Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

“Not always, mon Pere,” Denise shamelessly replied, “but Jean grew so very excited whenever I or Louisette touched him there. He could not hold his juice very long once my fingers were upon him. I think he liked me better than he did Louisette!”

“Hush, my daughter, vanity, vanity, all is vanity, and it is one of the seven deadly sins! His destiny is to be absent from the two of you, but by your diligence and humility and obedience it may be that he will be restored to you. When that happy day comes, Denise, you will be more appreciative of his manly qualities, and tenderly solace him as a girl should her brother who has passed through such tribulations. So, if you repeat these gentle games, taking care always not to indulge in the crime of incest, you must learn a gentler touch. With the tip of your index finger, my daughter, glide gently over my balls. You too, Marisia, follow Denise on the other side of me. I warrant there is room for both!”

In faith, I might have added that there was room enough also for Louisette if she had not been in the next room.

There followed a veritable symphony of sighs, little gasps and giggles, heartfelt moans, and, above all else, interminable creakings of that sturdy bed which had doubtless given horizontal support to many an amorous couple (or trio or quartet, for all I know) since this worthy inn was constructed. But of one thing I was certain through all this onomatopoetic concert – that Father Lawrence assuredly possessed more self-mastery than young Jean. To be sure, I was abetted in this observation by the remark of gentle Marisia, who some little time later exclaimed, “Oh, mon Pere, the lips are twitching but no juice comes out! It is almost as with Monsieur Villiers!”

“Marisia, you do me an injustice by so comparing me with the memory of that worthy old patron now gone to his eternal rest,” Father Lawrence hoarsely ejaculated. “Surely your experience with Laurette in his bed must have told you the difference. Your fingers toiled till they were numb with frigging, but if he did not yield his juice, it was because he was a sere and withered old man for whom such carnal pleasures had no further purpose. Whereas I, still in the prime and bloom of vigor, have veritable oceans of spunk but know the secret of damming them up until the moment is at hand for true pleasure.”

“Shall I do it in my mouth as I also did to the bite of M'sieu Villiers?” Marisia naively preferred. “Do so, my daughter, and hold yourself in readiness, for I am at the moment of allowing the dam to break. Ah, Denise, your fingers are gentler now, you are learning the good lesson! With the lightest of touches, so that your fingertip scarcely grazes the taut skin of my balls and of my cockhead – aaah, just so, my daughter,” he gasped.

I heard now a soft wet smack, doubtless the sweet osculation of Marisia's lips, and then I heard Father Lawrence cry out, “Ah, Denise, you are denied your share, but it will be your turn next Gratify my sweet ward, who is bringing me to earthly paradise, by putting your soft finger into her little slit and tickling just inside the lips where she is most sensitive. Then you will in a sense share indirectly the ecstasy she procures for me, which must content you till your time has come.”

“I am doing it, mon Pere,” Denise gasped, and I heard Marisia giggle, “That tickles, Denise – oooh, how it tickles… ohh!”

“But do not take your lips off me, or, when the dam bursts, the spunk will have no sweet receptacle,” Father Lawrence panted, and once more I heard that inimitable sucking sound which is the precursor of a good frenching.

Now the symphony in the room had reached its crescendo. And with groans and sighs and little squeals, the two girls plied Father Lawrence as he had described his desire for them so to do, and when I definitely heard his hoarse bellow and knew that he had at last let the dam burst, the gurgling music which ensued told me that Marisia had provided the sweet receptacle so urgently needed. And yet, even as she gurgled to bring him bliss, I heard her commingling moan and knew that Denise's finger had been frigging her dainty tickler and so drawn her towards her own juvenile earthly paradise.

At long last Father Lawrence, in a langorous and beatific tone, remarked, “My daughters, I am well pleased with your compatibility and sisterly appreciation of sharing. Remember that I will be always with you to guide you through the most arduous course of trials which it may be your lot to endure before your orphanage is truly at an end. But, Denise, you have your handkerchief after all, I see.”

“Oui, mon Pere. I had forgotten that I had put it in another pocket of my dress.”

“But you are patting yourself between your satiny thighs, my daughter. Is it true what I suspect, that while you were solacing Marisia, you solaced also yourself with your own tender little hand?”

“That is true, mon Pere. I could not help it. Seeing Marisia wriggle so and feeling how her little tickler was growing hard, I felt my own stir within me, and I had to close my eyes and tickle myself there and pretend that it was Jean.”

“I see, my daughter,” Father Lawrence sighed heavily, “that I shall have to devote a quiet hour one day soon towards edifying you in the joyous little games by which pleasure is devised upon this trenchant sphere of ours. But now I think it wise that we seek repose, so that all of us will be ready to board the ship at eventide.”

And once again there was a creaking of the bed, this time gentler and more subdued, indicating that Father Lawrence and his two charming wards had sought the arms of Morpheus rather than one another.

I do not know what prayers Father Lawrence must have addressed to Aeolus, the mythological god of the winds, but by late afternoon the sun broke through the dull gray sky and the howling of the winds abated. I had to rely for news of this seeming miracle on Father Lawrence himself, for after he had initiated the sisters Denise and Louisette into a starting familiarity with the most virile part of his person, he had them take a nap in their newly acquired room while he flung himself in an armchair and bade his ward close her eyes and fortify herself in the arms of Morpheus so that she would have strength for the nocturnal journey on the good ship which was to take them back to England. After that nap, which must have consumed all of an hour or more, he wakened and strode to the window and then cried out in his vigorously resonant voice, “My daughter, my daughter, open your eyes and gaze upon the fair sight of the sun, for it will be your last day in your native land!”

Drowsily, Marisia wakened and came to join him beside the window. I heard the sound of a tender kiss, rather more chaste than was Father Lawrence's wont. Besides, from his genial tone, I gathered that he was on the verge of sermonizing his charming raven-haired ward on the inevitable good fortune that would await her now that she was under his protection, though I did not think he would be braggart enough to claim it was he who had stopped the winds and brought forth the sun from behind the angry, dark clouds.

“It is customary for us priests to use the term 'my daughter' when we are in converse with a female of any age from nine to ninety-nine,” he explained. “Yet with you, my little Marisia, I feel a greater intimacy, as if truly you were my own flesh and blood and thus my daughter. So, when you are in the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, you will have to answer to other priests whose authoritative powers take priority over mine, being the newest comer there. Yet before you enter those walls, my dear child, I wish you to promise me – and I hope that you sincerely feel this kinship between us – that when I say to you 'my daughter' you will always know that it has a secret meaning and a benediction which is of my personal good will and not simply out of amenity.”