From Sexus by Henry Miller
 

She wants to lie down on the floor and put her legs around my neck. "Get it in all the way," she begs. "Don't be afraid of hurting me. I want it. I want you to do everything." I got it in so deep it felt as though I were buried in a bed of mussels. She was quivering and slithering in every ream. I bent over and sucked her breasts; the nipples were taut as nails. Suddenly she pulled my head down and began to bite me wildly -- lips, ears, cheeks, neck. "You want it, don't you?" she hissed. "You want it. You want it!" Her lips twisted obscenely. "You want it. You want it!" And she fairly lifted herself off the floor in her abandon. Then a groan, a spasm, a wild tortured look as if her face were under a mirror pounded by a hammer. "Don't take it out yet," she grunted. She lay there, her legs still slung around my neck, and the little flag inside her began twitching and fluttering. "God," she said, "I can't stop it!" My prick was still firm. It hung obedient on her wet lips, as though receiving the sacrament from a lascivious angel. She came again, like an accordion collapsing in a bag of milk . . .
     "Oh God," she said, flinging her arms around me, "if only . . ."
     "If only what?"
     "You know what I mean . . . Was it my fault," she said, "that this never happened before? Was I such a squeamish creature?" She looked at me with such frankness and sincerity I hardly recognized the woman I had lived with all these years.
     "I guess we were both to blame . . ."