There was no way to resist.
“And you, Lucile, lift your skirts and have your mother kiss your cheeks, and I am damned certain she wants nothing more than to kiss them, eager as she must be for some kind of reconciliation.”
The insolent Lucile rubs her ass upon the seamed and wrinkled visage of her dear old mother; overwhelming her with a tirade of playful epithets, the Comte permits the poor woman to crawl back into bed, and then resumes the conversation. “I tell you once again,” he says, “that if you recite all your troubles to me, I’ll take the best care of you.”
The woe-ridden are credulous; and they love to lament. The old woman made them privy to all her sufferings, and complained especially, with great bitterness, of the theft of her daughter; she sharply accused Lucile of having had a hand in it and of knowing where the child presently was, since the lady with whom she had come a little while ago had proposed to take her under her wing; that was the basis for her supposition (and there was considerable logic in the way she argued) that this same lady had taken her away. Meanwhile, the Comte, directly facing Lucile’s ass, for by this time he had got her to step out of her skirts, the Comte, I say, now and again kissing that handsome ass and frigging himself uninterruptedly, listened, put questions to her, requested details, and regulated all the titillations of his perfidious lust according to the old woman’s replies. But when she said that the absence of her daughter, thanks to whose work she was procured her wherewithal, was going to lead her gradually but inexorably to the grave, since she had nothing and for four days had been kept barely alive by that small quantity of milk he had just spoiled:
“Why, then, bitch,” said the Comte, aiming his prick at the old creature and continuing to explore Lucile’s buttocks, “why, then go ahead and croak, you foul old whore, do you suppose the world will be any worse off without you?”
And as he concluded his question he loosed his sperm.
“Were that to happen,” he observed, “I believe I’d have only one regret, and that would be not having myself hastened the event.”
But there was more to it than that, the Comte was not the sort of a man to be appeased by a mere discharge; Lucile, fully aware of the role she was to play, now that he had been relieved, busied herself preventing the old woman from noticing what he was about, and the Comte, rummaging through every corner of the room, came upon a silver goblet, the last vestige of the material well-being that had once upon a time been this poor wretch’s; he put the goblet in his pocket. This fresh outrage having put new hardness into his prick, he again dragged the old woman from her bed, stripped her naked, and bade Lucile frig him upon the matron’s withered old frame. Once again nothing could be done to stop him, and the villain darted his fuck over that ancient flesh, redoubled his insults, and said that the poor wretch could rest perfectly assured he was not yet done with her, and that she would soon have news of himself and of her little girl who, he wished to have her know, was in his power. He then proceeded to that last discharge, his transports of lust were ignited by the horrors wherewith his perfidious imagination was already in a ferment, by the ruin of the entire family he was contemplating, and he left. But in order not to have to return to this affair, hear, Messieurs, how I surpassed myself in villainy. Seeing that he might have confidence in me, the Comte informed me of the second scene he was preparing for the benefit of the old woman and her little daughter; he told me he wanted the child brought to him without delay and, as he wanted to reunite the whole family, he wished to have me cede Lucile to him too, for he had been deeply moved by her lovely ass; he made no effort to conceal that his purpose was to ruin Lucile as well as her ass, together with her mother and sister.
I loved Lucile. But I loved money even more. He offered me an unheard-of price for these three creatures, I agreed to everything. Four days later, Lucile, her little sister and her aged mother were brought together; Madame Desgranges will tell you about that meeting. As for your faithful Duclos, she continues and resumes the thread of her story this anecdote has interrupted; indeed, she wonders whether she ought not have recited it at some later time, for, esteeming it a very stirring episode, she considers it would have proven a fitting climax to her contribution.
“One moment,” said Durcet, “I cannot hear such stories without being affected, their influence upon me would be difficult to describe. I have been restraining my fuck since the middle of the tale, kindly allow me to unburden myself now.”
