“That shall turn into a lovely ass, Juliette,” he says to me, “it already excites me enormously.”
And though she was but seven years old, the wicked fellow prodded her tentatively with his gigantean prick; but, wheeling suddenly away from Marianne and toward his son Euphorbe, Noirceuil fits himself into that other fair young posterior, ordering me to crush the boy’s testicles. There is no pain to equal what the unhappy child experiences, simultaneously tormented before and behind. After a brief run in that charming ass Noirceuil withdraws and has the child lashed by his ministers. While one of them flogs, the other embuggers the sore-beset Euphorbe, whose virile parts, in conformance with his father’s wishes, are lost to a razor-blade wielded by me, who shaves them clean off his belly. Noirceuil, managing to keep one eye on the operation, ardently kisses Theodora’s buttocks in the meantime.
“Come now, Juliette,” he says to me, “have yourself fucked.”
In a fearful state, I wanted nothing else. The two cannibals laid hands on me; one darted into my cunt, the other lodged himself in my ass; Noirceuil moved from the first to the next, embuggering them by turns while the whores spurred him on with lashes. As soon as he sees my discharge terminated, Noirceuil calls for Fontange and surrenders her to the two executioners.
“Make free with her,” he tells them, “do whatever you like provided you torture her the while you fuck her.”
The two rascals treated the girl so roughly that, in their arms, she swooned away once again.
“One moment,” said Noirceuil, “I cannot resist sodomizing her anew.”
And while he was satisfying himself I surprised him with an unexpected piece of cruelty: using a scalpel, I cut out my ward’s right eye. That horror overpowers Noirceuil: his patient’s reaction to the pain is so lively, her muscular contraction so sharp, that the libertine loses his seed ten inches inside the maid’s rectum, at a juncture where he is being sodomized himself and is girt round by display of ass.
“Come along, my fair one,” he says to the bedraggled creature; he grips her hard by the arm and drags her bodily into an adjoining chamber. I follow.
“Behold,” says he, pointing to a table upon which lie, in gold coins, the five hundred thousand francs belonging to the poor girl, “that is your dowry; in order that you see that wealth, we have left you an eye, and it is our fond hope that the sight will prove an unhappy one: for that money is not to be yours. Slut, my intention is that you die of starvation; and I am going to treat you in such sort that you shall never be able to complain of your fate, although I am also going to set you at liberty. Here,” he went on, taking her by the wrist, “touch this gleaming stuff, ’tis gold, ’tis yours, and yet you shall never have it. Aye, buggeress, feel it, that is what I want you to do; and now that you have done it, you’ll do nothing more with these useless organs.” So saying, he secures her hands upon a butcher’s block, embuggers her, and I cleave off her hands while he is operating; the blood is stanched, the stumps bandaged…. Immediately, fucking uninterruptedly, the barbarian orders his victim to open her mouth and stick forth her tongue: I seize it with tongs, I sever it at the root; I gouge out the remaining eye…. Noirceuil discharges.
“Good,” says he, withdrawing and dressing the girl in a shift of sackcloth, “we are now assured that she shall not write, that she shall be blind as a bat, that she shall say never a word to any soul that lives.”
We escort her to the gate and out upon the highroad.
“Go seek your living,” says Noirceuil, giving her a ferocious kick, “your living, indeed! The thought of the fate that awaits you gives us greater cheer than we would derive from your assassination; begone, slut, venture into the world and denounce your persecutors, if you can.”
“Ah, but she will be able to grasp their questions if nothing else,” I pointed out, “her hearing remains to her.”
“Does it now?” said the barbarous Noirceuil. “Then we shall remedy that,” and he drove the point of a knife successively into each of her ears.
We returned to the company.
“Excite me, you rascals,” our libertine said to the four women; “I have just discharged, I must recover my forces…. Frig these men and let them fuck me; my need of horrors is never so great as when I have been lately committing them.”
Noirceuil is encompassed: asses, pricks surround him everywhere; he is frigged, fucked, tongued, sucked.
“Ah, Juliette,” he announces once his device begins to rise, “Juliette, I wish to fuck your daughter.”
