What’s more, you can’t in good faith give the nobles what they want without doing harm to others; but you can with the people. Because the people’s aspirations are more honorable than those of the nobles: the nobles want to oppress the people, while the people want to be free from oppression.
– Machiavelli, The Prince, 1516, p.39. Penguin, 2009
Category Archives: Literature
New story by Joey Hirsch. I like this story, even though this is not my sort of sex fantasy. It is a bit long, so be forewarned. Adults only and NSFW.
The Lawyer’s Yoni
I wrote this seven-thousand (!) plus word piece the other night. Maybe it’s a vestige of Catholic school guilt, or something, but I think this will be the last bit of erotica I write. I need to turn whatever meager talents I have back to more productive pursuits.
The only sound in the room was water coursing down the four tiers of the fountain behind Grayson. The lawyer was quite proud of his water feature, and he drew much solace from it on normal days. This, however, wasn’t a normal day. His client was about to commit suicide, he was convinced.
Grayson pushed away from his desk, floating in his leather swivel chair across the smooth carpet of his penthouse office. “Paul, if you go in there, she’ll eat you alive.”
Paul Truman shook his head, slid forward in his own seat, and placed his elbows on top of his divorce lawyer’s desk. “Look. It’s pretty cut and dry. My wife married me while agreeing to the prenup. She knew I had more than five-hundred million in assets to protect when we got hitched.”
The lawyer stood up from his swivel chair, walked to the window, and stared down on the streets of Manhattan. His client’s voice came from behind him while he watched the streets. “Alright, we got drunk on Champagne one night on the Riviera, and I may have promised her that I would waive the prenup, and give her half when we parted ways.”
Truman grinned, stood up out of his chair, and walked over to his lawyer where he stood by the window. He placed a hand on Grayson’s right shoulder and said, “But that was an oral agreement, between us, when we were both drunk.” Truman smiled, reassured by his own words. He wondered why his lawyer wasn’t reassured.
He turned from Grayson, and his prized view of the city. He walked toward the door of the lawyer’s office, said, “I’m going to go see Michelle and her lawyer right now, and tell them that I have no recollection of a promise I made to my wife, and that she has no proof that such a conversation took place.”
Grayson turned from the window, shook his head. Paul Truman continued, undeterred. “I’ll offer a cash settlement of ten-million, tell wifey she can have the chalet.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his Armani slacks. “In return, she agrees to the settlement, we don’t go to court, and my good name doesn’t get dragged through the mud.” He smiled, revealing those ionized white teeth that went with that perfect skin, exfoliated in seaweed and mud on a daily basis. Those treatments, Grayson knew, cost more than one of his billable hours.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Truman asked. He was still smiling, and his lawyer felt pity for him. Grayson walked across the length of his office.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” the lawyer asked. “Rachel Silverman can happen.” He squared himself to his client, so close now that each man could smell the other’s aftershave. “Rachel Silverman will happen to you if you go to her office and try to negotiate in person.”
Paul waved his right hand, laughed, tugged his houndstooth scarf. “Spare me, Martin.” He turned from his lawyer, grabbed the door handle, pausing once more before he went. “I’ve heard all the stories. ‘Rachel Silverman’s a shark. No man’s ever locked horns with her and lived to tell the tale’.” He shook his head.
Grayson remained unamused, followed his client out into the hall, talking to his back as Paul Truman made for the bank of elevators nestled in lobby. “Laugh all you want, Paul. Listen,” Grayson said, jogging after his client.
Now he kept his voice pitched sotto voce, aware that there was business being conducted in the other offices. “Every man who’s gone into her office has given up half, at least. I mean every one.”
Paul ignored his lawyer, hit the “down” button on the elevator and waited. Grayson kept trying. “I don’t know whether it’s blackmail or black magic, but Silverman has some kind of ace in her hole.”
A chime rang out, and an elevator arrived. Paul Truman hopped on, tugged the ends of his designer scarf one last time, and winked. He pressed the “Ground” button and spoke one last time to his lawyer. “Relax, Grayson. She’s got no leverage on me. I never dabbled in insider trading, drugs, or homosexuality, and I never cheated on her.” He whistled once. “Squeaky clean.”
The doors started closing, and his last words carried faintly to his lawyer. “I’ll offer her the chalet, ten million, and not a penny more.”
The elevator deposited Paul Truman on the ground floor, and he walked through the revolving glass doors, out into the bracing cold of midtown Manhattan in winter. Steam rose from the grates, and through the mist he discerned a cab. He held up his gloved hand and hopped in the backseat.
He leaned forward and gave the Pakistani hack the address, a Court Street location in Brooklyn. He sat back and grinned. This was going to be a cinch. The prenup had specified Michelle got the chalet if their marriage was terminated in less than ten years. And, since they had only made it three and a half before she filed, citing “irreconcilable differences,” she would be getting the home (with an estimated worth of 3.5 million, in a buyer’s market), in addition to his generous offer of another ten-million dollars in cash to soften the blow.
Paul Truman wasn’t the only one with pride to salvage, after all, or face to save, and he thought Michelle Brackman would find his offer more than satisfactory. As to all the legends about Rachel Silverman’s undefeated streak, well, if there was anyone who was going to upset her applecart, it would be Paul Truman, he who had revolutionized the world’s back-to-back commodities trading market. He had bested sheiks, dictators, and Mafiosos in business deals. One more lawyer would be a walkover.
The cab halted in front of the Court Street address, and Paul paid the cabbie and got out. He glanced up once at the imposing granite building where his wife and the lawyer were waiting. Pigeons scattered from the eaves as the wind picked up, and a female doorman with a pillbox hat and a power suit greeted him with a crisp little salute.
“Hello, sir.” She beamed, and Paul Truman watched her with guarded suspicion. He rarely encountered female doormen, and never before one so attractive. Her skin had a Gothic pallor to it, accented by her black lipstick, and her dark eyes were obsidian, lips blood red. She grinned as he walked past her, and he thought he detected the slightest sneer on her face.
He recognized the décor of the lobby as minimalist luxury, and the few furnishings looked like Bauhaus relics, Gropius eggs and pedestals. He wasn’t one to easily impress, but even he found it hard to breathe as walked toward the elevator and came to stand beneath what he was sure was a Klimt original. It was a gold leaf painting of a nude woman, her brown hair coiled like a snake in a pile atop her head, her features impassive and eyes downcast.