And he dashed into his closet with Michette, Zélamir, Cupidon, Fanny, Thérèse, and Adelaide; several minutes later his shouts began to ring out, and soon after the uproar started, Adelaide emerged in tears, saying that all this made her very unhappy, and wondering why they had to excite her husband with such dreadful stories; she who told them, Adelaide declared, not others, ought by rights to be the victim. During the interim the Duc and the Bishop had not wasted an instant, but the manner in which they operated belonging to the class of procedures circumstances compel us still to mask from the reader’s view, we beg him to suffer the curtain to remain down, and to allow us to move on to the four tales Duclos had yet to relate before bringing this twenty-first meeting of the assembly to a close.
A week after Lucile’s departure, I handled a rascal blessed with a rather curious mania. Warned several days in advance of his intended arrival, I had let a great number of turds accumulate in my one-holed chair, and I had induced one of my young ladies to add a few more to the collection. Our man appeared costumed as a Savoyard rustic; ’twas in the morning, he swept out my room, removed the pot from beneath the chair, and went out to empty it (this emptying, I might note in parentheses, took a considerable length of time); when he returned he showed me how carefully he’d cleaned it out and asked for his payment. But, and this of course was all stipulated in our prior arrangement, instead of giving him a coin, I seize the broom and fall to belaboring him with the handle.
“Your payment, villain?” I cry, “why, here’s what you deserve.”
And I bestow at least a dozen blows upon him. He seeks to escape me, I pursue him, and the libertine, whose critical moment has arrived, discharges all the way down the stairs, bawling out at the top of his voice that they’re cracking his skull, that they want to kill him, and that he’s got himself into the house of a scoundrel, she’s not by any means the honest woman he at first took her for, etc.
Another carried, in a small pocket case, a little knotty stick which he kept for an unusual purpose; he wanted me to insert the stick into his urethral canal, and, having plunged it in to a depth of three inches, to rattle it with utmost vigor, and with my other hand to pull back his foreskin and frig his poor device. At the very instant he discharged, one had to pull out the stick, raise one’s skirts in front, and he would discharge upon one’s mound.
Six months later I had to do with an abbot who wanted me to take a burning candle and direct the drops of molten tallow so that they fell upon his penis and balls; it required nothing more than the sensation this ceremony produced to bring about his discharge. His machine required no touching, but it remained limp throughout; before they would yield fuck, his genitals had to be given such a heavy coating of wax that toward the end there was no recognizing this strange object as a part of the human anatomy.
That ecclesiastic had a friend who loved nothing so much as to offer his bum to be perforated by a multitude of gold pins, and when thus decorated, his hindquarter far more resembling a pincushion than an ordinary ass, he would sit down, the better to savor the effect he cherished, and, presenting one’s very widespread buttocks to him, he would twiddle his member and discharge into one’s vent.
“Durcet,” said the Duc, “I should very much like to see that sweet chubby ass of yours studded all over with golden pins, ah yes, I’m persuaded ’twould thus appear more interesting than ever.”
“Your Grace,” quoth the financier, “you know that for forty years it has been my glory and my honor to imitate you in all things; I but ask you to have the
kindness to set me an example, and you have my word that I will follow it.”
“God’s loin-scum!” exclaimed the good Curval, who had not until now been heard from, “by His sacred seed, I do declare that story about Lucile has made me stiff! I’ve held my peace, but my head’s been at work none the less. Look here,” said he, exhibiting his prick standing high, “see whether I do not say true. I’ve a furious impatience to hear the denouement of the story of those three buggeresses; I have the highest hope they’ll meet one another in a common grave.”
“Softly there, softly,” said the Duc, “let’s not anticipate events. Were you not stiff, Monsieur le Président, you’d not be in such a hurry to hear talk of wheels and gibbets. You resemble a great many other of Justice’s servitors, whose pricks, they say, rise up every time they pronounce the sentence of death.”