Without allowing me time to reply, the villain leaps upon her, has his satellites hold her for him, and embuggers her with the very speed of light. My poor Marianne’s shrill screams are all the warning I receive of the dreadful outrage perpetrated against her.
“My stars, Noirceuil! What are you about?”
“I am ass-fucking your child. This had to happen, did it not? and is it not better that it be your friend rather than some other who plucks the flower?”
After having mercilessly scraped and torn the little dear, he withdraws from her bleeding anus, still in possession of his energies; and casting haggard glances at the two harlots, he proclaims his intention to sacrifice one of them. The luckless girl clutches-his knees, implores him, fails to move him: she is seized, sat astride the top of a double ladder and tied fast. Noirceuil, in a chair placed five or six yards away, holds a cord whose other end is attached to the girl. Theodora and Laïs, kneeling, frig his prick, balls, and asshole; the two cannibals fuck me within his view; the remaining whore is bound head downward to a stake, and in that awkward posture awaits events. Twenty times the rascal tugs on the cord, twenty times the victim comes crashing down, is set back upright, pulled down again, and this abominable game does not end until she has broken both her legs and had her skull cracked. These infamies having heated the libertine, he instructs an aide to blindfold the other whore, and decrees that each of us inflict several wounds upon her. The ordeal will cease when she succeeds in guessing the name of her aggressor: choking on her own blood, she collapses before she is able to identify any of the hands that are causing her woe. Upon Noirceuil’s orders and following a suggestion originating with me, these two wretches, out of whom not all the breath has fled, are hung up inside the chimney for a slow roasting above the flames and asphyxiation from the smoke.
Drunk with lust, Noirceuil roves in a rage about the salon; his lunatic stares fall upon the five objects still at the disposition of his lewd fury: my two tribades, my daughter, and his two sons. Everything leads me to suspect that he is ready to immolate them all at once.
“O infamy on high!” he shouts, “remove these curbs that make me little, when I would imitate thee and commit evil. I ask of thee no faculty for virtue, but canst not at least communicate to me thy mighty capacities for crime, and let me wreak havoc after thy example? Ah, dog of heaven, for one instant, if thou darest, put thy lightning into my hands, and once I have destroyed mortals, thou shalt see my loins grow gladder still as I hurl the bolt that blasts thy execrable existence.”
With these words he leaps upon his son Phaon, embuggers him, has himself embuggered, and orders me, while I am being frigged by Theodora, to tear the living heart out of the child he is fucking, and to give it to him that he may eat it: the villain devours it, and at the same moment he discharges, drives a dagger into the breast of his other son.
“Well, Juliette! Look, my angel, and tell me, have I not done a fine day’s work? Say, am I steeped enough in blood and atrocities?”
“You make me shudder, Noirceuil, but I imitate you withal.”
“Think not, Juliette, that the orgy is over, nor that I am done.”
His glittering eyes fall once again upon my daughter; his erection is that of a maniac; he seizes Marianne, has her pinioned, and encunts her.
“By God,” he cries, “this little creature makes my head spin, damn me if ’tis not true. What do you mean to do with her, Juliette? You are not the sentimental fool, you are no
t the idiot to have feelings for this loathsome spawn of your abominable husband’s blessed testicle; so sell her to me. Sell me the slut, Juliette, I wish to buy her from you; let’s both soil ourselves, you in the pretty sin of vending me your child, I in the still more rousing one of paying you only in order to assassinate her. Yes, Juliette, yes, let’s assassinate your daughter”—and here he finished wiping his prick and nodded toward it, gleaming and purple—“consider, if you will, how this idea inflames my senses. Stay, Juliette, have yourself fucked before you pronounce, answer me not till you have a pair of pricks in your body.”
Crime holds no terrors for anyone when in the act of fucking; and one must always ponder its attractions when swimming in tides of sperm. Pricks penetrate me, I am fucked; a second time Noirceuil inquires to what purpose I wish to put my daughter.
