Anonymous
The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3
CHAPTER ONE
Those of you who have read my initial memoirs and followed with me the vagaries of erotic inconstancy which was my lot to observe at the seminary of St. Thaddeus remember with what a dismal mood I took my leave of that illustrious institution, having observed at first hand (or, more accurately, first-skin) the orgiastic behavior which imbued seemingly each of the members of that holy order as regards conduct towards young, hapless maidens.
And so when I found myself outside of that edifice which had housed so many scenes of carnal ardor, I let myself be wafted by a gentle southerly wind which took me to the memorable little village in Provence. As I had always wished to see France, I welcomed this fortuitous disposition of the elements and was content to settle in that charming hamlet which is so appropriately named Languecuisse. (The name itself suggests romantic physical encounters, since in translation from the French it means 'Tongue Thigh.') At Languecuisse, as those of you who have read the second volume of my autobiography are doubtless aware, I sought the opportunity to relax in this bucolic setting, where grapes were trodden out by the bare feet of entrancing young girls and women on whom the Gallic sun had smiled – and with good reason. I found that a kind of primal and yet enduring joy was fostered by an atmosphere of which wine-yielding grapes were harvested and laborers tilled the soil in expectation of their just reward. There were amorous frolics which I espied in my flea's way, and which, after the almost inevitable monotony of captivity in that English seminary, I looked upon with a less jaundiced eye.
I witnessed, among other tender conjugal scenes, the rivalry between the good Dame Lucille and Dame Margot, who, each proud of her husband's prowess between the sheets, permitted her spouse a virtually unheard-of freedom in bedding her rival, so that he might at last come to realize the good fortune which the Goddess Venus had seen fit to extend to his household.
But most of all, I was attracted to the tender virgin Laurette, that golden-haired maiden who, even upon my entry into Languecuisse, mournfully faced the prospect of a wintry union with old, withered Monsieur Villiers, though her sweet, dewy eyes and her quivering milky-white flesh yearned for union with a tender lover more nearly her own age. As you will also recall, I witnessed how indulgent Venus, watching from on high on Mount Olympus, deigned to favor Laurette's destiny by causing her elderly husband to die of a heart attack as the result of his excitement sustained when his charming golden-haired bride fondled his senile cock while Marisia, the not-quite fourteen-year-old ward of the old fool, applied her dainty pink tongue to that same incompetent instrument.
I had come to believe, as a happy sequel to my gloomy sojourn in the seminary of St. Thaddeus, that there was great truth in the Latin proverb, 'Amor cincit omnia.' That valiant adage, which means 'Love conquers all,' seemed to come to new life and meaning when beautiful young Laurette found herself a widow who had inherited the vineyards and the house and the golden francs of the patron of that little French Village in the heart of Provence. And I applauded her shrewd girlish cunning in overcoming the resistance of the curate of that village, fat, licentious Pere Mourier, to her remarriage to her true love, young Pierre Larrieu, by the simple expedient of bestowing upon the priest the gift of the little vineyard, where her humble father had been a poor tenant, as well as the rental on the cottage in which she herself had been born. She had thus ingeniously purchased dispensation enough to absolve her from any charge of harlotry in the eyes of that fat lecher, and she could thus go to her marriage-bed with lusty vigor and the full joy of her eager and wakened young senses in mating with a splendid young man whose cock, needless to say, would never fail to perform its marital obligations in saluting the sweet tightness of her delicious cunny.
I had even (since a flea has sensitivity and imagination and human compassion which sometimes exceed even the attributes of those mortals on whom my colleagues and I are wont to find our sustenance by biting and blood-sucking) thought that I might settle down in Languecuisse and follow with a benevolent and somewhat paternal eye the flowering of that blessed union between Laurette and young Pierre. Since we fleas have a longevity greater than is supposed, I must confess even to having daydreamed of finding my own flea-ish mate and engendering a brood of progeny who would, like myself, waft on the wind from nation to nation to espouse the doctrine of happiness through true love. I might, I told myself, even live long enough to see the offspring of Laurette and Pierre indulging in their own delightful carnal gambols with mates of their own uninhibited choice. For in that gentle French village, the only baleful eye was that of good, portly Pere Mourier, who had a positive genius for ferreting out the fornicatory sins of his parishioners. And since Laurette was now a rich widow, soon to be properly wedded and bedded and bring to her Pierre not only the bounties of her own voluptuous young body, but also the gold-filled coffers of her defunct old husband, it appeared to me that no one henceforward could declaim against the Goddess Venus in the years ahead.
