Books about Cleavage from Amazon.com

The latest full-color collection of comic strips from a Pulitzer Prize-winning cartoonist offers ninety strips following the adventures of Opus the penguin, Bill the cat, Rosebud the basselope, and many others. 250,000 first printing. Tour..
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“You have no right to whip me,” she said in a cold, tight little voice. She was trying hard to keep control of her speech. She tried not to screech or let her voice tremble, as that would tell him that he had the power to frighten her. “I will not be whipped by any man or anyone else. Undo my hands at once,” she said in what she thought was an authoritative voice. “Being kept all the evening in this room without any dinner is quite punishment enough. And what have I done that calls for punishment? Refusing to wear horrid dresses which only serve to make nakedness conspicuous? If I am to be treated in this way, I shall leave tomorrow. As for promising to take off my own drawers before my own uncle, you must be mad, Sir, to think of such a thing. I would rather die first.”.
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Her face staring down girlishly, Letitia shook her head, though it was not true. Servants had quaint ideas as to what went on among 'the gentry', despite the actuality of this moment—despite the fact that Johnson had manfully pumped her a score of times now. On Letitia's wedding day, after most of the guests had gone and only her immediate relatives remained, there had been what was politely and carefully called a 'passing by'.

Still attired in her wedding gown—a wondrous frothery of white and cream silk and lace—Letitia had been taken into the morning room by Easton who had asked her, 'Are you ready?' Realising that she was not permitted to refuse, and that several sturdy champions had long been awaiting this moment, Letitia had blushed and nodded, whereat Easton had drawn her gown and underskirt up to her waist and tucked the heavily-folded rear between the wall and her bottom. Any jerky movements on her part would cause all to cascade again, and Letitia knew that, too, was not allowed. Hence she had kept very still while Easton removed her frilly, spotless drawers and laid them perfectly flat at her feet with the filled legs extended forward.

It was the tradition that her drawers were not to be trodden on. Such, curiously, would be a great discourtesy and an affront to her as a bride, even though she was about to be rogered by five gentlemen...
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"Sex appeal is something that anyone can learn with coaching and practice . . . [It] has more to do with how men and women sit, stand, walk, and dress and the way they use their hands, voice, and facial expressions than it does with physical beauty." --Eva Margolies

Learn how to be more attractive and self-confident without relying on rhinoplasty, the latest diet du jour, or a different cup size with this seven-day guide on how to attract the best that life has to offer.

Relationship and communication experts Eva Margolies and Stan Jones offer an authoritative primer to help women discover their inner sex appeal by mastering effective gender signals--like the proper way to sit, gaze, and vocally communicate through body language that communicates femininity instead of blatant physicality.

This accessible and easy-to-follow guide features four-color illustrations that perfectly demonstrate key gender signals and instructs readers on how to manipulate the level of sex appeal they wish to convey by turning it off or on, up or down, depending on the image they wish to project..
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The following short narratives are not intended for the general public. They are printed exclusively for the members of the International Union.

It would be wrong to place them in the hands of the young and inexperienced.

The pleasures, so graphically described in these papers, are indeed common to our nature, but they require to be followed with prudence and indulged in with moderation.

The members of this Union are supposed to be in this happy condition. They have mixed in the world. They know something of life and its solemn realities. The fiery ebullition of youth has passed away; and, their blood having cooled down, it is to be hoped that their knowledge and experience will be found sufficient to enable them to control their passions and keep them under due restraint.

For such, these papers are issued. They may read them without danger. These glowing passages in Love's warfare will only serve to kindle once more their old fire and stir them up, like Goldsmith's veteran, to shoulder their crutch, and to show how fields were won.

That was good counsel, given by an old and experienced hand, to all votaries of pleasure: Avoid excess; take care of your health; seek the happiness of others; do nothing mean or dishonourable; and, if it be possible, do not wrong your own conscience. Such also, kind reader, is the advice of your good friend.
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Cleavage: Breakaway Fiction for Real Girls is a brash new collection of fifteen original stories about girls who stand against convention, and girls who wish they could. In turn hilarious, edgy, comforting, intense, the collection is about holding back and letting loose, about sex and glamour and common sense. Here are heroines that strike a chord and make us think.

