Juliette

by Marquis de Sade

  Noticing that Delcour was not binding the husband to the stake quite as firmly as he wished, Saint-Fond lent the executioner his assistance, and showered a further series of blows upon the man’s face and behind.

  “I shall kill him myself,” he told Delcour. “Yes, I want to have the pleasure of shedding his blood in person.”

  As always methodically combining horror and lechery, he bent forward, sucked Cloris’ prick a moment, then kissed his ass. Delcour being hard by, he took that worthy’s prick in his mouth too, and tongued his vent; straightened up and glued his lips to Delcour’s; and after five minutes of this, confided to me, “That’s the only thing that really puts a little snap in my whip.” There followed an interval during which Saint-Fond was plunged in crapulousness and atrocity; emerging from these, he returned to objects of my sex.

  “Ah, my Lord!” said those poor creatures as he drew near them, “what have we done to deserve such barbarous treatment?”

  “Be courageous, wife,” cried the luckless husband, “death shall soon deliver us from these outrages, we’ll suffer no more and remorse shall gnaw at this monster’s soul.”

  “Remorse,” said Saint-Fond, chuckling, “is not a sentiment wherewith I shall ever have acquaintance, lest it be for sparing you.”

  First to be unbound was Madame de Cloris. She was brought to the Minister.

  “Ah, whore,” said he, “do you remember all the obstacles you hurled in my path, all your stubbornness in the past? Dear cousin, cherished cousin, sweet cousin, I’ll have you cheap today.”

  His erection was something extraordinary to behold; he falls to pawing the woman’s charms; catching her around the waist, he brutally encunts her before the very eyes of her husband, whose prick, thanks to the position Saint-Fond has adopted, he is able to mouth the while. And I, finding his ass a fair target, strap a dildo about my loins and embugger him; men and women together, all the others save Julie and Cloris surround him. Into his hands, before his eyes, I place cunts, asses, pricks, bubs in profusion; excited by the demon of cruelty, his fingers rake about, his nails claw and tear whatever they touch; but they rove with especial predilection over the breasts of the unhappy woman his rage feeds upon: these he scrapes, nips, bloodies incontinently.

  “Take that stuff away, Juliette,” says he, decunting from the mother in order to have at the daughter, “I’m tired of discharging. Little whore,” he declares to the innocent creature under his belly, “your father and your mother are both aware of all I did in my attempts to gain possession of you: I have you today, and today they’re going to regret having thwarted me previously.”

  He then had Cloris placed in such wise that while fucking the daughter he might have a clear view of papa’s handsome hindquarters, the which Delcour was to thwack with one hand as, with the other, he molested mama’s buttocks, both their asses being at the same height, and adjacent. ’Tis I who help him depucelate Julie: he takes good aim, he presses, he thrusts, he encunts; and eight poised asses ring him round. He is sodomized: and the wicked wight, considering the torments Delcour is inflicting not severe enough, snatches up a small stiletto and indiscriminately pricks the mother’s dugs, the daughter’s shoulders, the father’s rear. Blood flows.

  “Aye, but I’ll not discharge into this vessel of abomination,” snaps the satyr, decunting; “no; it’s rather there,” says he, fondling the father’s bum, “the shrine at which I’ll do my sacrifice.”

  He gives orders that Cloris, his hands still tied, be stretched out upon the fatal sofa.

  “Delcour, noose a cord around his neck; if we have any resistance from him, tighten till it ceases.”

  Again superintending the operation, I artfully guide the fiery courser to the edge of the road it is to charge down; there’s not a murmur out of poor Cloris. Squarely ahead of him are posted the mother’s bosom on the right and on the left the daughter’s pretty little ass. The Minister is no sooner ensheathed in the bowels he has been coveting, than his hands, one of them wielding the dread stiletto, begin to stray hither and yon about the attractions displayed to him and so displayed that, whenever he jabs, ’tis upon the father’s head flows the blood drawn from the wife or from the daughter. As all this goes forward I diddle about his asshole and my women prick his buttocks with hatpins.

  “Ah, well,” says he after a time, “it seems I’m yet again mistaken. My sperm won’t loosen, and I fancy that’s because I want first to explore this truly very winning family’s asses. Delcour, chain the old bardash back to the stake, he’s been of no use save to cover my prick with shit. You, the tall one,” says he to Montalme, “come lick it clean.”

