“Oh, Borchamps!” I cried from where I was in the thick of the melee, “what pleasures I have from your prick, and how I desired it!”
“That will not prevent others from getting their share of it,” the captain answered, catching Borghese by the waist and sodomizing her with a lunge; “my apologies, Juliette, but to this splendid ass belongs much of the credit for my erection ever since we removed our clothes, my thoughts were upon it while fucking yours, ’tis yours I shall now dwell upon while fucking this one.”
Noticing Francisco spoiling from inaction, I single him out; my tastes are so odd, and the youth so fair, that I know not which sex to adopt with him. I suck him, devour his ass, I present mine to him, of his own accord he sodomizes me and I camp my cunt atop Rosine’s face; at length, spirits are appeased by a further series of discharges, and the captain avers that after having paid so much attention to men, the general concern, in what is to follow, must be for the delectation of the women.
“Women deriving only mediocre physical pleasures from the use of such children, our best advice to them,” said the captain, “would be to aim at mental enjoyments. Juliette, you’ll begin. Carleson, reclining upon the sofa, must present you with a well-hardened prick: you will pose yourself gently upon that prick, taking good care that it enters your anus; Clairwil and Borghese will be frigging you, one of them your cunt, the other your clitoris—and let them not begrudge you this kindness, they will have pleasures in their turn—; while you are keeping yourself busy in this manner, Elise and Raimonde will be striking a wide variety of lewd attitudes for my delectation; the victims will now approach you, one by one, on their knees: first this loyal wife who has come from so far to bring gold and offspring to Carleson; his son next, then his two daughters; the same father will lead them forward; you will decree a torture for each of these individuals, but a mild and simple torture for a start: our entertainments are to last for quite some time, hence the procedure must be by degrees. I shall take note of the sentences you pronounce, and they will be executed the instant you have completed your discharge.”
Positions are taken, but my wicked cohorts wait until my brain is reeling from pleasure before sending the victims up to me. Rosine appears first; I order her brought near; I examine her in minute detail and, finding her bosom superb, proclaim that her breasts shall be whipped. Francisco follows, I observe the beauty of his hinder parts, ’tis upon his buttocks the lash is to fall. Christine crawls forward, I condemn her to eat the turd of the first one among us who may happen to wish to shit. And the young Ernelinde, whose charming countenance affects me, will get a pair of slaps from each of us.
“Are you about to discharge, Juliette?” inquires Borchamps, whom my two tribades are overwhelming with obscene attentions.
“Yes, by Jesus, I can contain myself no longer—oh, Carleson, your prick is performing wonders!”
“There’s the signal,” says the captain; “let us carry out the first round of sentences. Borghese will judge next.”
All the penalties I have imposed are undergone; but, by a wise decision, they are inflicted by some woman other than she who pronounces them. So it is Clairwil who, this time, puts my orders into effect, and as she is of a mind to be rid of the fuck deposited in her ass, ’tis her excrement Christine swallows. Ah, what ardor the whore then puts into fustigating Rosine’s fair breasts; by the thirtieth stroke she has bloodied them both, and the vixen kisses the wounds her ferocity has opened; getting to Francisco’s excellent ass, it is with undiminished fury the rascal lashes it.
“Your turn now, Borghese,” says the captain. “I am in the hope,” he adds, “that Sbrigani, realizing our need of his weapon, has not dulled it too soon.”
“Let the sight cheer you,” said Sbrigani, from my behind removing a stiff and unruly device and the next instant plunging it to the hilt in Borghese’s ass, “and I shall proceed just as circumspectly with this one. Count upon it, captain, I’ll not discharge save in the last extremity.”
Borghese sits in judgment; I become the executioner.
“Increased severity,” says the captain, “remember, it’s step by step to lead them gradually to death—”
“To death!” exclaimed Rosine. “Just heaven! What have I done to merit this?”
“Had you merited death, buggeress,” said Carleson, sodomizing Borchamps, who nests in Raimonde’s ass the while he tongues Elise’s; “yes, fuck my eyes, had you merited it, whore, we’d condemn you to something else. We here have the greatest respect for vice and the mightiest abhorrence for everything resembling virtue; firmly wrought principles found this way of thinking, and with your approval, my dear, we shall not deviate a hairsbreadth from our creed.”
