Juliette

  “I do not believe,” said Clairwil, setting herself, stark naked, in one of the stalls, “that anything more extraordinarily lubricious could possibly be invented; simply to adopt this posture,” she continued, “puts me fairly in a frenzy, simply to take my place here is making me discharge.”

  Olympia, Charlotte, and I took our places beside Clairwil. Four girls of sixteen, naked and fair as angels, helped situate us; they oiled the dildoes to facilitate their entry; they adjusted our positions; then, parting our buttocks, they likewise anointed our assholes, and stood by to attend to us during the operation.

  Francavilla then gave the signal. Four maids of fifteen led in, by the prick, a like number of superb boys whose members were without delay introduced into our fundaments; exhausted, this quadrille was replaced in short order by succeeding ones. Our stewardesses remained the same, but the fresh batteries of pricks were each time brought in by four new girls who, having handed the pricks over to the stewardesses, formed a voluptuous group around us and danced to the enchanting sounds of music coming, so it seemed, from far away. While dancing they sprinkled our bodies with some unidentifiable elixir, each drop of which stung the skin sharply and had an incredibly active effect upon our passions: its scent was that of jasmine; we were covered with it from head to toe.

  All the variations of this scene, what is more, were executed with astonishing address and celerity; never were we kept waiting for so much as a moment. Before our mouths, cunts and pricks and asses succeeded one another as swiftly as our desires; elsewhere, the engines we frigged had but to discharge and new ones materialized between our fingers; our clitoris-suckers rotated with the same speed, and our asses were never deserted; in less than three hours, during which we swam in unending delirium, we were ass-fucked one hundred times apiece, and polluted the whole time by the dildo constantly belaboring our cunt. I was nigh to slain by it all. Olympia had collapsed, they had been obliged to lift her off her dildo; only Clairwil and Charlotte had stood up unwaveringly to the assault. Fuck, the liquid ejaculated by the dildoes, sweat, and blood drenched us all over. Ferdinand and Francavilla, who had been amusing themselves with thirty-odd charming bardashes while watching the spectacle, invited us to pursue the promenade; four pretty girls offered us their arms to lean upon, and we moved into a spacious summerhouse.

  It was decorated thus: to the right was a wide semicircular platform raised three feet above the floor, an amphitheater garnished with thick mattresses covered in flaming red satin; opposite stood another platform, a foot higher, of the same shape, entirely carpeted in velvet of the same color.

  “Let us lie down and wallow here for a while,” said the Prince, guiding us to the amphitheater, “and we shall see what there is to see.”

  We settled ourselves, and very soon into the center of the hall entered a dozen exquisitely lovely girls of between sixteen and eighteen. They were arrayed in simple shifts worn in the Greek manner, and leaving their bosoms bare; and at her breast, firm and white as alabaster, each bore a naked infant, her own offspring, and ranging in age from six to eighteen months. At the same time, six handsome men, prick in hand, slipped into our midst; two embuggered Ferdinand and Francavilla forthwith; the four others proposed us their services, in such manner that we were pleased to accept them.

  Once we were all six fucked, the twelve young women formed a half-circle around us, their shifts were raised by a similar number of little girls dressed in Tartar style; and these children, kneeling beside the women whose behinds they had unveiled, exposed to our view, in agreeably struck attitudes, the most superb collection of buttocks you could ever hope to see.

  “Those are superior asses, yes,” said Francavilla under the monstrous prick that was sodomizing him; “but, unfortunately, they are destined to our condemnation, and I should be sorry, Mesdames, to see you take a too lively interest in them…. Yet, notice, if you will, how nicely they are cleft, those asses, what a snowy whiteness is theirs. What a shame to treat them as they are now going to be.”

  Exeunt the shift-raisers; enter a dozen men of about thirty-five, of very male and fierce mien, and costumed as satyrs. Their arms are bare, each comes in brandishing a different sort of instrument for flagellation: they snatch the nurselings out of their young mothers’ arms, toss the little creatures into a heap at our feet, seize the mothers, drag them by the hair up onto the platform opposite us and, mercilessly ripping off the thin garments they are wearing, they immobilize them with one hand and set to whipping them with the other, in a manner so cruel and for such a length of time that jets of blood and bits of flesh fly across the whole width of the summerhouse, even to where we are.

