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Savage Surrender
She fought him with everything she had, but she had too much.
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Be Gentle Darling
Eve had everything a man could ask for . . . and a man didn't have to ask twice. Brad, her husband, learned about this side of Eve the hard way.
Robin was different. When she lifted her arms for Chuck and whispered, "Be gentle, darling," he knew she had not given herself often. He sensed in her body a trusting innocence that made him rein in his passions until her's grew to a peak of savage surrender.
The story of a man and two women, each caught in a web of total passion . . . each forced to make a savage surrender.
Midwood #F201
---
Be Gentle Darling
Eve had everything a man could ask for . . . and a man didn't have to ask twice. Brad, her husband, learned about this side of Eve the hard way.
Robin was different. When she lifted her arms for Chuck and whispered, "Be gentle, darling," he knew she had not given herself often. He sensed in her body a trusting innocence that made him rein in his passions until her's grew to a peak of savage surrender.
The story of a man and two women, each caught in a web of total passion . . . each forced to make a savage surrender.
Midwood #F201
Paperback
First published January 1, 1962
4 people want to read
About the author
March Hastings
80 books13 followersWriting in New York City in the 1950s and 60s, March Hastings, a pseudonym of Sally Singer, was one of the most prolific authors of the lesbian pulp era. She now lives in Florida.
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
September 12, 2021
Sally Singer, writing here as March Hastings, was a skillful writer that toiled at penning mostly lesbian and sleaze novels for low-brow publishers like Beacon. Here she tells the story of a racecar driver and journalist named Chuck, his nymphomaniac wife Eve, a frigid woman named Robin who is married to an abusive husband, and their wimpy son, aptly called Skinny. The plot revolves around Chuck’s sexual obsession with Robin, with the other characters contributing various complications to his motives. Singer’s strength is her crackling dialog, although her plotting often falls flat. More of a drama than sleaze, and although a murder does occur there is no hiding of the body or noir type elements that I was hoping for. The murder does free Robin from her frigidity which I thought was a bit of a forehead slapper. The novel was okay but I wouldn’t go so far as to recommend it. Two stars, maybe two and a half.
March 29, 2020
What with COVID-19 having us all locked in our homes, I assumed I'd be getting a lot of reading done. Wrong. What I have quickly discovered is I can barely read a few sentences before my brain skitters away, refusing to stay focused.
What I need, I thought, is something trashy and dumb to read. Something absolutely over the top ridiculous. But what?
I dug through piles of books in my house. There are books everywhere that I intend to read. In many different rooms. On shelves and hidden in drawers.
Then I found this March Hastings book I bought on some trip to the USA. I'd actually bought three of her books because they looked like pulpy trash. If you're a certain type of intellectual, you've read Jim Thompson (The Killer Inside of Me) and other fashionable pulp writers. Other writers have not had any kind of resurgence. I think maybe March Hastings deserves one.
This book is over the top and ridiculous, bordering on just a trashy romance novel, of sorts. The psychology is ripe, masochistic, grotesque, and delightful. Some of the prose is so great, I can't help but love how purple it is.
"She might have been a virgin in his arms, or a wild thing from the woods, seeking him out of the inner calling of her own nature. Crazily perhaps, he tasted in her body a trusting innocence. He knew this flesh had been given to him with bright confidence, with a belief he would be good to it."
Or this:
"The violet hued evening drew its softening veil over her flesh, taming the nightmare, creating a beauty that expanded relentlessly. The cycle of nature knew nothing of morals, neither cruelty nor kindness. It spread like new grass growing soft and fresh over dung."
It's a fun pulpy book full of excess and silliness. I enjoyed it. Thank goodness I have yet another Hastings book I can read next, to get me through the madness of social isolation and COVID-19 craziness.
What I need, I thought, is something trashy and dumb to read. Something absolutely over the top ridiculous. But what?
I dug through piles of books in my house. There are books everywhere that I intend to read. In many different rooms. On shelves and hidden in drawers.
Then I found this March Hastings book I bought on some trip to the USA. I'd actually bought three of her books because they looked like pulpy trash. If you're a certain type of intellectual, you've read Jim Thompson (The Killer Inside of Me) and other fashionable pulp writers. Other writers have not had any kind of resurgence. I think maybe March Hastings deserves one.
This book is over the top and ridiculous, bordering on just a trashy romance novel, of sorts. The psychology is ripe, masochistic, grotesque, and delightful. Some of the prose is so great, I can't help but love how purple it is.
"She might have been a virgin in his arms, or a wild thing from the woods, seeking him out of the inner calling of her own nature. Crazily perhaps, he tasted in her body a trusting innocence. He knew this flesh had been given to him with bright confidence, with a belief he would be good to it."
Or this:
"The violet hued evening drew its softening veil over her flesh, taming the nightmare, creating a beauty that expanded relentlessly. The cycle of nature knew nothing of morals, neither cruelty nor kindness. It spread like new grass growing soft and fresh over dung."
It's a fun pulpy book full of excess and silliness. I enjoyed it. Thank goodness I have yet another Hastings book I can read next, to get me through the madness of social isolation and COVID-19 craziness.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews