Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

“I will try my best,” Marisia promised.

“The angels themselves could do no more, my daughter. Aah – yes, gently and softly, do not be too greedy at first, lest you repent of your temptations! Ohhh, how your soft lips cling and burn the tip of my aching cock! Oh, you would dare to use your tongue to tempt me to folly, would you, my daughter? Then I must retaliate in kind – there, take that, and that, in that squirming little pussy of yours – why, it is already moist and tinged with a milky liqueur!”

“I could not help it, mon Pere,” Marisia gasped, “but when you were counting my pussyhairs, I felt so squirmy in my little con that it was all I could do to keep from crying out when something melted inside me.”

“That was your come, my daughter. Ohhh, you sweet vixen, you will soon pluck from me the little seed I have left!”

He was now not quite so boastful of his amorous exploits as he had been in the morning, and I found him much more admirable when he was not a braggart like the illustrious Casanova who, if you were to believe his memoirs, had fucked every beautiful peasant girl and widow and noble woman in all Europe during the short span of his busy lifetime. Yet, having done my own tallying on him, during the past forty-eight hours, I knew that he could not have possibly much spunk left, having deposited so much on the other side of the Channel before boarding the Bonaventura.

Then again he called out, this time more sharply, “Denise, Louisette, you are not to imitate us till you have finished your count! Have you done so yet?”

“Almost, mon Pere,” Denise's husky voice was trembling and unsteady now, “but I do think I have at any rate a score more little hairs over my con than does Louisette, even though she be older!”

“Do not forget to count those which grow along the shadowy valley between your two virgin orifices, my daughters,” he counseled, and then his voice rose in a muffled cry, “Aiii! Prepare yourself, Marisia, you have brought this upon your own self by your teasing tongue! Take it then, my daughter, for it is all I have left to give you!”

I heard him groan, but that groan was still muffled, so he must have returned to the soft niche of his lovely raven-haired ward and paid her back with his own delving tongue just as hers made surge forth the final gobbets of his viscous spunk. For now Marisia's cry of bliss drowned out his groan and the oaken chest was noisy with their wrigglings and pantings and tremorings upon it.

“We have finished, mon Pere,” Louisette gasped, “may we now have our soporific too?”

But he did not answer, only continuing to gasp and sigh in the aftermath of mouth-fucking. I heard Denise murmur to Louisette: “We must not disturb him at his orisons, my sister. Let us hurry so that we may sleep soundly! I am going to kiss you there between your pretty legs!”

“And I between yours, dear Denise!”

Whereupon there were such slushing and suckings and tonguings and kissings and moanings and sighings as I must admit I had not heard since my first days at the Seminary at St. Thaddeus. And to think that these three embryonic temptresses were but a few days' journey from that haven of repose and redemption and rogering!

The two delightful sisters Denise and Louisette had, it seemed, not actually completed their tallying when an inevitable drowsiness took hold of them after they had eased the tautness of their young nervous systems by means of that stimulating little jeu de con known as soixante-neuf. For shortly after the cabin's dimensions had reverberated to the multitudinous amorous sounds that, in company within those scant dimensions, two nubile sisters and one waif with her protector-guardian could manage to emit while they gamboled at carnal delectation, I heard the gentle breathing of Denise and Louisette, and, not much later on, the robust snores of good Father Lawrence, who was only proving that age-old maxim that although the spirit may be willing, the flesh more times than naught is often weak – particularly when it has been called upon so repetitiously to give good account of itself and stand to tributary attention before those citadels of flesh which, I warrant you, have crumpled more heroic assailants than all the castle walls of antiquity.

At any rate, whatever the reason, all four were soon happily asleep, while the good ship Bonaventura peacefully made its way across the Channel. The rocking of the gentle waves lulled me, too, to slumber inside my metal prison, but this time I could more willingly bear the tribulation of Dame Fortune, always a fickle jade, since at last into the fecund mind of my unsuspecting ecclesiastic-jailer, there had come the notion of what important part the soft silken down and follicles and strands and tendrils and wayward peeping of cunt-hair could impart to the destiny of man as well as of maiden.

Indeed, so heartily did the sisters and tender Marisia and her good guardian sleep that the cry of the seamen high on the spymast, “Land ho, Dover!” resounded all through the ship before at last Father Lawrence loudly groaned, grumbled, then, bumping the chest and muttering some inaudible Latin phrase which I suspected was not at all a blessing, came to his feet and took cognizance of the late hour.

“Open your eyes, my daughters,” he cried resoundingly, “and greet the new day – we are upon the English coast and you will see the land which will shelter you after your leave-taking of la belle Frame!”

Marisia, who, I trust, had put her nightshift back on, was first to scurry to his side to peep through the porthole. “I see the cliffs, mon Pere,” she cried, “but oh they are not nearly so jolie as the landscape of the village of Languecuisse.”

“You must not be so quick to judge things by your first impression of them, my child,” he said gently. “As you grow older, you will learn to revise your opinions a dozen times over. This is the way of the world. But it is true that, when the sky is gray and the winds gusty, the chalky cliffs do not give a visitor from the warm sunny Provence the feeling of home. Yet fear not, my child, I will look after you, and even though you be within dreary surroundings, yet will I make a warm place for you in my heart so that you will not believe that we English are cold by nature.”

Oh, the sly pedantic rogue! A warm place in his heart, indeed – say rather in his bed, and it was not his heart that longed for the raven-haired fledgling who had already displayed more unrestrained interest in fornicatory matters than many a frigid virgin in her twenties brought to bed with an eager mate. The long, rather than the short, of it was that he longed for her with all his cozening prick!

Now he murmured, “Do you know whether your new sisters Denise and Louisette finished their tallying last night, my dear child?”

Marisia, giggled. “Ah, no, but I do not think so, mon Pere. When I went back to my bunk above them, they were kissing each other and wishing each other happy dreams, and I did hear Denise say that there would be time to reckon the true count some other evening.”

“Well, so there will be this very night, for we stay at a hospitable little inn halfway between Dover and London. It will be our last night together as companions; for tomorrow night, you and Louisette and Denise will sleep for the first time in the Seminary at St. Thaddeus.”

Then to the sisters he called, “Hasten to dress yourselves, Denise and Louisette! There will be just time to consume your breakfast before our staunch vessel docks at Dover, and then we shall take the coach as far as the little village of Somerset, where we spend the night before we make our happy entry into old London town.”

To Marisia he added, “Help them speed their preparations, dear Marisia, for I wish you to be as tender and steadfast a companion and dear friend to them as if you were their sister also.”