As his hand stole higher, she felt the secret bud of her body swelling, yearning, quivering hotly to burst into bloom. Ah, here was his subtle forefinger pressing it, forcing its tight petals softly apart, and laying on their sensitive edges a circular touch so soft and yet so fiery that already lightnings of heat shot from that palpitating center all over her surrendered body, to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her loosened hair.
When Edith Wharton penned erotica.
(Source: The Rumpus)
Suck it, Fifty Shades of Bad Writing. (No pun intended.)
Remember when Jen Hamann found this in an old bio of Edith at the strand and frantically scanned and sent it to me freshman year and I read it to all my roommates who didn’t know who Edith Wharton was? Ha.