“Why then, we’ll fuck you too,” cried Clairwil, bringing Brother Claude’s ass into plainer view, kissing his buttocks and tonguing his anus. “Yes, we shall sodomize you,” she went on, exhibiting a dildo; “your mistress will turn into your lover. Fuck, good friend, I am going to embugger you and afterward you’ll embugger the two of us if you like; see here,” she said, showing the Carmelite her behind, “isn’t this as appealing as the cunt you’ve just rioted in? We’re whores, you understand, arrant little whores, we’re good for any purpose, and when we go somewhere to be fucked, it is with the intention of having no part of ourselves left untouched. To work, great beast, your prick’s aloft: fuck this nice little novice who treated you to such a pretty little confession, encunt her, let that be her penance, and fuck her as hard and as roundly as you fucked me.”
She trundles the awful object toward me, I was lying on the bed, my thighs widespread, the altar offered itself to the sacrificer; but my thoroughgoing libertinage notwithstanding and however much I was used to accommodating the best pricks in Paris, I was simply incapable of coping with this one without preparation. Clairwil takes pity on me; with her saliva she anoints both my labia and the colossal knob tipping Claude’s device; next, with one hand pressing my buttocks so as to close the gap between the target and the lance, she managed to-bury it to the depth of perhaps an inch, perhaps two. Enheartened by these auspicious beginnings, Claude took a firm grip upon my flanks; he swears, he sputters, he drools, the gates cede, the fortress falls; but his triumph costs me dear, I bleed as never I did the day I lost my maidenhead, and the pain is as great; this soon transforms, however, into the sweetest sensation of pleasure, and to each of my conqueror’s lunges I reply with a telling riposte.
“Steady there, steady,” cries Clairwil to my rider, “control those thrashings, I cannot take fair aim at your ass unless you hold still, and I promised to fuck it, you recall.”
Claude grinds to a halt; Clairwil parts two very fine buttocks: a dildo strapped around her loins, the wench bum-stuffs my fucker. This operation, so precious to a libertine, nay, so indispensable, serves only to increase his agility, he wriggles, he squirms, he sounds, he discharges; I have not time enough to get out of the way; and even had it happened less rapidly, would I have fled to safety? Ah, one is blind to danger when one is drunk from pleasure.
“My turn,” said Clairwil, “we shall grant him no quarter. Here you are, bugger, my ass thirsts for the mead, in with you and draw blood if you can—blood? what care I for the loss of a little? Clap on the dildo, Juliette, sodomize him just as I did, and I’ll reap the benefits you enjoyed.”
Claude, aroused by my caresses, by the prospect of the fair behind Clairwil presents him and of the laughing hole in its center, is not slow to revive; I wet Clairwil’s anus with my tongue and oil the holy dart of Christ’s well-furnished minion. Unimaginable, the difficulties Claude encounters in penetrating! Twenty times over he quails before the enterprise, twenty times must he resume the assault; but most cunning is my friend, subtle her maneuvers, ardent her desire of that prick, and in the end it is every inch housed and to the hairs in her bowels….
“He’s crippling me,” she shrieks.
She would escape, she would be rid of the gargantuan glaive run into her vitals. Too late. The fabulous weapon is ensheathed entire and now belongs as intimately to her as to its wielder.
“Ah, Juliette,” gasps the hard-pressed Clairwil, “leave this bugger be, he’s excited enough as things are at present; I’m in far greater need of your hand than his bum is of your dildo; come frig me, my child, for I am dying.”
Despite her pleas, it’s to ass-fucking the Friar I devote my main attentions; howbeit, reaching out an arm, I frig my companion; who, thanks to a lively tickling, faces Claude’s onslaught with truly admirable courage.
“Truly, I overestimated my capacities,” she sighs: “Juliette, do not imitate my brashness, it could well cost you your life.”
Claude is discharging by now: his performance, rare hitherto, continues to astonish, the villain bellows and brays, growls and grunts, and far, very far inside Clairwil’s bowels, deposits certain proof of the pleasure overwhelming him.