The letter board said that Rachel Silverman was on the fifth floor. Paul Truman pushed the “up” arrow and waited for the elevator car, muttering under his breath, cursing Grayson and his melodramatic warnings. He would show Grayson, and this hotshot attorney.
He stifled a vicious smile as it rose to his lips. The killer instinct was necessary in business, but it was also important to hide it sometimes, as well. He would try the velvet glove approach first. Then, if that didn’t work, he would brandish the iron fist.
The elevator opened, revealing a car with four mirrored walls and a floor made of imported Vitruvian marble. He stepped inside, and admired his reflection, pausing for one moment to press the “five” button, before returning to the task of basking in his own beauty.
Paul Truman took a deep breath, adjusted the Windsor knot on his tie, loosening it imperceptibly. The doors opened again, and he stepped out of the elevator, into the fifth floor lobby where a secretary sat behind a highly-lacquered escritoire, filing her nails.
The secretary wore a pinstriped wool ensemble, and cat-eyed vintage glasses. A single black chopstick pierced the golden bun at the back of her head, and her stockings were pale white, like a faint layer of snow. She whistled silently, and continued to run the emery board over her sharp nails.
She, like the doorwoman, was beautiful, he noticed. Paul Truman cleared his throat, but she didn’t take the hint. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Paul Truman.” She looked up at him, unimpressed. That peeved him not a little. He was a well-known businessman, garnering inches in the gossip, fashion, and food columns (since he was also a restaurateur with a stake in several Tribeca eateries).
The secretary didn’t speak, but did at least halt her filing long enough to point with one of those long nails, toward an oaken door, to the side of which was a glass pane, on which was stenciled “Rachel Silverman & Associates.”
“Thank you,” Paul said, hissing a little.
But she didn’t detect the acidulousness, or didn’t care, for she merely mouthed “You’re welcome” with her full, pout y lips before returning to her whistling and filing. Paul Truman briefly debated knocking on the door. That seemed like the proper, polite thing to do, but so far he felt he hadn’t been extended so much as the most modest courtesy, and he therefore decided to push the door open abruptly.
The room was empty, except for two women seated at a small conference table as Spartan as the rest of the furnishings in the rest of the building. Across from the two women and the table there was a leather chair, ribbed like the Shiatsu massage seat he kept in his own office, next to the ersatz crabgrass putting hole.
“Mr. Truman, please have a seat.”
It was the lawyer who spoke. Paul Truman walked forward, intent on going through with his offer, intent on winning, and proving that downer Grayson wrong. First time for everything, he thought, and stepped forward. He worked something like a smile onto his face, although the effort pained him. He extended his hand to the lawyer, but Ms. Silverman’s palm was otherwise engaged, still outstretched toward the leather chair where she bade him sit.
Paul withdrew his own hand and sat, looked at the two women. Michelle was as beautiful as ever, he saw. Her aureate blond hair looked to be made of sunlight itself, and the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks and nose gave her a deceptively innocent look. It was a shame things hadn’t worked out, but that was the way she wanted it.
Motion from beneath the table caught his eye, and he looked down to see his wife’s pedicured digits waving from the open ends of her terracotta-colored peep-toed wedges. She caught him looking, and a slight smile formed on her face. He looked up from her feet, shook his head from left to right quickly, as if waking himself from a haze.
It was time to focus, he knew, play hardball. “Mr. Truman,” the lawyer said. “I want to thank you for coming here to speak with us today.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and shifted against the ribbed leather of the chair. He studied Rachel Silverman now for the first time, this supposed dragon lady. She had sultry features, heavily-lidded, drowsy eyes, as if she was just roused from a deep sleep in which the dreams had all been pleasant. Her eyes were dark, luminous, glowing, and her raven hair was equally lustrous. It was a sexually overpowering contradiction, he thought, in the hair and eyes, that they were so dark and yet shined so brightly.
There was a sneering quality to her mouth, something about the set of the lips, and flaring of her nostrils, that suggested strong appetites and no shame in them, and it appeared almost as if she was constantly glaring down toward the floor at a defeated opponent, who she derived no small bit of satisfaction from conquering.
He watched her lightly stroke the notched lapels of her peplum power suit, before she picked up an intricately-veined fountain pen. Best, he thought, to say his piece and go. Something about this office made him uneasy.
“Ms. Silverman, as I have previously said, I do not recall having any conversation with my wife in which I promised to nullify our previous prenuptial agreement.”
Paul Truman leaned forward in the leather seat. “Notwithstanding that, however, I am tendering what I think is a more than equitable offer to all parties involved.” He looked over at his wife, whose smile was no longer a concealed gesture. She was grinning from ear to ear, and the tip of her tongue darted out between her teeth. Michelle bit the pink, wet flesh of her tongue with the strong ivory of her teeth.
He continued, feeling a little faint now, light-headed. “I am willing to give my wife ten-million dollars, in addition to the mountain retreat that was stipulated in-”
“Mr. Truman,” Ms. Silverman said. She leaned forward, and her luminous black hair fell onto the shoulders of her peplum suit.
Paul Truman paused. “Yes?” He thought he had been doing well, and he didn’t like to be interrupted, nor was he accustomed to brooking such impertinence.
The smile on her face was now as wide as that on the face of her client. Rachel Silverman licked her soft, dark lips with her tongue, giving them a natural coat of gloss. Her right eyebrow arched and she leaned forward. “Do you want to know what makes my yoni wet?”
Paul Truman looked over at his wife, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Your…what?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
She pronounced the two syllables slowly, and with such force that there was a pop, as if bubble gum had just exploded in her jaws. “My Yoni…My pussy…My…vagina.” The first word confused him, the second aroused him, and the third startled him. As a man, he’d never been completely comfortable with the word “vagina,” something about the extra syllable it possessed over “penis” acting like an anatomical trump card, vagina beating penis like scissors beating paper.
The lawyer spread her legs, so quickly that the rustling of her gray argyle-patterned tights whispered like a ripcord. His eyes were fasted on the stockings, which ran upward from the tops of her espresso-colored leather riding boots, whose buckles jingled once as she spread her legs. She ran her blood-red fingernails, recently manicured, over the satin material of the black garters linking to her thighs.
Rachel Silverman wore no panties, and her pussy was a startling sight, as different from his wife’s as night was from day. Paul Truman found himself transfixed by the flower, and fell from the leather chair, his knees hitting the loop carpet of the office floor with a thud. He heard his wife’s laughter coming from his right, a soft, birdlike clarion that tinkled like ice cubes. Her laughter mocked him, but he couldn’t be angry, couldn’t even look away from the slick, glistening lips of the lawyer’s yoni, which was deep red, as if she had soaked her pussy overnight in expensive claret wine.