  Never in my life had I seen such a flogging … neither one so ferocious nor so thorough, since from the nape of the neck down to the heel not an inch was left untouched; those wretches’ shrieks could have been heard a league away, and crime was performed so openly here that no precaution was taken to muffle them; four of those women fainted, fell, and were then whipped back upon their feet again. When, seen from the rear, they were but one great wound, they were suddenly let loose.

  A general commotion then occurs, flagellators and flagellated collide, push, pull; the ones hurry to replace, in pairs, the first six individuals we have been enjoying; the others scurry anxiously about in quest of their progeny. Tangled up as the babes are, their mothers identify them, sort them out, press them to their trembling lips, hug them to their palpitating breasts; along with the thickened milk they feed them, they wash them with the burning tears flowing down their cheeks. ’Tis to my shame I confess it, good friends, but this effervescence, in contrast with the radically different emotions we were being gripped by, caused me two successive spasms as I squirmed under the shaft sounding my anus. The moment of calm was not long; another twelve men, of more awesome aspect then the first platoon and garbed as savages, arrive, blasphemy in mouths, martinets in fists. They wrest the infants away from those poor souls again, throw them our way with greater force than they had been thrown before, in so doing shattering several little skulls upon the plank floor of our amphitheater, drag the women upon the platform opposite, and this time it is upon the front of the bodies of those tender mothers, and especially upon their delicate breasts, that the storm descends. Those sweet, sensitive, and voluptuous globes, crisscrossed by lashes biting furiously into flesh, soon yield a horrid mixture of milk and blood, geysers of which leap forth in answer to the blows. The barbarians, aiming lower down, with the same violence soon lacerate the belly, the sex, the inside of the vagina and the thighs and, in an instant, these parts, treated as unsparingly as the others, disappear behind a mist of blood. And in the meantime we were fucking, and we were tasting that supreme pleasure which results from the impact, upon stern souls like ours, of the sight of the pain of others. The same frantic rush on the part of the women the moment their tormentors release them in order to substitute their rigid and foaming pricks for their dozen predecessors’ limp and drained engines. The mothers scramble toward their babes, pick them up, bruised and battered as they are, warm them with their anguished kisses, wet them with their tears, console them with tender words and in their joy at recovering these cherished objects, are almost at the point of forgetting what they have undergone, when twelve other villains, of a countenance a thousand times more dreadful to behold than anything seen hitherto, stride in to accomplish further atrocities.

  This new horde of monsters, dressed like the satellites of Pluto, grab the luckless mothers’ offspring one last and most terrible time, hack them to shreds with the poniard each wields, fling their remains at our feet, leap upon the women, whereof, in the center of the arena, they make the promptest and bloodiest slaughter; then, all covered with gore, spring into our midst, stab the fuckers lying in our arms, and themselves embugger us, roaring with pleasure.

  “What a scene!” I say to Francavilla when, exhausted by fucking and horrors, we retire out of that charnel house; “what a rare and stirring spectacle!”
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  “Your friend seems not to have had her fill of it,” said the Prince, glancing back at Clairwil who was poking about the corpses heaping the battlefield, inspecting their wounds.

  “Fuck!” replied that woman of character, “think you one ever tires of the sight of death? Ever has enough of it? It was, to be sure, one of the most delicious horrors I’ve witnessed in all my days, but it is certain to leave me with an enduring sadness. For, alack, one cannot enjoy a massacre every fifteen minutes the whole length of one’s life.”

  And there the festive evening came to its close. Coaches were awaiting us. They conveyed us back to the Prince’s palace; we had hardly strength enough to hold ourselves upright; aromatic baths were ready, we slipped into them; hot broths were offered to us, and beds, and twelve hours later we were all three prepared, if need be, to begin again.

