Beautiful， radiant， bejeweled， grown more brilliant with each passing day， Duclos thus started the eighteenth session’s stories：
A tall and stoutly constructed creature named Justine had just been added to my entourage； she was twenty-five， five feet six inches tall， with the husky arms and solid legs of a barmaid， but her features were fine all the same， her skin was clear and smooth， and she had as splendid a body as one might wish. As my establishment used to be swarming with a crowd of those old rakehells who are incapable of experiencing the faintest pleasure save when heated by the lash or torture， I thought that a pensionnaire like Justine， furnished as she was with the forearm of a blacksmith， could be nothing but a very real asset. The day following her arrival， I decided to put her fustigatory talents to the test； I had been given to understand she wielded a whip with prodigious skill， and hence matched her against an old commissar of the quarter whom she was to flog from chest to shin and then， on the other side， from the middle of his back to his calves. The operation over with， the libertine simply hoisted the girl‘s skirts and planted his load upon her buttocks. Justine comported herself like a true heroine of Cythera， and our good old martyr avowed to me afterward that I had got my hands on a treasure， and that in all his days no one had ever whipped him as that rascal had.
To demonstrate how much I counted upon her contribution to our little community， a few days later I arranged a meeting between Justine and an old veteran of many a campaign on the fields of love； her required a round thousand strokes all over his body， he would have no part of himself spared， and when he was afire and nicely bloodied， the girl had to piss into her cupped hand and smear her urine over those areas of his body which looked to be most seriously molested. This lotion rubbed on， the heavy labor had to be begun again， then he would discharge， the girl would carefully collect his fuck， once again using her cupped hand， and she would give him a second massage， this time employing the balm wrung from his prick. Another triumph for my new colleague， and every succeeding day brought her further and more impassioned acclaim； but it was impossible to exercise her arm on the champion who presented himself this time.
This extraordinary man would have nothing of the feminine but womanish dress： the wearer of the costume had to be a man； in other words， the roué wanted to be spanked by a man got up as a girl. And what was the instrument she had to use on him？ Don’t think for a moment he was content with a birch ferule or even a cat， no， he demanded a bundle of osier switches wherewith very barbarously one had to tear his buttocks. Actually， this particular affair seeming to have somewhat of the flavor of sodomy， I felt I ought not become too deeply involved in it； but as he was one of Fournier‘s former and most reliable clients， a man who had been truly attached to our house in fair weather and in foul， and who， furthermore， might， thanks to his position， be able to render us some service， I raised no objections and， having prettily disguised a young lad of eighteen who sometimes availed us of his services and who had a very attractive face， I presented him， armed with a handful of switches， to his opponent.
And a very entertaining contest it was - you may well imagine how eager I was to observe it. He began with a careful study of his pretended maiden， and having found him， evidently， much to his liking， he opened with five or six kisses upon the youth’s mouth： those kisses would have looked peculiar from three miles away； next， he exhibited his cheeks， and in all his behavior and words seeming to take the young man for a girl， he told him to fondle his buttocks and knead them just a little rigorously； the lad， whom I had told exactly what to expect， did everything asked of him.
“Well， let‘s be off，” said the bawd， “ply those switches， spare not to strike hard.”
The youth catches up the bundle of withes and therewith， swinging right merrily， lays fifty slashing blows upon a pair of buttocks which seem only to thirst for more； already definitely marked by those two score and ten stripes， the libertine hurls himself upon his masculine flagellatrice， draws up her petticoats， one hand verifies her sex， the other fervently clutches her buttocks， he knows not which altar to bow down before first， the ass finally captures his primary attentions， he glues his mouth to its hole， much ardor in his expression. Ah， what a difference between the worship Nature is said to prescribe and that other which is said to outrage her！ O God of certain justice， were this truly an outrage， would the homage be paid with such great emotion？ Never was woman’s ass kissed as was that lad‘s； three or four times over his lover’s tongue entirely disappeared into the anus； returning to his former position at last， “O dear child，” cried he， “resume your operation.”
Further flagellation ensued， but as it was livelier， the patient met this new assault with far more courage and intrepidity. Blood makes its appearance， another stroke brings his prick bounding up， and he engages the young object of his transports to seize it without an instant‘s delay. While the latter manipulates him， he wishes to render the youth the same service， lifts up the boy’s skirts again， but it‘s a prick he’s now gone in quest of； he touches it， grasps， shakes， pulls it， and soon introduces it into his mouth. After these initial caresses， he calls for a third round of blows and receives a storm of them. This latest experience puts him in a perfect tumult； he flings his Adonis upon the bed， lies down upon him， simultaneously toys with his own prick and his companion‘s， then presses one upon the other， glues his lips to the boy’s mouth and， having succeeded in warming him by means of these caresses， he procures him the divine pleasure at the same moment he is overwhelmed himself： both discharge in harmony. Enchanted by the scene， our libertine sought to placate my risen indignation， and at last coaxed a promise from me to arrange for further delights in the same kind， both with that young fellow and with any others I could find for him. I attempted to work at his conversion， I assured him I had some charming girls who would be happy to flog him and who could do so quite as well； no， said he， none of that， he would not so much as look at what I had to offer him.