He crawled toward it, his wife’s laughter barely reaching his ears where the blood pounded. The voice of the lawyer came to him, however, through the throb of his erection and the stupefying power her pussy exerted on him. It was almost as if the voice was inside of his head, as if it didn’t emanate from her throat, but pulsed in mind-controlling waves from the slick puckered flesh, a single jeweled piercing sparkling from the plump contours of her swollen clit.
“Let me tell you what makes my yoni wet,” Rachel said, her voice coming to him from everywhere and nowhere. “My pussy positively drips when a man honors his obligations to his wife.” His mouth was close to it now, to what she called her yoni, and again, he was struck by how different it was from his own wife’s pussy.
Michelle’s pussy was a thing of beauty, to be sure, but most of its features were in hiding, its character, contours, flesh and responsive nerves concealed inside her body and waiting for his touch to waken it. The lawyer’s yoni was, conversely, a brave and powerful creature, much like the woman herself. His mouth latched onto the dangling, plump lips which protruded from her sweating body. He immediately understood why she was so powerful, why she could not be defied, and why it would be his pleasure to surrender to her.
He licked the thick petals which spilled from her body, open and red curtains unfurling around his mouth, overpowering him like an intoxicating predator whose prey found its death delicious, the poison a delight which paralyzed it with an exhilarant mist, the pungent, natural musk of her body dripping from the clit, and her lips, which were as thick and rubbery in texture as a delicious freshwater clam sprung now from its shell.
“There are two ways we can handle this,” the lawyer said, and her red fingernails gently stroked his ears, grazed his cheeks lightly so that goose bumps appeared on his skin, and he shivered. He removed his mouth from the wet, pink yoni and briefly kissed the moist insides of her thighs, touching the strong, flexed adductor muscles with light pecks. It was a quick ceremony, like a king dubbing a knight, his way to honor and thank her for the pleasure she was granting him.
“You can either fight me, and you will still fall under the spell of my yoni, or…” She took his head in her warm right hand, tickled underneath his chin with her long, manicured nails, and giggled, “You can surrender, accept that no man has the power to resist my goddess yoni, and you will experience ecstasy beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”
“I surrender,” he said, and his erection grew as if it intended to take flight from his body. He attempted to stroke himself with his right hand through his Armani slacks, and one of his wife’s feet, toes dangling from the wedges, reached out for his crotch. She lightly kicked him there.
“Not yet, you yoni-licking slave.”
“Sorry, goddess,” he stammered to his wife, releasing his hold on his erection, and diving face-first back toward the lawyer’s humid nearest labium. He licked the fleshy edge of the lip, up and down, like a chef savoring traces of a delectable soup on the end of his blade.
“That’s right,” Rachel Silverman said. “Your wife is your goddess, and you’re going to honor her, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he moaned, grabbed both of the lawyer’s espresso-colored riding boots, pushed their cold leather against the sides of his neck, forcing her muscular, toned thighs tighter around his throat.
The bottoms of his wife’s peep toe wedges fought for space underneath the table, working their way between the leather boots, gracing those parts of his face not planted deep into the sopping pussy, where the clit piercing glistened with the juices leaking from Rachel Silverman’s body. His ex-wife’s toes fluttered in his face, the red polish on the toenails cracked and peeling in places. His wife’s pinky toe wiggled before his eyes when he came up from the lawyer’s yoni for air, and, after Michelle could stop giggling, she said to the lawyer, “I didn’t think he would be this easy. Do they always fall under your spell so fast?”
Paul licked the yoni furiously, pulling his head away from the lawyer’s pussy for a moment, and then diving back toward it, headfirst, as helpless to escape its pull as a filament struggling against a magnet.
“No husband can resist my yoni,” Rachel said. “All men are weak for it. What’s more is they are grateful for the privilege of surrendering to me. Accepting that they are helpless against my power gives them the ultimate pleasure.” She leaned under the table, stuck her tongue into the slight gap between her bone-white teeth. She smiled down at him. “Doesn’t it, my little yoni slave?”
He struggled to say “Yes, goddess,” while the tip of his tongue was firmly placed on the piercing in her clit, and what came out was “Yeth, gaga.” Both women laughed, and he found it impossible to get angry, found his anger automatically converted to pleasure.
Rachel turned to Michelle, speaking to her client above the table while Paul licked her below. “Maybe I should be apologizing to him.”
“For what?” Michelle asked.
“Well, right before this meeting, I went down to the exercise room on the fourth floor, and I spent fifteen minutes on the elliptical.” She giggled, covered the slight, thrilling gap in her white teeth with the red nails of her right hand. “I didn’t have time to take a shower before changing into my business clothes, and now my yoni is all sweaty.”
Paul must have overheard snippets of her conversation, even through the feverish delirium of his licking, for her words increased the speed and force with which he licked, and his ex-wife giggled, lightly tapping the side of his head with her toes peeping from the wedge on her left foot. “Apparently Paul likes the taste of your yoni sweat, because he’s licking even harder now.”
“Okay, Paul,” the lawyer said, leaning down. He saw the glow reflected from the crystal LCD display of a cellphone, the sapphire light spilling over the wool-kissed material of the lawyer’s skirt. “I’m going to call Judge Chambers at home, in a minute. I’m going to tell him you have something to tell him, something you remembered about a promise you made to your wife.” She pushed back from the table, and stood, depriving him of the yoni whose honey he had lapped up gratefully until this moment.
The moisture that had leaked from her body dripped down his mouth, spilled over his glistening chin. He crawled forward, still on his knees, braced himself on the carpet with his elbows, remaining there on all fours. His wife placed both of her legs on his back. He felt the smooth sheen of her ribbed black tights, the vase-like contours of her calves rustling over his back.
“I might as well get some use out of my ex-husband,” Michelle tittered, and Paul remained in place, a footstool for his ex-wife. He looked up at the lawyer, who towered over him, now, a statuesque six-foot one. Her black hair spilled over her drowsy face, heavy-lidded eyes, sensual mouth.
“Goddess?” He panted.
“What?” She crossed one leg over the other where she stood, and the strong muscles of her thighs flexed, making the diamond-shapes of her argyle tights shimmer, and also causing the golden metal buckles of her riding boots to clatter once.
“Your yoni will get wet if I tell the judge to give my wife two-hundred and fifty million dollars?”