“Never mind the magistrature,” Curval replied, “the fact remains that I am enchanted by Duclos’ doings, that I find her a charming girl, and that her story of the Comte has put me in a dreadful state, and in this state, I say, I could be easily persuaded to go abroad, stop a carriage on the highway, and rob its occupants.”
“Ah, Président, take care,” said the Bishop; “keep a hand upon yourself, my dear fellow, else we’ll cease to be in safety here. One such slip, and the least we could expect would be the noose for all of us.”
“The noose? Ah, the noose, yes . . . but not for us. However, I don’t for a minute deny I’d myself gladly condemn these young ladies here to be hanged, and especially Madame la Duchesse, who’s lying like a cow upon my sofa and who, merely because she’s got a spoonful of modified fuck in the womb, fancies no one dares touch her any more.”
“Oh,” said Constance, “’tis surely not with you I count upon being respected because of my state. Your loathing for pregnant women is only too notorious.”
“A prodigious loathing, isn’t it?” said Curval with a chuckle, “why, indeed it is prodigious.”
And, transported by enthusiasm, he was, I believe, on the verge of committing some sacrilege against that superb belly, when Duclos intervened.
“Come, Sire, come with me,” said she; “since ’tis I who have caused the hurt, I’d like to repair it.”
And together they passed into the secluded boudoir, followed by Augustine, Hébé, Cupidon, and Thérèse. It was not long before the Président’s braying resounded through the castle, and despite all Duclos’ attentions, little Hébé returned weeping from the hurly-burly; there was even more to it than tears, but we dare not yet disclose just what it was had set her to trembling. A little patience, friend reader, and we shall soon hide nothing from your inquisitive gaze.
And now Curval himself returns, grumbling between his teeth and swearing that all those dratted laws prevent a man from discharging at his ease, etc.; their Lordships sit down at table. After supper they withdrew to mete out punishment for the misbehavior that had accrued during the week, but the guilty were not that evening in great number: only Sophie, Colombe, Adelaide, and Zélamir merited correction, and received it. Durcet, who since the beginning of the evening had waxed very hot, and who had been particularly inspired by Adelaide, granted her no quarter; Sophie, whom they had detected shedding tears during the story of the Comte, was punished for that misdemeanor as well as for her former one, and the Duc and Curval, we understand, treated the day’s little newlyweds, Zélamir and Colombe, with a severity that almost bordered upon barbarity.
The Duc and Curval, in splendid form and singularly wrought up, said they had no wish to retire, and having had a quantity of beverages fetched in, they passed the night drinking with the four storytellers and Julie, whose libertinage, increasing every day, gave her the air of a very amiable creature who deserved to be ranked among those objects for whom Messieurs had some regard. The following morning, while making his rounds, Durcet found all seven of them dead drunk. The naked girl was discovered lodged between her father and her husband and in a posture which gave evidence of neither virtue nor decency in libertinage; it was plain enough to the financier that (to hold the reader in suspense no longer) they had both enjoyed her simultaneously. Duclos, who, from all appearances, had functioned as an instrument to this crime, lay sprawled near the compact trio, and the others were strewn in a confused heap in the corner opposite the fire, which someone had taken care to keep burning throughout the night.
THE TWENTY-SECOND DAY
As a result of these all-night bacchanals, exceedingly little was accomplished on the twenty-second day of November; half the customary exercises were forgot, at dinner Messieurs appeared to be in a daze, and it was not until coffee they began to come somewhat to their senses. The coffee was served them by Rosette and Sophie, Zélamir and Giton. In an effort to return to his usual old self, Curval had Giton shit, and the Duc swallowed Rosette’s turd; the Bishop had himself sucked by Sophie, Durcet by Zélamir, but no one discharged. They moved dutifully into the auditorium; the matchless Duclos, weak and queasy after the preceding day’s excesses, took her place with drooping eyelids, and her tales were so brief, they contained so few episodes, were recounted so listlessly, that we have taken it upon ourselves to supply them, and in the reader’s behalf to clarify the somewhat confused speech she made to our friends.
