Juliette

  And God, attached to the stake by the jailers, is soon bested by His puny creature who embuggers Him once His buttocks are reduced to marmalade. A lovely girl of eighteen succeeds God; this one takes herself for the Virgin. Further subject for the blasphemies of Vespoli, who lashes the skin off the Blessed Mother of God, and who afterward sodomizes her for a quarter of an hour.

  Clairwil arises, all afire.

  “This spectacle inspires me,” she says to us, “imitate me, my friends, and you, villain, have your jailers unclothe us and then lock us into those cages; treat us as though we were mad also, we shall feign lunacy; you will have us tied to the unspiked side of the cross, your madmen will whip us and then ass-fuck us.”

  The idea appeals to us all. Vespoli carries it out. Ten madmen are unleashed against us; some of them flog us, others are hacked fairly to pieces for refusing to do so; but they all fuck us, and all, guided by Vespoli, fit themselves into our behinds. The guards, the warden, everybody has his turn, we are daunted by none of them.

  “So now discharge,” Clairwil says to the master of the house, “we have done everything you asked, show us how you behave during the dramatic moment.”

  “All in good time, in good time,” our man says, “there’s one here that puts me in seventh heaven; I never leave the house in the morning without first fucking him.”

  Upon a signal to one of his jailers, he is brought an old man of nearly eighty with a white beard growing down to his navel.

  “Come along, John,” Vespoli says, catching him by the beard and towing him the length of the courtyard, “pick up your feet, John, I am going to put my prick in your ass.”

  The venerable old man is bound and fustigated mercilessly; his ass, his ancient, wrinkled ass is kissed, licked, embuggered; and withdrawing, very near to ejaculation, “Ah,” says Vespoli, “you want to see me discharge? But do you realize I never attain my crisis without it costing two or three of these unfortunate persons their lives?”

  “So much the better,” say I, “but I trust that in your massacres you will overlook neither God nor Mary, for I confess that I’d indeed discharge pleasantly seeing you assassinate the Good Lord with one hand and His daughter-in-law with the other.”

  “I ought then to be embuggering Jesus Christ in the meantime,” said the infamous man. “And Christ, we have him here: all paradise is in this hell.”

  The jailers lead forth a handsome young man of some thirty years who called himself the Son of God, and whom Vespoli has affixed to the cross at once. He flogs him with might and main.

  “Courage, good Romans,” the victim cries, “ever did I say unto you I came only to suffer on earth; spare me not, I implore you; well I know I must die upon the cross; but I shall have saved mankind.”

  At that, unable to restrain himself any longer, Vespoli puts prick to Jesus’ asshole, and takes a stiletto in either hand, therewith to regale the Holy Virgin and God the Father.

  “You others,” he calls to us, “come forward, stand near me, show me your asses, and since you are curious about my discharge, you shall soon see how I proceed with it.”

  He files away; never was the Son of God so stoutly fucked; but each heave of Vespoli’s flanks is accompanied by a slash dealt to some part or another of the two bodies posted one to the left, the other to the right. First, they are arms, armpits, shoulders, flanks he stabs; as the crisis approaches, the barbarian aims his blows at more delicate parts; the Virgin’s bosom is covered with blood; striking now with one hand, now with the other, his arms move like a pendulum; the nearness of the spasm may be gauged by the sensitivity of the areas he brings under attack. Frightful oaths at last declare the onset of this frenetic’s final transports. His rage now singles out faces for its targets, he rips them with his knives, and when the last drops of sperm have left him, they are eyeballs he pierces. Is there any possible expressing to what degree we are animated by this spectacle? We are bent on imitating the monster; victims are furnished us in abundance; we each immolate three. Clairwil, gone wild with lust, leaps to the center of the courtyard, drawing Vespoli after her.

  “Fuck me, knave,” she says to him; “in consideration of the cunt belonging to a woman of your own breed, perform an act of infidelity to your faith.”

  “I cannot,” said the Italian.

  “I demand it.”