She could barely conceal her smile of triumph, as she glanced over at Michelle, who was still relaxing with her stocking-sheathed legs stretched across her husband’s back. Both women finally broke out into loud laughter. Rachel looked back at Paul, the smile still plastered across her face. “Paul, you’re being so compliant, so reasonable. My yoni positively drips for how wonderful you’re behaving toward your ex-wife.”
He attempted to touch his erection with his right hand, and his wife lifted one of the black satin-sheathed calves from his back, raising it just high enough to drop it hard on his spine and punish him. “Not yet!”
“Will…” He panted, took his hand from his cock, and looked up at the lawyer. “Will your yoni get even wetter if…if I give my wife all five-hundred million of my fortune?”
A near-orgasmic groan seized the lawyer, and Rachel ran to Michelle, in order to embrace her client. They shared a deep tongue kiss, wet, pink flesh entwining as the lawyer’s nectarous dark hair spilled and commingled with her client’s blond flowing locks and they licked one-another. Their lips unlocked with a loud suctioning pop, a bead of spit trailing from their mouths as they pulled their beautiful faces apart. Their hands reached for each other, the soft, pink fingers touching and interlocking, manicured nails clicking softly as they made contact.
“I’ve met some men who’ve been fools for my yoni,” Rachel said, grinning, her iced violet lipstick smudged from the recent deep kiss they shared. “But yours is the first to fall so completely under my spell as to give up everything.” She glanced over at Paul, still ensorcelled, spellbound by the taste and scent of her vagina. “I wish all men were so weak, so…easy.”
Michelle stroked the lifelines of her lawyer’s hands, as if she were a palmist delicately reading a fortune there. She glanced back over at her ex-husband, on all fours and waiting for further orders. “Can’t he…hear you?”
“No,” Rachel said, and glanced over at him, smiling. “He is completely under my yoni’s power, deaf to anything I wish him not to hear. And this is women’s business.” She reciprocated the sensuous palm stroking that Michelle began a moment ago, this light grazing of flesh with manicured nails as sensuous as, or more sensuous than the kiss they previously shared. “Our conversation is too complex for the mind of something as simple as a man.” She suddenly unlocked her fingers from the soft, lightly freckled palms of her client.
She came to stand before Paul Truman, so that her leather riding boots bookended him as he looked up, weakened, dazed, his head between her strong, stocking-sheathed thighs.
“You’re doing the right thing, Paul.” She leaned down to him, uncurled her tongue from her mouth and licked the funnel of his ear. “I’m wet down to my ankles at the thought of a man giving his wife everything he has.” She stood back up, finished dialing the judge on her cellphone. “Hello? Judge Chambers? My client’s husband would like a word with you.”
She cackled, letting go of a laugh so deep that she appeared to be possessed for a moment, tilted her head up toward the ceiling. She returned the phone to her ear. “Yes, judge another one.” She leaned down to Paul again, held the phone to his ear. The cellphone practically glued itself to the side of his head, sealed with the spit from where she had licked him, and also with the sticky juices that leaked from her body onto his face as he licked her clit in spasms of slavish delight.
A gruff, stentorian voice came through the phone. “This is Judge Chambers. You say that you-”
“Judge, this is Paul Truman. I just remembered that I promised my wife that she could have all of my money when we got divorced.”
“And you’re sure?”
Briefly, he saw Grayson before his mind’s eye, remembered his earlier promise to close this deal in a way that served his own interests, but when he struggled, fought to change his mind, he saw only the bewitching fuchsia arch over the wet, pierced clit of the yoni, the saturated lips in which he yearned to drown, that voice, the laughter, the condescension that had him spellbound, owned and glad to be a pussy-licking pet who gave up all of his money to his beautiful, blond ex-wife.
“Judge, I am one-hundred percent certain that I promised my wife one-hundred percent of my wealth.”
The sticky phone was pulled from his face a moment later, and he heard Rachel Silverman’s dulcet voice, all honeyed charm for the judge. “Yes, judge. Five-hundred million.” She closed the phone a moment later, walked over to the edge of the table.
Rachel Silverman braced her arms on the wooden surface of the table, leaning her body over it. Paul’s ex-wife walked around behind the lawyer and lifted Rachel’s pinstriped power skirt, so that the crescent moon shape of the lawyer’s ass was visible, the black satin garters tracing upward, stopping just short of a strange Sanskrit tattoo on the point of her vestigial tail, a bit of Devanagari scrollwork curling above her pale derriere.
“Michelle,” Rachel said, “Get your husband to sit up on his knees and bring him over here.”
“Come on, boy.” His ex-wife walked over to Paul, lifted him from all fours, so that he was shimmying on his knees. She led him until he was behind the lawyer, who continued leaning over the lacquered surface of the table, her ass raised high in the air.
Michelle held her ex-husband’s face just inches from the ass and yoni of the as-yet undefeated lawyer. He gazed at the puckering pink starfish shape of her asshole, the ridges pulsing, quivering. Her yoni, covered in a light layer of black commingling hairs, peeked out at him, its contours softened by the doggy style angle, making its form droop outward a bit.
“Now Paul,” Rachel said, “You see that tattoo?” One of her red manicured fingers appeared from the table where a moment before she had been bracing herself on the hardwood, as if preparing to be mounted from the back.
His ex-wife pushed his face closer to inspect the faded India ink design. “Yes goddess.”
Now that she had received a satisfactory answer, Rachel withdrew the red finger from her backside where she had pointed, and continued to brace herself on the table. “Let me tell you a story. I was once a junior partner, not really satisfied with my practice. But then I took a sabbatical to India, and it was there that a tantric goddess taught me how to harness the power of my yoni, and get whatever I wanted from men, to use my power to manipulate their weak minds.” She laughed a gloating, slightly bitter laugh. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yeah?” She taunted him, wiggled her ass toward his face. His wife pushed the back of his head until his nose was planted in her ass, and his tongue lapped the sacred yoni from the back, savoring the sweat that had worked its way into the bloody, engorged lips earlier in the day as she climbed upward on the elliptical machine with her fatted clit pressed tight against the black spandex of her workout clothes. She squirmed, bucked against him, and his wife shoved his face forward with all of her strength, grunting and laughing as he licked, breathed ass, and tasted pussy.
“Poor Paul,” the lawyer said. “Just another arrogant man who thought he could dictate the terms of a settlement to his wife.” Her sultry laugh came from deep in her hoarse throat, mingling with the pleasured moans elicited by his tongue and nose rubbing, bouncing, and licking her as his hot breath tickled her. “You thought you were just going to come in here and tell me what to do, that you would be the first man to resist my seduction? I’m sure you push women around in your practice, as well.”
