The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings

by Marquis de Sade

  We repaired to the hole, having been informed that in the adjoining room, the one selected for his activities, there was a pierced chair and beneath it a chamber pot we had been busy filling for four days and in which there must have been at least a dozen large turds. Our man arrives. He was an elderly tax-farmer of about seventy years. He shuts the door, goes straight to the pot he knows to be brimming with the goodies he has ordered for his sport. He takes up the vessel and, seating himself in an armchair, passes a full hour gazing lovingly at all the treasure whereof he has been made the proprietor; he sniffs, inhales, he touches, he handles, seems to lift one turd out after another in order to contemplate them the better. Finally become ecstatic, from his fly he pulls a nasty old black rag which he shakes and beats with all his might; one hand frigs, the other burrows into the pot and scoops out handfuls of divine unction. He anoints his tool, but it remains as limp as before. There are moments, after all, when Nature is so stubborn that even the excesses we most delight in fail to awake a response. He did all in his power, and unavailingly, for nothing resulted or rose gloriously up, but by dint of abuse meted out by the same hand that had just been steeped in the ordure, the ejaculation occurred, he trembled, thrilled, fell backward, smelled, breathed deeply, rubbed his prick, and discharged upon the heap of shit which had just so inspired him.

  Another gentleman dined with me one evening. We were alone together, and twelve large plates heaped with the same meats were brought in and combined with the remnants of an earlier course. He sniffed these new dishes, sampled their aromas, and after he had finished eating, bade me frig him upon the one that had struck him as the most handsome.

  A young crown attorney used to pay according to the number of enemas one was willing to receive at his hands; when I crossed swords with him, I agreed to accept seven, he administered them all himself; thus, seven times over had I to mount a little stepladder, while he, stationed underneath me, frigged himself until I spewed out over his prick the entire charge with which he had lubricated my bowels.

  As may be readily imagined, the entire evening was devoted to unclean activities of roughly the same species that had been treated in story, and that Messieurs turned to this kind of sport will be all the more easily understood in the light of their general enthusiasm for this passion; it was of course Curval who carried matters the furthest, but his three colleagues were scarcely less infatuated with the novelties laid out before them. The little girls’ eight steaming turds were arranged amidst the supper’s dishes, and at the orgies the competition was doubtless even keener for those of the little boys; and thus ended the ninth day whose term they saw arrive with the greatest pleasure, for they had high expectations for the morrow, which was destined to provide them with more amply detailed anecdotes treating a subject they adored.

  THE TENTH DAY

  (Remember to be more guarded in the beginning and more gradually to disclose what is to be clarified here.)

  The farther we advance, the more thoroughly we may inform the reader about certain facts we were obliged to no more than hint at in the earlier part of our story. We are able, for example, presently to advise him of the purpose of the morning visits and searches conducted in the children’s quarters, the cause of their punishment when in the course of these inspections delinquents were found, and just what were the delights Messieurs tasted in the chapel: the subjects were expressly forbidden to go to the toilet or in any other place to move their bowels without individual and particular permission, this in order that there be held in reserve matters which could, as the occasion arose, be doled out to those who desired them. The visit served to determine whether anyone had neglected to comply with this order; the officer of the month carefully inspected all the chamber pots and other receptacles, and if he found any that were not empty, the subject concerned was immediately inscribed in the punishment register. However, provision had been made for those who could hold back no longer: they were, a little before the midday meal, to betake themselves to the chapel Messieurs had converted into a privy so designed that our libertines were able to enjoy the pleasure which the satisfaction of these pressing needs had the power to procure them, and the others, who had been allowed, or who had been able, to keep their loads, had the opportunity to be rid of them at some time or another during the day and in that manner which most pleased the friends, and above all in that particular manner upon which full details will subsequently be provided, for these details will compass all the manners of indulging in this voluptuous delight.

