Anonymous: The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

There was a pause now, while undoubtedly the good Father Lawrence performed such ablutions as are requisite to repair the vestiges of fornication. But it was not too long thereafter that I heard the bed creak once again and heard him murmur, “Now by way of farewell, I will salute the warm niche that has given me such pleasure.” I then heard him implant a sucking, moist kiss, and I was certain that it was applied to her cunthole, which, moreover, Hortense herself confirmed by squealing, “Ooohhh, Your Reverence, how lovely that is when you kiss me between my legs – Oh, it thrills me all over once more to feel your raspy tongue go inside!”

“I would not consider it amiss, dear Hortense,” he replied huskily, “if you would yourself salute my emblem of manhood by way of farewell.”

I heard her giggle, and then there was a soft slushing sound which could only represent the act of her mouth absorbing the elongated tip of his vigorous cock.

Thus they performed soixante-neuf on each other as a prelude to their second bout of fucking. It lasted a considerably longer time than the first, which I have already described, and the Widow Bernard was even more eloquent as she called out her ecstasies and sensations during its progress.

When they had at last given up their last spunk generously to each other, the bed creaked once more, and I heard Father Lawrence say, “And now I must bid you farewell with a heavy heart and, I fear, with a diminished cock. I shall take myself to my cot and sleep until it is time to begin the journey back to the Seminary. I will remember not only your salutation, but your hospitality during my stay in Languecuisse, my daughter. My blessings be upon you, both now and when I am absent from you.”

“But is Your Reverence not going to spend his last night here in my bed?” Hortense Bernard was almost sobbing.

“No, my daughter. I must walk through the vineyard of this village and bless the grapes for next year's harvest, that there may be prosperity and happiness in this little village where I have had such bucolic joys. So this is farewell, my daughter. A last kiss -”

“A last feel of your big cock, Your Reverence, please.” Now the Widow Bernard was really sobbing.

Again the sounds of exchanged moist kisses, the slithering of hands on naked flesh, and then with a raucous sigh, Father Lawrence announced his departure. In due course, I felt myself lifted up in my metal prison and jounced about as he put on his cassock. And then he left the cottage of the beautiful widow and strode with unimpaired, vigorous steps out into the night.

I marveled at his energy. He walked for fully half an hour and, I have no doubt, through the vineyards, as he had told the Widow Bernard he would. Then he turned his footsteps in another direction, as best I could decide in my dark confinement, and walked for what seemed even a longer time until finally I heard him climb the steps of the rectory of Pere Mourier.

He must have touched the nightbell very gently, for in a few moments I heard the door open and then I heard the gasping of a feminine voice, “Your Reverence! I hadn't thought you would be back till morning.”

“Shh, my daughter. Is your employer at his prayers or at his slumbers?”

“At the latter, Your Reverence.” I recognized the voice as that of Desiree, the Amazonian housekeeper of the French priest.

“And my charming ward – is she sleeping, too?”

“Oh, yes, Your Reverence!”

“Alone?”

“To be certain, Your Reverence. Pere Mourier gave me strict orders to see to it that Marisia was taken to a little room near mine, and he said that I was to look in on her and be sure that she did not leave her bed. Since I myself am a light sleeper, as you well know, Your Reverence, I listened for footsteps, but there were none. And only just before you rang, I peeped in on my employer. He snores like a swarm of bees.”

“Then all is well. Marisia's virtues are still unplucked. I had hoped that I might find you, my beautiful Desiree. I wished to say goodbye.”

“Oh, Your Reverence, I hoped and dreamed that you would do so, but I feared you would spend the night with the Widow Bernard.”

“That would be churlish, since I am in your debt for so much pleasure during my vacation here, my daughter.”

“Come, then, I am burning for you, Your Reverence!”

What a man, indeed, was this Father Lawrence! He had already paid at least two tributes to Venus between the straining thighs of the beauteous widow Bernard. Had he not walked like an athlete through the darkened vineyards before he returned to the rectory on the other side of town? And now he proposed to say farewell to the lovely Desiree, whose thighs were even more valiant and supple and taxing than Hortense Bernard's!

Verily, it might be said of him that he was not only a man of good faith, but of good works. Desiree led him directly to her room, and instantly flung her arms about him, pressing her body tightly to him, for I felt myself once again jostled to and fro inside the locket. The cunthairs of Laurette moved gently, cradling and cushioning my body against the buffets of my metal prison. Perhaps it was a symbol in its way that I was to be cushioned against the buffets of fate in the days ahead – I assuredly hoped as much.

Desiree wasted no time in getting to the point of her desires, which is to say, the arrowhead prick of the English ecclesiastic.

“Oh, I must feel it – I must hold it against my cunny, Your Reverence,” Desiree proclaimed once they were together with the door closed.” Quickly, take off your cassock, for it is sacrilege for me to touch a priest as intimately as I long to touch you. Once you are naked, Your Reverence, I forget everything except that you are such a man as I hoped might wed me!”

Once again the cassock was removed and draped over some article of furniture, altering again my comfort in that accursed locket. I heard the rustling of garments, and knew that the two of them were impatient to be skin to skin, prick to cunt, titties to chest, mouth upon mouth with tongues rapiering in emulation of what prick and cunt were doing down below. And this time it was Desiree who was the aggressor, entreating him to fuck her, not to spare her. She enclasped him with her body, judging by the sounds I heard, and her mouth glued to his in such sucking and draining kisses as I had never heard before, not even in mat Seminary to which it now seemed I was destined to return through no will of my own.

She also attained several climaxes before he gave down his spunk. As a connoisseur, I a lowly yet imaginative flea, could appreciate how much delicious pleasure Father Lawrence was experiencing with his prick embedded deep inside Desiree's cunthole, after having enjoyed Madame Bernard as an appetizer, so to speak. He was simply following his own judicious maxim: that the first excesses of carnal lust should be expended, leaving the male prick to take its leisurely gait within an eager cunthole, and thereby giving its owner what appeared to be an indefatigable and tireless power.

Certainly, Desiree herself acclaimed his incredible vigor, as she cried out, “Oh, mon Dieu, I have never had so wonderful a fuck! Ooooh, you have made me spend three times already, and yet you have not once lost your hot, sweet gism! You are like a rock, a machine, and yet how gloriously my cunt tells me that you are a man of flesh and blood!”

“This is the best farewell salutation you could give me, my daughter,” he panted as the bed continued to squeak and Desiree continued to groan and sigh as yet another climax shook her body.

And that was how Father Lawrence spent his final night in the little village in the heart of Provence to which a favorable wind had wafted me. Now he and I, though he could not at this time know it, were to return to bleak London and that odious seminary where fornication seemed to occur out of a quantitative rather than a qualitative instinct.