Her manicured fingers reached behind her back, found his ears, and jaw, the only portions of his face not submerged in her body, entombed in the ecstatic delights her soft pink contours offered, as they first accepted and then devoured him in ravenous hunger. “Now look at you. Worshiping my yoni, your nose buried in my ass, like a dog. You thought you could insult us, insult your wife’s devotion with a little chalet,” she pronounced the last word with an especial emphasis, giving the two syllables a contemptuous sneer, rubbing her ass harder against his nose as she contemplated the insult that was his initial offer.
She snickered, and as her body convulsed with laughter, her asshole puckered, opening and closing around his nose. “Oh, hey girls!”
His wife pulled Paul’s face out of the lawyer’s ass and pussy, and turned his eyes toward the doorway. He looked over at the impassive secretary with the chopstick in her bun, and the doorwoman with the Gothic pallor and black lipstick.
Michelle allowed her ex-husband this brief reprieve to acknowledge the new guests, both of whom were sneering at him, delightful smiles creeping across their faces. The Gothic doorwoman spoke, her thick black lips pouting. “Yet another man surrenders to the yoni’s power.”
“The way of all flesh,” the secretary observed, her right eyebrow arching ever so slightly, a look of approval washing across her features as she stepped closer to observe this breaking in of another husband-turned-slave.
Michelle, after giving her ex-husband this short reprieve, shoved his head back into its rightful place, the nose diving for the snug pink burrow that latched onto the cartilage of his nose with its warm, tight grip, the yoni waterlogged from incessant pleasure, moisture dripping onto the fleecy black down of the hairs curled on the fatted mound of the goddess’s mons.
His tongue lunged for the glistening clit ring, but the lawyer reached her hand underneath her body, down the front of her power suit, and through her legs. She latched onto the curls of Paul’s hair, saturated with expensive designer product. Rachel gripped the coiffured cockscomb and pulled his hair until his nose came free of her ass, and his face was now nestled deep into the wet, downy blackness of her pubic hair.
“Lick it,” she said.
He obeyed, his tongue making deep, penetrative strokes into the black nest of coiled hair. The sandpapery sound of taste buds commingling with hair made a slight rustle, and the lawyer explained the purpose of her act to Paul’s ex-wife as he licked. “This is so that I will remain on his mind throughout the course of the next day. Tomorrow, every time he picks one of my hairs out of his mouth, he will be reminded of his goddess, and the yoni to which he was willing to give up everything he accumulated throughout the course of his life.”
With that accomplished, she resumed her previous posture, spreadeagled across the desk, and she released her hold on Paul. Michelle took the cue, pushing her husband’s nose back into the lawyer’s ass. His mouth required no guiding and would have lunged back for the lawyer’s yoni even without his ex-wife applying pressure to the back of his head. Rachel Silverman finally looked over to the right, and pointed to the pale doorwoman and the serene secretary.
“All of my girls are being trained to use their yoni power to get what they want from men. Pretty soon, once enough of us are trained, it’ll be over for every man on Earth. We’ll use our power to cloud their minds, until they’re walking around in a haze of sexual submission and servitude. Women are already out-earning men in the workplace. Three women are in medical school or college for every male at this point. Within less than a generation every man will be a domesticated cunnilingus machine, with no function but to serve his female masters.”
She chuckled and his ex-wife pushed Paul’s face deeper, as if she intended to suffocate him. “Now that you don’t have any money, Paul, you’re going to have to make yourself useful somehow.” She turned her head over her left shoulder, made eye-contact with Michelle, who was grinning from ear to ear, her aurous blond hair spilling over her smooth, white freckled face. “I think he’s doing a good job so far!”
“Paul has his law degree,” Michelle said. “Maybe he could work here.” She giggled with the lawyer, and the other two women by the door migrated even closer to watch the slave work on its new master. “I mean, I feel just a teensy, weensy bit bad about taking all of his money. Not too bad, though.”
All four of the women laughed, but the sound was muffled for Paul, whose face was pressed deeper into ass and pussy than he ever thought possible until this moment. Female voices and laughter reached his ears as if he was underwater, and, when one considered how wet the lawyer was, both from his slavish licking and the five-hundred million dollar victory she just achieved, he was certain he was close to drowning.
“Oh, Michelle,” Rachel Silverman said, fighting off the first premonition of an orgasm, as it pulsed through her body in waves. Her open hands moved over the lacquered surface of the wooden table, little waxing and waning circles that grew in size as the unbearable pleasure worked its way through her body and mounted in force and intensity. “We don’t hire male lawyers at our firm. We don’t hire male anything at this firm.”
She looked over at her secretary and doorwoman, winked and licked the space between the gap in her teeth with her tongue. “In this New World Order, where we plan to unleash our yonis upon every unsuspecting male on Earth, a man’s only place is in the home, in the kitchen, cooking, and cleaning while women make all the important decisions and make all of the money.”
She wormed, wriggled, and squirmed against the man who pleasured her with his nose deep in her ass and tongue planted perpetually in her yoni. “Isn’t that right?”
Muffled sounds came from a man who had been worth half a billion dollars less than an hour ago, a man who had closed every business deal to his satisfaction, until he met Rachel Silverman and her divine, unstoppable yoni.
“Now,” she said to Michelle, “I want you to let him touch himself.”
Paul was too deeply engaged in licking and sucking to hear, or even feel. His mind was completely entranced by the yoni, and so Michelle guided his right hand toward his cock, which was swollen and pressed hard up against the fly of his Armani slacks with the force of a dart nestled in a board. She unzipped his pants, and his cock emerged from the humid confines of his boxers and slacks. His penis was large, mushroom-headed, and crawling with veins.
The secretary lightly grazed the circumcised head with her emery board. “This slave does have a nice, big cock.”
“Too bad,” Rachel laughed. “No man may penetrate my yoni.” She addressed Paul with the harsh authority of a disciplinarian. “You may only touch me with your tongue.” She moaned, the speed of her bucking against Paul’s nose and tongue increasing in force and frequency. Now that his cock was free and he had his wife’s permission to pleasure himself, he stroked furiously, beating hard, as small coos of delight, interest, and fascination fell from the lips of the Gothic doorwoman and the formerly blasé secretary, who was aroused enough now to undo the first button of her white blouse.