  We excite Vespoli, his device rises; we force it into Clairwil’s womb. We exhibit our asses to him, the capricious fellow asks for madmen, and it is only by having one of them shit upon his face that the scoundrel, prodded and wrought upon by Olympia and me, at last sprays fuck into Clairwil. And we retire from that execrable den, where, hardly noticing the passage of time, we had spent thirteen whole hours wallowing in infamies.

  We tarried several days in Vespoli’s institution of crime and debauchery, and then, wishing the superintendent every kind of prosperity, resumed our way toward the famous temples of Paestum.

  Before going to inspect those monuments we first arranged for lodgings at a superb farm to which Ferdinand had addressed us. Graciousness, gentility characterized the persons we found upon this idyllic estate; it was owned by a widow of forty and her three daughters, who in age ranged from fifteen to eighteen. Here ’twas as though wickedness and crime did not exist: had virtue somehow been banished out of the world, it would have chosen this place for its retreat, and to be immortalized in the right-thinking and generous Rosalba. Wonderfully well preserved was she, and pretty beyond words were her daughters.

  “Ha,” I whispered to Clairwil, “did I not tell you I had a feeling we were soon to come upon an asylum where virtue in its purest colors would unfailingly provoke us to vice? Just look at those heavenly girls! they are flowers Nature presents for our plucking. Oh, Clairwil, it must be that thanks to us, trouble and desolation swiftly replace the innocence and the sweet peace reigning in this delicious place.”

  “My cunt throbs to hear you,” said Clairwil; “these are, as you say, affecting victims.” Then, after kissing me: “But their sufferings will not be mild…. However, let us first dine, then go to see the relics, and afterward devote ourselves to atrocity.”

  Traveling with a cook of our own we were assured of good fare wherever we stopped. After an ample meal, served us by the daughters of the house, we were shown the way to the temples. Those superb edifices are in a state of such excellent preservation that they do not appear to have been built more than three or four centuries ago. In number they are three, one of them being a good deal larger than the other two. After having contemplated these masterpieces, after having regretted that in every country of the world superstition has been responsible for the wasting of huge sums and efforts upon gods which, however recognized, have never existed save in the imaginations of fools, we turned back and headed for our farm, whither we were beckoned by equally interesting affairs.

  There, Clairwil accosted the mother and gave her to understand that we were afraid of sleeping alone in a so prodigiously isolated countryside. “Your daughters,” the rascal wanted to know, “dare we hope that they will accommodate us by sharing our beds?”

  “Of course, dear lady,” the good woman replied, “my daughters are only too flattered by the honor you deign to show them.”

  And Clairwil having hastened to report to us this becoming reply, each of us selected the maiden we desired, and we retired for the night.

  The fifteen-year-old had fallen to me; nothing prettier, nothing sweeter ever graced the world. No sooner were we underneath the same sheet than I set to plying her with caresses, and the poor little thing responded with a candor, an ingenuousness that might have disarmed anyone but a libertine of my stamp. I began by questions. Alas, the innocent understood not one word; nor yet, warm though the latitude was, had Nature begun to speak in her, and the most entire simplicity alone dictated that angel’s artless replies. When my impure fingers touched the petals of the rose, she quivered; I kissed her, she kissed me in return, but with a simplicity unknown to worldly fo
lk, and to be encountered nowhere but in the bowers of modesty and chaste inexperience.

  There was nothing I might not have got her to do, nothing I might not myself have done with that pretty little creature when my companions, already up and stirring, came to find out how I had spent my night.

  “What am I to tell you? I venture to say that the tale of my pleasures would be an exact recounting of yours.”

  “Ah, fuck my soul,” said Clairwil, “I don’t believe I have ever discharged so heavily. But, Juliette, up with you, send that child away, there are things we must discuss.”

  Looking her hard in the eye, “Slut,” I said to her, “your soul stands revealed in your stare … crime lurks there.”

  “I am resolved to commit one, dreadful, hideous…. You know, the welcome we have had from these good people, the pleasure the girls have given us….”

  “Well?”

  “I want to butcher them all, rob, plunder, burn down their house, and frig myself over its ruins once the corpses are buried underneath them.”

