Juliette

by Marquis de Sade

  “Fie upon you, Juliette!” he replied. “You are forever suspecting me of horrors, I sense it. Much surprised you would be, I dare say, if I were to produce the person for you right now.”

  “I defy you to do it.”

  “Very well, there she is,” Cordelli retorted, pointing to one of the corpses suspended from a hook upon the wall; “that is the boy’s mother, ask him if you do not believe me. I depucelated the dear lad, here in this room, and that was scarcely thirty-six hours ago. Yes, here, as he lay in the arms of his loving and then living mother; and shortly afterward, as he will confirm, yes, before his very eyes, utilizing a curious torture, I sent his mama to the place where today I am going, in a manner no less curious, to send his nabs, madame’s darling son.” And the rascal, polluted by me, grew inordinately stiff.

  He has one of the old women contain the child; upon his instructions, I moisten the gomorrhean orifice, I guide the shaft; Durand sucks Cordelli’s Ganymede from below, and the Italian embuggers while colling my behind.

  Nimble as ever, ever sufficiently in control of himself to strike deep and yet only graze the edge of pleasure, Cordelli, without it having cost him a drop of fuck, withdraws from this ass too.

  The other youth is brought to him. The same ceremony, the same economy of sperm; and the tradesman having camped one atop the other, thrashes them both simultaneously. From time to time he pauses to suck a prick. Finally, impelled by a furious surge of lust, he bites the balls of the first-fucked, bites them so terribly that the child loses consciousness. Unperturbed, Cordelli moves on to other things. One of his daughters is led up; she was not a beauty, but about her there was something so mild, an air of modesty and innocence so irresistible that there was no refusing her one’s stintless homage.

  “A virgin, that one,” said Cordelli, “of that there is no question; however, since I am no longer capable of catching an erection for a cunt, you,” he went on, nodding to the duennas, “shall lay her flat on this sofa, and hold her still.”

  And as soon as he has that pleasant child’s two voluptuous buttocks well in perspective, the sinner molests them, pinches them, and claws them with such speed and such force that they are all ableeding the next minute: therewith he embuggers. Thinking to have acquired from that ass the vigor needed to attempt the cunt, he presents himself before it; and, his illusion sustained by our libertine fingerings and kisses and yet more so by the asses we offer to his caresses, success crowns his efforts, he blasts the maidenhead. He withdraws an incarnadine member to thrust it home again into the sanctuary he prefers, and after a few more such mingled attacks, he comes back to discharge in the ass of one of the boys whom to this end he has kept nearby him throughout all his activities up until now. He discharges, I say. A clap of thunder, one would have called it. I thought he was going to shake the house down. We were clustered around him; he was kissing my buttocks, an old woman was flogging him, Durand was socratizing him, Elise was tickling his balls, he was pinching Raimonde’s ass, examining that of the little boy and that of the little girl posted ahead of him; in sum, everything, everyone, concurred in provoking a discharge the power of which is not readily to be described.

  “Fuck!” he exclaimed when he was done, “the time has come for some horrors, they are indispensable if I am to get myself back into form.”

  “Then horrors you shall have, my friend, horrors you shall have,” said I, consoling his prick by mouthing it, by squeezing it, by carefully evacuating the very last drop of fuck from it.3

  Cordelli was grateful for these attentions. The crowd encircles him once again while I suck him; his mouth finds that of the girl he has just devirginated, one would have thought he designed to tear her tongue out by the roots, so forcefully did he suck it. By and by, who would believe it? through an incredible incongruity, ’tis the fetid maw of one of the crones he fastens upon and tongues for a quarter of an hour; and the foul fellow abandons it only in order, with identical delight, to pump the mouth of that one of his executioners he signals for. This last excess is the decisive one: I begin to feel the effects of the miracle. Cordelli takes one of my hands and, placing it upon the villain’s instrument, I am awestruck at discovering that the article in my grasp is thicker than my upper arm and almost as long as one of my thighs.

  “Take that prick, Juliette,” the Italian says to me, “and steer it into the cunt of the little girl I have just deflowered. Keep in mind, if you will, that it must enter regardless of the consequences.”