“Repeat after me,” the lawyer said, to Paul. “‘I may only touch the yoni with my tongue.’”
Paul stroked, moaned, his voice vibrating inside her body, his face hidden between the twin honeydews of her garter-bedecked ass cheeks. He attempted to speak as he licked and worshiped. “I mu uny ta da yoni mi ma ton.”
All of the women laughed. “‘A woman’s place is in the law firm. A man’s place is in the kitchen.’”
“A won pah in in da law form. A ma play in da cotton.”
The secretary leaned closer to Michelle and explained. “This is a process called ‘binding the slave to the yoni’.”
Michelle continued pushing her husband’s face into the lawyer’s ass and yoni. “Binding the slave to the yoni?”
The secretary nodded, and the doorwoman said, “Yes, if you give a man oral sex, obviously he can have an orgasm.” She watched Rachel, who was close to peaking, running her hands in ever-wider concentric circles over the surface of her varnished table, as her new slave tortured her nerves with his nose and tongue.
“And obviously,” the doorwoman said, “She can have an orgasm from what he’s doing with his tongue, and…nose.”
“Right,” the secretary added, putting the finishing touches on a nail and then pointing her emery board at the man as he stroked his cock furiously. “But ‘binding the slave to the yoni’ is a rite by which the male achieves orgasm from licking. It’s part of the sacrament.” She smiled at the gullible weakness that made men so easy to control. “He thinks he’s doing this for his pleasure, but if he comes while licking her, he is bound to her yoni, he is her permanent slave.”
“And he’s almost there!” Rachel Silverman shouted now, bouncing her ass and pussy against his face and nose with the force of an untamable beast, pummeling him into submission, violently demanding pleasure as her divine right as a woman, with no care or concern for what pain or pleasure it caused him as a man, unworthy of anything but to lick, sniff, serve, and surrender to the unstoppable power of her yoni and her harnessing of the goddess power.
“That’s it,” the secretary said, leaning down to Paul and whispering in his ear. “Keep stroking. Come,” she giggled, and her black vintage cat eye glasses fogged slightly from the force of his breath, which was coming in deep gusts. “Come for us.”
“Yes,” the Gothic doorwoman said, leaning down to speak with him, close to his ear, beside the secretary. “Come for us so that you can be our slave.”
“Hey, Paul,” Michelle said, giddy with delight, enjoying having the upper hand on her husband for the first time in years, the first time ever, in fact, since their engagement had begun. He had held all the cards from the word “go,” she being a mere flight attendant and he the tycoon who rescued her, the knight in shining armor who had expected her endless gratitude as his due. That was over now. “I want to thank you for the five-hundred million.”
The light dusting of freckles on Michelle’s face was now luminescent, as a thin coat of sweat formed on her brow and beaded downward. Pushing her husband’s face into her lawyer’s ass and yoni was proving to be quite the workout. “But since we already have all of your money, I need you to come now, so that you can be our slave. Okay?” She snorted once as she laughed, and blew hot air from the side of her mouth in order to push her corn-blonde bangs away from her face. “Make your wife happy and come for her, okay, so that you can be a complete slave under her control. Be a good boy and come for her, okay?”
The lawyer flexed, froze, and then went through spasms, seizures of pleasure, shuddering hard as she twisted, shimmied and writhed against her breathless pet, who remained motionless, an obedient statue, less now even than an animal for the moment in which she needed him to remain an inanimate object against which she could rub herself in any way she saw fit, in order to reach her perfect orgasm.
She knew he was already a total slave at that point, egoless and with nothing to prove, understanding as few men did, that she as a woman knew how to pleasure herself better with his body than he ever could, and that holding still was the best way to acknowledge her superior, vast store of sexual expertise and intelligence. She achieved intense friction against her motionless, dumb pet. She came just a moment before him, roaring like a lioness and pounding the surface of her wooden table so violently that a glass of water trembled to the edge, and fell to the floor where it spilled.
His semen spilled onto the thin carpet of law office, and he shuddered, groaned, trying to form words of thanks but too totally reduced by pleasure to even speak anything more than dumb monosyllables, as a puddle of white droplets cascaded to the ground before him.
“Good boy,” his wife said, massaging his sweaty shoulders as his cock went through spasms and contracted. The lawyer coiled her body forward, snaking across the surface of the desk, removing her ass from his nose and her yoni from his tongue.
The previously impassive secretary grinned from ear to ear, and Michelle turned her ex-husband toward the secretary and the doorwoman, while Rachel Silverman looked on. He gazed numbly at the four women arrayed around him, who were all smiling and baring their teeth in the wake of yet another victory for the wives, and another easily defeated husband. He remembered that he had come here to offer his wife ten million dollars and a chalet, before something had happened. It had all occurred so fast, and he blinked rapidly, looking around at the four women who surrounded him and laughed triumphantly. They said, in unison, “You are now our slave.”
Rachel Silverman stood up from the table, adjusted her skirt. The material of her satin argyle-print stockings whispered snakelike, as she pulled the pinstriped power skirt down over her thighs, where her sticky yoni secretions were now drying against her flawless skin, a garter plastered to her thigh with the secretions brought forth by her slave’s diligent tongue work..
She nodded to her secretary, who was tapping her emery board lightly on the nose of the confused slave. The secretary laughed as she tormented the recently conquered businessman “Give him the keys to my flat,” Rachel said. “And send him home for the day. I have a lot of work to do in the office, and he has a lot to do at home.”
The secretary continued tapping her emery board against the nose of the slave, who was still completely mute, unable to speak, in the wake of the pleasure he had just given his goddesses and experienced himself. After bopping the slave once more on the nose with the emery board, the secretary flashed her teeth and said, “You’re going to make this one your personal slave?”
That pleased the doorwoman, and Paul’s ex-wife, as well. Michelle purred, continued massaging her ex-husband’s shoulders. Rachel Silverman laughed once, and said, “Yes, I’m keeping this one.” She walked over to Paul Truman, the golden buckles on her leather riding boots clicking as she came to stand before him. She leaned down, looked into his dazed eyes, her own eyes aflame with superior, sneering intelligence. “Yes, and if you do a good job cleaning the house, and if you have dinner waiting for me when I get home from work, I’ll make sure to spend some time on the elliptical in the bedroom, get my yoni nice and sweaty for my slave.”
