It was during that supper my sister taught me all I still did not know about libertinage. She showed herself naked to me, and I can warrant that she was one of the prettiest creatures there was in Paris at the time: the fairest of skin, the most agreeable plumpness, yet the most supple and intriguing figure, the loveliest blue eyes, and all the rest correspondingly fine. I also learned for how long Guérin had been promoting her interests, and with what great pleasure she procured her clients who, never tired of her, asked for her constantly. No sooner were we in bed than it occurred to us we had managed very badly in failing to give the Father Superior a reply, for our negligence might annoy him, and while we remained in this quarter of town it was important to humor him at least. But what was to be done? Eleven o’clock had struck; we resolved to let things take their course.
The adventure probably meant a great deal to the Superior, we supposed, and hence it was not difficult to surmise that he was laboring more in his own behalf than in that of the alleged happiness he had mentioned in his communication; at any rate, midnight had just sounded when we heard a soft knocking at our door. It was the Superior himself; he had been waiting for us, said he, since two in the afternoon, we should at least have given him a response, and, seating himself at our bedside, he informed us that our mother had decided to spend the rest of her days in a little secret apartment they had at the monastery and in which she was having the world’s most cheerful time, improved by the company of all the house’s bigwigs who would drop in to spend half the day with her and with another young woman, our mother’s companion; it was simply up to us to come and increase the number, but, in that we were a little too young to stay on permanently, he would only contract us to a three-years’ stint, at the end of which he swore we would be granted our freedom and a thousand crowns apiece; he added that he had been charged by our mother to assure us that we would be doing her a great kindness were we to come to share her solitude.
“Father,” my sister said most impudently, “we thank you for your proposal. But at our age we have no inclination to have ourselves locked up in a cloister in order to be whores for priests, we’ve had enough of that already.”
The Superior renewed his arguments, he spoke with a heat and energy which illustrated his powerful desire to have the thing succeed; finally observing that it was destined to fail, he hurled himself almost in a fury upon my sister.
“Very well, little whore,” he cried, “at least satisfy me once again before I take my leave.”
And unbuttoning his breeches, he got astride her; she offered no resistance, persuaded that by allowing him to have his way she’d be rid of him all the sooner. And the smutty fellow, pinning her between his knees, began to brandish and then to abuse a tough and rather stout engine, advancing it to within a quarter of an inch of my sister’s face.
“Pretty face,” he gasped, “pretty little whore’s face, how I’ll soak it in my fuck, by sweet Jesus!”
And therewith the sluices opened, the sperm flew out, and the entirety of my sister’s face, especially her nose and mouth, were covered with evidence of our visitor’s libertinage, whose passion might not have been so cheaply satisfied had his design in coming to us met with success. More complacent now, the man of God’s only thoughts were of escape; after having flung a crown upon the table and relit his lantern:
“You are little fools, you are little tramps,” he told us. “You are ruining your chances in this world; may Heaven punish your folly by causing you to fall on evil days, and may I have the pleasure of seeing you in misery; that would be my revenge, that is what I wish you.”
My sister, busy wiping her face, paid him back his stupidities in kind, and, our door shutting behind the Superior, we spent the remainder of the night in peace.
“You’ve just seen one of his favorite stunts,” said my sister. “He’s mad about discharging in girls’ faces. If he only confined himself to that . . . but the scoundrel has a good many other eccentricities, and some of them are so dangerous that I do indeed fear . . .”
But my sister was sleepy, she dozed off without completing her sentence, and the morrow bringing fresh adventures with it, we gave no more thought to that one.
We were up early; having prettied ourselves as much as possible, we set out for Madame Guérin’s. That heroine lived in the rue Soli, in a very neat ground-floor apartment she shared with six tall young ladies between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, all in splendid health, all very pretty. But, Messieurs, you will be so kind as to allow me to postpone giving their descriptions until the proper moment in my story arrives. Delighted by the project which brought my sister to her for a long stay, Madame Guérin greeted us cordially and with the greatest pleasure showed us our rooms.
