ornamented with bits of green glass, which had been left to her no doubt, because nothing is refused to those who are about to die. The spectators in the windows could see in the bottom of the cart her naked legs which she strove to hide beneath her, as by a final feminine instinct. At her feet lay a little goat, bound. The condemned girl held together with her teeth her imperfectly fastened shift. One would have said that she suffered still more in her misery from being thus exposed almost naked to the eyes of all. Alas! modesty is not made for such shocks"
[...]
In this last stage of opprobrium and misfortune, she was still beautiful; her great black eyes appeared still larger, because of the emaciation of her cheeks; her pale profile was pure and sublime. She resembled what she had been, in the same degree that a virgin by Masaccio, resembles a virgin of Raphael,—weaker, thinner, more delicate.
Moreover, there was nothing in her which was not shaken in some sort, and which with the exception of her modesty, she did not let go at will, so profoundly had she been broken by stupor and despair. Her body bounded at every jolt of the tumbrel like a dead or broken thing; her gaze was dull and imbecile. A tear was still visible in her eyes, but motionless and frozen, so to speak.
Meanwhile, the lugubrious cavalcade has traversed the crowd amid cries of joy and curious attitudes.
[...]
They untied her hands, made her alight, accompanied by her goat, which had also been unbound, and which bleated with joy at finding itself free: and they made her walk barefoot on the hard pavement to the foot of the steps leading to the door. The rope about her neck trailed behind her. One would have said it was a serpent following her.
"In the fatal cart sat a young girl with her arms tied behind her back, and with no priest beside her. She was in her shift; her long black hair (the fashion then was to cut it off only at the foot of the gallows) fell in disorder upon her half-bared throat and shoulders.
Athwart that waving hair, more glossy than the plumage of a raven, a thick, rough, gray rope was visible, twisted and knotted, chafing her delicate collar-bones and twining round the charming neck of the poor girl, like an earthworm round a flower. Beneath that rope glittered a tiny amulet ornamented with bits of green glass, which had been left to her no doubt, because nothing is refused to those who are about to die. The spectators in the windows could see in the bottom of the cart her naked legs which she strove to hide beneath her, as by a final feminine instinct. At her feet lay a little goat, bound. The condemned girl held together with her teeth her imperfectly fastened shift. One would have said that she suffered still more in her misery from being thus exposed almost naked to the eyes of all. Alas! modesty is not made for such shocks"
[...]
In this last stage of opprobrium and misfortune, she was still beautiful; her great black eyes appeared still larger, because of the emaciation of her cheeks; her pale profile was pure and sublime. She resembled what she had been, in the same degree that a virgin by Masaccio, resembles a virgin of Raphael,—weaker, thinner, more delicate.
Moreover, there was nothing in her which was not shaken in some sort, and which with the exception of her modesty, she did not let go at will, so profoundly had she been broken by stupor and despair. Her body bounded at every jolt of the tumbrel like a dead or broken thing; her gaze was dull and imbecile. A tear was still visible in her eyes, but motionless and frozen, so to speak.
Meanwhile, the lugubrious cavalcade has traversed the crowd amid cries of joy and curious attitudes.
[...]
They untied her hands, made her alight, accompanied by her goat, which had also been unbound, and which bleated with joy at finding itself free: and they made her walk barefoot on the hard pavement to the foot of the steps leading to the door. The rope about her neck trailed behind her. One would have said it was a serpent following her.
Glenarvon
Executioner
Some others excerpts (few days and 50 pages BEFORE the previous ones)
The prisoner beheld, all about the room, frightful instruments whose use she did not understand. In the centre lay a leather mattress, placed almost flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap provided with a buckle, attached to a brass ring in the mouth of a flat-nosed monster carved in the keystone of the vault. Tongs, pincers, large ploughshares, filled the interior of the furnace, and glowed in a confused heap on the coals. The sanguine light of the furnace illuminated in the chamber only a confused mass of horrible things.
[...]
At a sign from Charmolue, the two assistants took her and placed her in a sitting posture on the bed. They did her no harm; but when these men touched her, when that leather touched her, she felt all her blood retreat to her heart. She cast a frightened look around the chamber. It seemed to her as though she beheld advancing from all quarters towards her, with the intention of crawling up her body and biting and pinching her, all those hideous implements of torture, which as compared to the instruments of all sorts she had hitherto seen, were like what bats, centipedes, and spiders are among insects and birds.