Paul intended to say “Thank you goddess,” but his tongue fell out of his mouth of its own volition, his mind overpowered by the presence of the four beautiful women. He noticed his sense of smell heightened like a dog’s now, so that he could detect the distinct pungency of each of their yonis, the humid spice and musk of natural female odor, and they laughed as he spoke with his tongue flopping outside of his mouth, ready for the next yoni. “Thanka gaga.”
“Good job on this one,” the secretary said, patting Paul on the head. He was still crouched down, and her knees, covered in the snowy-sheer stockings, were level with his eyes. He moved his nose closer to her legs, rubbing his face against her smooth hose, as her voice came to him. “Rachel,” the secretary said, “I think you just broke your previous record.” She giggled. “I think this is the fastest I’ve seen you yoni-train a husband.”
Some of you are concerned that I lead some sort of a lousy, boring life. That may be true in a sense but not in the catastrophic sense. For instance, there is usually a woman or maybe even more than one woman floating around my world. Other than that, I don’t see what else I need other than money.
So maybe you are wondering what I am doing these days.
Lately I have been reading Ezra Pound! Not his poetry. God no, not sure if I can make heads or tails out of that. I have been reading his prose! Pound’s prose is little known, but before he went crazy in the 1930’s, he wrote some superb prose.
As far as whether I am happy or not, all I have to say is that no matter what else is going on in one’s life, as long as one is reading Ezra Pound, how could one not be happy as a clam?
Pound’s writing that is available in one way or another on the web is here.
Anyone else like Ezra Pound?
I definitely could not understand all of that. I think maybe I got ~78%. Sure you can understand a lot of it but definitely not all.
Sounds something like this.
That is from The Canterbury Tales. They were written around 1390, which is about 620 years ago. I do not know about you guys, but my intelligiblity score of Middle English was 5%. I think there might be around 100 words in that sample, not sure. Middle English is quite simply not the same language as Modern English. It’s a different language altogether.
So if languages are split for 600-650 years, they may only have 5% intelligibility. That is if they do not continue to have connections with each other. If they continue to have linguistic connections with each other via speaking together and living in the same vicinity as the other tongue, the score can be a lot higher.
For instance, Scots separated from English ~500 years ago but I can get a lot more of Scots than I can of Chaucer. My intelligibility of Modern Scots is ~40%. But you see, Scots and English continued to be in regular contact. If Scots had taken off to Sweden or someplace like that, the score might be a lot lower. Scots’ continued interaction with English slows the rate of differentiation between tongues.
So after 500-650 years linguistic separation, you should have separate languages, and intelligibility may only be 5-40% (average 22%).
That would be Thomas Wolfe, dead way too soon at age 38 right before the Great War broke out.
Something has spoken to me in the night, burning the tapers of the waning year; something has spoken in the night, and told me I shall die, I know not where.
To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing; to lose the life you have for greater life; to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving; to find a land more kind than home, more large than earth.
Whereon the pillars of this earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending — a wind is rising, and the rivers flow.
Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again (1939).
I am really thinking that I need to get into this guy. Faulkner said Wolfe was the greatest writer of his generation. His reputation has waned somewhat in recent days – the general conclusion is that his novels were overwritten, way too long and could have been written in half the size – but he retains legions of devoted followers. There is even a Thomas Wolfe Journal out there that publishes regularly.
Regarding poorly-named Pacific Ocean:
There is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the Ephesian sod over the buried Evangelist St. John.
And meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and Potters’ Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.
To any meditative Magian rover, this serene Pacific, once beheld, must ever after be the sea of his adoption. It rolls the midmost waters of the world, the Indian Ocean and Atlantic being but its arms.
The same waves wash the moles of the new-built Californian towns, but yesterday planted by the recentest race of men, and lave the faded but still gorgeous skirts of Asiatic lands, older than Abraham; while all between float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown Archipelagos, and impenetrable Japans. Thus this mysterious divine Pacific zones the world’s whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth.Herman Melville, Moby Dick, 1851.
The sea. Once again the sea. Always again the sea. We always return to the sea. Our mother. Mother water.
The title is Double Falshood; or, The Distrest Lovers, or Double Falsehood, or The Distressed Lovers in modern English.
The play was written by Lewis Theobald, supposedly based on three copies of what he said was a lost Shakespearean play. He never produced the three copies that he had access to, and their whereabouts are presently unknown. The play appears to be based on The History of Cardenio (often referred to as Cardenio), by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. Cardenio is a famous lost Shakespeare play based on a chapter in Cervantes’ Don Quixote.
There has been much controversy about whether or not Double Falsehood is really based on Cardenio, but the consensus now is that Double Falsehood is based on a play written by Fletcher and an unknown author. A recent essay claimed that that unknown author is Shakespeare.
The Arden Shakespeare Series of books recently added this play to the Shakespeare canon, causing quite a bit of controversy.
The essence of conservatism: It was always better yesterday than today.
Against the malign domination of the present by the past Mr. Sinclair directs his principal assault. In the arts he sees the dead hand holding the classics on their thrones and thrusting back new masterpieces as they appear; in religion he sees it clothing the visions of ancient poets in steel creeds and rituals and denying that such visions can ever come to later spirits; in human society he sees it welding the manacles of caste and hardening this or that temporary pattern of life to a perpetual order.
– Carl Van Doren, Contemporary American Novelists (1900-1920), 1922, on Upton Sinclair, American revolutionary author and socialist.
How foolish. Clocks go forwards, not backwards, you silly people.
That quote is from a very famous book by the way. Van Doren was a great critic who lived around the turn of the century. That book is famous because it resurrected Moby Dick and Herman Melville. When Moby Dick first came out, it was met with bafflement. Nobody quite new what to make of this doorstop. His other books met much of the same uncomprehending annoyance.
So there they sat, the greatest American books of their time, for over a half century. A full 70 years had passed since Van Doren rose Moby Dick from the grave in the stacks and second hand stores. The book set off a Melville Revival which has not abated yet. There is a Melville Society and even an entire journal dedicated to Melville.
If you have never read anything by Melville, now is the time to start. If you can handle him, that is. He is not an easy writer, and if anything’s beyond highbrow, it’s that one great whale of a tale for which is remembered.
Dr. Samuel Johnson weighs in his verdict on Shakespeare’s flaws. Now to be fair I should note that in this same essay, Johnson also praises him to the skies, and I believe he says he is the greatest of all writers. But any criticism of Shakespeare is interesting. There is one point we need to note. How many people have written essays or books extolling the greatness of Shakespeare in one way or another? Can we even count them. The cynic might say that if you write a piece praising Shakespeare, nobody is going to read it as it’s old hat. But criticizing Shakespeare? That’s not something that’s often done! So many some of these critics were just trying to get eye mileage out of novelty.
