Wednesday, August 12, 2009

The Devil in the Ass- A Story By Arsole Fantüme Authors Marcel Maurice and Pierre

As mentioned in a previous blog entry, Arsole Fantüme Gentleman Immoralist authors Marcel Maurice and Pierre wrote more than one story about enemas. One such story, published in 1900, was called “The Devil in the Ass,” and it featured a character called “Deacon Struckshonne,” who also used an enemata. As a recent email correspondent wrote to me (see the link above):

It was published in a collection called “The Misery of Religion,” which was limited to a mere 500 copies, very few of which still exist (the scans are from my own personal copy). In it, you will find some similarities with “Arsole Fantüme.”


He sent me scans of the story, and I’ve recently completed the translation from the French. It does indeed bear some similarities with the Arsole Fantüme book, and not merely because it features an enema. Fans of the book will doubtless be delighted by the opportunity to read the story here:

THE DEVIL IN THE ASS
By Marcel Maurice and Pierre
Translation by and © 2009 Ricky Sprague

The nunnery at Sang de Madre was ensconced within the verdant green of the outer Flaneur countryside. Within the vaulted walls did the occupants diligently carry out the services of the Most Holy Church of the Most Holy of Holies, displaying while so doing an agreeableness of spirit that was inspirational to those townspeople who did not spit upon the nuns, or laugh at them, when they made their twice-monthly journeys into town for supplies, and to sell crucifxes they made from the fingers of lepers.

It was not long after returning from one such pilgrimage that the Lady Abbess and one of the Sisters, Emma, encountered a man standing outside the nunnery. He carried with him a large, patched bag, and wore upon his person the clothing of a man of the church, a bishop or a deacon, and his countenance was one of quiet and deep contemplation such as one would expect from a man contemplating the holiest of holies. Upon hearing the footsteps of the two women, he turned, and smiled at them. He had nearly all his teeth, and his skin was covered in only a few sores. He smelled of lilac oil and milk left in the refreshing sun.

“You are clearly not a beggar,” the Lady Abbess said, taking in his appearance.

“I thank you for the compliment,” the man replied. “I am a man of the church. A holy man. I am called Deacon Struckshonne.” He extended his hand, the skin of which was rough and calloused.

The Lady Abbess introduced herself, then said, “And this is Sister Emma, the youngest of my charges.”

Sister Emma, whose youthful rose was still very much in bloom, indeed almost painfully overripe, felt the soft, pure alabaster white of her skin turn blood crimson when she took the Deacon’s hand. A most adorable creature. He told her how delighted he was to meet two such lovely and holy women. Sister Emma laughed.

“I am here on a long journey across France,” the Deacon said. “I had hoped that I might take a few days respite here, before continuing on to Saint Pierre.”

“We have ample room for you, Deacon,” the Lady Abbess replied. “Of course I need not remind such a man as you that your quarters shall be away from the Sisters’.”

“Of course,” the Deacon said, smiling and bowing.

Sister Emma could not contain her giddiness, and a few explosive chuckles escaped her mouth before the Lady Abbess slapped her across the cheek. The resultant surprise caused her body to convulse slightly, and she gently touched the red imprint that the Lady Abbess’ fingers had left upon her cheek.

Sister Emma had not spent a night within the same structure as a man since she was a child. She had lived with her father and step-mother until the time when her father passed away, and her step-mother had given her the option of becoming either a prostitute, or a nun. Having failed the prostitution exam, she went to the nunnery. That had been fourteen years before, and now she was seventeen.

Lying there in the mild and humble comfort of her own straw cot, she could not help but to think of the Deacon’s rough-hewn body. Of the creases that lined his face like a map of a city; of the harsh whiskers that lightly decorated his chin; of the leathery skin burnished by years of exposure to the sun.

She could not help herself- she thought of what it would feel like to have his whiskers raking against her own supple flesh. She wondered what that skin would feel like, as she stroked it gently with her own small, delicate hands. She wondered what the creases of his face would taste like, as she licked him.

Soon, the desire she felt was so strong that she could see before her face the clear image of her own alabaster-skinned body beneath his tawny, muscled body, engaged in acts that she had only heard about in scandalous whispers. The bodies rocked back and forth like two boats riding different currents, for Sister Emma, in her charming näivete, did not know what members of the opposite sex did to one another when they succumbed to temptation. She knew that she had a slit between her legs, but for her it was for nothing more than urination and the monthly gift.

This was partly why she’d failed her prostitution exam.

As Deacon Struckshonne happened to be walking by her room at that moment- having gotten lost in an attempt to find a proper room in which to pray- he gently pressed open the door of Sister Emma’s room. So transfixed was she by the image she saw floating above her head that she did not hear the creaking of the door, as it creaked open.

Nor did she hear the gasp Deacon Struckshonne let out, as he bore witness to the very image that had so transfixed her. They both watched those bodies rock back and forth, in the manner of a child’s seesaw or rocking horse.

“Sure that is not what you believe goes on between men and women!” Deacon Struckshonne gasped, as he fully entered the room and closed the door behind him.

“The Lady Abbess will hear us!” Sister Emma declared, her body tingling with excitement as she saw the body of the man in her room. He was dressed in a long tatty silk shirt that exposed the dangling head of his Deacon wand.

He shook his head. “She’ll not hear,” he declared, inching closer to her, “if you’ll allow me to instruct you quietly.” And as he moved closer, Sister Emma observed that the head of his wand disappeared under his shirt, and as it did so, the bottom of his shirt pointed at her, briefly, then fell back down against his skin.