It was a much tattered and torn Clairwil who emerged from the fray; I was bent upon replacing her there.
“I refuse to permit it,” said she, adamant. “One must not,” she added, “risk one’s well-being for an instant’s vain pleasure; this is no man we have here, but a bull. I am prepared to wager whatever you like that never before today has he been able to find a woman to fuck.”
And Friar Claude nodded in assent. In all Paris, he declared, only his Superior’s asshole had succeeded in compassing his prick.
“Eh, how’s that? Do you then embugger, wretch?” Clairwil demanded.
“Frequently.”
“And thou sayst Mass, thou shrivest, being withal soiled by thy dirty practices?”
“Why not? Amongst men the greatest believer is he who serves the most gods.
“Mesdames,” went on the ecclesiastic, seated between us and fondling an ass with each hand, “Mesdames, do you really fancy we set any more store by religion than you do? Dwelling closer to the being it presupposes, we are in a better position than others to perceive the features of the falsehood; religion is all a shoddy fiction, true, but it provides us with a living and the merchant must not disparage his wares. We traffic in absolutions and gods the way a pander sells whores; for all that, are we otherwise fleshed than yourselves, insensible to your passions? and do you think some ridiculous unctions, a few absurd affectations and smirks are sure protection against the stings of human instinct? Far from it. ‘The passions,’ writes a wise author, ‘acquire additional force beneath the frock, the heart harbors those seeds, example brings them to flower, idleness fertilizes them, occasion causes them to multiply—resist the passions? By what possible means?’ It is in the ranks of the clergy, my dear ladies, that you find the authentic atheist; doubters you may be, you others, skeptics perhaps, but you cannot even begin to realize the hollowness of the idol; whereas we, its ministers, we to whom its care is entrusted, there’s not a one of us who is not convinced of its inexistence. All the revealed religions you come across in the world are full of tenebrous dogmas, unintelligible principles, unbelievable wonders, astounding stories, the whole mumbo jumbo invented, apparently, for the sole purpose of insulting the intelligence and flouting common sense; without exception they all announce an invisible God whose existence is unfathomable. The behavior ascribed to him is as puzzling, as inconceivable, as his very essence; if he existed, would the divinity have spoken in such riddles? what’s to be gained from revealing yourself merely to. talk nonsense? The greater the freight of mysteries it carries, the less accessible to the comprehension a religion is and the more it pleases the fools who wallow in it as in their element; the more shadowy, obscure, and dubious a religion, the diviner it looks to be, the closer, that is, it conforms to the nature of a hidden and intangible being of whom no clear notion can be formed. ’Tis a characteristic of ignorance to prefer the unknown, the fantastic, the farfetched, the incredible, indeed, the terrible, to whatever is forthright, simple, and true. Truth titillates the imagination far less than fiction; the vulgar ask for nothing better than to listen to the preposterous fables we retail; inventing religions and forging mysteries, priests and lawgivers catered splendidly to the desires of the rabble; by means of creeds and codes they gathered a following of enthusiasts, women, and simpletons; such individuals dispense very easily with proofs they are incapable of examining; love of the simple, love of truth are to be found only amongst those, and they are few, whose imagination is governed by study and by reflection. No, Mesdames, no, be assured of it, there is no God, the existence of that infamous phantom cannot possibly be imagined, and all the contradictions it is composed of suffice to explode it—we need but deign to inspect it closely and poof! it is no more.”
During this discussion, the Friar, seated be
tween us, as you know, was palpating our asses.
“Beautiful behind,” he murmured, alluding to mine, “what a shame not to be able to thread that strait…. But perhaps, if we were to try…. Oh, Madame, with a little kindness on your part—for surely, one so fair cannot be so cruel—”
“Brute,” said I, rising from my chair, “I’ll not even lend you my cunt, it still smarts from what you did to it and I am not eager to subject myself to worse. Catch hold of him, Clairwil, we’ll make him discharge till the blood seeps from his balls, otherwise he’ll give us no peace.”