For, look you, I have lived long enough and seen enough to conclude, somewhat cynically, that the good Mother Church tends to send its most zealous priests and missionaries and doers-of-good-deeds only to those lamentable locales where there is flagrant sinning which puts not a penny into the poorbox. Because Languecuisse would not be likely to come to the attention of the ecclesiastical authorities, I felt certain that Pere Mourier would live out the rest of his days without bothering those lovers who sought out the greensward and the hayricks and the night-shadowed fields to protect their adoration of each other's flesh. And then, when he passed from this mortal coil, another priest, no more and no less venal, would come to replace him, and finding nothing but love, would have no need to write excoriating reports back to his superiors. Yes, I told myself, Languecuisse would be a golden hamlet, and a golden age of love would make it thrive.
But in my daydreaming, I grew careless, lulled by all the happiness about me. And even though Father Lawrence took his vacation at Languecuisse before returning to his new assignment, which was the very seminary of St. Thaddeus from which I had fled, I still would not heed the faint presentiment of danger which threatened even so small a creature as myself.
But I had reckoned without the inimitable trait of feminine jealousy which had piqued even so ingenuous a heart as charming Laurette's. When Monsieur Villiers had adopted raven-haired Marisia, Laurette had become the aunt of this delectable morsel just past puberty. And having observed how precociously gifted her young niece was in matters of the male cock, Laurette had doubtless told herself that the continued presence of Marisia in the house which she and her hand some Pierre alone would occupy, presented dangers Benign as she was toward the orphaned girl on whom her deceased old husband had fixed his legal indulgence, Laurette doubtless dreaded coming upon Pierre and Marisia in an unguarded moment and finding herself cuckolded by that very same orphaned ward. So to remove the temptation of Pierre – even though Laurette could well tell herself that with her voluptuous beauty and her greater experience in fucking than Marisia could possibly have had, she could count on holding Pierre's priapic interest for years to come – she had agreed to let Father Lawrence take Marisia back to England as a novice, and had given the girl her blessing.
I could not really censure Laurette for such a clever move; it was simply done in the light of her own future happiness, which she had a thousand times over earned by her dutiful obedience to the miserly old patron of Languecuisse whose odious and impotent advances she had tried to sustain as his legal consort. And having thus convinced myself that all was well in Paradise and that the thorn was at last out of the rose, I granted myself the luxury of a little nap. I chose the golden tendrils of Laurette's sweet cuntcurls. Somnolent and placid in my anticipation of an untroubled future – for we fleas, because of our intelligence, have as much erotic imagination as you mortals in the ability to conjure up scenes in which we play the principal roles instead of your doing so – I did not waken until it was far too late. Laurette, as if to make up for the human weakness by which she was sending her niece away from Languecuisse, had taken a pair of dainty scissors and cut off some of the golden ringlets which aureoled her sweet pink cunthole. These she had encased in a little locket and hung this token of her remembrance and affection about the ivory neck of Marisia.
Oh, horror upon horror, to wake from my dreams of glory and erotic mastery over another flea who would be the most beautiful and desirable of all she-fleas, and who would bring to my unbridled imagination and sexual proclivities a talent of fusion and stimulation certain to demand the very best out of me, only to find myself imprisoned within a little round locket offering me not even a chance to make a half-hearted hop from corner to corner.
Oh, perfidy, to allow myself to be thus entrapped by the very maiden whose destiny I had profoundly and compassionately guided. And this was my reward, this dungeon, without air or food, locked inside a receptacle chained about the neck of an unsuspecting young orphan who herself, I knew now, was totally unprepared for what awaited her when she would arrive at the notorious seminary of St. Thaddeus.
At first, I had felt that my eyes were blurred with sleep, but such was not the case. Even as I realized my unforeseen captivity, I heard the resonant, mellow voice of Father Lawrence, only two feet away, informing the charming Marisia that the two of them would be in London a few days hence.
“There, my daughter,” he told her unctuously, “you will have the great joy of being initiated as a novice in this holy seminary, and I shall be privileged to be your sponsor in this worthy entry into Mother Church.”
And then I heard the not-so-naive Marisia whisper, “Oh, Your Reverence, I ask only one boon. It is that before I am made novice, you, all by yourself, will initiate me with your great, wonderful prick and show me truly what fucking is.”
No, it was no nightmare, and it was not the veiling of my eyes with unaccustomed sleep. I moved cautiously in my prison, discovering what leeway was left to me of what had once been limitless freedom. My legs encountered only the hard metal through which not even I could bite. Yet my proboscis, ever sensitive to change and to nuance, detected the delicious tang of Laurette's cuntcurls which had been the eiderdown of my fatal nap. Philosophically, I told myself that I was only getting my just desserts; I, who had witnessed so much fucking and, the better to observe its complex and varied details, had taken my vantage point usually in the most intimate portion of the male or female anatomy, had been trapped by this habitual choice of site. And as I had napped in the golden cuntcurls of Laurette's golden fleece, it had been a kind of accolade which I had shown the charming girl, because my joy in witnessing her good fortune that she had achieved after the toils of her unhappy wedlock to the old patron.
