Anonymous: The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

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!”

“But my daughter, all good things must come to an end. Just as good fucking must end in a come,” he chuckled. “You are mature enough to know about the joy of fucking which approaches its zenith when the first furious ardors are appeased, so that the return engagement between male and female may be more prolonged, more thoughtful and considerate of each other's intimate needs. Do not look at me with those wide, surprised eyes, my beautiful Hortense. Did you think I was going to leave your bed after fucking you once on this my last night in Languecuisse? It may be that in centuries to come, we shall be reincarnated in some other forms, and there we shall take up our tryst. Until that immortality is granted us, my daughter, you must hie to another husband lest the villagers one day stone you for whoring, and I must put back on my cassock and my hat and be the humble and guided servant of Mother Church to lead those who would stray from virtue back to the path of righteousness.”

“Oh, Your Reverence makes me weep, you speak so beautifully of fucking,” the Widow Bernard sighed. For the scholarly reader, let me add that she had achieved an ingenious play on words, speaking as she did in French. She had said, “Tu me fais mourir en parlant de baiser.” Yet the French word “baiser” means kissing as well as fucking. Thus, for those who are outwardly prudish and do not dare express their agitated desires to be a voyeur such as I am, their sensibilities would not be offended if the Widow Bernard could be said to have remarked poetically that the way he spoke of kissing made her swoon. And that, to be sure, equates a charmingly outmoded reaction of a fair maiden back in the days when knights were bold even inside their armor!