We laid him upon the bed, Clairwil clamped his member between her breasts and I, squatting over his nose, had him kiss the door to the temple I forbade him to enter; he tongued it timidly at first, then more boldly, and sliding a hand to my bush fell to exercising my clitoris; and once again we discharged.
Clairwil asked the Friar whether there were other such libertines as he in his monastery; upon Claude’s affirmation that there were at least thirty, my friend wanted to know if it might be possible to pass an evening amidst the whole brotherhood.
“Certainly,” Claude answered, “if ever you wish a memorable fucking you have only to come and you will be treated royally—and to more than you bargain for, I dare say.”
Clairwil then asked if the impious revels she had her heart fixed upon could also be held at the monastery.
“Better there than elsewhere,” said the Carmelite, “you shall be able to do whatever you like under our roof.”
“My dear,” Clairwil said, “rather than join you only to be disappointed, pray go and speak to your Superior; explain the matter to him; bring back his response, we shall attend you here.”
As soon as the Friar had departed, Clairwil turned to me, a wicked glitter in her eye. “Juliette,” said she, “you’ll not be surprised to hear it: that fellow fucked me well, too well for me not to desire his death—”
“What! Are you already plotting the wretch’s undoing?”
“The loathing I have for men once they have satisfied me is in direct proportion to the pleasure I have had from them, and it’s been a great while since I’ve discharged so exquisitely. … He must die, I say. Two means occur to me: that of having him placed in pace by his Superior—to arrange this we need merely intimate to that chief the dangers involved in having such a person as Claude at large, a person capable of blathering the secrets of the house to all and sundry. But by proceeding this way he is entirely lost to me; and I have designs on his wondrous engine.…”
“But how are these projects to be carried out if you have him put to death?”
“I see no reason why we might not induce him to spend twenty-four hours with us at your country estate; for the rest, never fear…. Ah, Juliette, what a dildo hangs under that bugger’s belly!”
My friend declining to enlighten me further, while waiting for the Friar we passed the time inspecting his quarters.
It was a mine of obscene engravings and literature that we turned up: the first volume was Le Portier des Chartreux,5 more a bawdy production than a libertine one and which, despite the touching candor and sincerity permeating it, was, according to rumor, disowned by the author as he lay on his deathbed. Bah, what folly. The fellow capable at such a time of repenting what he dared say or write in the course of his life is a rank coward, whose memory ought to be execrated by posterity.
The second was L’Académie des Dames, a well-conceived work but poor in the execution; done by a fainthearted man who seems to have scented the truth but was afraid to tell it; and full of boring conversations.
L’Éducation de Laure was the third book we found. Another complete failure owing to extraneous and false considerations dominating the composition. Had the author brought the wife-murder frankly onto the stage, instead of leaving it off somewhere in the wings, and made something substantial of the incest, which he hints at constantly but never explores; had he increased the number of lewd scenes … shown in action those cruel tastes he restricts himself to mentioning, abstractly, in his preface, the work, most imaginative, would have been delicious: but tremblers are my despair, I lose all patience with them and would prefer a hundred times over that they write nothing rather than give us bare ideas only, and in halves at that.
Thérèse philosophe was there, a charming performance from the pen of the Marquis d’Argens,6 alone to have discerned the possibilities of the genre, though only partially realizing them; alone to have achieved happy results from the combining of lust and impiety. These, speedily placed before the public, and in the shape the author had initially conceived them, finally gave us an idea of what an immoral book could be.
The others were all examples of those deplorable little pamphlets commonly got up in coffeehouses or in brothels and which regularly reveal mean-spirited buffoons toiling at the instigation of hunger and under the guidance of some burlesque muse; lust, the child of opulence and of superiority, cannot be treated save by persons of a certain condition, of a certain quality—that is, by persons who, favored by Nature at the outset, have after that benefited from wealth enough to be able themselves to try what they describe in their lewd pages. Well, as we are reminded by their gropings and feebleness of expression, such experience is totally denied the smutty fellows who flood us with the low scribblings I am speaking of, among which I do not hesitate to include those of Mirabeau, who in order to be something would fain be a libertine and who in fact throughout the whole of his life was nothing at all.7
Pursuing our search through Claude’s belongings, we came upon dildoes, cat-o’-nine-tails, articles from which we were able to deduce the extent to which the Friar was familiar with libertine practices; and now he returned.