She shuddered.
“Mademoiselle,” resumed the caressing voice of the procucrator of the Ecclesiastical court, “for the third time, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused?”
This time she could only make a sign with her head.
“You persist?” said Jacques Charmolue. “Then it grieves me deeply, but I must fulfil my office.”
“Monsieur le Procureur du Roi,” said Pierrat abruptly, “How shall we begin?”
Charmolue hesitated for a moment with the ambiguous grimace of a poet in search of a rhyme.
“With the boot,” he said at last.
The tormentor and the physician approached her simultaneously. At the same time, the two assistants began to fumble among their hideous arsenal.
At the clanking of their frightful irons, the unhappy child quivered like a dead frog which is being galvanized. Then she fell back once more into her immobility and her marble silence.
[...]
Meanwhile, the callous hands of Pierrat Torterue’s assistants had bared that charming leg, that tiny foot, which had so often amazed the passers-by with their delicacy and beauty, in the squares of Paris.
“’Tis a shame!” muttered the tormentor, glancing at these graceful and delicate forms.
Had the archdeacon been present, he certainly would have recalled at that moment his symbol of the spider and the fly.
Soon the unfortunate girl, through a mist which spread before her eyes, beheld the boot approach; she soon beheld her foot encased between iron plates disappear in the frightful apparatus. Then terror restored her strength.
“Take that off!” she cried angrily; and drawing herself up, with her hair all dishevelled: “Mercy!”
She darted from the bed to fling herself at the feet of the king’s procurator, but her leg was fast in the heavy block of oak and iron, and she sank down upon the boot, more crushed than a bee with a lump of lead on its wing.
At a sign from Charmolue, she was replaced on the bed, and two coarse hands adjusted to her delicate waist the strap which hung from the ceiling.
“For the last time, do you confess the facts in the case?” demanded Charmolue, with his imperturbable benignity.
“I am innocent.”
“Then, mademoiselle, how do you explain the circumstance laid to your charge?”
“Alas, monseigneur, I do not know.”
“So you deny them?”
“All!”
“Proceed,” said Charmolue to Pierrat.
Pierrat turned the handle of the screw-jack, the boot was contracted, and the unhappy girl uttered one of those horrible cries which have no orthography in any human language.
“Stop!” said Charmolue to Pierrat. “Do you confess?” he said to the gypsy.
“All!” cried the wretched girl. “I confess! I confess! Mercy!”
She had not calculated her strength when she faced the torture. Poor child, whose life up to that time had been so joyous, so pleasant, so sweet, the first pain had conquered her!
The prisoner beheld, all about the room, frightful instruments whose use she did not understand. In the centre lay a leather mattress, placed almost flat upon the ground, over which hung a strap provided with a buckle, attached to a brass ring in the mouth of a flat-nosed monster carved in the keystone of the vault. Tongs, pincers, large ploughshares, filled the interior of the furnace, and glowed in a confused heap on the coals. The sanguine light of the furnace illuminated in the chamber only a confused mass of horrible things.
[...]
At a sign from Charmolue, the two assistants took her and placed her in a sitting posture on the bed. They did her no harm; but when these men touched her, when that leather touched her, she felt all her blood retreat to her heart. She cast a frightened look around the chamber. It seemed to her as though she beheld advancing from all quarters towards her, with the intention of crawling up her body and biting and pinching her, all those hideous implements of torture, which as compared to the instruments of all sorts she had hitherto seen, were like what bats, centipedes, and spiders are among insects and birds.
She shuddered.
“Mademoiselle,” resumed the caressing voice of the procucrator of the Ecclesiastical court, “for the third time, do you persist in denying the deeds of which you are accused?”
This time she could only make a sign with her head.
“You persist?” said Jacques Charmolue. “Then it grieves me deeply, but I must fulfil my office.”
“Monsieur le Procureur du Roi,” said Pierrat abruptly, “How shall we begin?”
Charmolue hesitated for a moment with the ambiguous grimace of a poet in search of a rhyme.
“With the boot,” he said at last.
The tormentor and the physician approached her simultaneously. At the same time, the two assistants began to fumble among their hideous arsenal.
At the clanking of their frightful irons, the unhappy child quivered like a dead frog which is being galvanized. Then she fell back once more into her immobility and her marble silence.
[...]