  Rested from those mighty fatigues, we thought to pursue our circuit of outlying Naples, and to go down the easterly coast. If these descriptions do not please you, in amongst them I shall intersperse those of my lewd accomplishments; this variety amuses, it stimulates. Were these tales ever to be printed, the reader, his imagination heated by the lubricious details strewn throughout, would be enchanted, would he not, to be able to pause from time to time and dwell upon milder, more restful descriptions, framed nonetheless within the bounds of the strictest truth?

  The traveler’s eye, wearied by the grandiose scenery that gives him unremitting occupation while crossing the Alps, likes to linger upon the fertile plains into which he descends, gentle prospects where agreeable configurations of vine and elm seem everywhere to suggest Nature in a festive spirit.

  And so, a week after our rout at the Prince’s, we set forth upon this second tour, with a guide provided by the King and all possible letters to ensure our kindly reception in the country we were going to traverse.

  The first house we inspected with some thoroughness was Ferdinand’s castle of Portici. Hitherto, we had seen only its boudoirs. But it contained a museum; Ferdinand himself escorted us through it. Fourteen rooms all on one floor lodge this enormous collection, the world’s most curious and finest, I dare say. Nothing so tiring as an examination of its components; constantly on my feet, my mind straining, my eyes staring, it was all a blur by the time we had seen everything.

  In another part of the same castle we found greater enjoyment in the assortment of paintings recovered from Herculaneum and other towns buried by the lava of Vesuvius.

  Generally speaking, in all these paintings one remarks a wealth of postures and attitudes which almost defy natural possibilities, and which testify either to great muscular suppleness in the inhabitants of those countries, or a great disorder of the imagination. Amongst other masterpieces I quickly distinguished a superb effort representing a satyr coupling with a goat: an astonishing work of art, beautiful in its conception, striking in its precision of detail.

  “That fantasy is quite as agreeable as it is alleged to be extraordinary,” Ferdinand commented. “It is,” he went on to say, “much in usage hereabouts; as a Neapolitan, I was eager to experience it, and I do not hide from you that it gave me the very rarest pleasure.”

  “I can believe it,” said Clairwil; “many and many a time in my life I have thought of the idea, and I have never desired to be a man except to enact it.”

  “But, you know, a woman can perfectly well surrender herself to a large dog,” the King reminded us.

  “Certainly,” I rejoined, in such a way as to suggest I was not totally unacquainted with that practice.

  “Charlotte,” pursued Ferdinand, “was of a mind to try it. It suited her to perfection.”

  “Sire,” said I, speaking so as to be heard by Ferdinand only, but with my customary frankness, “if all the princes of the House of Austria had but confined themselves to fucking goats, and if all the women of that House had conversed with bulldogs alone, the earth today would not be plagued with this accursed race, whereof its populations shall never be rid save through a general revolution.”

  Ferdinand agreed that I was quite right, and we moved on. Of Herculaneum’s thoroughly raided ruins there is little worth looking at today, and the site has been covered over to protect the ground Portici stands upon; one cannot well judge of the ancient theater, much disturbed by the diggings. When we returned to Portici, Ferdinand put us into the hands of the knowledgeable guide he had himself selected for us, and the amiable man wished us a fair journey, urging us to call upon his friend Vespoli, of Salerno, to whom he had given us letters of recommendation and under whose roof, he assured us, we would find capital entertainment.

  We went to Resina and thence took the road to Pompeii. Like Herculaneum, that city had been overwhelmed by ashes and lava, and in the course of the same great eruption. We noticed that Pompeii was itself built upon two more ancient towns, which had been visited by previous catastrophes. Vesuvius, as you see, is forever absorbing, destroying all that man has built in these parts, and yet man, undiscouraged, rebuilds again: but for this cruel enemy, the country surrounding Naples would be the most agreeable on earth.

  From Pompeii we reached Salerno and lay overnight at the famous house of correction situated two miles outside that city, and in which Vespoli exercises his redoubtable superintendency.