In keeping with prescription, she recounted five passions: the first was that of a man who used to have his ass frigged with a tin dildo priorly charged with warm water, the which liquid was pumped into his fundament at the same instant he ejaculated; nothing else was required to obtain that effect, he needed no one else’s ministry.
The second man had the same mania, but was wont to use a far greater number of instruments; initially, he called for a very minute one, then gradually increased the caliber, ascending the scale by small fractions of an inch until he reached a weapon with the dimensions of a veritable fieldpiece, and only discharged upon receiving a torrent from its muzzle.
Far more of the mysterious was required to please the third one’s palate: at the outset of the game, he had an enormous instrument introduced into his ass, then it was withdrawn, he would shit, would eat what he had just rendered, and next he had to be flogged. The flogging administered, it was time to reinsert the formidable device in his rectum, then once again it was removed, and now it was the whore’s turn to shit, and after that she picked up the whip again and lashed him while he munched what she had done; a third time, yes, a third time the instrument was driven home, and that, plus the girl’s turd he finished eating, was sufficient to complete his happiness.
In her fourth tale, Duclos made mention of a man who would have all his joints bound with strings; in order to make his discharge even more delicious, his neck itself was compressed, and, half choking, he would shoot his fuck squarely at the whore’s asshole.
And in her fifth, she referred to that individual who used to tie a slender cord tightly to his glans; the girl, naked, would pass the other end of the cord between her thighs, and walk away from him, drawing the cord taut and offering the patient a full view of her ass; he would then discharge.
Truly exhausted after having fulfilled her task, the storyteller begged leave to retire, and she was allowed to. A few moments were devoted to uttering smutty comments upon this and that, and then the four libertines went to supper, but everyone felt the effects of our two principal actors’ disorderliness. At the orgies they were also as prudent and restrained as ’twere possible for such debauchees to be, and the entire household went more or less quietly to bed.
THE TWENTY-THIRD DAY
“But how is it possible to shout and roar the way you do when you discharge?” the Duc demanded of Curval upon bidding him good morning on the 23rd. “Why the devil must you scream that way? I’ve never seen such violent discharges.”
“Why, by God,” Curval replied, “is it for you, whom one can hear a league away, to address such a reproach to a modest man like myself? Those little murmurs you hear, my good friend, are caused by my extremely sensitive nervous sys
tem; the objects which excite our passions create such a lively commotion in the electrically charged fluid that flows in our nerves, the shock received by the animal spirits composing this fluid is of such a degree of violence, that the entire mechanism is rattled by these effects, and one is just as powerless to suppress one’s cries when overwhelmed by the terrible blows imparted by pleasure, as one would be when assailed by the powerful emotions of pain.”
“Well, you define the thing very well, Président, but what was the delicate object that could have produced such a vibration in your animal spirits?”
“I was very energetically sucking Adonis’ prick, his mouth, and his asshole, for I was cast down with despair at not being able to do more to my couch companion; all the while I made the best of my hard situation, Antinoüs, seconded by your dear daughter Julie, labored, each in his own way, to evacuate the liquor whose eventual outpouring occasioned the musical sounds which, you say, struck your ears.”
“And it all worked so well that now, today,” said the Duc, “you’re as weak as a baby.”
“No, your Grace, not at all,” Curval declared; “deign but to observe my career, my motions today, and but do me the honor of judging my style and vehemence in sport, and you shall see me conduct myself quite as ever, and assuredly as well as you yourself.”
They were at this point in the conversation when Durcet arrived to say breakfast was being served. They passed into the girls’ quarters, where those eight charming little houris were distributing cups of coffee and hot water; the Duc therewith demanded to know of Durcet, the month’s steward and presiding officer, why was it the coffee was being served with water?
“You’ll have it with milk whenever you wish,” said the financier. “Would you prefer it thus now?”
The 120 Days of Sodom and Other Writings Page 54