  Initial attempts proving futile, there was nothing else to do but bind the victim; Cordelli ordered her four limbs secured by ropes made fast to the floor, in such sort as to ensure fair access to both her holes: thus, if his man failed to fight his way into one of them, he could take refuge in the other. I wheeled the engine into position; Cordelli was urging the champion on from behind; lean and hairy though those hinder parts were, the lecher tongued them contentedly, and looked to be ready to fuck them the moment that individual’s enormous device was niched where he wanted it to be. By dint of skill we succeed: the prick penetrates into the girl’s cunt, and death’s livid hue upon her brow attests to the damnable state of her physique. Cordelli, however, his eye fixed upon that extraordinary tool, soon issues commands to make for the other port; I act as pilot. Jostled, strained in every fiber, Nature gradually yields to resolute pressure, as she always does; nevertheless, the anus splits, blood gushes forth, and the Italian, in seventh heaven, hanging in the fucker’s bowels, smites him from the rear as he himself smites to the fore.

  Oh, God of Justice! what contrasts! Imagine, if you can, that pretty little face, so touching, so sweet; that face being nastily kissed by the most unprepossessing and the grimmest figure of a man to be found anywhere on earth, his bristly moustaches withering the lilies and the roses in the loveliest possible complexion, and with execrable blasphemies replying to the plaintive entreaties of the most innocent soul. Picture, my friends, on the other side, the infamous Cordelli preferring, to the beauties surrounding him, that paid murderer’s loathsome bum; tonguing that vent, feeding upon it with the same ardor that would ordinarily have animated anybody else before a pretty and youthful novice; inserting his prick thereinto, and finally ordering Durand to strangle the victim when his man discharges.

  It all comes about: the unlucky child expires. And the Italian, debuggering, offers us a purpling, sharply risen prick, fit now for every kind of outrage.

  “There I am, back in fettle once again,” says he. “And there’s one of them dead already. I behaved with restraint, my friends, as you noticed; for I do not believe one could more mildly put a person to death.”

  One of the duennas thought to remove the corpse.

  “Do not touch it, buggeress!” the merchant shouted, “those sights arouse me, how could you be unaware of the fact?” And the wicked man, pressing his face to that of his unhappy daughter, dares pluck hideous kisses from features twisted by death and reflecting, instead of the graces which used to play there before, only the convulsions of pain … only the contortions of despair.

  “Durand,” says the master of the house, “bring this man’s prick up again: I want him to be fucking me while I explore both the orifices of my remaining daughter.”

  Preparations are made. Cordelli embuggers; buggery was usually his opening move. His man fucks him without preliminary oilings; what need of them had an asshole so amply proportioned? Elise and Raimonde are there, he kisses their behinds, to his right and left he handles those of his two sons, whose pricks are being sucked by Durand and me. From ass Cordelli skips to cunt, and the objects beneath his fingers vary. His man discharges: he summons the other. That other, at least as well furnished as his colleague, but of still more fearful aspect, if that be possible, vigorously sodomizes his employer and fires a pair of charges into his fundament. The orgies begin to take on a serious note.

  “All right, by little Jesus’ bugger-fucked Father,” our host roars, very wroth, “crimes, I need crimes, I need a
bominations, upon them I depend for further ejaculations, and in the chapter of ejaculations my selfishness is such that should it cost the life of every damned one of you in this room, why I’d slaughter the lot without an instant’s hesitation to obtain a good discharge.”

  “With whom are you of a mind to start, villain?” I then ventured-to ask.

  “With you … with some other … with I don’t care whom; little does it matter provided it stiffens me. Bah, do you fancy there is anyone here whose life counts more with me than another’s? Come, let us try this little slut,” the rogue said, catching the trembling Elise by one breast and dragging her thus along on her knees. He called for tongs, and while I frigged him, while one of the executioners immobilized the victim, and while everyone else formed a hedge of bare asses around him, the barbarian had the patience and the determination to nip the girl’s breasts to pieces, removing small bit by small bit until he had so perfectly flattened out her chest that not even a suspicion remained of the two snow-white mammaries which had been embellishing it a few hours before.