“O villainous soul!” I cry, loosing discharge upon discharge, “star of perfidy, your ascendant places all else in eclipse, smothers all else in me save the longing for crime and infamy…. With Marianne do you what you please, whoreson knave,” say I, beside myself, “she is yours.”
No sooner does he hear these words than he decunts, takes hold of the poor child in his two wicked hands, and hurls her, naked, into the roaring fire; I step forward, and second him; I too pick up a poker and thwart the unhappy creature’s natural efforts at escape, for she thrashes convulsively in the flames: we drive her back, I say; we are being frigged, both of us, then we are being sodomized. Marianne is being roasted alive; and we go off to spend the rest of the night in each other’s arms, congratulating each other upon the scene whose episodes and circumstances complement a crime which, atrocious perhaps, is yet, in our shared opinion, too mild.
“So tell me now,” said Noirceuil, “is there anything in the world to match the divine pleasures crime yields? Is there anything that can compete with the criminal humor? Beyond the criminal sensation is there anything that produces such vibrations in us?”
“No, my friend, not to my knowledge.”
“Then let us live in crime forever; and may nothing in all Nature ever succeed in converting us to different principles. He is not a man to be envied who, smitten by remorse, undertakes the equally baneful and imprudent and needless retreat; for, irresolute, pusillanimous in his acts, he will be no happier in his new career than he was in the one he renounces. Happiness is dependent upon energetic principles, and there can be none for him who wavers all his life.”
We spent a week at Noirceuil’s country manor and accomplished a few new infamies every day. During that stay he urged me to try one of the passions of the Empress Theodora, Justinian’s wife. I lay down upon the ground; two rustics sprinkled barleycorn upon my bush and upon the labia of my sex; a dozen large geese were brought up from the barnyard, and they began to peck at the seeds with their beaks, causing me such furious irritation in those parts that, when it was all over, I was absolutely obliged to fuck. Noirceuil, who had foreseen these results, presented me to fifty of his peasants, who performed prodigies with me. He too wished to try the geese; he had them feed from his ass, and afterward proclaimed that an ass-pecking procured sensations keener than those of the whip. To these debauches he added that of ordering both the schoolmaster and schoolmistress of the town to furnish him thirty pupils of the sex each taught. He held a mixed class at his castle, had the little girls depucelated by the little boys; then finished by whipping, sodomizing, and, at last, poisoning the lot.
“My friend,” I said to Noirceuil, “these are all trifles; can we not advance a step and crown our orgies by some truly brilliant action? These townspeople have no supply of water but what comes from their wells; I have something of Durand’s confection which will envenom the entire population inside two days: between my women and me, we shall, I promise you, spread devastation everywhere.” And I was frigging Noirceuil while making that proposal to him. He proved unable to refuse.
“Fuck,” was the response of the rake, helpless to contain his sperm at the announcement of such a scheme, “oh, by God! Juliette, ’tis a very curious imagination Nature gave you. Do whatever you like, my angel, the floods you are milking from me signify my acceptance.”
I was as good as my word. All had been stricken four days later: fifteen hundred souls were interred, and almost as many were reduced to a state of agony so dire that they were heard pleading for death to come. The entire disaster was attributed to an epidemic. The ignorance of the provincial doctors protected us even from suspicion; and we returned to the capital after an expedition which had cost us discharges beyond counting.
Such is the happy position you see me in, my friends; I have a furious fondness for crime, I would not dream of pretending otherwise; crime, and nothing else, irritates my senses, I shall go on professing its maxims down to my dying hour. Exempt from all religious dreads, able, by discreet procedures and my wealth, to avoid difficulties with the law, what is the power, human or divine, that could impose a check upon my desires? The past encourages me, the present electrifies me, and I have little fear for the future; and my hope is that the rest of my life shall by far surpass the extravagances of my youth. Nature created human beings to no other end than that they amuse themselves on earth, and make it their playground, its inhabitants their toys; pleasure is the universal motor and law, it shall always be mine. Too bad for the victims, victims there must be; all the world would fly to pieces were it not for the sublime economy that assures equilibrium; only through acts of wickedness is the natural balance maintained, only thereby does Nature recover ground lost to the incursions of virtue. Thus, we are obeying her when we deliver ourselves unto evil; our resistance thereto is the sole crime she can never pardon in us. Oh, my friends! let us take these principles well to heart; in their exercise lie all the sources of human happiness.
