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"Lana is an amazing writer, her own style is lush and makes me close my eyes as I pause and savor her prose…. I took in passages that made me stop and wonder, was I reading Nin or Lana? And yet, Lana manages to make it her very own, with an intuitive contemporary angle. Lana is like a legit medium, filling us with the deepest secrets of desire." —F. Leonora Solomon, Editor of Tie Me Up and other erotic anthologies

Please note that this collection contains mutually consensual father-daughter incest. You can find an excerpt here.

From deepest taboos to ardent longing that ignites the page and makes the heart thump harder, no one writes passion like Anaïs Nin. That’s why erotic author and publisher Lana Fox created Cathedral of Furs—five ardent linked stories inspired by Anaïs Nin’s diaries and creations.

Much like Nin herself, the protagonist Arielle refuses to let her heart be bound by rules that make no sense for her. Thus she embarks on a journey of honeyed liaisons, exotic revelations, and courageous encounters that society would have her shun in spite of their heart-driven passion.

“When asked for my favorite erotic books,” says Fox, “my answer is always Anaïs Nin’s unexpurgated diaries—the most erotically charged, emotionally intense writing I’ve ever read.”

Through Cathedral of Furs, Fox hopes to either share her own passion with those who already adore Nin, or encourage those new to Nin to read and be moved by her breathtaking work.


Harvey, my love, I have loved you so deeply that my body has been a fallow field, my heart a flaming cavern. Whenever we’ve been with others at the café and you’ve sat beside me, our legs touching, my sex has bloomed and my blood has rushed, and my need for you has burned. I sit like a blushing virgin-whore, so vulnerable—your unploughed ground. Whenever your hand brushes mine as you reach for your coffee, I long to raise my fingers to my face and inhale the cologne you’ve marked me with. But we have to be subtle, my love, because how could I show Arnaud, my husband of five years, who sits at the same table, what passes between us? It would be like letting him find the notes we’ve exchanged, the ones that express such unsated passion. His jealousy would kill him. It might just kill us all. I even believed it could kill your wife Jeanne, that distant bird with the rare, gilded plumage, whom you spoke of so often—untouchable, supreme.

But yesterday, I realized I was wrong about Jeanne. We only see people truly when we look into their eyes.

At the time, Arnaud and I were at the café with our friends. We were sipping our cognacs, laughing together, the overhead lamps gilding our teeth, our eyes drunk with enjoyment. Then you entered the café with Jeanne and the world froze, but with life, not death—with glaciers and whitest fur and moonstones embedded in uncut rock. The world shone like enchanted frost. I had to stare, to stare and stare, because Jeanne was on your arm.

Une beauté de glace.

She was as tall as you are, her eyes twice as mysterious. She held in those eyes the secrets of the planets, the hopes of the gypsies, the stirrings of the sea. She wore a dress with a bare back, and her wheat-colored hair was closely cropped. In the slope of her neck I saw perfection. I longed to run my fingertips down her spine, to feel the soft down on her ivory skin as it whispered its desires. Her lips were stained with deepest red, her eyes touched with charcoal, and she moved like a rarity—a bird sought by many. [End of excerpt]

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