“Young as you may find this child to be,” my sister said as she introduced me, “she will serve you well, I guarantee it. She is mild-tempered, thoughtful, has a very good character, and the soul of a thoroughgoing whore. You must have a number of old lechers amongst your acquaintances who are fond of children; well this is just what they’re looking for . . . put her to work.”
Turning in my direction, Guérin asked me if I was willing to undertake anything.
“Yes, Madame,” I answered with something of an indignant air, and it pleased her, “anything provided it pays.”
We were introduced to our new companions, who already knew my sister very well and out of friendship for her promised to look after me. We all sat down to dine together, and such, in a few words, Messieurs, was how I became installed in my first brothel.
I was not to remain long unemployed; that same evening, an old businessman arrived wrapped up in a cloak; Guérin selected him for my first customer and arranged the match.
“Ah, this time,” said she to the old libertine, leading me forth, “if it’s still hairless you like them, Monsieur Duclos, you’ll be delighted with the article, or your money back. Not a hair on her body.”
“Indeed,” said the old original, peering down at me, “it looks like a child, yes indeed. How old are you, little one?”
“Nine, Monsieur.”
“Nine years old! . . . Well, well! that’s how I like them, Madame Guérin, that’s how I like them, you know. I’d take them even younger if you had any around. Why, bless my soul, they’re ready as soon as they’re weaned.”
And laughing good-naturedly at his remarks, Guérin withdrew, leaving us alone together. Then the old libertine came up and kissed me upon the mouth two or three times. With one of his hands guiding mine, he had me pull from his fly a little device that could not have been more limp; continuing to act more or less in silence, he untied my skirts, lay me upon the couch with my blouse raised high upon my chest, mounted astride my thighs which he had separated as far as possible; with one hand he pried open my little cunt while with the other put all his strength into manipulating his meager machine. “Ah, pretty little bird,” he said as he agitated himself and emitted sighs of pleasure, “ah, how I’d tame you if I were still able to, but I can’t anymore. There’s no remedy for it, in four years’ time this bugger of a prick will have ceased to get stiff. Open up, open up, my dearest, spread your legs.” And finally after fifteen minutes of struggle, I observed my man to sigh and pant with greater energy. A few oaths lent strength to his expression, and I felt the area surrounding my cunt inundated with the hot, scummy seed which the rascal, unable to shoot it inside, was attempting to tamp down with his fingertips.
He had no sooner done so than he was gone like a flash of lightning, and I was still cleaning myself when my gallant passed out the door and into the street. And so it was I came, Messieurs, to be named Duclos; the tradition in this house was for each girl to adopt the name of her firstcomer. I obeyed the custom.
“One moment there,” said the Duc. “I delayed interrupting you until you came to a pause; you are at one now. Would you provide further information upon two matters: first, have you ever had any news of your mother, have you ever discovered what became of her? S
econdly, was there any cause for the antipathy you and your sister had for her, or would you say these feelings were naturally inculcate in you both? This relates to the problem of the human heart, and ’tis upon that we are concentrating our major efforts.”
“My Lord,” Duclos replied, “neither my sister nor I have ever heard the slightest word from that woman.”
“Excellent,” said the Duc, “in that case it’s all very clear, wouldn’t you say so, Durcet?”
“Incontestably,” answered the banker. “Not a shadow of a doubt, and you are very fortunate you did not put your foot in that one. Neither of you would ever have got out.”
“’Tis incredible,” Curval commented, “what headway that mania has made with the public.”
“Why, no; after all, there’s nothing more delicious,” the Bishop replied.
“And the second point?” asked the Duc, addressing the storyteller.
