Like Emerald Fennell, I was a horny, sexually repressed teenager when I first read Wuthering Heights. Despite the novel’s near-total lack of sex, I was captivated. I had no real outlet for my sexual urges — convinced masturbation was something reserved for boys — so I read. And read. And read. Books became my release; I quite literally read away my sexual frustration.
I grew up to write articles about clitoral vibrators, while Fennell grew up to create her own feverish reimagining of Wuthering Heights, casting Jacob Elordi because, frankly, what horny 13-year-old wouldn’t have fantasised about a brooding hunk like him? I’d have been just as interested in Margot Robbie, but that’s a story for another time.
A self-righteous former English student turned writer, I can be precious about literary adaptations. I’m also someone who writes about sex for a living. So when the trailer for “Wuthering Heights” dropped, it immediately caught my attention. Like much of the internet, I expected a Brontë classic injected with heavy breathing, passionate encounters with immediate penetration and plenty of dramatic longing. I should’ve known better. This is the woman who gave us that unforgettable bathtub scene in Saltburn, after all.
I expected “Wuthering Heights” to be a film about sex. It wasn’t, at least not in the way I anticipated. Sex is present, but sparingly. Instead, it’s a film about kink. And honestly? That’s even better.
It's in the spit
I’m not going to dive into the book-to-film differences between Wuthering Heights and “Wuthering Heights” as frankly, that conversation has been had. Instead, I’m interested in experiencing this story on its own terms, with its new characters, its new perspective, and, most importantly, its kinkier undercurrents.
Because, dear reader, “Wuthering Heights” is undeniably filled with kink.
The most obvious example is the stable scene — yes, that one. Cathy goes to see Heathcliff in his barnyard bedroom, only for a servant and maid to arrive and begin preparing for their own play. Cathy stays hidden, watching in fascinated silence — and honestly, same. It’s clear this isn’t their first rodeo; there’s a playful ease as they toy with whips and chains before settling on a horse bit. What unfolds isn’t just about shock value, but about the giddy intimacy of two people fully embracing each other’s desires. Cathy’s reaction — equal parts curious, frightened and enthralled — becomes a turning point. This could be a couple in a sex party playroom, choosing what toys to test together.
Even the way Heathcliff shields her view, pressing himself over her, lingers. Later, she attempts to recreate that same charged position with her husband, Edgar, chasing the thrill of the scene she witnessed.
That fascination spills outward. Cathy’s arousal sends her out onto the moors, where she begins to masturbate. When Heathcliff catches her, the moment shifts into something deeply intimate: fingers, breath, and the slow, deliberate exchange of closeness. Throughout the film, the motif of mouths — saliva, kissing, biting — keeps returning, hinting at a recurring obsession. It feels unmistakably personal to Fennell’s storytelling, a fixation on intimacy that’s messy, visceral and intensely human.
It’s also strikingly relatable. Oral desire — whether it’s a lingering kiss, a bite, a hickey, or simply the closeness of breath — is something many of us recognise, even if we don’t always label it as kink. The film’s power lies in how it frames these impulses not as taboo, but as deeply desperate attempts at connection.
Cathy is [a] Brat
In the novel, a sadomasochistic dynamic is often suggested between Cathy and Heathcliff. Their relationship — and yes, I hesitate to even call it a romance, let alone the greatest love story — is fundamentally about power. Cathy spits on Heathcliff when they first meet, asserting her social superiority; later, it is Heathcliff who rises in status and wields that power over her and everyone around them.
The film leans into this tension. At first, Heathcliff is the lowly servant, taking blows meant for Cathy and sleeping among the animals. Later, he returns as a gentleman and is keen to remind everyone of it. He orders Cathy around, sets the terms of their connection, and uses Isabella as a tool against her, but we’ll get to that.
In an interview with Glamour, Margot Robbie described Cathy as a “brat.” While that works as a character description, it also carries a specific meaning within kink culture. A “brat” – or someone who behaves “bratty” – is typically a submissive who pushes back, testing boundaries while still engaging in a dominant–submissive dynamic. Some dominants enjoy the tension and the playful challenge; others prefer unquestioning obedience. As with everything in kink, it’s about preference, communication, and consent.
Cathy fits that archetype almost perfectly. She’s catty, stubborn and defiant, yet ultimately drawn into Heathcliff’s orbit, repeatedly giving in to him even as she resists. It feels like more than simple characterisation, although Cathy is undeniably difficult. Instead, the film frames their push and pull as an unspoken role-play, a power exchange that neither names but both instinctively understand.
Isabella
Okay, Isabella.
It’s worth noting from the outset that Isabella in the novel and Isabella in Fennell’s film feel like two entirely different people. In Wuthering Heights, Isabella is Edgar’s sister, who marries Heathcliff under the illusion of love and is later abused. In Fennell’s version, Isabella is Edgar's ward and a willing participant in Heathcliff's games.
She enters the marriage fully aware that it is loveless — Heathcliff makes that clear repeatedly — yet she chooses it anyway. Her fixation doesn’t read as romantic jealousy, particularly when she and Cathy exchange letters designed to provoke rather than compete. Instead, her connection to Heathcliff feels rooted in obsession and erotic power.
The film presents their dynamic as an explicit exploration of dominance and submission. Isabella leans into vulnerability with striking confidence, finding freedom in surrender rather than fear. There’s a sense that what she seeks isn’t affection but intensity — the thrill of being seen, tested, and rewarded within boundaries that feel mutually understood.
We see Isabella and Heathcliff have sex on a table, and he even instructs Joseph to stay — the kinky servant definitely doesn’t seem to mind — a clear nod to voyeurism. Later, Isabella is chained and takes on the role of a dog, eating from Heathcliff’s hand in a scene that recalls Babygirl, another exploration of kink and dominance. Nelly arrives to try to free her, but even with the chain removed and the door open, Isabella has no desire to leave.
It’s a bold reimagining, one that reframes Isabella not as a victim but as a participant in her own desire, and that shift changes the emotional stakes of the story entirely.
Kink is nothing new
A Brontë adaptation with added sex is hardly revolutionary; we’ve seen that before. But a period drama willing to engage openly with kink, power dynamics, oral fixation and BDSM? That feels genuinely fresh. Let’s not pretend these desires didn’t exist in the past, just as bisexuality didn’t suddenly materialise in the 21st century. Fennell’s kink-inflected retelling feels like a fitting way to reintroduce Heathcliff and Cathy to a modern audience.
Because their relationship has always been rooted in power and obsession, the language of domination and surrender was simply coded differently in Emily Brontë’s time. She couldn’t spell it out on the page, so she channelled it into gothic gestures: grave-robbing devotion, cruelty, obsession, violence masquerading as love. Fennell translates those impulses into something more openly erotic and, frankly, more honest.
As someone who identifies with a sexually fluid, kink-curious community, I’m eager to celebrate the risks this film takes. If it makes viewers uncomfortable, perhaps that discomfort says more about how society continues to frame sexuality than about the acts themselves. We’re still quick to accept conventional desire while sidelining anything that feels raw, messy or unconventional.
And maybe that’s the film’s most provocative idea of all: that discomfort and curiosity often sit closer together than we’d like to admit. Sometimes the stories that unsettle us are simply the ones asking us to confront what we don’t yet fully understand about desire — or ourselves.