Anyway, this is a gorgeous piece of writing from England before the American Revolution by one of the finest writers of our time.
I changed some of the archaic English, but I left in most of the British spelling.
Shakespeare with his excellencies has likewise faults, and faults sufficient to obscure and overwhelm any other merit. I shall show them in the proportion in which they appear to me, without envious malignity or superstitious veneration. No question can be more innocently discussed than a dead poet’s pretensions to renown; and little regard is due to that bigotry which sets candour higher than truth.
His first defect is that to which may be imputed most of the evil in books or in men. He sacrifices virtue to convenience, and is so much more careful to please than to instruct, that he seems to write without any moral purpose.
From his writings indeed a system of social duty may be selected, for he that thinks reasonably must think morally; but his precepts and axioms drop casually from him; he makes no just distribution of good or evil, nor is always careful to shew in the virtuous a disapprobation of the wicked; he carries his persons indifferently through right and wrong, and at the close dismisses them without further care, and leaves their examples to operate by chance. This fault the barbarity of his age cannot extenuate; for it is always a writer’s duty to make the world better, and justice is a virtue independent on time or place.
The plots are often so loosely formed, that a very slight
consideration may improve them, and so carelessly pursued, that he seems not always fully to comprehend his own design. He omits opportunities of instructing or delighting which the train of his story seems to force upon him, and apparently rejects those exhibitions which would be more affecting, for the sake of those which are more easy.
It may be observed, that in many of his plays the latter part is evidently neglected. When he found himself near the end of his work, and, in view of his reward, he shortened the labour to snatch the profit. He therefore remits his efforts where he should most vigorously exert them, and his catastrophe is improbably produced or imperfectly represented.
He had no regard to distinction of time or place, but gives to one age or nation, without scruple, the customs, institutions, and opinions of another, at the expense not only of likelihood, but of possibility. These faults Pope has endeavoured, with more zeal than judgment, to transfer to his imagined interpolators. We need not wonder to find Hector quoting Aristotle, when we see the loves of Theseus and Hippolyta combined with the Gothic mythology of fairies.
Shakespeare, indeed, was not the only violator of chronology, for in the same age Sidney, who wanted not the advantages of learning, has, in his Arcadia, confounded the pastoral with the feudal times, the days of innocence, quiet and security, with those of turbulence, violence, and adventure.
In his comic scenes he is seldom very successful, when he engages his characters in reciprocations of smartness and contests of sarcasm; their jests are commonly gross, and their pleasantry licentious; neither his gentlemen nor his ladies have much delicacy, nor are sufficiently distinguished from his clowns by any appearance of refined manners.
Whether he represented the real conversation of his time is not easy to determine; the reign of Elizabeth is commonly supposed to have been a time of stateliness, formality and reserve; yet perhaps the relaxations of that severity were not very elegant. There must, however, have been always some modes of gayety preferable to others, and a writer ought to choose the best.
In tragedy his performance seems constantly to be worse, as his labour is more. The effusions of passion which exigence forces out are for the most part striking and energetic; but whenever he solicits his invention, or strains his faculties, the offspring of his throes is tumor, meanness, tediousness, and obscurity.
In narration he affects a disproportionate pomp of diction, and a wearisome train of circumlocution, and tells the incident imperfectly in many words, which might have been more plainly delivered in few. Narration in dramatic poetry is naturally tedious, as it is unanimated and inactive, and obstructs the progress of the action; it should therefore always be rapid, and enlivened by frequent interruption. Shakespeare found it an encumbrance, and instead of lightening it by brevity, endeavoured to recommend it by dignity and splendour.
His declamations or set speeches are commonly cold and weak, for his power was the power of nature; when he endeavoured, like other tragic writers, to catch opportunities of amplification, and instead of inquiring what the occasion demanded, to show how much his stores of knowledge could supply, he seldom escapes without the pity or resentment of his reader.
It is incident to him to be now and then entangled with an unwieldy sentiment, which he cannot well express, and will not reject; he struggles with it a while, and if it continues stubborn, comprises it in words such as occur, and leaves it to be disentangled and evolved by those who have more leisure to bestow upon it.
Not that always where the language is intricate the thought is subtle, or the image always great where the line is bulky; the equality of words to things is very often neglected, and trivial sentiments and vulgar ideas disappoint the attention, to which they are recommended by sonorous epithets and swelling figures.
But the admirers of this great poet have never less reason to indulge their hopes of supreme excellence, than when he seems fully resolved to sink them in dejection, and mollify them with tender emotions by the fall of greatness, the danger of innocence, or the crosses of love. He is not long soft and pathetic without some idle conceit, or contemptible equivocation. He no sooner begins to move, than he counteracts himself; and terror and pity, as they are rising in the mind, are checked and blasted by sudden frigidity.
A quibble is to Shakespeare, what luminous vapours are to the traveller; he follows it at all adventures; it is sure to lead him out of his way, and sure to engulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisition, whether he be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be amusing attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense, let but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his work unfinished.
A quibble is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble, poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content to purchase it, by the sacrifice of reason, propriety and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it.
It will be thought strange, that, in enumerating the defects of this writer, I have not yet mentioned his neglect of the unities: his violation of those laws which have been instituted and established by the joint authority of poets and critics.
For his other deviations from the art of writing I resign him to critical justice, without making any other demand in his favour, than that which must be indulged to all human excellence: that his virtues be rated with his failings: But, from the censure which this irregularity may bring upon him, I shall, with due reverence to that learning which I must oppose, adventure to try how I can defend him.
His histories, being neither tragedies nor comedies are not subject to any of their laws; nothing more is necessary to all the praise which they expect, than that the changes of action be so prepared as to be understood, that the incidents be various and affecting, and the characters consistent, natural, and distinct. No other unity is intended, and therefore none is to be sought.
In his other works he has well enough preserved the unity of action. He has not, indeed, an intrigue regularly perplexed and regularly unraveled: he does not endeavour to hide his design only to discover it, for this is seldom the order of real events, and Shakespeare is the poet of nature: But his plan has commonly what Aristotle requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end; one event is concatenated with another, and the conclusion follows by easy consequence.
There are perhaps some incidents that might be spared, as in other poets there is much talk that only fills up time upon the stage; but the general system makes gradual advances, and the end of the play is the end of expectation.
– Samuel Johnson, Preface to The Plays of William Shakespeare, 1765.