This is perhaps the most energetic bit of sex prose I’ve ever had the pleasure to read:

…and then I twigged, this must be her special ploy to rouse the roues, playing the helpless fawn shrinking before the roaring ravisher. Wasted on me, absolutely; cowering or brazen, it’s all one to your correspondent; as she turned to flee, whimpering, I siezed her amidships, tossed her into the air, planted her on hands and knees, and was installed before she could budge, roaring feigned endearments to soothe her pretended alarm and bulling away like fury. With two lost months to make up for, I’d no time to waste on further refinements, nor, I fear, did I treat her with that solicitude which a considerate rider should show to his mount, especially when she’s barely five feet tall and half his weight. Having slaked what the lady novelists would call my base passion, I staggered up and collapsed on the bed, most capitally exhausted, leaving her prone and gasping on the carpet with her little bottom a-quiver, very fetching, and her hat and veil still in place.

From Flashman And The Angel Of The Lord by George MacDonald Fraser.