I knew that the situation was not immediately desperate. Like camels, we fleas can live for a long time without nourishment. Surely, I told myself, Marisia would one day open this locket and gaze tenderly upon those precious tendrils which her aunt had placed in this little memento to symbolize the conspiratorial tricks they had played on old Monsieur Villiers, tricks which had brought about the relatively happy death of the old fool, paving the road to romantic raptures for Laurette.
But as the charming girl made ready for her voyage to London in the company of good Father Lawrence, I began to have some slight misgivings. Thirteen and a half years is a tender age, an impressionable age, at which a girl passes out of puberty into nascent girl and womanhood. Now, Marisia had already learned enough of the male cock to desire a more lengthy and thorough acquaintanceship with it. The dear child, for all her fondness for her Tante Laurette and her joy in having her only living and charming young relative grant her leave to go along with Father Lawrence, might forget the locket entirely in her absorption with cock. For at the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, there were a goodly number of virile priests – such as Father Clement, Father Ambrose, and those other holy men whom I saw carnally enjoying Bella and Julia – who would give her all the cock and more which her sweet little cunny might desire. She might, indeed, get so much that she would have no time for nostalgic reflections upon the golden hours of the past, and still less, therefore, upon the golden tendrils which reposed in this locket, I in their scented midst. What then? On this gloomy thought, then, dear reader, as I drowsed there in my dreary prison, nestling on those love-perfumed curls, my anxiety grew more imponderable with each passing hour as Marisia and Father Lawrence prepared to return to that sanctuary of sexual satiety which I had thought never to see again in all my flea-ish life!
CHAPTER TWO
While I dwelt in my little metal prison, I had ample time to ponder what was likely to befall me, quite apart from my compassionate fears for the charming Marisia who naively believed that Father Lawrence was taking her to a kind of terrestrial paradise. When I had first arrived at the hamlet of Languecuisse, it had been in September when the sun was still gentle and the harvest time was warm and benevolent. But now it was October and, although Provence would still retain its benediction from the golden sun whose rays caressed the bursting grapes, London would be, by contrast, cold and dreary. I had thrived on the warmth of that little French community, and I had grown fat I must confess, with the nourishment derived in my inimitable fashion. Alas, London would recall to me the coming winter, the dense fog, the cold and penetrating wind and rain. Many of my brethren perish in the fall and winter unless, to be sure, they have journeyed to the safety of warmer climes. Yes, now, as I reclined on those soft golden tendrils of Laurette's pussy-hairs, I wished that I had let that favorable wind carry me past the equator and perchance to some such colorful metropolis as Rio de Janeiro or Buenos-Aires. There, I am told, the sun is always warm, the women plump and beautiful and the men amply fed on nourishing joints of beef, which would provide me for long years to come with succulent nourishment.
But it was too late to ruminate about what might have happened. I have always been a pragmatist and hence am unique among my fellow-fleas; I am also an opportunist, with an incorrigible optimism at the same time. In a word, dear reader, hopeless though the situation seemed for me in my rigorous imprisonment, I none-the-less began to devise plans for my eventual escape. It was essential that I think positively. For if I gloomily accepted my incarceration in this locket to be permanent, the overweening dread of ending up so uselessly would assuredly paralyze my mental faculties, dull my wits and ingenuity, and inexorably condemn me to extinction. Hence I must fight off any such morbid thoughts with all the power of my will, if I hoped to survive the seeming catastrophe.
Even as all these possibilities whirled through my brain, I heard Father Lawrence speaking again to his new protegee, Marisia. He spoke in French, since the charming young brunette had not yet acquired a knowledge of English. Now, dear reader, you may ask how it was that I came about my own fluency in this Romance language, and I will truthfully tell you. Have you not heard of the ancient legend of the Nibelungen, which tells how the great hero Siegfried, having killed the monstrous dragon Fafner, unwittingly touched his lips with his fingers which had been stained with the dragon's blood? So doing, he at once could comprehend the language of the birds tittering in the trees above him and divine their speech sufficiently to lead him to his destined bride, Brunnhilde. Well, during my sojourn in Languecuisse, I had had nourishment of one or two of the inhabitants of that charming hamlet. Having imbibed their blood, which was French, I was, like Siegfried, similarly endowed.
The good Father was using his most persuasive eloquence with the charming child, and I could detect the throbbing note of carnal anticipation in his tone as he declaimed: “My child, we shall set forth upon our journey on the morrow. I will leave you to spend the night at the rectory of good Pere Mourier, and I enjoin you, my gentle Marisia, to say your litanies and to compose your spirit for the new life which awaits you, while I take leave of those dear friends I have encountered during my visit.”
