It was discovered upon that day that the weather had lent its approval to our libertines’ infamous enterprises， and had removed them to an even greater distance from the probability they would be spied upon by mortal eyes； an immense blanket of snow had fallen， it filled the surrounding vale， seeming to forbid even to wild beasts access to our scoundrels’ retreat； of all human beings， there was not one that existed who could dare hope to reach where they lay fast. Ah， it is not readily to be imagined how much voluptuousness， lust， fierce joy are flattered by those sureties， or what is meant when one is able to say to oneself： “I am alone here， I am at the world’s end， withheld from every gaze， here no one can reach me， there is no creature that can come nigh where I am； no limits， hence， no barriers； I am free.” Whereupon， thus situate， desires spring forth with an impetuosity which knows no bounds， stops at nothing， and the impunity that electrifies them most deliciously increases all their drunkenness. There， nothing exists save God and one’s conscience； well， what weight may the former exert， of what account may God be in the eyes of an atheist in heart and brain？ and what sway is the conscience to enjoy， what influence upon him who is so accustomed to vanquishing remorse， routing guilt， that so to do becomes for him a game， nay， a little pleasure？ Luckless flock delivered to the murderous tooth of such villains； how would you have trembled had you not still been in ignorance of what lay in store for you！
That day was a festival， the second week had ended， the second marriage was to be celebrated； Messieurs were in a glad humor and thought not but to frolic on that holiday. The marriage to take place was that of Narcisse and Hébé， but， cruel fate it was also decreed that the bride and groom were both doomed to be punished that same evening； and thus， from the warm embrace of hymeneal pleasures they were to move directly to the more bitter lessons taught in this school， how unkind！ Little Narcisse， who was not a dull fellow， remarked this irony， but Messieurs none the less proceeded to the usual ceremonies. The Bishop officiated， the couple was conjoined in very holy matrimony， and they were permitted to do to each other， before the public’s eyes， all they wanted to do； but， who would have believed it？ the order was of a too liberal scope， or too well understood， and the little husband， who had an aptitude for learning， perfectly delighted with the prospect before him but unable to introduce himself into his pretty wife， was however about to deflower her with his fingers， and would have， had he been given his way. Firm hands intervened just in time， and the Duc， making off with Hébé， thigh-fucked her on the spot， while the Bishop did likewise with Narcisse. Dinner came next， the newly-wedded couple were admitted to the feast， and as they had been given and commanded prodigiously to eat， both upon leaving the table shitted handsomely， one for Durcet’s benefit， the other for Curval’s， who， after having swallowed those little products of childhood， smacked their lips and declared ’twas delicious. Coffee was served by Augustine， Fanny， Céladon， and Zéphyr. The Duc bade Augustine frig Zéphyr， and the latter shit in the nobleman’s mouth at the same time he discharged； the operation was a stunning success， so much so that the Bishop wanted to duplicate it with Céladon； Fanny attended to the frigging， and the little fellow received orders to shit in Monseigneur’s mouth the moment he felt his fuck flow. But the young operatives succeeded less brilliantly than had their companions： Céladon was never able to co-ordinate his shitting with his discharge； however， as this exercise was merely a test of skill， and as the regulations made no mention of the subjects being obliged to excel in it， no punishment was inflicted upon him. Durcet gleaned shit from Augustine， and the Bishop， firmly erect， had Fanny suck him while she shat in his mouth； he discharged， and as his crisis was violent， he brutalized Fanny somewhat but， unhappily， failed to find adequate grounds for having her punished， great as was his apparent wish to arrange something for her. A greater tease than the Bishop never lived； no sooner would he finish discharging than he would wish for nothing better than to see his pleasure-object gone to the devil； everyone was familiar with his character， and the little girls， the wives， and the little boys dreaded nothing as much as helping him to be rid of his fuck. The midday nap over， they passed into the auditorium， the company distributed