Jane: An Erotic Novel

By Vanessa de Sade

A feast of erotic delights awaits you in the balmy sugar fields of Thornfield Plantation in this bold reimagining of Charlotte Bronte's classic novel set in the Trinidad of 1847, as Jane journeys forth from Southampton to enter the employ of the brooding Mister Rochester, abolitionist ex-slave and now master of his own estate.

There are steamy bathhouse encounters with Mama Fairfax the voluptuous Cajun housekeeper; sadomasochistic assignations with an inky black Grace Poole; and deliciously hot tropical nights in the arms of the doll-like Blanche Pang – but all Jane hungers for as she stalks Thornfield's whispering halls of secrets is the dusky Rochester, detached and alone in his chamber at the end of the passage…

"A skilful writer of erotica"
Esmeralda Greene

"Vanessa de Sade's prose is rich and atmospheric; her characters more complex than found in most erotica"
Jackson Burnett

"De Sade's lush and elaborate prose… has everything I love about erotic fiction: surprising plotlines with character development, diversity in the bodies and sexualities represented, and of course, gorgeous sex"
Ella Dawson

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Erotica
• Release date: Nov 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781785381515

Vanessa de Sade

Vanessa de Sade is a thirty-something full-figure gal who likes to write hot stories about real women exploring the darker regions of their own sexuality. She is the author of several popular novellas plus the collection, Rubyfruit Jungle.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Southampton 1847

I have finally arrived at the bustling port of Southampton after an exceeding arduous coach journey chaperoned by the interminably boring Reverend St John Rivers, who has now, blissfully, bid me adieu and proceeded on to London, having seen me safely ensconced in my chambers at the Seaman’s Retreat, the name of which makes me snigger quietly when no one observes me. The long sea voyage ahead of me stretches interminably, and I can afford to give no quarter to lusty crewmen during the months it will take to reach the port of Trinidad where my new employer has arranged for me to be met and ferried to his plantation. So until then I must play the chaste lady and keep my legs firmly crossed.

Therefore, now that the Reverend Bore has finally departed - but not before selecting a passage from the Bible for me to study before I say my prayers tonight - I must now go out into the night like some unclean creature and find an object upon which to slake my lust before my period of enforced celibacy. Oh, how we women are cursed and made the slaves of our own libido, when all a man has to do is call upon a house of ill repute and simply agree a price to have all his wishes made manifest. It is, indeed, an unjust world.

But I waste time with speeches. The dark is already descended and my poor fanny cries out for some relief, and so without more ado I go out to scour the seafront for some suitable specimen who will do the deed but be relied upon for his discretion. Not an easy bill to fill, I’ll warrant, but I have done this before and shall, no doubt, be obliged to do so again.

However, it is unlikely that I will be able to bring any member of the male species back to this lodging house, for, although I am sure I saw the landlord cup the buttock of one of his serving girls, they maintain a façade of respectability - certainly enough to convince the Reverend Bore of the house’s suitability to put a roof over my debauched head for the night at any rate. Unfortunately, though, this leaves me with the option of going back to the abode of some random stranger whom I find at the dockside, and though the prospect of being tied up and fucked makes for an entertaining fantasy when I am alone with my thoughts and a dexterous index finger, it is not a situation that I would like to find myself placed in in the world of - all too vulnerable - flesh and blood, and so I must recourse to my only other option, and be prepared to be serviced in the darkness of some doorway or back alley.

Thus, I quickly raise my crinoline and tuck it under my chin as I deftly remove my bloomers but leave my stockings intact and look upon my shameful self in the glass. Ah, that is perfection. I have chosen black velvet ribbons for garters today, and the fine lisle of my hose contrasts nicely with the alabaster white of my skin and the soft Musquash darkness of the thick fur upon my cunny, the whole package wrapped in the froth of my petticoats. Some lusty lad shall indeed be in for a treat when he gazes upon this debauched feast in the lamp-light of some shoreline hovel.

But time marches on and I am greatly in need of fulfilment, so, unless I plan on pleasuring myself in this pier glass, I need to cease this vanity and go out and locate the owner of a stiff phallus in this hard-working costal metropolis. Thus I drop my skirts again and put on my cape and bonnet and slip out into the welcoming dark of the summer night.

A tinge of purple still lingers in the evening sky though the stars twinkle like a coat of gems in some Arabian fantasy, and the moon glows a bloody orange over the softly undulating sea. The harbour lies to one side of me, and the soft salt air is alive with the creaks and groans of tethered hulks, while, to my right, music and song echoes form the quayside taverns, but I am less interested in these dens of drunkards and doxies than in the quite side streets where rooming houses cluster like lopsided sacks, and I glide like a ghost through the shadows until I discover the components I have been seeking.

Several merchants’ premises stand open for trade despite the hour, and in the first, a victualer’s, maid servants with wicker baskets load themselves with fresh bread and bottles of porter and the whole establishment gleams with lamp light, making the tired faces seem animate as the counter clerks toil at their labour. Next door a chandler’s is equally bedecked with bustle and light, but further down the lane a small hardware emporium with low-burning tallow candles nestles into the gloom of the stone edifice of the street, and a lone young man of about two-score years labours to stack a pile of iron brackets which defy all his attempts at order and neatness.

You have picked a thankless task, have you not, Sir? I enquire as I slide like a noiseless fish into his premises, raising my gloved hand to muffle the clamour of the brass bell above the door which would normally herald my entrance with song and