KINK| EROTIC FICTION | BOOKS

On Discovering Illicit Erotica from the Victorian Era

How historical erotic fiction shaped my fantasies and my writing

I’ll never forget the summer that I discovered underground erotic fiction from the Victorian era …

I was nearly nineteen, no longer a virgin, but had yet to find a lover who could touch me, awaking my flesh and desires, as effectively as I did for myself. I suspect I’m not alone in this. Many girls have boyfriends who are so eager to get off, or who shoot their load so quickly, that their partner barely gets into second gear but they’re already finished.

I’d been reading books with sex scenes in them since I was fourteen, drawn to the spicy interludes within the body of the story. I found the approach to sex in historical romances more appealing than in contemporary books. My fantasies began to weave in women left in chastity belts (to protect them from ‘courtly love’) or dressing in complicated garments that were hard to remove without assistance, such as hooped skirts and boned corsets.

I was browsing paperbacks in my local newsagents when I first saw The Pearl. My eye was drawn to its plain white cover, depicting a woman wearing black stockings and a satin corset. Her expression was coquettish, entreating, her neck was swan-like beneath piled-up hair. The image was vastly different from centrefolds in the men’s magazines my boyfriend sometimes read.

The blurb informed me that the stories within were from an underground magazine, forbidden in their time, for their racy content. I was intrigued enough to purchase the book.

At home I shut myself in my bedroom to devour the stories. They were written in a language that was quaintly old fashioned: quim for pussy and spend for cum. Mostly the girls were portrayed as very innocent, referring to a man’s cock as his ‘affair’, or filled with wonder at its priapic firmness, and how it swelled.

Many of the stories dealt with spanking, several portraying the gentry spanking their parlor maids and ladies’ maids. These same females often shared beds, eagerly touching each other and sighing through the night.

Reading led to arousal, and erotic fiction proved to be a gateway to pleasure. I knew how to touch myself, and the stories I was devouring stirred me to respond. I spent many afternoons alone with The Pearl, one hand moving between my legs.

She stroked and played with the sweet lips of her cunny until she spent copiously.

After I’d read Volume One cover to cover, I returned to the newsagents to purchase Volume Two. Some stories weren’t right for me, too coy, or the situations in which the young men and women found themselves overly staged. On occasion, I had to restrain myself from laughing at the formality of the gentlemen, but it never prevented them from rogering these women senseless. But even the silly stories had the power to make my flesh tingle.

Her pussy became silky with emissions, whereon she stroked herself to a thrilling conclusion ~ la petite mort

I was addicted to the erotica I’d discovered, which unfortunately made my boyfriend’s overtures seem crass and clumsy in comparison. It’s easy to see how romantic novels cause damage, they raise the bar too high for any average guy to hurdle. My boyfriend had no idea that my desires had been shaped by the flowery overtures that gentlemen made in the Victorian erotica I was reading so avidly.

It isn’t entirely fair — they’re being compared to imaginary men who do everything just right without asking — but it shows how eroticism goes beyond physical sensations, and our fantasies can burn with an intensity no physical reality can match. [Celia McKinley: Author of The Fallen Sky]

I didn’t know how to communicate the mismatch to my guy. My solution was to buy myself a black and red corset and stockings, which nearly knocked his socks off when I wore them.

However, the fantasies I was entertaining added sparkle to our sex life, and me indulging in masturbation was healthy too, teaching me some of the ways I liked to be touched. The more I ‘worked that muscle’ the more I wanted to work it, ‘win win’ for us both.

What I saw in my mind’s eye while we were having sex would fan the flames of arousal. Little visuals of a spanking scene, or one maid creeping into another’s bed to frig her friend to sleep, certainly enhanced my pleasure. But I never imagined myself in the arms of another man while my boyfriend fucked me.

My love affair with Victorian erotica began to dwindle when I purchased Evangeline. This rich miss was innocent and petite, the author made frequent references to her tiny gloved hands and little feet encased in buttoned boots.

The object of Evangeline’s obsession was her father, he seemed equally besotted with his daughter. It was not rare for Victorian erotica to include incest. It’s not for me to judge anybody’s kink, I’ll simply state that this is not mine.

Because Evangeline’s risque escapades did not take me to the same sensual place as the other erotic books, I moved on.

Today those books are stored in a lidded box, part of my collection of erotic fiction, purchased as I explored which niches might float my boat. I’m grateful for the pleasure they’ve given me, not only inspiring my sex life but also my writing content.

In recent years I moved from buying paperback novels to e-books. Plus I’ve discovered bloggers who explore varied sexual dynamics and scenes, and write frankly about their lived experiences.

With my fiction: scenes with sex, I hope to pay the erotic pleasure forward.

Try this supernatural erotic fiction in a Victorian setting by JK Mill

Or a sensuous, slightly taboo tale of living out a fantasy by Celia McKinley

The Pearl — A Journal of Voluptuous Reading

Here’s where I turn my true story into something fictional:

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