“Oui mon Pere,” Marisia breathed. Her tone was one not only of reverence for his station as a man of the cloth, but also tinged with the same kind of expectation, albeit that of an ingenuous fledgling for whom life's mysteries had hardly been really old. Yet already at her tender age of thirteen and a half, Marisia had come upon an almost mature eagerness as a result of her mastering the complex and divergent methods whereby the male cock makes exquisite conjuncture with the female cunny – yet she was still virgin!
The English ecclesiastic now took Pere Mourier aside, and the two of them struck up a conversation. Since I was still imprisoned in the locket clinging about the neck of the sweet child, I could hear only vague murmurs, but I did manage to catch a word or two. Just as with a blind man whose other senses are increased by compensation, so I found that though I could not see, I could hear more sharply than I ever had before. And the gist of what Father Lawrence was telling the fat village priest was that the latter was morally bound to refrain from subjecting tender Marisia to any carnal trials. There was no doubt about it: Father Lawrence had already cleverly stamped the sweet brunette adolescent as his very own. From the tremolo in his resonant voice when he had spoken to his new ward, I had rightly guessed his avid anticipation of those moments when he would have her to himself and to the appeasement of his massive prick.
His voice grew louder, so I knew that he was returning to the side of his charming novice-to-be: “Now you must go with the good Pere Mourier, and you will sleep with a good conscience and a happy heart until tomorrow, Marisia. When you say your prayers this night, my child, I beg you to say one for me also, that my farewell to Languecuisse may acquit me of a proper show of gratitude for the hospitality which these good people have given me, a foreigner on their soil.”
“Oh, I shall, I shall, Your Reverence,” Marisia's sweet voice instantly responded. The inflection which she gave to the French words equating this answer had, unless I was mistaken, an even more fervent tone than before. I gather that the dear child was impatiently awaiting the night when she would be alone in the little bed which Pere Mourier would furnish her. And there, it amused me to speculate, she would seek to ease the erotic tensions which Father Lawrence had evoked in her dainty cunny. Ah, sweet maidenly innocence that could procure, at such a tender age, all heaven and all bliss by the simple expedient of applying a gentle finger to pink, delicate lips between girlish, quivering thighs! For novice though she was to be, Marisia was the wisest of young virgins, as I well knew. Doubtless this very night alone in her trundle bed, closing her eyes tightly and summoning up all kinds of amorous images, she would wriggle upon her sheets and titillate her dainty cunny as she pretended that the good Father Lawrence himself was laboring with her to bring them both towards an earthly paradise. In that blissful dream which she had hoped would soon be reality, her finger took on the aspect of that giant prong with which her spiritual mentor was so robustly equipped. Ah, how many maidens elsewhere throughout this entire world would unknowingly envy the gentle Marisia this night, for she would remain an untainted virgin even though experiencing the exquisite and naughty titillations of fucking – and yet without actually committing that mortal sin!
“A sensible, a charming child,” I heard Pere Mourier sigh, and in his intonation I knew the old fool was hastily searching his roguish brain to conjure up some way whereby he himself may be enabled to hear Marisia's prayers as she knelt before her bed this night. And since I had visualized her nubile young charms while she and Laurette had frigged and frenched the latter's impotent old husband Monsieur Claude Villiers, I did not need much imagination to guess that Pere Mourier's prick was veritably aching from just thinking of what the raven-haired minx would look like in her thin shift or, better still, when it had been doffed to expose the young beauty's titties and pussy. But really it was too greedy of him; after all, he had access to every female of Languecuisse, which would include such mature jades as Dame Lucille and Dame Margot, to say nothing of his impetuously ardent housekeeper, and he would rule this hamlet once Father Lawrence had departed for London. So why, then, should he covet Marisia's tender maiden cunny when there was such an availability of female orifices better crafted to accept the rigors of his turgid, rapacious prick? Perhaps, however, the frailties of man are such to induce even a village priest to long for what he does not have and to forget what he is already enjoying. We fleas, I may add, have no such insatiable greed; metaphorically, our eyes are never bigger than our stomachs (or our sex organs, either!).
“Ah, such she is, and will be more so once she is safely behind the walls of the seminary,” Father Lawrence now replied. “But, my child, what is this I see about your neck?”
I quivered with delighted surprise: Would I now escape my prison?
“Oh, Your Reverence, it's a memento which dear Tante Laurette gave me at parting. I beg you to let me retain it in memory of her and the happy times we had together, short though they were,” the sly little minx pleaded.
“Tut, tut, my child,” the English ecclesiastic countered benignly, “one must never mistake idolatry for veneration of the true faith. You shall soon wear the cross about your lovely neck. Indeed, let me give you one of mine as a pledge of my spiritual guardianship of you, Marisia. There, you see how well it becomes your soft skin? I felt him remove the locket, and once again I was jiggled about inside it as he continued: “So, for the night at least, do you give me the locket for safekeeping. I will guard it as your property, never fear. Moreover, your sentiment for your Tante Laurette does you much credit, my dear child. As for you, Pere Mourier, I need not remind you that this young virgin is under my special protection and that her innocence is already dedicated in advance to the religious order of the seminary and within her walls her beauty will soon make exquisite ornament.”