Thus did Madame de Lorsange conclude the story of her adventures, whose scandalous details had more than once wrung bitterest tears from the interesting Justine. Otherwise stirred were the Chevalier and the Marquis; the straining and full-colored pricks they brought to light proved how different were the sentiments that animated them. They were in the midst of complotting some horror when a footman brought word of the return of Noirceuil and Chabert: they, the reader will recall, had been to the country for a few days, leaving the Comtesse to acquaint her two other friends with facts of which those other gentlemen had for a long time had cognizance.
The tears which had just wet our unhappy Justine’s cheeks, her charming air … her sorrowing mien, the afflictions it told of; her native timidity, that touching virtuousness shadowed in all her features, everything about her incensed Noirceuil and the churchman, who must absolutely submit this luckless creature to their filthy and ferocious caprices. They took her off to a separate chamber while the Marquis, the Chevalier, and Madame de Lorsange gave themselves over to other but no less bizarre, crapulous, lewd frolics with the numerous lust-objects which that château had in plentiful store.
It was toward six o’clock and the day was waning when they all reassembled again, and deliberation was entered into regarding Justine’s fate. In view of Madame de Lorsange’s refusal to keep such a prude under her roof, the debate was whether to fling the poor soul out of doors or immolate her in the course of divers orgies. The Marquis, Chabert, and the Chevalier, more than sated with the creature, stood firmly for the latter alternative; Noirceuil, who had listened to the opinions of the others, now asked to be heard.
“My friends,” he said to that joyous society, “in cases like the present one I have often found it extremely instructive to allow Nature to take her own course. There is, you have noticed, a storm brewing in the sky; let us entrust this personage to the elements. I shall embrace the true faith if they spare her.”
This proposal met with general acclaim.
“I love such ideas,” said Madame de Lorsange, “let us carry it out with no delay.”
Lightning glitters, the winds howl, the clouds boil as though in a caldron, all the firmament is
seething. One might have said that Nature, tired of her works, was readying to confound all her elements in order to force them to adopt new forms. Justine is shown the door; not only is she not given as much as a penny, she is sent forth stripped of the little that remained to her. Bewildered, humiliated by such ingratitude and so many abominations, but too content to escape what could have been worse still, the child of woe, murmuring thanks to God, totters past the château gates and down the lane leading to the highroad…. Scarcely does she reach it when a flash of lightning breaks from the heavens, and she is struck down, smitten by a thunderbolt that pierces her through.
“She is dead!” cry the villains, clapping their hands and hastening to where Justine lies upon the ground. “Come quickly, Madame, come contemplate heaven’s handiwork, come see how the powers above reward piety and goodness. Love virtue, we are told, and behold the fate reserved for its most devoted servitors.”
Our four libertines surround the corpse; and although it has been horribly disfigured, frightful designs nevertheless shape themselves in libertine minds, the shattered vestiges of the defunct Justine become the object of lewd covetings. The infamous Juliette excites her friends as they snatch the clothes from the body. The lightning, entering by way of the mouth, had burst out through the vagina; fierce jests are made upon the path by which the fire of heaven chose to visit the victim.
“Yes,” Noirceuil said, “praise be to God, he merits it; there you have the proof of his decency: he left the ass untouched. It is still a beautiful thing, this sublime behind which caused so much fuck to flow; does it not tempt you, Chabert?”
And by way of reply the mischievous Abbé inserts his prick to the height of the balls in that lifeless hulk. His example is shortly followed by the others; unto her ashes they all four insult that dear girl, one by one; the execrable Juliette, watching them, frigs herself without pause; and finally the company retires, abandoning the corpse by the wayside. Woeful and ill-starred creature, ’twas written on high that not even the repose of death would safeguard you from the atrocities of crime and the perversity of mankind.
Juliette Page 139