“As for the second point, my Lord, that is to say, as for the reason for our antipathy, I’m afraid I should be hard pressed to account for it, but it was so violent in our two hearts that we both made the avowal that we would in all probability and very easily have poisoned her had we not managed, as it turned out, to be rid of her by other means. Our aversion had reached the ultimate degree of intensity, and as nothing overt occurred to give rise to it, I should judge it most likely that this sentiment was inspired in us by Nature.”
“What doubt of it can there be?” said the Duc. “It happens every day that she implants the most violent inclination to commit what mortals call crimes, and had you poisoned her twenty times over, this act would never have been anything but the result of the penchant for crime Nature put in you, a penchant she wishes to draw to your attention by endowing you with such a powerful hostility. It is madness to suppose one owes something to one’s mother. And upon what, then, would gratitude be based? is one to be thankful that she discharged when someone once fucked her? That would suffice, to be sure. As for myself, I see therein naught but grounds for hatred and scorn. Does that mother of ours give us happiness in giving us life? . . . Hardly. She casts us into a world beset with dangers, and once in it, ’tis for us to manage as best we can. I distinctly recall that, long ago, I had a mother who aroused in me much the same sentiments Duclos felt for hers: I abhorred her. As soon as I was in a position to do so, I dispatched her into the next world; may she roast there; never in my life have I tasted a keener delight than the one I knew when she closed her eyes for the last time.”
At this point dreadful sobs were heard to come from one of the quatrains. It proved to be the Duc’s; upon closer examination it was discovered that young Sophie had burst into tears. Provided with a heart unlike those villains’, their conversation had brought to mind the cherished memory of her who had given her life, and who had perished in an effort to protect her while she was being abducted; this cruel vision offered itself to her tender imagination, a flood of tears ensued.
“Ah, by God, now!” said the Duc, “that’s splendid. It’s for mama you’re crying, is it, my little snotface? Come here, come along, let me comfort you.”
And the libertine, warmed by what had been happening, by these words of his, and by the effects they produced, displayed a thunderous prick which was apparently speeding toward a discharge. Marie, the quatrain’s duenna, led the child forward all the same. Her tears flowed abundantly down her cheeks, the novice’s dress she was wearing that day seemed to lend yet more charm to the sorrow which embellished her looks: it were impossible for a creature to be lovelier.
“By the Holy Bugger,” quoth the Duc, springing up like one gone out of his mind, “what a pretty mouthful we have here. I’m going to do what Duclos has just described . . . smear some fuck on her cunt. . . . Undress her.”
And everyone silently awaited the issue of this little skirmish.
“Oh! my Lord, my Lord!” cried Sophie, casting herself at the Duc’s feet, “at least respect my sorrow, I groan for my mother’s fate, she was dear to me, she died defending me, I shall never see her again. Have pity upon my tears, grant me this one evening of respite.”
“Why, fuck my eyes!” the Duc exclaimed, fondling his heaven-threatening prick, “I’d never have believed this scene could be so voluptuous. Off with her clothes, I tell you to take them off,” he roared at Marie, “she should already be naked.”
And Aline, lying upon the Duc’s couch, shed warm tears, so did Adelaide, who was heard to utter a moan in Curval’s alcove; the latter, in no wise partaking of that lovely creature’s grief, violently scolded his playmate for having shifted from the position he had commanded her to keep, and, that done, turned an appreciative gaze upon the delicious scene whose outcome interested him exceedingly.
Sophie’s clothes are removed without the faintest regard for her feelings, she is placed in the posture Duclos has just described, the Duc announces that he is about to discharge. But how is the thing to be done? What Duclos has just related had been performed by a man virtually incapable of an erection, and he had been able to direct his flabby prick’s discharge wherever he wished. Such was not the case here: the threatful head of the Duc’s engine had not the least inclination to lower the awful stare whereby it seemed bent on cowing heaven; it appeared necessary, so to speak, to place the child on high. No one knew what to do, and the more obstacles were encountered, the more the enraged Duc fumed and blasphemed. Desgranges finally came to the rescue; nothing that pertained to libertinage was unknown to that sage old dame. She caught up the child and set her so skillfully upon her knees that, whatever the stance the Duc might adopt, the end of his prick was sure to nudge her vagina. Two servants came up to hold Sophie’s legs, and had it been her deflowering hour, never might she have displayed the merchandise to better advantage. But there was yet more to attend to: a clever hand was needed to cause the torrent to leap its banks and to direct the flood fairly to its destination. Blangis had no desire to entrust so important a matter to an untutored child.