Morose though I was from having been trapped so stupidly within this 'momento,' I none-the-less almost laughed – for a flea may laugh by rubbing his legs together at a certain angle, though it is a sound which the human ear has not yet been able to detect – the shrewd English ecclesiastic had, in so many words, warned the fat French priest not to attempt any libidinous games with his charming ward.
“Your wish will be respected, Father Lawrence,” the latter unctuously responded. “Come, my child, and I will take you to your abode for the night. Good night to you, Father Lawrence.”
Marisia's guardian had slipped the locket into a pocket of his religious gown, and of course that was to be my dwelling-place until he made disposition of the locket back to Marisia. There was some hope for me in this transfer of ownership, however temporary, since the good Father might decide to inspect the contents of the locket. I told myself that I must therefore take care not to drowse again and to be ready for the opening of my prison. For it was obvious that Father Lawrence did not intend to accompany his French colleague back to the rectory.
Moreover, he said as much in his farewell to Pere Mourier: “Do you then have the maiden ready to depart at ten tomorrow morning. I have arranged with the worthy Monsieur Debouchet to take us both in his horse-drawn cart to the village of Grand Ventre, where tomorrow afternoon we shall both, God willing, board the carriage that will take us to Calais and our boat to cross the Channel.”
I had, of course, forgotten that Father Lawrence had sojourned with the comely widow Madame Hortense Bernard during his vacation in this admirable little village of Provence. I now deduced that it was his intention to bid her farewell, and that this leave-taking would not be one of short duration. And I remembered well how the good Father had not only given the Widow Bernard ten francs for the first week of his lodging but had granted her that carnal boon which not even her own husband had deigned to bestow upon her – namely, the taking of the virginity of her bottomhole. Hence as a man of honor and of the cloth as well, Father Lawrence doubtless intended to settle his score with the Widow Bernard before his departure, a score to be paid in more intimate means than francs alone.
He walked in a leisurely manner towards the little cottage of his landlady, and I in the locket was bumped about at regular cadence as his strong thighs moved back and forth in their measured rhythm en route to his hospitable abode. Too, he might have put up at the rectory for the night; Pere Mourier's housekeeper, the beautiful Amazonian, Desiree, would surely be desirous to bid him Godspeed on his journey in the amorous way she had already shown so passionately.
But then, since my mind was sharply at work in the continuance of finding distraction against my doleful incarceration, I perceived that Pere Mourier would inevitably summon Desiree to his own bed to console himself for leaving Marisia's virgin cunny immaculate. And I had to commend Father Lawrence on his admirable tact; the fat French priest's chagrin, in being denied access to Marisia's virginal couch, might well have made him the enemy of Father Lawrence, but if he could instead requite his blazing lusts with his sculptural housekeeper, he could forget the other frustration.
Father Lawrence at last arrived at the cottage of the Widow Bernard and knocked sonorously three times. The door was almost immediately opened, and I heard again the sweetly mellow contralto voice of his handsome and mature landlady; “Oh Your Reverence, I was already thinking of you! I have prepared a particularly appetizing supper which I hope will please your discriminating palate. Alas, it may well be the last repast that I set before Your Reverence.”
“Thank you, my daughter. Yes, you are quite right; in the morning I leave for London. Hence I am happy to have these last hours with you, my daughter, so that I may settle my reckoning with you and leave your charming cottage without being materially in you debt.”
“Ah, how I shall miss Your Reverence. But do come in, for it is not proper to keep a man of your eminence standing outside my humble door!”
Yes, I told myself, the good Father would be well occupied this his last night in Languecuisse! I could almost see the benign smile upon his manly visage at these flattering words of the Widow Bernard's and her own fatuous smile in her delight at seeing his gratification. She would presently see that gratification take the shape of his vigorous bludgeon of a prick, not too long after the repast she intended for him. I have found in my wanderings that human beings have an axiom all their own: A full belly leadeth always to a full cock. And also: The more tempting the viands consumed, the more furious the urge to fuck. So this would be a memorable last night indeed for Father Lawrence, as well as for his beautiful widowed landlady, if I was any judge.
He sat down at the table, jiggling me again in my metal prison, and the Widow Bernard served him a meal over which he exclaimed many times. There was a bottle of good red Beaujolais, extremely young, since the cork had been put to it at this last harvest, the harvest which had brought Laurette such unforeseen rapture and exalted status in the village.
