Preface: ADULTS ONLY. And even then, if you have delicate sensibilities, read no further. This is not meant to be pornography as such, but rather, disturbing erotica and satire in the vein of Sade. Happy Halloween. (PS… if this isn’t your cup of tea, I’ve got another story planned for later this morning).
I’ve already told you: the only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure.
Donatien Alphonse François, Marquis de Sade
The noises in the darkness were laboured and hungry, the sound of fervent masturbation and debauched, drunken giggles. Above it all, though, Eric could hear the sound of his tormentor, feel breath against the back of his neck just as sure as he felt the pressure of something cold and hard pressing itself further and further into his ass. Warm blood oozed slug-like down the inside of his leg, pooling on the cold stone floor under his feet.
He was not blindfolded — yes, everyone wore masks as a matter of etiquette — but the windowless room was only lit by the barest candlelight, and in the flickering fire, he was only able to catch the briefest glimpses of his surroundings. Fleshy masses entwined in swirls and blurs — arms and legs of numbers so varied that it was difficult to tell how many people were involved in indescribable sexual acts. To his left, three men took turns squatting over a bowl and voiding their bowls, then each took turns spoon-feeding the mess to the other. Barely three feet in front of him, just beyond the reach of his feet, an enormous woman with globular breasts and a massive belly had a cock in her mouth, and one in each hand, clumsily tugging at both in a strange sort of syncopation. She’d impaled herself on a tiny man who had passed out, either from exertion or an inability to breathe, while a fifth man mounted her on the top, wedging himself between the Roman columns of her legs. Two women — girls, really, traced thin knives over the woman’s breasts, lapping up the blood that beaded up along the fine cuts like vultures, bobbing around her and pecking at her fresh carcass.
The cacophonous sounds of orgiastic pain and pleasure rose like a symphony around him, making him swoon like he’d had too much wine. The percussive slap of plastic and metal and flesh against flesh, the fap-fap-fapping of hands furiously tugging on raw, erect cocks; the wet, animal sounds of tongues flicking engorged clits, the cries of power of the torturer, the screams of pain of the tormented — this was the orchestra of Sodom. The air smelled of blood and sex and piss and shit and fear, and the gods of Sodom found it as fine as incense.
He scanned the room for a friendly face, but it was too dark to make out any features. His eyes were watered up, which didn’t help. He turned his head, straining to make out what he could in the shadows, pulling against his restraints, when his attention was suddenly stolen by pain, as whatever barbed instrument that had been inside him was forcefully ripped out and thrown to the floor, the sound of metal against stone drowned out by his screams. He felt claw-like fingers grasp his buttocks, and the cold plastic of a masquerade mask against his lower belly as a strange mouth took in the entire length of his fierce, throbbing erection. Small but strong fingers clutched his testicles, squeezing until he feared they would pop. He moaned and felt a sick mixture of pain and pleasure low in his belly. The masked woman took his cock out of her mouth and without warning, grabbed his scrotum like a peach and bit down hard, making him bleed. Crying out, he ejaculated, covering his tormentor’s face with hot cum. He trembled and convulsed, collapsing against the stone wall, his arms up-stretched in a Y held by the metal manacles. The strange woman released her hold on his testicles and stood up in front of him, her face splattered with blood and semen. She raked sharp fingernails over his chest, raising pink welts that would take hours to fade, drawing beads of blood in places. Taking his face in both hands, she kissed him deeply, pressing herself against him so he could feel the heat coming off of her. Then she held up a key in front of his face — the promise of his release.
“My turn,” she whispered, and unlocked one of his manacles.
As she unlocked the second, a ray of light interrupted her, temporarily blinding everyone in the room. Everyone stopped what he or she were doing and turned to look as a door opened, and a shadow stepped into the light.
“Time’s up,” the voice said, and a dull grumble of disappointment and weak protest rose in the room, and just as quickly dissipated.
Unchained from the wall, the man paused to let his eyes adjust to the light, then crouched and pulled his clothes back on — he had come to the party dressed as a Franciscan monk, and so his brown robe was easy enough to put back on, and concealed his still-bleeding anus adequately. The young woman who had chained him to the wall donned a the white robe and wings of an angel, and seeing his Beatrice back in her costume, Eric felt a shudder of revulsion pass through him — and something else, less unpleasant, that he couldn’t quite make sense of.
“Come along,” the shadowy figure beckoned, calling them into the light. They followed obediently, climbing the stairs after Brother Jim, who led them back to the rest of the group. They each reclaimed their place in the circle, no one saying a word for a moment, and then they all bowed their heads in prayer. When they were finished, they all said a pious Amen and raised their heads in anticipation for what came next.
Brother Jim handed the bottle to Eric, who placed it in the middle of the circle and prepared to give it a spin.
“All right,” he said, casting a stolen, lusty glance across at Beatrice, whose mask still bore flecks of his blood and jizz, “who’s next?”
AFTERWARD: Sade’s work is controversial because on the surface, it is some of the most horrific stuff imaginable. Sade himself called 120 Days of Sodom “the most impure tale that has ever been told since our world began.”
Simone de Beauvoir, noted Feminist writer, argued that Sade’s writing is important because it shows the most depraved part of humankind.
Camille Paglia considers Sade’s work a “satirical response to Jean-Jacques Rousseau” in particular, and the Enlightenment concept of man’s innate goodness in general. Much of the sexual violence in the book draws from the notorious historical cases of Gilles de Rais and Elizabeth Báthory. Gilles Deleuze considers The 120 Days along with the rest of Sade’s corpus in conjunction with Sacher-Masoch, remarking, “the work of Sade and Masoch cannot be regarded as pornography; it merits the more exalted title of ‘pornology’ because its erotic language cannot be reduced to the elementary functions of ordering and describing.”
Sade hated religion and authority, clearly, and enjoyed depicting religious figures as perverts and deviants. I think that in the world we live in, with the Duggars and the like, nothing much has changed. Religious oppression has been the cause of the most disgusting sexual deviance. I don’t think I really need to give examples. If you found yourself disturbed (or aroused but disgusted) then all that proves is that you’re human.