Just like all of us, the girls in these stories have to deal with whatever life decides to throw at them. Some approach their challenges in startling ways. An academically gifted girl tries to apply logic to love and puberty. Another young girl shocks her bunkmates in a bible camp when she confides that her mother is waxed completely bare lsquo;down there.rsquo; A teenager sees her own body in a new light when partygoers come across a portrait of her mother's post-mastectomy figure. A high school student offers a peek inside the change room, where bras are either not made small enough, or are mortifyingly like body armour only your grandmother would wear.

The innovative stories in this collection are about taking pride in wearing our bodies just the way they are. They're about hating our mothers and loving them, fitting in and breaking out. These characters articulate ways of looking at the world, of looking at others and of seeing new possibilities in life. Touching on a range of issues from cosmetic surgery and makeup, and unhealthy attitudes toward eating, to sexuality and teens' impressions of their own and others' bodies, these stories challenge stifling mainstream notions of beauty and femininity.

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One morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found the following letter on my plate—



The Nunnery, Wednesday

Dear Jack—What are you doing with yourself? Have come here for a few days, but find the place most terribly dull, only mother and Alice being here. Can't you come down for a long weekend and amuse three lonely females? I am writing at mother's suggestion. Do come.

Yours ever

MAUD


'I've been wanting you badly, my lover!—Oh, so badly—and I told mother that either you must come to me or I must go to you! She didn't like your having me under her own roof. I didn't want to go up to town. A sudden idea struck me. As you know, Jack, mother is still a young woman—I get my hot temperament from her, and I know how she hates her lonely bed! And she loves you, Jack! So I slipped my arm round her, and whispered coaxingly: “Look here, mummy, let us get Jack down and . . . share him!” She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Mummy,” I again whispered— “you know you want. . . something . . . very badly, just as badly as I do!”—she quivered responsively—“Won't you let me get it for you?”— again she blushed deeply— “Come, mummy darling, share Jack with me!” And I kissed her and kept whispering to her, till she murmured, “Very well, my darling—it's sweet of you! If Jack is willing it shall be as you wish!” There, sir, what do you say?'.
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There was a lively but amiable rivalry between Colonel Ashbee and his plantation neighbour, five miles off in the lowland country, Colonel Johnson. Each teased the other about not knowing how to manage the beautiful female slaves who gave pleasure to their masters. Colonel Ashbee had acquired a delicious trio of girls, a half-caste or Eurasian beauty, Helen Wong, whose slave ancestry lay in the Pacific trade, and two girls of Caribbean beauty, Shawn and Felicia, bought from the auction block in Richmond, Virginia. Both were Chelsea Girls, as he liked to call them, for they served him in the bedroom of his plantation at Chelsea Landing. Shawn was a tall and leggy creature with an enigmatic beauty and slant eyes, her hair strained back in an elegant bun. She had that lithe figure and tawny promise which made her worth every penny Colonel Ashbee had paid for her.

As so often, where there are many such girls and only one man to employ them, jealousy was fierce and frequent. In the end, two hot-blooded she-devils flew at one another. Each of their bodies was Colonel Ashbee's property and the damage inflicted was an offence against him. In his anger he arranged that both of them should receive public correction in the whipping-house which stood above the Chalmers Street slave-market. Colonel Johnson twitted his friend over this, saying that he should never approve such a thing. To confess publicly that the girls were beyond his control and to display them under the lash for every idle apprentice or slatternly housewife to see was more than he could sanction.
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Here—captured by the pen of the beautiful Vavara Softa—is court life in Imperial Russia at its most glorious, and at its lowest; while the serfs suffered untold cruelties, the aristocracy gave itself over to unbridled sexual pleasures.

In this setting, Memoirs of a Russian Princess presents the touching, yet brutal, self-portrait of the Princess herself—her debaucheries, her tender love for the mechanical statue Belphegor, her tragic end as the mistress of Emperor Paul and the wife of Count Tarrasoff.

Few readers will fail to be moved by the frenzied life of this lovely, though lascivious, Princess, or by the spell-binding revelations she affords of the society in which she lived.
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I motioned her to be silent and softly shut the door. I then encircled her waist to my arm and took her to my bedroom. There I was enabled to have a view of the bird just escaped from its cage and which had flown to me for protection.

My supposition was correct; it was indeed a lovely girl, straight and pliant as a reed, though her form already showed signs of womanhood. I placed my hand on her bosom by chance, and I felt a living globe as firm as marble.

The mere contact sent a thrill through my veins. There are indeed women who have received from nature the fascinating gift of exciting sensual desires at the slightest touch.
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