“Come along, Borghese, pronounce,” said the captain? being energetically fucked by his favorite.
“Rosine,” the hot-tempered Olympia announced, “will receive from each of us half a dozen pricks from a bodkin here and there upon her person; the comely Francisco will have his buttocks bitten by his father, his member by all the ladies; the executioner will then administer twenty blows of a stick upon the back of Christine and will break two fingers on each of Ernelinde’s hands.”
These punishments are begun by me: after having six times run the needle-sharp instrument well into Rosine’s plump breasts, I pass it to my friends, who one by one wield it upon the most sensitive areas of that beautiful body; her frightful husband distinguishes himself, ’tis inside her vagina the mischievous fellow delivers his six stabs; I see to the rest, and I execute with art and zeal enough to provoke everyone into a discharge. Clairwil replaces Borghese.
“Increased severity, sister,” the captain says, “don’t forget the goal we are working toward.”
“Never fear,” that harpy replies. “You will soon recognize your kin.”
Carleson returns to the sofa, over his mast-high device the captain’s sister hovers, slowly engulfs its length in her ass; Borghese and I frig her amain, and she formulates troubles for our victims to endure.
“I would,” says she, “that a hot iron be applied to the two breasts of the wife of him embuggering me at present; I would,” the slut continued, ever ready to lose her head the moment she felt a prick tickling her entrails, “that four gashes be inflicted upon the pretty buttocks belonging to the youth whom my brother seems to be fucking while awaiting our verdict; I would have Christine’s buttocks seared, and a rinse of boiling oil injected into Ernelinde’s lovely ass, warming though may be the caresses I see Borghese bestowing upon it.”
But then a very comical thing occurred: panic-stricken at the thought of the clyster intended for her, the girl let loose everything her bowels contained, flooding shit all over the floor.
“Blast me,” stormed Borchamps, bestowing a tremendous kick upon the girl’s behind, who all but flew out the window someone had just opened to air the room, “’tis an outrage if the wretched little whore’s throat is not cut on the spot.”
“What the devil is the matter?” Clairwil demanded of her brother. “It’s nothing but shit, and you love shit; would it be Juliette’s you want instead? Come, have some then, my fingers feel her mard, she’ll hatch it into your mouth.”
“Bah, we’re becoming a filthy lot,” the captain jubilated, fitting his lips to my vent and soliciting what he has been put into hope of obtaining; “when you hear such words uttered, fuck is never far off.”
I shit; would you believe it? He shits too, and ’tis into the mouth of Christine, whom he has had posted underneath his ass, the villain looses the broadside, simultaneously swallowing the dainty I produce for him.
“Your pleasures are indecent in the extreme,” Clairwil observes the instant before she has Francisco perform the same operation upon her face.
“Ah, wench,” her brother calls to her, “you’re close to a yield of sperm. I can tell it from your infamies.”
“Fuck!” she rejoins, “I wish to be stretched out on the floor, I wish to be rolled, to wallow in the nastiness that
little jade has just spattered about.”
“Are you mad?” Olympia exclaims.
“No, merely determined to satisfy my desires, as always.”
Her wishes are obeyed, and it is while writhing in ordures the rascal is overtaken by her spasm.
The punishments are resumed; Borghese metes them out.
“Stay,” says the captain, seeing Olympia pick up the iron due to char Rosine’s breasts, “I must embugger this woman while you are torturing her.”
He sodomizes; Olympia operates.
“God’s prick and balls!” he cries, “how sweet it is to ass-fuck an object undergoing pain! Woe unto him who passes through life in ignorance of that pleasure! There is no greater one in Nature.”
But her fear notwithstanding, at the hands of her father, who embuggers her first, Ernelinde receives the formidable remedy prescribed by Clairwil; everything else on the program is accomplished in like wise, which brings us around to fresh horrors.
Carleson, berserk, and ever aroused by my ass, which, says he, has been driving him to this distraction, lays hands upon his children; he beats them, whips them, fucks them, while we women frig one another opposite a spectacle which affords the idea of a wolf rampaging through a sheepfold.