I will not bore you, my appreciative reader, in recounting the homilies and platitudinous flattery which the two of them exchanged during that meal. Suffice it to say that each sought to wheedle the other into a radiant mood of well being, a kind of spiritual attunement for their night ahead. But when I felt myself jiggled again, it was because Father Lawrence had risen from the table, pushing back his chair, and then I heard him say in a firm voice (which nevertheless trembled with greedy anticipation): “Truly, a feast for the gourmet, my daughter! And now, before I say farewell to you, let me hear your confession so that I may shrive you of any sins that you have either committed or considered. Your bedroom, I believe, would be a fitting chapel for your orisons. Come, my daughter, let us retire.”
CHAPTER THREE
“Close the door, Your Reverence, do. When I am with you, I feel almost as I did when I was a trembling bride.” The Widow Bernard seemed to be in the grip of a powerful emotion once inside the portals of her bedchamber.
There was a sound of the closing of the door, and with it I was jiggled once again in my metal prison, now encased within the pocket of his cassock. I realized that now I should have to use my keenly developed sense of hearing in lieu of sight, since even a flea as gifted as I has not yet devised the power of peering through metal and, after that, a thickness of black cloth. So, dear reader, you, just as I did then, will have to supply your own fanciful imagery and join it to the accompanying dialogue which I faithfully remembered while Father Lawrence took his fond leave of the delectable matron.
“There, now, my daughter, it is done. Does it allay your trepidations?”
To this there was a stifled little giggle as the Widow Bernard retorted, “But not entirely, Your Reverence. My feelings are mixed at this very moment, for you see, I behold you now in the black cassock of your holy order, which reminds me of my frailties as a sinner. Yet at the same time, when I gaze upon your handsome features, dear Father Lawrence, I tremble inwardly with those forbidden sensations which are proper only to a dutifully married woman.”
I heard him cluck his tongue in a gentle reproof: “This is understandable, my daughter. And it is good that, as a true believer of the Faith, you stand in awe of the most sacrosanct mysteries which are handed down to us from the very top of Mount Sinai, when Moses received those tenets which were to guide the lives of all of us in the centuries to come. Truly, my black cassock is the symbol of Mother Church, who gathers into her arms all the penitents who seek her consolation and her forgiveness for their temporal as well as their spiritual sins. Yet, to continue the analogy, under this cassock beats the heart of a virile man who is all too well aware of these frailties of which you speak so self-consciously. In my ecclesiastical robes, I stand before you as the representative of Mother Church, to give you her blessing and to pray that you will be comforted in your sorrows and your affliction of being bereft of a suitable husband, who will know how within the scope of our righteous laws to ease your carnal pangs as a descendant of the Eve who must atone throughout the ages for having eaten the forbidden fruit in Eden.”
“Your words are so helpful, my dear Father Lawrence,” the Widow Bernard cooed, and then uttered a heartfelt sigh.
“I do my humble best, my daughter,” he responded. “And now it is as that representative that I stand before you, to take heed of your confessional, which shall always be private between us, since no confidence to a priest may ever be passed on to the laity. Tell me, daughter, have you sinned in aught since our last meeting?”
“Oh, no, Your Reverence! It is true that I scolded Madame Tilueil for having sent her little boy over to me with a basket of eggs which I needed to make this very cake you found so delicious just now, Your Reverence. I found three bad eggs, for which she had charged me the full price, and I am afraid that knowing these eggs were for your august palate, I lost my temper.”
“I will easily forgive you that, my daughter. You will say one Hail Mary before you close your eyes this night. Is there aught else?”
There was a moment's silence while the handsome widow pondered, and then a soft: “If it is a sin, Your Reverence, I missed you very much the other night. And last night, too. And – and it was as a man, not as a priest, that I longed for you. I know I have sinned grievously.”
“No, my daughter, only if you sought to console your disappointment with some man to whom you were not wed, would you then be in mortal sin.”
“Oh, no, Your Reverence. But I did dream that you were beside me in bed, fucking me with your becque.” (At this point, let me remind you, dear reader, the good Father and his beauteous landlady were speaking in French, and to facilitate matters I will merely furnish to you the English translation to ease your understanding of what took place. Now, the word becque is French, and a colloquialism which roughly corresponds to the English 'prick.')
“Did you manifest any other action than passively during this dream, my daughter?”
“No, Your Reverence, except that when I wakened, I found I had my finger in my con.” (Here again Madame Bernard used the French vulgarism for what in English is called 'cunny.')
“After due reflection, my daughter, I do not think you were really guilty of mortal sin. Your mind, like your body, was dormant while you were asleep, and your finger cannot be said to have committed a mortal sin simply by wandering at random over your fair person while your mind was in repose. I therefore absolve you. Now, is that the last?”
“I – I think so, Your Reverence. Are – are you really leaving Languecuisse tomorrow?”
“It is my destiny, my daughter. I have been assigned to the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, and he who takes the bread of Mother Church must do her bidding. However, joyfully I may tell you that I bring to my new post a lovely and innocent candidate for righteousness, since the charming damsel Marisia, who as you will remember was the ward of the late Monsieur Villiers, will accompany me to take up her duties as a novice in our holy order.”