“I have,” he reported, “my Superior’s formal consent, you may come whenever you wish.”
“It shan’t be long before we do, my friend,” said I; “after being so liberally entertained by a single member of the order, we cannot but anticipate wonders from the rest: no need to tell you we have fiery cunts, from what you have already seen of them you may judge what they will be able to undertake when still better served. While waiting, Claude, let me invite you to pay us a visit; my friend and I will be delighted to receive you at a pleasant little place I own in the country, and where we are going in three days’ time. Will you come? You will enjoy yourself. Between now and then, let me recommend repose. Don’t fail us.”
The opportunity being present, we thought best to have a word with the Superior. He proved to be a handsome man of sixty, who greeted us with utmost cordiality.
“Ladies, we will be most happy to welcome you,” he declared, “among the thirty friars who are worthy to participate in these orgies, I promise you a score between the ages of thirty and thirty-five who, membered like Claude and possessing the vigor our vocation expects, will treat you according to your highest hopes. As regards secrecy, you have no cause for fears which may not be groundless when such activities are undertaken in mundane surroundings. You said, did you not, that you are interested in a few impieties? Ah, we know all about those little matters, leave everything to us, ours are capable hands. Fools maintain that monks are good-for-nothings; we mean to prove to you, Mesdames, that Carmelites at least are excellent for fucking.”
Language so forthright following upon our late trial of Claude eliminated any last vestige of doubt about the spirit in which we would be entertained; we therefore notified these honorable anchorites that we would avail ourselves of their hospitality and, furthermore, bring with us two pretty girls to collaborate in and further our amusements; the which, despite our vexation at having to postpone them, could not, owing to various pressing affairs that would detain us, be scheduled before Easter.
That date was acceptable to our hosts and, Clairwil remarked as we came away, appropriate to the impieties she was still meditating. “I don’t care what others say,” she insisted, “I am going to derive pleasure from profaning the holiest mystery of Christianity during that very period of the y
ear when one of Christianity’s great holidays falls.”
Easter lay nearly a month off and this interval being marked by two outstanding occurrences, I believe I shall speak of them at this point before relating what followed in the way of our libertinage among the Carmelites.
The first of these events was the tragic death of Claude; the unlucky chap arrived in the country on the appointed day; Clairwil was there with me; we introduced him into the most pleasurable surroundings, he was in seventh heaven and when his prick had attained to full and towering erection, then my wicked friend, signaling to the five women to seize him suddenly and pinion him, sliced that peerless member off with a razor, severing it close; later giving it to be prepared by a learned physician, she thus acquired herself the most extraordinary and I dare say the biggest dildo you have ever clapped eyes on. Claude departed this world in dreadful pain, his agony was not pretty to see: the sight of it fed Clairwil’s lubricious rage, and as she watched him expire, three women and I frigged her at a distance of two feet from her victim.
“So now,” the whore said to me after having splashed her fuck over us, “did I not tell you a means had been found for doing away with the bugger without losing him altogether?”
I now come to the second of these two events; and I do not suppose it is any more to the honor of my soul than the stunt I have just finished describing was to my friend’s.
Surrounded by a crowd of sycophants and clients who seemed to be thinking that their fate lay in my lap, I was occupied with my toilette when a servant ushers in a middle-aged man, visibly of mean condition, and who begs me for a brief private interview. I have it explained to the fellow that I am not in the habit of receiving such folk as he, that if the matter be one of aid, or a good word spoken to the Minister, the case may be presented to me in writing and I will consider whether anything can be done; but the shabby visitor will not be put off. More from curiosity than anything else, I decide to give him audience and have him wait in the little drawing room where I held private parleys at the time; then, instructing my servants to remain within call, I go to find out what business has brought this individual to me.