“Take Julie,” Durcet suggested, “she’ll suit you; she’s beginning to frig like an angel.”
“Bah,” muttered the Duc, “I know the clumsy bitch. And she knows her father. No, she’d be panic-stricken, she’d fumble it.”
“Upon my soul, I do recommend a boy for the job,” said Curval; “why not Hercule? His wrist is like a whip.”
“I won’t have anyone but Duclos,” the Duc answered, “she’s the best of our friggers, allow her to quit her post for a moment or two.”
Duclos steps forward, beaming with pride to have been accorded so distinguished a preference. She rolls her sleeve to the elbow and grasps the nobleman’s enormous instrument, she sets to rattling that spear, keeps the foreskin snapped broadly back, she moves it with such art, she agitates it by means of strokes so swift and simultaneously so perfectly attuned to the state she observes her patient to be in, that the bomb finally explodes upon the very hole it is to cover, inundating it. The Duc shrieks, swears, storms. Duclos is disconcerted not in the least, she gauges her movements by the degree of pleasure they produce. Antinoüs, properly situated for this function, delicately works the sperm into the vagina as proportionally it flows from the spigot, and the Duc, vanquished by the most delicious sensations, dying from joy, sees grow gradually slack, between his frigger’s fingers, that high-spirited, mettlesome member whose ardor has just been so powerfully communicated to the rest of himself. He flings himself back upon his sofa, Duclos strides back to her throne, the child wipes herself, is consoled, and regains her quatrain, and the recital continues, leaving the spectators convinced of a truth wherewith, I believe, they have already been penetrated for a long time: that the idea of crime is able always to ignite the senses and lead us to lubricity.
I was greatly surprised, said Duclos, taking up the thread of her narrative, to see all my companions laugh when I returned, and ask me if I had wiped myself, and say a thousand other things which proved they knew perfectly well what had just happened. I was not long lef
t in my quandary; leading me into a room adjacent to the one in which the parties ordinarily took place and in which a short while before I had been at work, my sister showed me a hole which looked squarely upon the couch and from which it was easy to see everything that transpired there. She told me that the young ladies found it diverting to watch what men did to their colleagues; I could come and do some spying whenever I wished, provided there was not someone already at the hole. For it not infrequently occurred, said she, that this respectable hole had a part in mysteries which would be disclosed to me later on. The week was not out before I took advantage of my opportunities: one morning someone came and asked for a girl named Rosalie, one of the most lovely blondes it were possible to behold; I was curious to see what was to be done to her. I hid myself and witnessed the following scene.
The man with whom she had to cope was no older than twenty-six or thirty. Immediately she entered, he had her sit down on a very high stool used especially for this ceremony. As soon as she was settled, he removed all her combs and hairpins and down all the way to the floor floated in a cloud the superb golden hair that adorned Rosalie’s head. He drew a comb from his pocket, combed her hair, took handfuls of it, tangled it, kissed it, everything he did was accompanied by remarks praising the beauty of that hair in which he took such a keen and exclusive interest. At last, from out of his trousers he pulled a smart little prick, already quite stiff, and he promptly enveloped it in his Dulcinea’s hair; once well wrapped, he began to fondle his dart and discharged, at the same time passing his other arm around Rosalie’s neck and applying his lips to her mouth. He extricated his defunct engine, I saw that my companion’s hair was matted with glistening fuck; she cleaned it, put it up again, and our lovers separated.
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 33