  Detecting in Montalme a certain unreadiness to comply, Saint-Fond instantly commands Delcour to administer a hundred lashes to teach her obedience.

  “Ah, the whore, the whore,” he murmurs while her instructor toils over her, “you are loath to suck my prick because it’s beshitted? Whatever shall you do when in a little while I give you mards to eat?”

  Montalme, well whipped, returns in a different humor; she sucks the lecher, tidies his member, cleans his asshole out next; and going tranquilly, back to work, there he is sodomizing the mother, the while molesting the ass of the father on the one side, his daughter’s cunt on the other. These exercises occupy him only briefly; now he fastens upon Julie, saying, “I hope this will turn the trick.”

  Ever in the pilot’s role, I steer him into Julie’s hindward channel, and once he is safe berthed every conceivable thing is done to deliver him of his seed; but, whether from villainy or from contrariness or from impotence, he quits this ass too, declaring he’s spent and if he’s to recover his strength must thrash the whole family. The father, already secured to the post, is flogged first. Straightway he’s all bloodied, his wife is tied with her belly to his back; a thousand strokes lay her ass open, then little Julie, camped upon her mother’s shoulders, is given the same treatment.

  “Unassemble them,” says the centaur, “’twas an agreeable episode, now we’ll essay another: I’ll whip the youngster afresh, but her parents will hold her this time. Juliette, and you, Delcour, take you each a pistol, clap it to their heads, and if while I’m at work on their child they so much as flinch, blow their brains out.”

  In charge of the mother, I wanted nothing so much as to have her show some recalcitrance; but, taking comfort in the thought she was soon to die under circumstances far less mild than mere shooting, I grew cheerful again after having been downcast and alarmed initially by her submissiveness. Poor Julie, abused with unexampled fury, first lashed with withes, was next flogged with a martinet the thongs whereof had her blood splashing all about the room; when done with her, Saint-Fond falls upon her father and using no other weapon but this martinet, its lashes iron-tipped, has him swimming in blood inside three minutes. The mother is seized without delay, she is installed on the edge of the sofa, her legs at the greatest possible spread and he bends the martinet to her, aiming his blows so they will strike into her open womb. I followed him wherever he went, now frigging him, now beating him, now sucking his tongue, or his prick. Raging, he wheels on the daughter, bestows upon her a pair of blows so terribly violent she and her manacles fly all aheap; the mother would come to her aid, he awaits her; kicked in the belly, she lands five yards off. Cloris was rolling his eyes, foaming at the mouth, but he dared not utter a word; bound hand and foot, what could he do? The girl is hauled to her feet; Saint-Fond directs the executioner to cunt-fuck her, and he himself, he sodomizes the executioner, while I, employing sweet words and having unbound him, I promise the father his life will be spared and his family’s also if he can succeed in buggering the Minister. Hope ever rises up in the soul of the doomed: cunningly frigged by my hand, his quivering lance penetrates the chink. Saint-Fond, positively thrilled to feel so stout a prick in his fundament, dances and skips like the gleeful fish thrown back into water after having been a while in the air.

  “’Tis divine, and he’s assured of release and safety,�
� says the Minister, “if, profiting speedily from the admirable state my ass tells me his prick is in, he consents to bugger-fuck his daughter.”

  “Monsieur,” I said to this gentleman, “ought you hesitate? For is it not better a hundred times that you fuck your child than murder her?”

  “Murder her!”

  “Why yes, Monsieur; do you refuse and she’s undone. Dead, I say, if you balk.”

  And the while one of the women holds the little girl’s buttocks at full divide and moistens the hole within, I quickly snatch the engine out of Saint-Fond’s bum and clap it to the threshold of Julie’s; but Cloris, in revolt, drives not past the gate.

  “So be it, so be it, since he won’t fuck her,” says Saint-Fond, “she’ll have to die.”