  And there was yet another cause which led to the distribution of punishment, and it was the following one: what is called in France the bidet ceremony did not exactly please our friends; Curval, for example, could not bear to have the subjects with whom he came to grips wash themselves; Durcet’s attitude was identical, and so it was that the one and the other would notify their duennas of the subjects with whom they planned to amuse themselves the next day, and these subjects were forbidden to wipe, rub, or wash themselves in any way and under any circumstances, and the two other friends, who did not share this abhorrence of tidiness and for whom dirt was not by any means essential, nevertheless concurred with Curval and Durcet, aided in maintaining an agreeable state of affairs, and if after having been told to be impure a subject took it into his head to be clean, he was straightway added to the fatal list.

  That is what happened that morning to Colombe and Hébé; they had shitted during the previous night’s orgies and, knowing that they were listed to serve coffee on the following day, Curval, who planned to amuse himself with both of them and who had even advised them that they would be expected to fart, had recommended that things be left just as they were. The children did nothing to themselves before going to bed. Inspection arrived, and Durcet, aware of the instructions Curval had given, was perfectly amazed to find them as neat as a pin; forgetfulness was the excuse they offered, but their names went down in the register nevertheless.

  No chapel permissions were granted that morning. (We should like the reader to make a particular effort to remember what we mean by such an expression; this will dispense us from having to repeat our explanations.) Calculations of what would be required during the storytelling period forbade any prodigality until that time.

  Upon this day the boys’ masturbation lessons were suspended, for they had entirely served their purpose, and every one of the little lads frigged as expertly as the cleverest whore in Paris. Zéphyr and Adonis led the pack in skill, speed, and deftness, and there are few pricks which would not ejaculate nigh to bleeding were they to be ministered by little hands as nimble and delicious as theirs.

  Nothing worth citing occurred until coffee; it was served by Giton, Adonis, Colombe, and Hébé; these four children had, by way of preparation, been stuffed with every decoction which is best able to provoke winds, and Curval, who had proposed to be treated to farts, received a generous quantity of them. The Duc had himself sucked, or rather licked, by Giton, whose little mouth simply could not manage to engulf the enormous machine tendered him. Durcet performed some choice little horrors with Hébé, the Bishop thigh-fucked Colombe. Six o’clock sounded, they moved into the auditorium where, everyone having taken his post, Duclos began to recount what you shall read:

  A new companion had very recently come to Madame Fournier’s; owing to the role she is going to play in the account of the passion which follows, I believe I should give you at least a rough sketch of her. She was a young seamstress, debauched by the seducer I earlier mentioned having observed at Guérin’s, and she also worked for Fournier. She was fourteen, had chestnut-brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, the most voluptuous little face in all the world, skin lily white and satin smooth, very trimly made she was, although rather inclining to fleshiness, from which slight disadvantage there resulted the sweetest, cutest, the plumpest ass, the fairest, oh ’twas possibly the finest ass in Paris. I was stationed at the hole in the partition and soon beheld the man who was to deflower her, for she was yet a maid
on either side, nothing could be plainer. Such a tidbit could only have been fed to someone very much beloved of the house: he was the venerable Abbé de Fierville, equally renowned for his wealth and his debauchery, and he had the gout to his very fingertips. He arrives swathed to the eyes in a mantle, installs himself in the chamber, examines all the equipment he is about to use, prepares everything, and then the little girl arrives; her name is Eugénie. Somewhat frightened by her first lover’s grotesque face, she lowers her gaze and blushes.

  “Come hither, come hither,” says the libertine, “and show me your behind.”

  “Oh, Monsieur . . .” murmurs the shy little thing.

  “Come, come,” fumes the old roué, “nothing worse than these novices; she just can’t imagine anyone should wish to look at an ass. Well, by the Saviour, get your damned skirts up.”

  And, stepping closer for fear of displeasing Fournier, whom she has promised to be very obedient, she finally pulls her skirt halfway up from behind.

  “Higher, do you hear, higher,” cries the pleasant old rascal. “Do you suppose I’m going to bother to do it myself?”