“Oh， I can readily believe it，” said the Bishop. “When one has a decided taste for men， there‘s no changing， the difference between boy and girl is so extreme that one’s not apt to be tempted to try what is patently inferior.”
“Monseigneur，” said the Président， “you have broached a thesis which merits a two-hour dissertation.”
“And which will always conclude by giving further support to my contention，” said the Bishop， “because the fact that a boy is superior to a girl is beyond doubt or dispute.”
“Beyond contradiction too，” Curval agreed， “but nevertheless one might still inform you that a few objections have been here and there raised to your doctrine and that， for a certain order of pleasures， such as Martaine and Desgranges shall discuss， a girl is to be preferred to a boy.”
“That I deny，” said the Bishop with emphasis， “and even for such pleasures as you allude to the boy is worth more than the girl. Consider the problem from the point of view of evil， evil almost always being pleasure‘s true and major charm； considered thus， the crime must appear greater when perpetrated upon a being of your identical sort than when inflicted upon one which is not， and this once established， the delight automatically doubles.”
“Yes，” said Curval， “but that despotism， that empire， that delirium born of the abuse of one’s power over the weak. . . .”
“But the same is no less true in the other case，” the Bishop insisted. “If the victim is yours， thoroughly in your power， that supremacy which when using women you think better established than when using men， is based upon pure prejudice， upon nothing， and results merely from the custom whereby females are more ordinarily submitted to your caprices than are males. But give up that popular superstition for a moment， view the thing equitably and， provided the man is bound absolutely by your chains and by the same authority you exert over women， you will obtain the idea of a greater crime； your lubricity ought hence to increase at least twofold.”
“I am of the Bishop‘s mind，” Durcet joined in， “and once it is certain that sovereignty is fully established， I believe the abuse of power more delicious when exercised at the expense of one’s peer than at a woman‘s.”
“Gentlemen，” said the Duc， “I should greatly prefer you to postpone your discussions until mealtime. I believe these hours have been reserved for listening to the narrations， and it would seem to me proper were you to refrain from employing them upon philosophical exchanges.”
“He is right，” said Curval. “Go on with your story， Duclos.”
And that agreeable directress of Cytherean sport plunged again into the matter she had to relate.
Another elderly man， said she， this one a clerk at parliament， paid me a call one morning， and as during Fournier’s administration he had been accustomed to dealing exclusively with me， tradition bade him solicit an interview with me now. Our conference consisted in slapping his face with gradually increasing force， and in frigging him the while； that is to say， one had at first to slap him gently， then， as his prick assumed consistency， one slowly augmented the force of one‘s blows， and finally a series of truly bone-shattering cuffs would provoke his ejaculation. I had so well apprehended the precise nature of his eccentricity that my twentieth slap brought his fuck springing out.
“The twentieth， you say？ Why， by Jesus，” exclaimed the Bishop， “my prick would have gone dead limp by the third.”
“There you are， my friend，” the Duc declared， “to each his own peculiar mania， we ought never blame nor wonder at another’s； tolerance， I say. Say on， Duclos， give us one more and have done.”
My last example for the evening， said Duclos， originally was told to me by one of my friends； she had been living for two years with a man whose prick never stiffened until one had first bestowed a score of fillips upon his nose and tweaked it， pulled his ears till they bled， and bitten his buttocks， chewed his prick， nipped his balls. Aroused by these potent preliminary titillations， his prick would shoot aloft like a stallion‘s， and while swearing like a demon he’d almost always discharge upon the visage of the girl at whose hands he had been receiving this exhilarating treatment.
Of all that had been recounted during that afternoon‘s sitting， only the masculine fustigations had affected their Lordships’ brains which， now passing hot， were only cooled after prolonged use of the fantasy which had fired their enthusiasm； thus it was the Duc had Hercule flog him until blood seeped from his pores， Durcet employed Invictus to the same effect， the Bishop made use of Antinoüs， and Bum-Cleaver ministered to Curval. The Bishop， who had done nothing that day， did finally discharge at the orgies， they say， while eating the turd Zélamir had been preparing for forty-eight hours. And then they went to bed.