  At this cruel pronouncement resistance melts away. I fit the girl’s loins up near the member, I push it into the anus; for as much as the requisite preparations have all been made, my efforts culminate in triumph, and Cloris who would not become the child-murderer becomes incestuous to the tune of a liberal outgushing of fuck. Délie was fustigating Saint-Fond, in the meantime he was vexing the mother’s ass and kissing the buttocks of one of the lackeys; but this lackey is soon fucking him, and now a close-on view of Délie’s behind seems to inspire him. The inconstant Saint-Fond ordered this group dissolved too; still stubbornly holding his seed in check, he appears before us in a greater fury than any wild beast: he shrieks, he bellows, there’s foam on his lips, curses in his mouth; as soon as Delcour spews into Julie’s cunt, he has him embugger her mother. At length the storm abates a little; Saint-Fond resumes his chair and orders me to bring up for his examination the three young girls of whom heretofore he has not taken anything but casual notice. He fingers and caresses their asses a quarter of an hour; he separates their buttocks, he compresses them, he compares them; and I frig him all this while; and he admits that, in a word, I have never found him better stuff. He is especially taken by Fulvie.

  “I’d bugger her, be sure of it,” the lecher remarked, “if I didn’t fear I’d discharge.”

  After reviewing the three girls he wishes to review the four women; Palmire enchants him, never, says he, has he seen the like of her, and the lovely girl’s matchless ass has him dumbfounded and doting for ten minutes.

  Then he turns to me. “Instruct all these whores to get down on their knees in a semicircle around me; then to creep forward and pay their respects to my prick, and to suck it, one by one.”

  I give the order, it is carried out, and while each suckles his engine she receives a couple of smart slaps.

  “Well now,” says he, when that ceremony is over, “it’s my ass’s turn, have them approach one after the other and do it fitting worship and lick it.”

  Off they go to their new chore and while it is being done he sucks pricks, including, as you may well imagine, those of Cloris and Delcour.

  “The time has come, Juliette,” says he, “to end this first scene.”

  Whereupon the villain embuggers little Julie, the valets hold the mother and father while he bores and scrapes the child’s ass. Armed with a razor, Delcour steps up and prepares to sever her head.

  “Be in no hurry about it, Delcour,” he cries, “I want my beloved niece to know what’s happening to her, she’s not to die before I’ve done fucking her.”

  Delcour laid the cutting edge to skin and at once the child set up a ghastly wailing and screeching.

  “Proceed, proceed,” said Saint-Fond, well lodged in her ass, “but go softly, you’ve no idea the repercussions all this is having on my nervous system. Bend this way a little, Delcour, so that I can warm your member while you work. Juliette, pay your respects to Delcour’s ass, worship it; he’s become a god in my consideration. And bring the mother’s ass inside my reach, I want to kiss it while I have her daughter murdered.”

  But what were those kisses! Great God, they were bites so cruel the blood leapt forth at each. A valet embuggered him, the scoundrel’s ecstasy was unspeakable.

  “Ah, I savor crime, I do indeed,” he exclaimed, uttering many incoherent oaths, “I adore crime, it bewitches me.”

  Delcour cuts with exquisite slowness…. Cloris is deathly pale, half in a swoon, he averts his horror-filled gaze. Julie’s beautiful head falls at last, like a rose that finally yields to the unflagging north wind.

  “Than what I have just experienced there is probably nothing more voluptuous,” announces Saint-Fond, withdrawing from the cadaver, “’tis unimaginable, the constriction resulting in the anus from a gradual incision performed upon the nape vertebrae, it is delicious. All right now, Madame, prepare to give me the same pleasure.”

  And the scene begins anew. Estimating that the operation is going ahead too rapidly, Saint-Fond suspends it.

  “I dare say they are few who realize,” he observes, “how heavenly it is to slice through the neck of a woman whom in your gigantic weakness you loved in days bygone. I am being very splendidly revenged upon my cousin; it’s the sort of thing you are fain to have last forever.”