  This operation completed, the victim is presented to him in another position; held by four persons, her thighs are spread to the utmost, and her cunt gapes perfectly within his view.

  “There we are,” says the cannibal, “I am going to toil awhile in the workshop of the human species.”

  I was sucking him this time; his tongs forage about for fifteen minutes, he buries them as far in as they will go.

  “Turn her over,” he cries.

  The most beautiful buttocks in the whole wide world are presented to him now, he pries them apart, his cruel pincers disappear into the anus and that delicate part is attacked with the same frenzy as the other. And it is I, I, once mad about this lovely creature, it is I who now exhort her assassin, who exhort him to treat her thus. Baneful inconstancy of the passions, whither then you can drive us! Had she been unknown to me, I might perhaps have felt some indulgence toward that poor creature; but ’tis unheard of, what one invents, what one says, what one does, when disgust has withered the tender petals of the flower of love.

  Elise, swimming in her own blood, was breathing still; Cordelli contemplates her delightedly in her voluptuous agony; crime takes mighty pride in its works. Cordelli obliges me to frig his prick against the carnage he has wrought, he is thrilled to steep his member in the blood his hand has shed; and it is with a dagger he finishes off Elise.

  One of his sons replaces my tribade. Cordelli has the window opened on the seaward side of the room. The child is attached to a rope fifty feet long, whose other end is secured to a beam; and then the child is dropped. “Are you ready?” the author of his days shouts down to him, exhibiting the knife with which he has but to slash through the rope: one quick gesture and the boy will disappear forever into a watery grave. From below rise the child’s screams; I frig his father; that father kisses Raimonde, he frigs one of his executioners while the other bum-fucks him, stabbing a pin into his buttocks as he does so. The rope is pulled in, the child is retrieved; but he is not unbound.

  “Say, wert afraid?” asks the tradesman. “Didst have a fright?”

  “No more, father, for pity’s sake, for pity’s sake—”

  “Little bastard,” Cordelli sneers, “learn that the word father means nothing in my ears, nothing; I am deaf to it. Turn around: I must fuck you before feeding you to the fish. Yes, dear boy, to the fish, that is to be your fate: see what a powerful sway kindred ties exert over my heart!”

  The scoundrel embuggers: while he is busy afucking, an additional length of rope is joined to the first one: this time it will be a two-hundred-foot fall. Two or three lunges and Cordelli retires, nodding to the executioners who thereupon seize the child and hurl him bodily out the window, from a height, that is, of two hundred feet, a distance he has no sooner traveled than the rope, suddenly checking his descent, thoroughly dislocates his limbs at the point where he halts. From there he is hauled back up. Broken inside and out, the poor lad was entirely out of shape.

  “Another bum-tupping,” said the Italian.

  “And then another tumble,” said Durand.

  “Certainly; but lengthened yet a little more, the rope will not interrupt his ride till he is twenty-five feet above the waves.”

  The re-fucked child is rethrown, recovered almost inanimate. His father fucks him for the last time; and when he is dangling ten feet above the surface of the water, “Ready?” the ferocious Italian bawled down to him; “your final moment is nigh.”

  And he cuts the rope; and the sea at last provides the unhappy boy a haven of repose.

  “That passion,” I remark to Cordelli, “is one of the prettiest in my acquaintance.”

  “It heats you, Juliette?”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  “Then give me your ass to fuck. That will soothe you.” Cordelli filed away in me for a quarter of an hour, plotting new pieces of mischief. Then ’twas Raimonde he called for. Her fate was writ in the Italian’s eyes, and she read it there at once.

  “Oh, dearest mistress!” she said, clutching at me with outstretched arms, “is it then decided that I shall be surrendered to this monster? I who loved you so….”