  “I find that a delightful idea,” said I. “But first let us spend an evening with the family: the mother and her daughters are alone, all the help have gone off to Naples, there is not another house for miles around … let us perform some infamies, afterward we shall do our killing.”

  “So you are weary of yours?”

  “Mortally.”

  “For my part, I am ready to see mine in hell,” Borghese admitted.

  “One ought never go too far with a pleasure-providing individual,” said Clairwil, “unless one has poison in one’s pocket.”

  “Minx! But before we settle down to business let us first have a quiet lunch.”

  As escort we had four strapping valets membered like jackasses, who fucked us when we were in need of fucking and who, paid exorbitantly, would not have dreamed of disputing our instructions: once told of our plan, they could hardly wait to put it into execution. Night had no sooner fallen than we took command of the house. But it is essential that I depict the actors to you, before detailing the scenes. Having already acquainted you with the mother, and described Rosalba’s unimpaired freshness and beauty, I have only to say a few words about her children. Isabella was the youngest, ’twas with her I had spent the previous night; the second was called Mathilda, she was sixteen, lovely features, evenness and languor in her gaze, the look of a Raphael virgin; and Ernesilla was the name of the eldest: Venus’ own bearing and body and face, impossible to be more beautiful: she was the one with whom Clairwil had just soiled herself in horrors and impudicities. Roger, Victor, Agostino, and Vanini were our lackeys’ names. The first of them belonged to me, he was from Paris, twenty-two, and his device was a marvel; Victor, also French and eighteen years old, belonged to Clairwil; his occult qualities were in no sense inferior to Roger’s. Agostino and Vanini, both Florentines, belonged to Borghese, they were both youthful, with charming faces, and superiorly membered.

  The gentle mother of those three Graces, a little surprised by the precautionary measures she sees us taking, asks what this activity might mean.

  “You shall now find out, whore,” says Agostino, ordering her, his pistol leveled at her heart, to remove her clothes. In the meantime our three other valets, each taking charge of one of the daughters, address to them compliments in the same kind. A few minutes later and the naked mother and daughters, their hands tied behind their backs, appear before us in the helpless situation of victims. Clairwil steps up to Rosalba.

  “Why, to look at this slut makes one’s mouth water,” says she, fondling Rosalba’s buttocks, squeezing her breasts. “And these over here,” and she turns toward the girls again; “they are perfect angels, I have never set eyes on the like. Rascal!” she says to me, caressing my Isabella, “you got the best of the lot, what pleasures you must have had last night with this exquisite object! Well now, my friends, you’ll entrust the direction of the ceremonies to me?”

  “Surely, for our interests could not be placed under more capable management.”

  “My suggestion then is that one after another we go into an adjoining chamber with the mother and her three daughters, and prepare the material for use.”

  “Shall we accompany ourselves by a man?” Borghese asked.

  “No men at the beginning; they will be included in later arrangements.”

  As I do not know what my companions did I shall tell you only of the pranks I played upon those four unfortunate creatures. I took a strap to the mother, held by her daughters; then to one of the latter, while the two others frigged their mother in front of me; I inserted needles in all their breasts, bit the clitoris and the tongue of each, and broke the little finger on everybody’s right hand. The blood streaming down their bodies when, later, my friends brought them back in seemed to indicate that Clairwil and the Princess had been just as severe as I. The preliminary exercises completed, we assembled our victims. They all wept.

  “Is this the reward for our politeness to you,” they sobbed, “for the things we have done in your behalf?”

  And the mother, in great distress, drew her daughters to her, kissed them, sought to console them; they nestled close to her, dropped their tears upon her bosom: the four composed a touching, a heart-rending tableau of sorrow and woe. But souls like ours, you know, do not readily melt, every appeal to their sensibility acts as further fuel to their rage: the whey ran down our thighs.

  “We shall now have them fuck,” Clairwil pronounced, “and for that, untie their hands.”