  He continued frigging the headsman’s prick, but he would now kiss my buttocks; a valet tups him bumwise, another inserts in Delcour who resumes carving; the father has been adjusted so that I, armed with switches, can slash away at his privities. My ferocious lover is in raptures, he feasts upon the slow sufferings of his relative, whose head is at last sundered fifteen minutes later. And now ’tis Cloris’ turn. He is placed in the position the operation demands, and bound. Saint-Fond sodomizes, the killer sets to work, valets yet embugger them both. This time it is Montalme’s magnificent behind Saint-Fond elects to kiss. The other women encircle him, displaying their asses; the bomb does finally burst. Heavens! if mighty Lucifer were to take it upon himself to discharge, me-thinks he’d unloose his seed less thunderously, would not foam so much at the mouth nor so gnash his teeth, at the gods would not hurl blasphemies and imprecations so fearful. While Saint-Fond remains behind, resting, I escort the seven women and the two valets into the next room. The Minister has soon rejoined us, but, like Wenceslas, his headsman is ever at his side; a few revels of a milder kind are, however, to precede the anthropophagical orgies of our latter-day Nero, and now for a space fuck is perhaps to flow before the bloodshedding resumes.

  Nonetheless, considering the man I was dealing with, it was necessary that I hew to the line laid down by his favorite pleasures: the voluptuous groups awaiting him had been disposed about in three alcoves decorated with all that is emblematic of Death. The entire room was hung in black, bones, skulls, a great store of rods, switches, withes, martinets, and knives were the furnitures; in each niche, a virgin was being cunt-lapped by a Lesbian, both naked, reposing upon black cushions, and upon their brows wearing the skull and crossbones device. Within each niche one of the lately severed heads was plainly visible, and in front of these niches there were on the right a coffin, and to the left a little round table upon which lay a pistol, a goblet of poison, and a dagger; from somewhere (doubtless from my desire to please my lover) I had got the idea of sawing up the bodies of the three victims sacrificed a little before, gone was everything below mid-thigh and from the waist up, and cords depending from hooks sunk in the intercolumniations between the niches held these chunks of meat mouth-high. These were the objects Saint-Fond first caught sight of when he entered.

  “My goodness,” sighed he after he’d kissed them all, “here they are again, and I’m most content to see them, these asses which recently gave me such delight.”

  A dim, a lugubrious lamp hung in the middle of the room whose vaults were likewise covered with dismal appurtenances; various instruments of torture were scattered here and there, among other objects one saw a most unusual wheel. It revolved inside a drum, the inner surface of which was studded with steel spikes; the victim, bent in an arc upon the circumference of the wheel, would, as it turned, be rent everywhere by the fixed spikes; by means of a spring device the drum could be tightened, so that, as the spikes grated flesh away, t
hey could be brought closer and contact with the diminished mass maintained. This torture was the more horrible in as much as it was exceedingly gradual, and the victim might well endure ten hours of slow and appalling agony before giving up the ghost. To accelerate or slow the procedure one had but to decrease or widen the distance between the wheel and the compassing drum; this machine, of Delcour’s contriving, had not yet been essayed by Saint-Fond; upon seeing it, he waxed very enthusiastic and then and there gave its inventor a fifty-thousand-francs gratuity. From that moment on his single preoccupation was to choose her from among the three victims who would be immolated in this manner; his perfidious gaze flitted from one girl to the next. Gods! the conclusion was foregone: the unlucky Fulvie, being the most beautiful, stood condemned in the tyrant’s heart, of this I was sure. A kiss he applied to that lovely creature’s asshole the moment he was done contemplating the terrible machine erased all doubt; but of all that in due time.

  Between Delcour and me, Saint-Fond first starts by settling himself in one after the other of the three armchairs which were placed one in front of each alcove. Palmire, of my women alone not employed in a niche, is posted behind his chair and is reaching around and polluting him; he is dandling Delcour’s prick and toying with my ass; and he scrutinizes the scene before him. Each tribade is mindful to ensure him a good view of the body of the little girl she is frigging in every sector and in every possible manner and attitude; often, indeed, the child is brought to him so that he may kiss her in divers parts. He rises, goes to the next niche, then to the third; then comes back to the first; in the meantime Delcour flogs him; and now again he has somebody fuck him, and I suck him; I remark his device beginning to assume size and vibrancy; he embuggers me after a while (this occurred opposite the niche where Blaisine was toiling over Fulvie), it was then, as he was embracing that charming girl’s ass, he glanced aside at me and whispered in my ear, “That’s the one who’s to baptize the wheel. What a pretty tickling it’ll give those delectable little buttocks.”