  Vespoli, scion of one of the great families in the Kingdom of Naples, used once to be First Almoner at the Court. The King, whose pleasures he had served and whose conscience he had directed,24 had accorded him the despotic administration of the asylum where we found him. There, guaranteed by royal protection, the libertine was free to indulge in everything his criminal passions might dictate. Atrocities being the warden’s specialty, Ferdinand was eager to have us be Vespoli’s guests.

  He was fifty years of age at the time, with an imposing and harsh physiognomy, tall, strong as a bull; he greeted us with marks of extremest consideration. He read the letters we presented and, since the hour was very advanced, promptly gave orders to have a supper and beds readied for us. It was Vespoli himself who brought us breakfast the next morning; and then, we having made known our wish to visit it, he led us on a tour of his establishment.

  Each of the rooms we were shown provided us infinite matter for criminally lewd reflections, and we were already horribly aroused by the time we reached the cages in which the crazed were kept.

  The superintendent, who up until now had done nothing but grow steadily warmer, was wearing an incredible erection when we stepped into this courtyard, and as fucking witless victims was what he most enjoyed, he asked us whether we cared to see him in action.

  “By all means,” we replied.

  “I ask,” he said, “because my transports with these creatures are so prodigious, my proceedings so bizarre, my cruelties so appalling, that it does rather embarrass me to have my behavior in this place observed.”

  “Nonsense,” said Clairwil, “were your caprices a thousand times more incongruous, we would still wish to watch, and indeed we entreat you to act your wonted role as though you were all by yourself; and especially to deprive us of none of the precious idiosyncrasies without which we can obtain no true insights into your tastes and your soul.”

  “You merely intend to look on?” he inquired, rubbing his prick with emotion as he posed the question.

  “And why should we not also enjoy fucking these madmen?” Clairwil asked. “Your fantasies electrify us, we are eager to imitate all of them. I trust these subjects are not dangerous? No? Then we shall sport with them like you. But do not make us wait any longer, dear sir, I am burning to see you at work.”

  The cages were disposed around a large open court planted with tall cypresses through whose foliage there came a lugubrious green light, giving the place a graveyard look. In its center stood a cross studded with nails on one side; it was there the wicked Vespoli had his victims exposed. Four jailers, carrying spike-studded clubs a single blow of which could have slain an ox, escorted us watchfully. Vespoli, accustomed to having them as onlo
okers during his amusements, felt no awkwardness in their presence, and instructed two of them to stand by us while we witnessed the scene seated upon a bench at one side of the courtyard; the two other jailers were to loose from their cages those playthings the superintendent felt a need for.

  First to be set at large was a handsome young man, naked, a veritable Hercules, who cut a thousand strange capers as he came forth. One of the first of his extravagances was to squat before our feet and shit, and Vespoli came over to be on hand for this operation, which he studied with care. He frigged himself, retrieved the turd, rubbed his prick upon it, and then falling to dancing about like the madman, to gamboling and frisking in the same way, he caught him from behind, pushed him up against the cross, and the guards tied him fast to it in an instant. Immediately the fellow is secured, Vespoli, ecstatic, kneels down before his ass, opens it, pants into it, tongues it, caresses it lovingly, then, getting quickly to his feet, takes a whip and for a long hour flays the unhappy and loudly screaming lunatic. Once his buttocks are in tatters, the lecher embuggers, and in his drunken condition, raves in tune with his victim.

  “Holy God Almighty,” the former almoner shrieks now and again, “what are the joys to be known in the asshole of a madman! And I too, I am mad, double-fucked Divinity; I bugger madmen, I discharge in madmen, I care for nought but them, I want to fuck nobody else in the world.” However, loath to squander his forces, Vespoli has the youth unbound. Another one rushes into the lists, this one fancies he is God.

  “I am going to fuck God,” Vespoli announces to us, “observe me; but I must give God a thrashing before giving Him an embuggering. Hither,” he continues, “this way, Bugger-God, bring Your ass around, Your ass, I say.”