Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

Then, telling her she might clutch the rungs of the chair in front of her to sustain herself, he retrieved the scourge and set about whipping her in earnest. Moving from side to side so as to command her entire bottom, he applied first a horizontal stroke, then a diagonal one, while poor Laurette, beside herself with pain and shame, cried out and twisted and jerked and wriggled in the most exciting manner.

“There,” he said soothingly as he laid on a final stroke which wrapped the two split ends of the thong against her naked belly and drew a piercing cry from the unfortunate penitent, “you have paid the price for your licentiousness, my girl, now kneel there in penitence and make your silent prayers to him who will be your lawful husband, that he will accept you to his bosom as a pure, untainted virgin. Meanwhile, I will soothe your hurts.”

Casting aside the scourge, he approached the chair on which the half-naked, golden haired virgin knelt weeping and still squirming about. His pudgy hands, the backs of which were covered with thick black hairs, greedily but very lightly stroked and palpitated her naked bottom. Laurette gasped at the very instant she first felt his profaning fingers take such audacious liberties, but she did not dare protest, fearing another application of the wicked scourge. Besides, her face covered by her petticoat and gown which he had pulled up over her, she could not see that he had rolled up his cassock to the waist and secured it with a couple of pins which he procured from the top of his dresser, thereby denuding himself in all his obese, hairy and massive maleness. For the cock of Pere Mourier was really enormous; it surpassed in girth that of Guillaume Noirceau, and it was fully as long as that of Jacques Tremoulier. The head was a huge, obscene plum in size, with thick lips twitching as if impatient to disgorge their spew.

A fit of trembling overtook Laurette as she crouched on her whipping chair, compelled to tender her streaked naked bottomcheeks to the holy father. But after a bit, as she discovered that his fingers did not hurt her stripes but rather benevolently caressed and fondled the quaking globes of her behind, she relaxed her vigilance and terror. Sobs still shook her lovely body, but they were muted now, delicious music to a flagellant's ears.

He crouched a little so that he might better examine the inflammation which the scourge had left on those lovely hindquarters. Towards the end of the flogging, the tips of the lash had bitten against the inner edges of both bottom cheeks, and there were dark red little blotches visible. His fingers first lightly stroked these marks; then very slyly and very slowly, he took hold of the lower curves of her behind and pried them asunder, disclosing the crinkly little rosebud of her virgin anus.

“Ohhh! Oh, what are you doing to me, mon pere?” Laurette gasped, and the muscles of her bottom furiously tightened to hide this most intimate spot of all.

“My child, I am going to lave your hurts with some soothing oil. Do not be afraid. Surrender yourself, for this is a part of your penitence,” he replied in a trembling, harsh voice, burdened by his overweening lust.

“I – I will submit,” Laurette breathed, nearly swooning with shame, “But do please hurry and end my punishment, mon pere. My bottom hurts so terribly and I am dying of shame to be like this before you.”

“That very humiliation is part of the punishment,” he sagely observed. “Now stick your bottom out a little more, my child. Ah, that is excellent! Now do not be alarmed and do not move until I tell you to.”

With this, tightening the dig of his stubby fingers into those tender inner bottom curves, he distended them to the maximum. Before Laurette could cry out at the sharp twinge which this caused her sensitive anus, he had advanced the huge plumhead of his cock against the dainty crinkly ambery-pink rosette. The heat and firmness of that spear point made Laurette utter another cry and again contract her muscles, whereupon he angrily rebuked her: “If you do not stop this wriggling about until I bid you do so, my daughter, I shall be regretfully compelled to give you another scourging. This will be on the fronts of your thighs, and will also properly chastise the most sinful part of all, which you have merited by lying in the field with that miserable apprentice!”

With a heartrending sob, Laurette resigned herself. Once again, the obese priest prodded the tip of his savagely swollen cock against her nether orifice and was just about to engage it within the shrinking, tender virgin lips when there was a hammering at the door.

His face turned nearly purple with frustrated rage; for a moment he hesitated, but the hammering resumed. Muttering something under his breath, he unpinned his cassock quickly and, frantically looking about, at last seized a hymnal which he held over the juncture of his thighs to conceal the impious swelling. Laurette uttered a cry of distress: “Oh, do not let anyone see me thus, mon pere!”

He had gone halfway towards the door when her cry reminded him of the impropriety that might be exposed to alien eyes. Muttering something again, he hurried back to her, dragged down petticoat and skirt to conceal her striped naked bottom, and then whispered, “Remain just as you are and do not say a word!”

Then, composing his florid, contorted features into a semblance of benign serenity, Pere Mourier at last went to the door and opened it.

It was his Amazonian housekeeper Desiree, breathless, her face flushed, her eyes shining. He noted that the bodice of her blouse had been disarranged and exposed rather more of the valley of her sumptuous bosom than was proper in the rectory. But before he could remonstrate with her over this immodesty, she burst out: “Oh, mon pere, I just came back from the house of the patron, and I told him about little Laurette. He was grief stricken, but he bids you attend so that she will be well and in good spirits for the announcement of the banns. But just as I entered, mon pere, I was in time to admit a visitor who asks for you. He is Father Lawrence from London, mon pere. Shall I admit him?”

“I will go to him in the little salon, Madame Desiree,” Pere Mourier said in a composed voice. “Will you do me the sweet favor of bringing wine and some of those little cakes which you said you had baked to celebrate your first day as my housekeeper? My guest will no doubt be thirsty and hungry, if he has come so far.” And he gave the Amazonian beauty a fatherly pat on her opulent hip. His hand lingered a little more than was absolutely necessary. I could see it all now. This patriarch of the little village of Languecuisse, having attended the grape-trampling contest, had doubtless seen Desiree's lewd exposure and her most intimate person while in the cask. And having been inflamed by the sight of her magnificent bottom and furry slit, he had decided to assuage the loneliness of his bare and sparsely furnished little rectory with her beauteous charms.

Pere Mourier, now fully regained in his composure, entered the reception salon of the rectory to meet his announced guest. Meanwhile the beauteous Amazonian housekeeper, the widow Desiree, hastened to procure a tray of cakes and two glasses and a bottle of excellent Burgundy, which she set down on a table between the two priests. She did not at once withdraw, but stood at the doorway, making languishing eyes at the newcomer. He had evidently taken her fancy, for he was indeed a handsome and mature man in the full prime of his faculties. I suspected that it was he who had disarranged the widow's blouse.

Father Lawrence was a man just under six feet in stature, in his late forties, I should judge, with an abundant shock of brown hair only partly streaked with gray. He had vigorous, rugged features, with intense blue eyes, very thick brows, a strong roman nose and a firm, decisive mouth and chin. He was so much more prepossessing that Pere Mourier that I had no doubt the handsome widow was regretting she had made the impulsive offer to become the latter's housekeeper when a man of Father Lawrence's vitality and robustness appeared upon the scene.