  Laughter was my only response. And his trusties having marched the darling thing up to him, the traitor began with some caresses; he fondles and kisses all her fleshy parts; he tongues, tickles the clitoris, embuggers, hovers ten minutes in the depths of Raimonde’s bowels, and she is cast naked into an iron cage filled with toads, reptiles, snakes, vipers, rabid dogs and cats which have not fed for five days. The wretch’s shrieks, her contortions, her twitchings once the animals got at her, her antics were beyond anything one can imagine; her pain, her distress were pathetic beyond anything one could believe, I was overcome by the sight; Durand was frigging me beside the cage, Cordelli, sucked by a duenna, was fucking nearby. It took but a moment for that multitude of creatures to swarm over Raimonde, and the moment after that there was not a great deal of her to be seen. The beasts made for her tastier parts, breasts and buttocks vanished in less time than it takes to tell. The unfortunate event occurred when, as she opened her mouth to scream, a viper slithered into her gullet and she choked to death, well before it suited our pleasures. At that critical instant the other executioner was fucking Cordelli, the rogue was sodomizing one elder while tonguing the asshole of the second, palpating my buttocks with one hand and those of his surviving daughter with the other, and Durand was frigging me amain.

  “Ha!” exclaimed Cordelli, uttering a string of coarse oaths and jerking his prick rudely out of the duenna’s fundament, “I’d thought that by sodomizing this old pump I would avoid the danger of a discharge, and blast my ass! I am on the brink of one.”

  “No, my dear, nothing of the sort must be allowed to happen,” said I, bending his prick head downward; “let us dwell upon other matters for a moment.”

  “Well,” said the tradesman, “what think you of the cage as a way to die, Juliette? I conceived of it for that slut the very first instant I saw her ass: it is enough for me to examine that part of a woman and her death sentence is dictated. If you like, Juliette, I shall inscribe yours upon your behind itself.”

  And as he was pinching it vigorously while speaking those words, I danced lightly out of his grip and, quick as a wink, for my own substituted the ass of his one remaining son. He fixes a terrible stare upon the boy, it is he whose mother the villain massacred lately, and who can still see her embalmed remains there upon the wall.

  “If I rightly recall,” said that incorrigible libertine, “I arranged to have this little beggar die by the same torture under which his mother perished, three days ago. First, the victim’s eyes are gouged out; then, his four extremities are lopped off; after that, his four limbs are broken; and he is definitively embuggered while an aide finishes him off with a dagger.”

  “And that is what you subjected his mother to?” I asked.

  “It is.”

  “I have no objections to
raise; I would merely suggest that, along with the rest, extraction of the teeth and extirpation of the tongue seem to be called for.”

  “Extraction of the teeth! Extirpation of the tongue! You are quite right, Juliette,” Cordelli replied, “I dealt too hastily with his dam the other day. But we shall not be so neglectful with her son. Ho,” said he, snapping his fingers to his executioners, “operate.”

  During the proceedings, it was my ass Cordelli perforated; ahead of him he had, as prospect, that of the girl whose torments were due to follow next. Durand showed him her ass to the right, and he had the spectacle to the left; the duennas flogged him.

  The deftness and the mastery those assassins displayed in their work can hardly be imagined, and it would be even more difficult to render an idea of the intensity of the victim’s sufferings or the violence of his outcries. When Cordelli noticed that one agent sufficed to the task, he ordered the other, splashed all over with gore, to come up and encunt me so as to improve his enjoyment of my ass. I was, God knows, accustomed to outsized engines, nevertheless the intromission of that one occasioned me exceeding discomfort. Although that man was superlatively ill-favored, the horrors he had been bathing in, the forthright way he took with me, the language he employed, the sodomite episode whereby his master was regaling me, everything soon combined to carry me off into transports, and I washed my fucker’s prick with the goodliest deluge of fuck. Cordelli, ecstatic at hearing my anthems of joy blend with the shrieks torture was wringing from his son, was overwhelmed; his sperm forces the sluices, and I am soaked at both ends. However, the boy’s doing to death was not yet completed; the executioner inquired whether he was to hang fire.

  “Of course not,” the Italian answered him. “People are strange,” he went on to comment, “they always suppose that one cannot torment a creature unless one is aroused. As for me, I protest that I am a rational man, I act deliberately in passion as in everything else: Nature endowed my being with a thirst for blood, I have no need to be excited in order to shed it.”