  And in due time the beautiful ass is completely exposed. The man of God scrutinizes it, has her stand straight, has her bend forward, has her squeeze her legs tight together, has her separate them and, leaning her over the bed, spends a moment crudely, nay, uncouthly rubbing all his frontward privities, which he has brought to light and with which he now prods and pushes Eugénie’s matchless bum, as if to electrify himself, as if to attract to himself some of that lovely child’s essential heat. From this he passes to kisses, he falls to his knees in order to be more at his ease, and with both hands holding those superb buttocks as far apart as possible, both his tongue and lips rummage about in search of treasure.

  “They’re right,” says he, “you do have a passably fine ass. Have you been shitting recently?”

  “Just a little while ago, Father,” the little one answers. “Madame had me do that before coming up.”

  “Why, that’s nice . . . and so there’s nothing left in your bowels,” says the lecher. “Well, we’re going to see.”

  And catching up the syringe, he fills it with milk, returns to behind his object, brandishes the nozzle, plunges it into the vent, and shoots out the fluid. Having been told what to expect, Eugénie submits to everything; no sooner is the remedy in her entrails than he lies down on the bed and orders Eugénie to come at once and straddle him. “Now,” says he, “if you’ve got anything to do, have the kindness to do it in my mouth.” The timid creature has taken her place as she has been told to do, she pushes, the libertine frigs himself, his mouth, sealed hermetically to her asshole, catches every drop of the precious liquid that leaps out of it. He swallows it all, giving evidence of the greatest scrupulousness in this matter, and just when he swills down the final mouthful, his fuck escapes and he is hurled into a delirium. But what is this strange mood, this cloud of loathing which, as in the case of almost every other libertine, comes to darken a mind whence the entire illusion has fled? Brutally casting the little girl far from him once he has done, the saintly man readjusts his cleric’s garb, says that he has been cheated, deceived, for this child, he swears, had not priorly shitted, no, they’d lied, she’d come to him full of shit, and he’d swallowed half her turd, fie upon them. It is to be noted that Monsieur l’Abbé wanted milk only, not shit. He grumbles, he curses, he storms, says he won’t pay, won’t ever come back, says he’ll be damned if he’ll stir himself for little snotfaces like this one, and goes off shouting a thousand other invectives I’ll surely have occasion to report to you in connection with another passion in which they play a major role rather than, as in this instance, a very subordinate one.

  “Well, by God,” Curval remarked, “there you have a very fastidious man who’ll get upset over swallowing a little shit when there are I don’t know how many who feast upon it.”

  “Patience, Sire, patience,” said Duclos, “allow my recitals to succeed each other in the order you yourselves dictated and you shall see the superior libertines you allude to achieve wonders on the stage.”

  My turn came two days later. Instructions had been given me, and I stayed away from the water closet for thirty-six hours. My hero was an elderly ecclesiastic who served as chaplain to the King; like the aforementioned athlete he too was crippled with gout: he was only to be approached if one were naked, but one’s front and breast had to be very thoroughly covered; much emphasis had been placed upon this latter article, and I had been warned that were he to catch the least glimpse of those parts, it would prove a heavy misfortune, I’d never be able to get him to discharge. I approach, he studies my behind with extreme attentiveness, asks my age, asks whether it is true I have a great urge to shit, inquires as to the kind of shit I ordinarily produce, is it soft? is it hard? and a thousand other questions the asking of which, it seems to me, has the effect of animating him, for, as he chatters away his prick gradually lifts its head and leans toward me. That prick, approximately four inches in length by two or three around, had, despite its brilliant sheen, something of so humble and so pitiful an air that one all but needed spectacles to be certain of its existence. Solicited by my man thus to do, I laid firm hands on it, and noticing that my motions were rather well irritating his desires, he made ready to consummate the sacrifice.

  “But is it a truly authentic desire, my child,” says he, “this desire to shit you mention? For I don’t care to be deceived; come, let’s see whether you do indeed have shit in your ass.”

