Quotes About Lust

Men decide far more problems by hate, love, lust, rage, sorrow, joy, hope, fear, illusion or some other inward emotion, than by reality, authority, any legal standard, judicial precedent, or statute.

Lust, I suspect, wears repatent stilettos, that feather boa and not much else. Maybe glossy red lipstick.

As it was, her perking nipples and instantly sopping pussy had to be obvious testament to her desire for the man.

His cock and balls ached. Christ, he wanted to fuck her. Forcing his own selfish desires aside, he smiled cruelly, though Jaime couldn't see.

Wheel," he said, his voice throaty with lust. As she lifted herself into the final position, he surreptitiously adjusted his cock in his pants. It was the perfect submissive offering—her body arched into a backbend, feet and hands braced flat on the mat, legs spread wide.

His cock was rock-hard against her thigh. Her legs fell open in wanton invitation. "Please," she begged.

An amalgam of sexual excess and demonic elegance, as likely to fuck you as tear out your heart.

One part of love is innocence, One part of love is guilt, One part the milk, that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt, One part of love is sentiment, One part of love is lust, One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust." Eight lines, and it was all over;

No passion, only sudden lust, and just as sudden indifference.

The proximity of this harem aroused him, despite circumstances. He opned his trousers and caressed his cock, more eager to have the seed spilled and so be freed of these creatures than for the pleasure of it.

The average human's mind was a tidal wave of contradictory emotions unbounded by intellect or calculation. Love, hate, fear, greed, lust—all fighting for dominance, advancing and retreating, controlling and justifying every action and reaction.

To what crime do you not drive the hearts of men, accursed hunger for gold?

All the seven deadly sins are peccadilloes but without three of them, Pride, Lust, and Sloth, poetry might never have been born.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet Age: five thousand three hundred days.

I wandered through various public rooms, glory below, gloom above: for the look of lust always is gloomy; lust is never quite sure--even when the velvety victim is locked up in one's dungeon--that some rival devil or influential god may still not abolish one's prepared triumph.

With the ebb of lust, an ashen sense of awfulness, abetted by the realistic drabness of a grey neuralgic day, crept over me and hummed within my temples.

Ah, gentle drivers gliding through summer's black nights, what frolics, what twists of lust, you might see from your impeccable highways if Kumfy Kabins were suddenly drained of their pigments and became as transparent as boxes of glass!

With your little claws, Lolita.

I qualify it as pathetic. Pathetic--because despite the insatiable fire of my venereal appetite, I intended, with the most fervent force and foresight, to protect the purity of that twelve-year-old child.

I was proceeding slowly one afternoon through torrents of rain and kept seeing that red ghost swimming and shivering with lust in my mirror, when presently the deluge dwindled to a patter, and then was suspended altogether.

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She

at the peak of this human agonised, selfless tenderness (with my soul actually hanging around her naked body and ready to repent), all at once, ironically, horribly, lust would swell again - and "oh no," Lolita would say with a sigh to heaven, and the next moment the tenderness and the azure - all would be shattered

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta

I wandered through various public rooms, glory below, gloom above: for the look of lust always is gloomy; lust is never quite sure—even when the velvety victim is locked up in one's dungeon—that some rival devil or influential god may still not abolish one's prepared triumph