itself， and Duclos resumed the thread of her narrative： I sometimes used to go into town for parties， said she， and as they were usually more lucrative， Fournier did her best to procure as many of that kind as she could. She once sent me to the home of an elderly Knight of Malta who opened a kind of wardrobe filled with cubbyholes， each of which housed a porcelain chamber pot containing a turd； the old rake had made arrangements with a sister of his， abbess of one of the most considerable convents in Paris； that obliging girl， upon his request， every morning sent him a crate of fresh shit produced by her prettiest little pensionnaires. He filed away each performance according to a classifying system， and when I arrived he bade me take down such and such a number， and it proved to be the most venerable. I presented the pot to him. “Oh yes，” said he， “that belongs to a girl of sixteen， lovely as the day. Frig me while I eat her gift.” The entire ceremony consisted in twiddling his device and in dressing my bum before his eyes while he ate， then in replenishing the pot he had just emptied. He watched me do it， wiped my asshole clean with his tongue， and discharged while sucking my anus. After that， the wardrobe is closed and locked， I receive my pay， and our man， whom I visited at an early hour in the morning， curls up and goes blissfully back to sleep. Another， more extraordinary in my opinion， was an elderly monk. He enters， demands eight or ten turds from the first person he sees， girl or boy， it’s all the same to him. He mixes them into a paste which he next kneads like dough， bites into the lump and， eating at least half of it， discharges into my mouth. A third， and of all the men I have met in my life he aroused the greatest disgust in me， a third， I say， ordered me to open my mouth wide. I was naked， lying upon a mattress on the floor， and he was astride me； he popped his stool into my mouth and the villain then lay down beside me， ate what I spat out， and sprayed his fuck over my teats. “Well， well， that’s a pleasant one！” cried Curval； “by Jesus， I do indeed believe I want to shit， I really must try to. Whom shall I take， Monsieur le Duc？” “Who？” said Blangis. “By my faith， I recommend Julie， my daughter； she is right there under your hand. You are fond of her mouth， put it to use.” “Thank you for the advice，” said Julie sullenly. “What have I done to have you say such things？” “Why， since the idea upsets her，” said the Duc， “and since she’s a good girl， take Mademoiselle Sophie： she’s healthy， pretty， and she’s only fourteen， you know.” “Very well， it’s to be Sophie， that’s decided，” said Curval， whose turbulent prick was beginning to gesticulate. Fanchon approaches the victim， the poor little wretch’s tears start to fall at once. Curval laughs lightly， brings up his great， ugly， and dirty behind， pushes it down upon that charming visage， and gives us the image of a toad about to insult a rose. He is frigged， the bomb bursts， Sophie loses not so much as a crumb， and the crapulous magistrate’s tongue and lips reclaim what he has launched； he swallows it all in just four mouthfuls while his prick is being rubbed upon the belly of the poor little creature who， the operation once over， vomits her very guts out， and directly upon the nose of Durcet who has come up posthaste to miss nothing， and who is frigging himself while being covered. “Off you go， Duclos！” said Curval. “On with your tales， and rejoice at the effect of your discourses； do they not carry the day？” And therewith Duclos resumed， warmed to the very cockles of her heart by the staggering success which had greeted her anecdote. The man with whom I held correspondence directly after the one whose example has just seduced you， said Duclos， insisted that the woman he was presented have indigestion； in consequence， Fournier， who had given me no foreknowledge of the thing， had me， during dinner， swallow a certain laxative drug which softened what my bowels contained， indeed rendered it fluid， as if my stool had become transformed into the effect of an enema. Our man arrives and after several preliminary kisses bestowed upon the object of his whole veneration， which， by now， was becoming painfully inflated by gases， I beseech him to start without further delay； the injection is ready to escape， I grasp his prick， he pants， swallows everything， asks for still more； I furnish him with a second deluge， it is soon followed by a third， and the libertine’s anchovy finally spits upon my fingers the unequivocal evidence of the sensation he has received. The next day I treated with a personage whose baroque mania will perhaps find some worshipers amongst yourselves， Messieurs. First of all， he was installed in the room next to the one in which we ordinarily operated and in whose wall was that hole so conveniently placed for observations. He was left alone to arrange himself； a second actor awaited me in the adjoining chamber： he was a cab driver we had picked up at random and who was fully apprised of the situation； as I was too， our cast knew the various roles to perfection. It was a question of having the Pha？