In reaction to the social mores that marked Victorian England, the British demimonde found a way to take the starch out of its collars by perfecting the confessional smut novel. Sure, France likes to believe that its raunch is saucier, but the French are far too sexually comfortable to imbue their bawdy tales with the pangs of guilt that make naughtiness all the more luscious. It takes repression of an entirely different order to recount brutal, first-person tales of riding crops beating bottoms bloody in a language that goes to great pains not to offend. And though the Brits seem more reticent than Americans to admit their sexual foibles, you can probably bet that the... More >>>