Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

“I am only a poor honest girl who aids her ailing father to run this meager little inn, mon Pere. But I would gladly listen to you without heeding the time if it were not that I should fear a drubbing for neglecting my tasks. And you do not wish your three young wards to go unfed?”

“Not at all, my daughter, but there is ample time. And if they fast for a quarter of an hour or more past their usual suppertime, it will teach them fortitude and patience, both goodly qualities to be reckoned with in the hereafter when they are come to final judgment. As for myself, I should like nothing better than to be able to chose a bottle of wine with which to toast the health of both you and your father. Could we not descend again to this estimable wine cellar of yours, my dear Georgette?”

Oh, now I saw the scheming logic of this sly, English ecclesiastic! His play on words had so bemused me that I had not quite ascertained his purpose in remarking it to this simple wench. But it was plain now: the 'pole' to which he referred was nothing more nor less than his prick. I should not really say nothing less, for it was surely substantially more than most men are given to boast of between aspiring female thighs!

Simple tavern wench or not, Georgette perceived his drift at once, once he had mentioned the wine cellar. With a little trill of laughter, he gave him a resounding kiss, melting into his arms as a pound of butter would melt upon a high plateau under the scorching sun of the Sahara. I heard the most effusive sighs and gasps, and the rustling of garments and the little moans and finally the sucking sounds of lips put together in exquisite conjunction. And when the Father spoke at last, it was in a tone that trembled and was edged with huskiness, which I ascribed to the most tender of all emotions that can be shared between male and female, even if they be sanctimonious ecclesiastic and humble peasant wench.

“Oh, quickly, man Pere,” Georgette gasped, and her voice also shared this same eloquent tremolo of excitement which I had just heard from her vigorous male partner, “I am sure that I can find one of Papa's finest bottles of Anjou or Chablis for so important an occasion! But we cannot tarry very long, mon Pere, because my father will be down certainly before another half hour has made the sun sink closer to its bed in the western sky.”

It was amusing to me, as well as a source of grudging admiration, that whenever any susceptible female came into Father Lawrence's presence, he infallibly was afflicted with the most romantic and poetic diction. Now whether she partook of it by osmosis or by inspiration of his presence and person or by humility which sought for self-improvement to be worthy of so articulate and artful a male, I cannot really tell. But from what I know of Father Lawrence's endeavors to sow the seed wherever it would find good planting, I am rather more inclined toward the process of osmosis: that osmosis which involves the soft receptive cunt of the female and its inordinate capacity for accepting the offertory of spunk of which substance Father Lawrence seemed to be blessed in super-abundant quantity.

“I must sample the Anjou,” he decided after another series of sucking kisses and cooing sighs proffered by his fair accomplice. “But do you know that, after having serenely taken my ease in that little village of Provence, I have the bucolic yearning to tap the good wine out of a barrel rather than to take it from a bottle, for bottle-feeding is more fitting for babes. And the only thing I have to do with babes, apart from baptizing them, is in the conception of them which, I need not tell you, my daughter, is forbidden by Mother Church in my estate.”

“Oh, I will eagerly tap your barrel for you, mon Pere,” Georgette passionately vouchsafed. And I knew precisely what barrel she referred to and what sweet instrument would be the tapper. It was fitted most deliriously between her satiny thighs, but I did not think that within so short a time as half an hour it could tap the full barrel of Father Lawrence's spunk.

At last they broke asunder, and Georgette led the way to the little staircase that led down to the dark wine cellar. She told him that she would take a candle with her to lighten their way; and then the naughty baggage preferred a remark which certainly showed that she had been remiss in making her usual confessions at whatever church she attended in Calais.

For with a soft slurred giggle, as they went down the stairs, she remarked, “I will save this candle, mon Pere, and after you have left us, I will retain it as a remembrance of your presence. Mayhap, many a night from now when I toss and turn in my lonely bed, I will take it and pretend that it is you visiting me where I wish best to entertain you.”

Was there ever so bold and candid a hussy as Georgette? Comparing her with gentle Laurette and sweet Marisia, I could but pronounce that, as has often been held by theologians, there is more bawdy virtuosity in the cities than in the village hamlets. And doubtless this is true because simply there are more wanton females in the former than in the latter by dint of population. However, knowing the alert capacity for wisdom which sweet Marisia had already shown, even in Languecuisse, I should not be surprised if by the time she had sojourned in wicked and sprawling London for a while, she could put even Georgette to shame when it came for sweet shamelessness!

Father Lawrence did not remark to this naughty observation till they had reached the wine cellar and Georgette had set the candle down in a little cup. But then he murmured, “It grieves me, my daughter, that you would let an inanimate object simulate that noblest of human structures given to man for his joy to make up for the loss he suffered he was driven out of Eden. So, before we tap this wine, my daughter, let me show you how wrong you are in seeking such a substitution.”

Whereupon once again I was rudely flung from side to side and up and down till I was most indignant. He had doffed his cassock with an unimpaired vigor, as if he had not already lost a good deal of spunk from the fingerings of the two sisters and of his own tender young ward Marisia. I could only conclude that he had a truly inexhaustible supply.

A moment later, when I heard a gasp from Georgette, I was certain that he was exhibiting to her the difference between a pole and a candle, and I was indisputably right. With a swelling ardor to his mellow and resonant voice, he bade her consider the difference: “Behold, my daughter, here is your candle, placed beside my pole. Is there aught by which you could actually consider the two the same save perhaps in the length? But even admitting the equal length of this candle which has lighted our way to this dark cellar, do you not see that my own pole is greater in breadth? Also observe the head of the two objects side by side. That of my pole is shaped like a plum and set off from the stick which bears it forward, whereas this candle is all of the same contour. The candle has a wick which must be lighted. You will need to strike tinder or take it near a fire to illumine it so that in turn it may guide the way. But my pole has an eternal wick, so long as I am alive and lusty, my daughter, and this I will demonstrate with perspicacity to you upon this instant. Do you but truss up your kirtle and lower your drawers.”

“Oh, oui, oui, mon Pere!” Georgette gasped with a feverish excitement. Once again I heard the rustling of garments. And when I heard Father Lawrence's gasp, I knew mat she had just exhibited her silky-downed wine-tapper.

“There, do you see, my daughter? My wick is already lit at the sight of your soft pussy. It fairly burns to guide itself forward between those soft seductive lips shrouded by the silky hairs which modestly shield your tenderest of niches. I need no tinder nor flame to ignite my wick, Georgette; and see how huge and thick my wickbearer is when it beholds your sweet candle-snuffer. Yet here again the analogy fails, for even though once you may snuff me out by receiving the outpouring of my spunk, nature strengthens me so that soon again my wick is lit and ready for more guidance. Let me illustrate this, my daughter.”