Lady Chatterley's Lover

something Lady Chatterley hadn’t got. Crabs. She was startled out of her muse, gave a little cry of fear, ‘Aeroughh argggg elouw!!! A man was there, it was the gamekeeper and, my God, he had a crowbar!
    ‘How’s this?’ he said, holding it up. He moved forward and squeezed one of her boobs.
    ‘Ouch,’ she said.
    ‘Do you really mean ouch?’ he said with a leer.
    ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘I must run.’
    Before she could must run, he barred her way, it didn’t take long to install them. ‘Give me the slip eh?’ he said.
    ‘I’m sorry I’m not wearing one,’ she said.
    She felt his body near to her, was that him or his crowbar? Her old instinct was to fight for her freedom like Joan of Arc. 40
    ‘Come through here,’ he said.
    Suddenly a strange weight was on her limbs, he attached them to slow her down. He took her through a wall of dense, prickly fir-trees; they were young and not more than half grown. When fully grown to, say, thirty feet they were chopped down and used as telegraph poles, and were a very profitable industry, especially in Scotland where there were large plantations. The gamekeeper took her to a clearing in the wood.

    There was a man who was no good
    Took a maid into the wood
    Bye Bye Black Bird
    There he took off all her clothes
    Electric boots, her drawers, her hose
    Bye Bye Black Bird
    Then he took her where no one could find her
    With a rope he tied her hands behind her
    Then he laid her on her back
    Stuck his willy up her crack
    Black Bird Bye Bye.

    He threw his overcoat on the ground, then her. He made her lie properly, properly (?). Yet he broke the band of her underclothes. 41 He bared the front of his body, and she felt his naked flesh against her as he came into her, Woosh! For a moment he was still inside her, turgid there and quivering. Wow! Then he started to move, it was the Oxford Cambridge boat race all over again. In! Out! In! Out! In! Out! In the sudden helpless orgasm, there awoke in her new strange thrills rippling inside her. Rippling, rippling, rippling, oh Christ! Whoopee!!! She lay unconscious of the wild little cries she uttered at last. Yyeioow! Zowie! Wheee! She clung to him, he never quite slipped from her, actually he did but before he noticed it she whipped it back in. In! Out! In! Out! He was up to forty strokes a minute and passing under Mortlake Bridge. They were now both enveloped in a cloud of steam.
    Lord Chatterley was at home having honey for tea. He said to Mrs Bolton, ‘Constance is awfully late. I wonder what she’s doing.’
    She wasn’t doing anything, the gamekeeper was. The shag was over, and she lay there crying, giving unconscious inarticulate cries, ‘Yeeleedooo! Ninghtinggg! Peeiowieee!’
    ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up! We don’t want him, his wheelchair an’ his gun coming?’
    Suddenly the weather was cold, very cold, his things were all shrivelled up, you could strike matches on them. He stood up and put his vest on. Lying there she looked up and saw his wedding tackle looming above. All was silent save the dog tied to a bush, who was grateful for the shag, knowing the longer they shagged, he wouldn’t get his arse kicked.
    ‘We came off together this time,’ said the gamekeeper. She did not answer. Doing a lot of it can make you blind and deaf.
    She said, ‘Do people often come off together?’
    ‘Many of them never, only trains and buses.’ She didn’t know what he meant, neither did he.
    ‘Have you come off like that with other women?’
    ‘Come off like what?’
    ‘Like that.’
    ‘Like that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Yes what?’
    ‘Like that.’
    ‘That what?’
    ‘Yes.’
    She watched his face and the passion for him moved in her bowels, and she let one go. He put on his waistcoat and coat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s Lent, I’m a Catholic.’
    ‘Aren’t you going to out your trousers on?’ she said.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ said the naked mistress.
    ‘Well, in Lent, we’re supposed to give up something, I’m giving up trousers.’ The last rays of the sun touched the wood. ‘I won’t come with you,’ he said. ‘Better not, don’t want to be bloody well shot.’
    She watched her lover depart, a ray of sunshine hit his bum.

    The next lines are all D. H. Lawrence; at the end I will ask a question.
    Connie went home slowly, realizing the depth of the other thing in her. Another self was alive in her, burning molten and soft in her womb and bowels!... She adored him, till her knees were