“Ah, Father Lawrence, what I would not give to be in her place and to be, indeed, of her tender years.”
“Let us remember that one of the commandments, my daughter, reproves you for coveting that which is not yours. It is Marisia's destiny, as it is mine to take her there, and undoubtedly for you there will be a place in heaven when your time is come. Yet since you are yet young and strong and spirited, my daughter, I shall be greatly surprised if, before another year is out, you do not exchange your widow's weeds for the costume of a joyous bride. And it is this benediction towards that ultimate happiness which I am come to give you now, both as a priest and as a man who appreciates your hospitality.”
Once again I could hear the Widow Bernard's stifled giggle, and I knew how greatly she had been impressed by the English ecclesiastic's sententious declamation. I was certain that she was impatient now, having received his absolution in his role of priest, to be the recipient of his massive cock's farewell joust within her burning cuntsheath.
“I am grateful for Your Reverence's good wishes. But alas, in a tiny village like this, it is not easy to find a worthy man who will mate with a widow no longer in the springtime of her youth. And you know that Laurette has captured that handsome devil of a Pierre Larrieu, whose ilk is none too common. Oh, Your Reverence, I shall pine in my bed alone at night and dream not only of you, but of a vigorous youth like Pierre. I know that I shall commit sin, because you will be away in London, perhaps never to return, and yet Pierre Larrieu will be only a little distance away from my humble cottage and my lonely bed.'*
“Then you must remember the counsel of good St. Paul, who said that it was far better to marry than to burn,” Father Lawrence immediately riposted. “You must make a diligent effort to suppress your urge to sin until you have found a suitable spouse who will accommodate your yearnings within the holy estate of matrimony. Yet, because, as a man, I know how you are suffering now – as a woman and not as a parishioner – I take pity on you my last night in Languecuisse. See, I am removing my cassock. Now there is no longer the priest – only the man.”
“Oh, Your Reverence – and what a man you are! I can see your prick fairly bursting through your drawers.”
“Why, then, since it is wrong and against nature to suppress all natural instincts, and so that by the good grace of harmonious relationships between our sexes as man and woman, liberate my prick and at the same time liberate your delicious pussy, so that we may unite the two organs in a felicitous gesture of comradeship and parting at the same exquisite time.”
Father Lawrence, as you see, dear reader, was something of a romantic. Had he stayed in Languecuisse and replaced fat Pere Mourier (whose habits as a trencherman at table and as a cocksmith in bed were very likely to bring on fluxes, cholers and increasing fleshly girth) I verily believe that the little hamlet would have become a veritable paradise for thwarted lovers and suppressed widows, to say nothing of disappointed Amazonian housekeepers, like the beautiful Desiree.
“And now you make me blush, Your Reverence, as I gaze upon so mighty a prick and think that in a few moments it will do my poor little cunny the honor of stretching it apart until I nearly swoon with pleasure,” the Widow Bernard exhaled in the most langorous of tones. I heard a rustling now, and knew it to be of garments being removed. Sure enough, for a moment later Father Lawrence, his voice hoarse with the unmistakable note of sexual zeal, pronounced: “As a man and not as a priest, my dear Hortense, the sight of your carnation-tinted naked skin assures me that you will not lack for proper suitors. Now do not misunderstand me, my daughter. I would not have you go about exposing your fine limbs or those luscious bubbies of yours to vulgar eyes. But surely, it cannot be great wrongdoing to allow a deferential and serious-minded suitor the opportunity to inspect, however briefly, a portion of your treasures, particularly at the time when he is amorous of you and of a type of impressionable mind which can be led down the aisle to the holy altar of matrimony. Remember, this, my daughter.”
“Oh, I will, I will, Your Reverence. And now I am blushing just as I did on my wedding night. I have only my drawers on, as you do, Your Reverence. My knees are beginning to tremble, seeing that big, hard, stiff prick of yours standing out in the air, menacing my poor little cunny. I want it so much, and yet the way it stares and points at my cunny fills me with fear, truly, Your Reverence!”
Now the Widow Bernard's voice was trembling with overwrought emotions. I could picture the scene: both of them naked to the waist, clad only in their drawers, he with his cock sticking out through the vent of that last garment, she with clenched, sweaty little hands and dilated eyes and flaring nostrils, as her gaze fixed irrevocably on the plumhead of this mighty, throbbing cock.