  With those words she places Rosalba upon a bed, then bids the youngest girl prepare our four valets’ pricks for her mother. Goaded by our threats, the poor child was obliged to stroke, to suck, generally to put in fettle the engines that were to sound her mother; while she was engaged at these chores, we frolicked with her sisters. Our men were warned against any intempestive discharging. We presented the eldest girl to them, and then ’twas the mother who had to prepare the pricks. This second attack was another great success: Rosalba’s children were one by one fucked by pricks formed for that purpose by her. One of our men, Agostino, weakened, however, and gasped forth his seed into Isabella’s cunt.

  “Don’t be upset,” said Clairwil, taking him promptly in hand, “three minutes, my boy, and I shall have you as erect as you were a short while ago.”

  Asses are now brought to the fore, the sodomy begins with the mother, her daughters are compelled to dart the pricks into her anus; a little while later, she renders them the same service. Roger, the best-membered of the quartet, is appointed to depucelate young Isabella … he nigh cleaves her in two; we discharge, lubriciously frigged by the other girls and bum-fucked by the men. Here it was Vanini who lost his self-control, vanquished by the effects of Ernesilla’s splendid posterior: he filled her bowels with fuck, and Clairwil, with her unique skill for rehoisting fallen pricks, soon had that pretty fellow’s as hard as if it had been deprived of exercise for six weeks.

  At this point the true punishment began. Clairwil had the idea of tying a girl on top of each one of us, and the mother, threatened, constrained by the valets, was to torment them as they lay upon our bodies. I had requested Ernesilla; Mathilda was upon Clairwil, Isabella upon Borghese. Our men had all kinds of trouble getting obedience from Rosalba. When one must cajole Nature, when one must force a mother to whip, slap, cuff, pinch, burn, bite her own children, ’tis not, of course, an easy task. By it, however, we were not to be daunted. The whore required a great deal of pummeling but she complied, and we relished the ferocious pleasure of frigging, of kissing those three hapless creatures, fastened to us, while their mother beat them to a pulp.

  These were succeeded by more serious games. We attached the mother to a pillar and obliged, at pistol-point, each of the daughters to thrust a sharp needle into Rosalba’s breasts; they did so. Then we tied them, and it was the mother’s turn: there was no way out for her, she had to drive a dagger into each of their gaping cunts, and while she was carving we caressed her
buttocks with firmly held stilettoes. Those four bodies were approaching the state which distills that delicious horror engendered by the furtive crimes lewdness is the cause of, and which is not of the sort the ordinary sensibility can be expected to appreciate. Weary from work and pleasure, we had ourselves sodomized as we contemplated the ghastly condition of our victims, and while Roger, who had no woman to skewer, swung a steel-tipped martinet against those creatures, all four bound tight together in a solid mass.

  “Very well, by God, by bugger-fucking God, very well, let’s kill them now,” said Clairwil, whose homicidal eyes stared rage and lust; “let’s assassinate, let’s destroy, let’s drink their tears to drunkenness. I have waited long enough to see these whores expire, I am burning from the need to hear their death-cries, from a thirst for their accursed blood. I’d like to devour them piecemeal, to feed my guts on their rotten flesh….”

  Thus spoke she; and the buggeress stabbed with one hand, worried her clitoris with the other. We imitated her; and those screams, those screams we so longed to hear, rose like a hymn in our ears. We were there, watching from close on; our valets socratized us during the operation; all our senses were thrilled simultaneously by the divine spectacle of our infamies.

  I was at Clairwil’s side; frigged by Agostino, the slut was in the midst of discharging. She leaned toward me. “Oh, Juliette,” she exclaimed, redoubling her habitual blasphemies, “oh, beloved soul, how crime doth delight, how puissant are its effects! what a mighty grip hath its charms upon a sensitive spirit!”

  And the howls of Borghese, who for her part was discharging like a Messalina, precipitated our ejaculations and those of our lackeys, being briskly frigged by us.

  Our agitation having subsided, we devoted the ensuing moment of repose to verifying the results of our criminal acts: the whores were sighing their last … and cruel death robbed us of the pleasure of torturing them some more. Hardly satisfied by the havoc we had just wrought, we turned our hands to pillaging the house, then we destroyed it. There are times in life when the desire to wallow in disorder is such as not to be sated by anything, and when execrations, even the most pronounced, only faintly fulfill an excessive inclination to evil.25