“Up, wench,” and it is Rosine who hears herself addressed by a Borchamps embuggering me and fondling the hindquarters of Olympia and of Raimonde, “’tis your turn, whore, you are going to torture your children; Carleson, put the point of your dagger to the abominable creature’s heart, and if she so much as wavers when told what to do, stab her straight to death.”
Rosine is racked by sobs.
“A little self-control,” Olympia advises; “signs of distress excite our cruelty. Weep, and it will go worse with you.”
“Catch your elder daughter by the hair,” Borchamps shouts at her, “and you, Clairwil, issue the orders; Borghese will follow you; the last word will be Juliette’s.”
“I decree,” my friend said, “that the nasty creature chew blood from her daughter’s bubs.”
Rosine seems paralyzed; the point of Carleson’s dagger pricks her skin; the unhappy mother obeys.
“Olympia, what is your will?”
“That she drip molten wax upon her daughter’s buttocks.”
Again, manifestations of stubbornness; again, prods from the dagger; again, compliance on the part of the sorry Rosine.
“And you, Juliette?”
“Oh, I would have the girl given a general lashing by her mother, who shall lay on until she has drawn blood.”
What difficulties before these instructions are finally carried out! At first, the strokes are so mild that they leave no trace behind; but Carleson’s dagger has its stimulating effect, Rosine plies the whip in great earnest, and in due time she flays the skin off her daughter’s ass. Comparable tortures are inflicted upon the others, each outdoing the other in horror. When my turn comes, one of my desires is that Francisco embugger the elder of his sisters while gashing his mother, and Borchamps, sodomizing me as I give that command, succumbs to its suggestiveness, inundating my bowels.
“Fuck my eyes,” the captain swears, withdrawing from my fundament, his prick still up and purple, “enough of this, let’s get down to business: we shall begin by binding these four individuals belly to belly, so that they compose, as it were, one and the same body.”
“Very well, and now?”
“Let each of the eight of us, armed with a red-hot poker, belabor this carrion a little….”
Then, after an hour of strenuous exertion: “Rosine, take this dagger,” the captain says severely, “plant it in your son’s heart; his father will hold him while you do—”
“No, barbarian, no!” that mother shrieks in despair. “No, ’twill rather go into my own heart—” and she would have ended her life had I not checked her arm in time.
“Slut, you shall obey!” roared Carleson.
And seizing his wife’s hand at the wrist, he himself guides the blade into his son’s breast. Clairwil, jealous at seeing herself excluded from the murder of this young man, she who only lives for masculine murders, snatches up a second knife and deals the wretch wounds a thousand times more grievous; Rosine is then stretched upon a narrow wooden bench, affixed to it, and then Borchamps would have Ernelinde open her mother’s body with a scalpel. The child refuses; menaces follow. Terrified, bruised, bloodied, excited by the hope of saving her life by consenting, her hand, steered by Carleson’s, yields to the barbarous instructions imparted to it.
“You received your existence here,” says the cruel father once the opening has been made, “you must now return into the womb whence you emerged.”
She is garroted, then pressed, twisted until by dint of much force and considerable art, there she is, breathing still, back inside the loins that once gave her to the world.
“As for that other one,” says the captain, referring to Christine, “she must be bound to her mother’s back. Wonderful, is it not,” he observed when that had been done, “the insignificant volume to which three women can be reduced.”
“And Francisco?” Clairwil wanted to know.
“He’s yours,” Borchamps answered, “take him into a corner and finish him off in whatever way you like.”
“Come with me, Juliette,” said Clairwil, leading the young man into an adjoining chamber.
And there, a couple of frenzied bacchantes, we cause that unlucky youth to expire under everything of the crudest and most refined it is in the power of ferocity to devise. Returning from those exercises, Carleson and Borchamps found us so aglow with beauty that neither could resist tupping us straightway; but at this the jealous Borghese begins to fume, protesting that the victims are being left to languish, and the pleasures of torturing them being delayed. The point is well taken, and since the hour is advanced, it is decided that supper will be served while play proceeds.
“In that case,” says Borghese, upon whom the right to prescribe punishment now devolves, having taken no hand in the tormenting and undoing of Francisco, “the victims must be disposed in front of us, flat on the table. The first of our pleasures will be derived from a view of the state they are already in, and this, I believe, is nigh to damnable; the second, from the effect of the further mistreatment they will sustain from us once they are there.”
