The sound of Albertine’s breathing, growing louder, could almost have been mistaken for the breathlessness of pleasure, and as my own pleasure reached completion, I could kiss her without breaking into her sleep.
Marcel Proust, The Prisoner, translated by Carol Clark, p. 62.
That little fuckface.
Doesn’t this sound like a Dan Savage column waiting to happen?
TW for nonconsensual sleep wanking.
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