thon shit squarely opposite the hole， so that the libertine hidden on the other side of the partition would miss nothing involved in the spectacle. I catch the turd upon a plate， see to it that it lands intact， spread the driver’s buttocks， press around his anus， I neglect nothing that can make shitting comfortable； as soon as my man has done all he has to do， I snatch up his prick and get him to discharge over the shit， and all that well within sight of our observer； finally， the package ready， I dash into the other room. “Here you are， take it quickly， Monsieur，” I exclaim， “it’s nice and warm.” There is no necessity to repeat the invitation； he grasps the dish， offers me his prick， which I frig， and the rascal bolts everything I tender him while he exhales his fuck in tune with my diligent hand’s elastic movements. “And what was the driver’s age？” Curval asked. “About thirty，” Duclos answered. “Why， that’s nothing at all，” said Curval. “Durcet there will tell you whenever you like that we once knew an individual who did the same thing， and with positively the same attendant circumstances， but with a man of sixty or seventy who had to be found in the lowest sewer of misery and filth.” “And， you know，” said Durcet， “it’s only pretty that way.” The financier’s little engine had been gradually lifting its head ever since Sophie’s aspersion. “I shall at any given time be happy to do it with the eldest of veterans.” “You’re stiff， Durcet，” said the Duc， “don’t deny it， for I know you： whenever you start that nasty boasting it’s because your fuck is coming to a boil. So hold， good friend； though not so seasoned in years as you might like， still， to appease your intemperance， I offer you all I have in my entrails， and I believe you will find it enough to make a meal upon.” “Ah， by God’s belly！” cried Durcet， “you always serve your guests well， my dear Duc.” The Duc entering Durcet’s alcove， the latter kneels down before the buttocks which are to fill him to overflowing with good cheer； the Duc grunts once， twice， a prodigy tumbles out， the banker swallows and， transported by this crapulous excess， discharges while swearing he has never tasted so much pleasure. “Duclos，” said the Duc， “come do for me what I have done for our good friend.” “My Lord，” our storyteller replied， “you will recall that I it this morning， and that you swallowed it.” “Why， yes， ’tis true，” the Duc admitted. “Very well then， hither， Martaine， I must have recourse to you， for I want none of those children’s asses； I feel my fuck readying to come， but， you know， it comes reluctantly， and so we need something out of the ordinary.” But Martaine’s case was that of Duclos， Curval had gobbled her shit that morning. “What！ by fuck，” cried the Duc， “am I then to fail to find a turd this evening？” Whereupon Thérèse advanced and offered the dirtiest， the broadest， and the most stinking possible of asses you， dear reader， may hope to behold. “Well， that will do， that will do perfectly，” said the Duc， assuming the posture， “and if in my present disorder this infamous ass I’ve got here does not produce its effect， I don’t know what I’ll have to resort to.” Dramatic moment； Thérèse pushes； the Duc receives！ and the incense was quite as dreadful as the temple whence it emerged， but when one is as stiff as the Duc was stiff， ’tis never excess of filth one complains of. Drunk with joy， the scoundrel swallowed every ounce， and directly into Duclos’ face， for she was frigging him， shot the most indubitable proof of his male vigor. Then to table； the ensuing orgies were devoted to the distribution of justice； that week there were seven delinquents： Zelmire， Colombe， Hébé， Adonis， Adelaide， Sophie， and Narcisse； the gentle Adelaide was granted no quarter. Zelmire and Sophie also bore away a few marks of the treatment they had undergone and， without giving further particulars， since circumstances do not permit us to give them yet， everyone retired to bed， and in Morpheus’ arms recovered the strength requisite to make further sacrifices to Venus.
|