“Aye, set them on the table,” says Clairwil, “but I want to fuck before I sup.”
“But with whom?” I ask my friend. “They are all drained dry.”
“Brother,” the insatiable creature resumes, “have ten of the prettiest members of your armed forces brought in, and give them to us for employment as sluts.”
The soldiers appear; we all three, Borghese, Clairwil, and I, defying the pricks lifting threateningly at us, fling ourselves down upon cushions scattered about on the floor. Elise and Raimonde act as our aides. Sbrigani, the captain, and Carleson sodomize one another while watching us, and during four great hours, to the sound of our victims’ lamentations, the three of us fuck like the world’s mightiest whores: our champions, winded and spent, are dismissed.
“What good is a man when he reaches the end of his erection? Brother,” said Clairwil, “bring those ten louts back in here, where we can see it done, and have their throats cut this instant, if you please.”
The captain issues instructions, twenty of his trusties seize the first ten, and the massacre goes forward while we frig one another, Borghese, Clairwil, and I. It is, so to speak, upon their corpses that a delicious collation is served to us. And there, naked, smeared with blood and fuck, drunk with lust, we carry our bestial ferocity to the point of mixing in our food those morsels of flesh we detach from the bodies of the unhappy women lying upon our table. Gorged on murder and impudicity, we at last all fall asleep amidst cadavers and a deluge of wines, spirits, shit, fuck, and bits of human flesh: I am not sure what happened after that. I simply recall that when I opened my eyes to the light I found myself lying between two cadavers, my nose in Carleson’s
ass, with whose shit my gullet was filled, and whose prick was wedged in Borghese’s ass, where he had forgotten it. The captain, who had gone to sleep with his head pillowed on Raimonde’s shit-slimed buttocks, still had his prick in my behind, and Sbrigani was snoring in the arms of Elise … the victims in pieces still lay on the table.
Such was the state in which the star of day found us out, and far from wondering at our excesses, never, I believe, did it smile so brightly since the world was born. Thus, you see, it is false that heaven condemns men’s erring behavior, ’tis absurd to suppose heaven offended thereby. Would it accord its favors to villains as well as to honest folk if it were annoyed by crime?
“Why, no. No,” I said to my friends who, that morning, were listening calmly while I exposed my thoughts, “we offend nothing by surrendering to crime. A god? How incur his displeasure when no god exists? Nature? Still less is Nature to be vexed by our misconduct,” I went on, summoning to mind the moral science upon which I had been nourished, excellent fare. “Man is in no wise Nature’s dependent; he is not even her child; he is her froth, her precipitated residue. No other laws govern him than those graved in mineral, in vegetal, in animal stuff; and when he reproduces, while he conforms to laws which are peculiar to him, he does nothing by any means necessary to Nature, nor by any means desired by her. Destruction more fully satisfies this universal mother, since it tends to restore to her a potential she is cheated of through our propagation. Thus, our crimes are pleasing to her, my friends, and our virtues are an affront; thus, atrocity in crime is what answers her most ardent desires; for he who were to serve her best would incontestably be him whose crimes through their number or magnitude destroyed even up to destroying the possibility of a regeneration which, perpetuated in the three kingdoms, only narrows Nature’s capacity for further creative thrusts. Little fool that I was, oh, Clairwil! before we parted I was yet an adept of Nature; the systems I have absorbed since then have freed me from her, and moved me toward the simple laws of the natural realms. Having embraced these systems, ah, great dupes we must me, dear friends, if ever we deny anything to the passions, since they become the motor forces of our being, and we are just as unable to turn a deaf ear to their promptings as we are to be born again, or to return to being unborn. Indeed, these passions are so inherent in us, so necessary to the functioning of our inner workings, that their satisfaction becomes fundamental to our existence. Oh, dear Clairwil,” I continued, taking my friend’s hand warmly in mine, “the degree to which I am now these passions’ slave! Oh, whatever they might be, how willingly I would sacrifice everything to them! This victim or that, how little must it matter! None more deserves to be spared than any other. If, according to popular prejudice, one existed which might seem to merit exception, from the simple breaking of this curb my delights must increase: I would interpret the excessive foretaste of pleasure as a command to act, and my hand would fly to do the bidding of my desires.”13
Juliette Page 108