I did not need my vision to recall the features and the form of this vigorous ecclesiastic. He was a man just under six feet in stature and in his late forties. His abundant shock of brown hair was only partly streaked with gray. He had intensely compelling blue eyes – I suspect that the very intensity of their gaze had much to do with his prowess – surmounted by very thick, bushy brows. His nose was Roman, his mouth and chin firm and decisive. There was, perhaps, in the corners of that mouth, just the slightest hint of sensuality, the faintest suspicion of self-esteem at the moment of conquering a tasty cunt such as the Widow Bernard undeniably possessed. I began to wish, indeed, that when I had taken my nap it had been in the luxuriant bush between her carnation-sheened, plump thighs, for she was not likely to indulge in such nonsensical sentimentality as to cut off her pussycurls and put them in a locket to give to another girl, of all things! She was the type of woman who gave of herself fully and wholly – if my readers will forgive so atrocious a pun! – and without counting those silky tendrils which fleeced that plump and appetizing mound of Venus.
“I must also give you one final piece of advice, dear Hortense,” he resumed, his voice husky now and resounding after a slight pause which was marked out for me by the sound of kisses and the slithering of hands over naked flesh. “It is that you must not disparage yourself, but rather – and yet this must be done without excessive vanity or bragging, lest it be a mortal sin, mind you, my daughter – extol your virtues and your charms to the right ears and before the proper eyes, so that you will become the more desirable to both these sets of organs and so, in final turn, to the most primitive and yet the most discriminating organ of all that a man holds, his cock. And there again you must show care in not giving way to your surging passions which rival those – and I am sincere in telling you this, my dear Hortense – of a young virgin who yearns to explore the holy mysteries with an adoring male companion. In a word, Hortense, you must whet desire without seeming to lead it on; you must cajole without appearing to become covetous; and you must stimulate without yourself succumbing, until the ring, the book, and the candle are before you. If you will remember but this precept, I promise you that you will be wed within a year. For what man who still possesses the spark of life within his loins and sinews would fail to get a hard on at the sight of your panting titties, my beautiful Hortense, of the soft, thick fur which covers the ripe pink lips of that greedy little cunny of yours? Not I, for one, could ever be impervious to such delicious temptations – as a man, hark you, not as a priest.”
“Of course, Your Reverence!” The Widow Bernard's voice was choking with emotion. I heard now the creaking of her bed as the two of them sat down upon it. I heard then the sound of sucking of titties and the slapping of hands against naked flesh, and the flurried little moans a woman makes when a man with a massive prick, such as Father Lawrence, begins to fondle her nipples and the soft moist insides of her quivering thighs. I knew, too, that those moans and sighs of hers were conceived not only out of the furious lust which now invaded her naked body, but also her rueful awareness that tonight would be the last time she could enjoy the vigorous cramming of which his prick was capable. As you will recall, dear reader, in a previous volume of my memoirs, I described this fearsome weapon as measuring at least seven and a half inches in length, with a superb thickness in proper proportion, and a head that was oval-shaped and slightly elongated, having the appearance of a deadly arrowhead. When I saw it again in my mind's eye, I confess that I shuddered for Marisia's dainty cunthole, for it could not compare with the Widow Bernard's capacity to absorb so rigorous and massive a penetrator.
“Oh, I am dying for you, Your Reverence,” the Widow Bernard panted, and I heard the bed creak even more furiously. The Widow Bernard furnished me – and you, my readers, in turn – with a lucid and graphic recital of the proceedings, thereby permitting me to see what was going on: “Aah, oh – it's so good, Your Reverence! Dig farther into me, it seems like years since I last enjoyed so wonderful a fuck – Aiii, I am on fire for you, I burn and die for you. Oh, do not spare me tonight, your prick will have to make up for those nights when you will not be in my bed, Your Reverence!”
“Be of good cheer, my daughter,” he panted, and I heard the bed creak again, doubtless with the driving advance of his mighty ramrod deep into the confines of her seething pussy, “I am but the embodiment of your desires. Have I not told you that before the year is out, another man, as worthy as myself, will replace me atop you, riding between your satiny warm thighs, and will fuck you till you have no more juice left in that greedy pussy of yours, my beautiful and passionate Hortense.”
There followed more creakings than ever, and now sobs and groans and unintelligible phrases emanated from the shuddering naked widow, so masterfully ridden by Father Lawrence. Then I heard him gasp, “Do put your little finger into my bunghole, dear Hortense, for it will make me harder than ever and thus bring about your redemption from lust through fulfillment.”
No sooner had he spoken than she must have complied, for I heard him utter a hoarse cry of “Aaahhh! Now hold me tightly with your arms and legs, and put your tongue in my mouth, and let us to the fray with good heart and cheer.” Thereupon still more creakings, the noisiest of all, and finally a cry of communal ecstasy, followed by a long, contented sigh of ecstasy from the widow, who had doubtless tasted the elixir of hot ecclesiastical spunk in the deepest recesses of her avid cunthole, which had released her own creamy flow of lovedew.
It was a long moment before I heard another word from them, and it was the Widow Bernard who first broke the blissful silence by murmuring, just loud enough for me to hear: “Oh, I wish this night would never end!”