Meanwhile, the callous hands of Pierrat Torterue’s assistants had bared that charming leg, that tiny foot, which had so often amazed the passers-by with their delicacy and beauty, in the squares of Paris.
“’Tis a shame!” muttered the tormentor, glancing at these graceful and delicate forms.
Had the archdeacon been present, he certainly would have recalled at that moment his symbol of the spider and the fly.
Soon the unfortunate girl, through a mist which spread before her eyes, beheld the boot approach; she soon beheld her foot encased between iron plates disappear in the frightful apparatus. Then terror restored her strength.
“Take that off!” she cried angrily; and drawing herself up, with her hair all dishevelled: “Mercy!”
She darted from the bed to fling herself at the feet of the king’s procurator, but her leg was fast in the heavy block of oak and iron, and she sank down upon the boot, more crushed than a bee with a lump of lead on its wing.
At a sign from Charmolue, she was replaced on the bed, and two coarse hands adjusted to her delicate waist the strap which hung from the ceiling.
“For the last time, do you confess the facts in the case?” demanded Charmolue, with his imperturbable benignity.
“I am innocent.”
“Then, mademoiselle, how do you explain the circumstance laid to your charge?”
“Alas, monseigneur, I do not know.”
“So you deny them?”
“All!”
“Proceed,” said Charmolue to Pierrat.
Pierrat turned the handle of the screw-jack, the boot was contracted, and the unhappy girl uttered one of those horrible cries which have no orthography in any human language.
“Stop!” said Charmolue to Pierrat. “Do you confess?” he said to the gypsy.
“All!” cried the wretched girl. “I confess! I confess! Mercy!”
She had not calculated her strength when she faced the torture. Poor child, whose life up to that time had been so joyous, so pleasant, so sweet, the first pain had conquered her!
M
montycrusto
Guest
Ozz
Executioner
I'm impressed!
fallenmystic
Tribune
I can only think up a single such instance for now, but it's not in English and I doubt that the text is anywhere on the internet.
The novel is depicting a story from the Korean War, or probably the aftermath of it. The protagonist was a school girl who got arrested for collaborating with the communists, if I recall correctly. During the time the North Koreans seized the control, they taught propaganda songs to students and mobilized them for various tasks to help their cause. After they got forced to withdraw, however, many of those who have "helped" the communists in this way were arrested by the South Korean authorities and sometimes even executed for that.
The story depicts a scene where the protagonist was interrogated by the police. When she protested that all she had done was just singing and dancing to propaganda songs as it was required of her, the investigator stripped her naked and forced her to perform it in front of other men in the police station.
I read the novel when I was young when I didn't even know what "BDSM" is, but the scene left me lasting enough an impression that I still remember it to this day.
EDIT: I got reminded of another such example after I wrote the above comment. It is from a writer whom I once admired but somehow became a political hooligan over the years. The novel was her debut work and it contained a scene where female students got arrested for participating in an anti-government rally. The policemen made them kneel on the floor and grabbed a dripping mop (with a long handle, which you use to clean the floor) then shoved it under the girls' T-shirts to rub their breasts with it.
The novel is depicting a story from the Korean War, or probably the aftermath of it. The protagonist was a school girl who got arrested for collaborating with the communists, if I recall correctly. During the time the North Koreans seized the control, they taught propaganda songs to students and mobilized them for various tasks to help their cause. After they got forced to withdraw, however, many of those who have "helped" the communists in this way were arrested by the South Korean authorities and sometimes even executed for that.
The story depicts a scene where the protagonist was interrogated by the police. When she protested that all she had done was just singing and dancing to propaganda songs as it was required of her, the investigator stripped her naked and forced her to perform it in front of other men in the police station.
I read the novel when I was young when I didn't even know what "BDSM" is, but the scene left me lasting enough an impression that I still remember it to this day.
EDIT: I got reminded of another such example after I wrote the above comment. It is from a writer whom I once admired but somehow became a political hooligan over the years. The novel was her debut work and it contained a scene where female students got arrested for participating in an anti-government rally. The policemen made them kneel on the floor and grabbed a dripping mop (with a long handle, which you use to clean the floor) then shoved it under the girls' T-shirts to rub their breasts with it.
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fallenmystic
Tribune
Ozz
Executioner
We are not perverts. We are people with a well-developed imagination!Yes, they really helped me indeed... to become a pervert who I am now
I wouldn't regret it, though, if they actually did. I was drawing stick figures tying up and whipping each other well before I read these novels anyway