“As you are a Deacon, I’ll not refuse the offer of instruction,” Sister Emma declared, as the Deacon removed from her bed the burlap bag she used as a blanket.

He climbed on top of her and immediately showed her the other use to which the slit between her legs could be put. She began to enjoy it so much that she let out whooping squeals of delight that roused the entire nunnery. All its residents crowded around her door- those nearest watched, mouths agape.

Finally, the Lady Abbess pushed her way to the front of the crowd and into Sister Emma’s room. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried out, scandal in her voice.

“Give me a moment, and I shall explain,” the Deacon declared. After a few more seconds his body shuddered, and he rolled off of Sister Emma’s body. Yawning, he told the Lady Abbess, “This is worse than I thought.”

“What mean you?” asked the Lady Abbess.

“She is full of the devil,” the Deacon said. “You see, when I passed by her door on my way to offer prayers, I saw her in here, an image of lust projected above her head. I knew right away that it was the devil seeking to tempt me. So, I allowed him to think that I was being tempted, and I engaged in the act of copulation with her-”

At this, the nuns gasped collectively.

The Deacon raised his hand. “I assure you, I engaged in this act merely in an attempt to trick the devil.”

The nuns made sounds of relief.

“However, I fear that I was unable to pump the devil from Sister Emma’s sweet, innocent, taut body. For that reason, more drastic measures must be taken.”

“May I say something?” Sister Emma asked, having finally caught her breath.

“No!” the Lady Abbess scowled. Her gaze returned to Deacon Struckshonne. “Continue.”

“I have a kit that I always carry with me, in my bag. I will most assuredly drive out the devil.” In preparation, he gave the Lady Abbess inStruckshonne, and told her to bring Sister Emma, along with three other of the most trusted nuns, and meet him in the room in which the sisters did the most reflection in the Most Holy Church of the Most Holy of Holies.

Having misunderstood the Deacon’s instructions, the sisters brought Sister Emma to the Refectory. This was of no consequence, as the Deacon finally found them. He instructed the four sisters to each take hold of one of Sister Emma’s limbs, with one at each of Sister Emma’s wrists and ankles, and hold her face down on the refection slab.

From his bag, Deacon Struckshonne removed a metal cylinder with a long rubberized tube on one end, and a plunger on the other. “She will put up some resistance,” the Deacon said. And indeed, as if to illustrate his point, Sister Emma gave a sharp cry of pain and her body attempted to shift to the side as he placed his finger between the two cheeks of her buttocks and applied to the spot a lubricant of roughly the same consistency as saliva. “The devil will fight us,” the Deacon continued. “Be ready.”

“Always are we ready to fight the devil,” replied the Lady Abbess, holding on to Sister Emma’s right ankle, and watching attentively.

Finally, Deacon Struckshonne placed the end of the rubber tubing into the spot he’d lubricated, and there escaped from Sister Emma’s lips a sigh of pain. Then, as he depressed the plunger of the device- slowly, so as not to rupture any of the Sister’s delicate internal mechanisms- the sigh became louder, growing in intensity like the caterwauling of the emotionally insane.

“No!” Sister Emma cried out.

“This is for your own good!” Deacon Struckshonne declared. So devoted to his work was he that he had not taken the time to change his clothes- he still wore nothing more than the long tatty silk shirt. So intent was he upon rescuing the poor girl that the Lady Abbess saw that this tatty silk shirt was pointing in her direction.

What was first expressed from the spot between Sister Emma’s cheeks was nothing more than the common scatological items one might expect to see from such a process. The Lady Abbess noted in particular that Sister Emma seemed to have difficulty completely digesting corn. Then, suddenly and startlingly, the entire structure seemed to shake, and a voice loud and booming cried out.

It came from Sister Emma’s body- but not from her mouth! Rather, the sound was expelled from her buttocks! And then, astonishment filled the spectators as a creature with the thighs and feet of a goat, and the upper torso and head of a scandalous man, emerged from the very spot from which the sound had emanated!

“Get thee gone, devil!” Deacon Struckshonne shouted at the foul creature. A strong wind howled all around them, and the sisters struggled to remain standing, even as they continued to hold fast to Sister Emma’s wrists and ankles.

“Ha, ha!” the devil of Sister Emma’s buttocks laughed. “It seems no matter where I go, Deacon Struckshonne gets me in the end!” He again laughed, a cold, mirthless laugh that chilled them all to the bone, and in a whiff of brimstone, he was gone.

The Deacon nodded to the sisters, and they released Sister Emma. He approached her, rolling her over onto her back, and gently wiping the hair away from her sweat-soaked forehead. “You are safe now, my child,” he said.

“What happened to me?” she asked, shakily.

“You had the devil in you. But he’s gone, now.”

“Thank you,” she said, gratefully.

“You tested me,” he said- not to her, but to the devil. “She was a tempting subject. But I will not rest until you’re caught.”

The Lady Abbess took Sister Emma in her arms and held her tight. “My child,” she said, “I am so sorry that you’ve suffered like this.” She applied tender kisses to her face and lips. “No longer shall you be forced to eat corn.”

The next day, the truly holy Deacon Struckshonne was back on the road. The devil was again on the loose, and he was the only one with the proper tools to fight him.

UPDATE: Order the novel Arsole Fantüme, Gentleman Immoralist from amazon here.

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