  And so saying, he buries his right hand’s longest finger in my fundament, while with his left hand he sustains the erection I have excited in his desire. That plummeting finger had no need to search far, the chaplain was swiftly persuaded I had, quite as I said, the sincerest wish to shit, and when his gropings contacted the object of our mutual concern, he flew into a perfect ecstasy:

  “Ah, by God’s belly,” he cries, “she tells the truth, the chicken is about to lay, and I feel the egg.”

  Enchanted, the bawdy old priest passes a moment kissing my bum, and observing the haste I am in and that I shall soon be unable to restrain the insurgent turd, he has me climb aboard an apparatus quite similar to the one your Lordships have here in the chapel; once seated, my behind perfectly exposed to his view, I was able to lodge my complaint in a receptacle located two or three inches from his nose. This apparatus had been built expressly for the chaplain, and he employed it frequently, for scarcely a day went by without him coming to Fournier’s to assist in delivering either some girl attached to the house or some other from outside it. An armchair drawn close allowed him to observe the process from a point of vantage situated just below the ring supporting my ass.

  When we had taken our positions upon our respective thrones, he ordered me to commence the operation. For prelude, I release a series of farts; he inhales them. The turd hoves into sight at last; he begins to pant.

  “Shit, my little one, shit away, my angel,” he cries, all afire. “Show me the turd coming forth out of your lovely ass.”

  And he aids the delivery, pressing his fingers about my anus, he facilitates the eruption; he frigs himself, he observes, he is drunk with lust, pleasure’s excess finally transports him completely, he loses his head; his cries, his sighs, his fingerings, everything convinces me he is nearing the final stage and, turning my head toward him, I find I have judged correctly, for there is his miniature engine spattering a few drops of sperm into the same pot I have just filled. The chaplain left in a good humor, and even assured me he expected he would honor me with another visit, which promise I knew very well to be false, for it was common knowledge he never saw the same girl twice.

  “Well, I appreciate his feelings in the matter,” declared the Président, who was kissing Aline’s ass. “One must be in our deplorable situation, one must be reduced to rack and ruin in order to be able to bear having the same ass shit twice.”

  “Monsieur le Président,” spoke up the Bi
shop, “there is a certain halting tone in your voice which leads me to suspect your prick is in the air.”

  “Tush,” Curval replied, “I’m merely kissing the buttocks of Mademoiselle your daughter, who hasn’t even the courtesy to let fly one wretched little fart.”

  “I am then enjoying better luck than you,” the Bishop announced, “for Madame your wife, lo and behold! has just presented me with the most beautiful and the bulkiest turd. . . .”

  “Silence, gentlemen, silence, I say!” came from the Duc, whose voice seemed muffled as if by something covering his head. “Silence, by Jesus! we are here to listen, not to act.”

  “Which is therefore to say, I take it, that you are doing nothing,” inquired the Bishop, “and is it in order to listen that you are wallowing under three or four assholes?”

  “Well, you know, he’s right. Go on, Duclos, it were wiser that we hear about foolish acts than commit them. We must save our strength.”

  And Duclos was on the point of resuming when they all heard the usual shouts and customary blasphemies that accompanied the Duc’s discharges; surrounded by his quatrain, being frigged by Augustine who, said he, did it deliciously, his fuck was escaping him as with Sophie, Zéphyr, and Giton he performed countless little wantonries of a kind very analogous to those Duclos had been describing.

  “Great God!” Curval exclaimed, “I can’t tolerate these bad examples; there’s nothing that makes me discharge like a discharge, and would you believe it? here’s that little whore,” he added, referring to Aline, “who only a moment ago could accomplish nothing at all and who is presently doing everything one could ask for . . . but no matter, I’ll keep my grip. Ah, you bitch, shit away, shit your head off, it will get you nowhere, I don’t intend to give up my seed.”

  “I see very well, Messieurs,” said Duclos, “that after having perverted you it is my responsibility to restore you to reason, and to do so I am going to resume my story without waiting for your command.”