Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

The cottage of the widow whom the good Pere Mourier had recommended as a possible housekeeper was not far from the rectory, a pleasant stroll through verdant fields and hedges, not unlike that which Laurette Boischamp had taken the night before with such dismal consequences as my readers readily recollect. Father Lawrence walked slowly, enjoying the landscape, the blue sky and warm sun, serenely at his ease. At length he came to the little cottage and rapped upon the door for admittance, whereupon it was opened by a stunningly buxom female the sight of whom at once brightened the worthy ecclesiast's eye.

“Oh, mon pere,” the woman exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth, “has something happened to Pere Mourier that you are here to replace him?”

“Be of good cheer, my daughter,” Father Lawrence at once responded in quite passable French, “your concern for my confrere tells me in what high esteem you hold him. He, on the other hand, spoke warmly to me only last night, praising your zeal and devotion as one of his parishioners.”

“The dear man,” the widow cooed, raising her eyes to heaven, “may he be forever blessed! But then is it that Languecuisse is to have two priests, Your Reverence?”

“No, Madame Bernard, for you see I am just here on my vacation before I return to the seminary in England where I shall take up my duties,” he smilingly informed her. “But as I am a stranger here, Pere Mourier was good enough to suggest that you might be willing to give me board and lodging, for which I will pay well. I seek privacy and quiet for my meditations, and I would not intrude upon you in the slightest.”

During this little speech, the buxom female openly eyed the virile, mature English churchman, while he, to be sure, discreetly surveyed her charms, recalling what Desiree had mentioned of her carnal foibles. Hortense Bernard was not much older than Desiree, by perhaps two years at most, with light brown hair that fell in a lustrous sheaf to her shoulder blades, a winsome, round face with widely spaced large soft brown eyes, a Grecian nose whose broadly flaring wings indicated a sensual temperament, as did the small but overripe lips of her red mouth.

But it was her figure which demanded the most attention. Even the wide skirt which she wore could not disguise the truly juicy curves of full, appetizing haunches, of robust and sturdy thighs well able to bear many a vigorous charge from the spunk-laden weapon of a lusting male. The fine plump, well turned calves were bare, and their skin was of a fine carnation tinting calculated to whet the sexual appetites of even such a discriminating philosopher of womankind's foibles as Father Lawrence had already proved to be. As to her bosom, the low-cut blouse accentuated its sumptuous treasures: two narrowly set, high-perched round melons, which, if one peeped down the cut of the blouse, displayed wide, pale coral circles amid which rose darling orangeish pink-hued tidbits that fairly made Father Lawrence's mouth water, if I am any judge of the look in a man's eyes when he gazes upon a female.

I rested on his left shoulder, conserving my powers, for I too was on vacation. The warm sun, the langorous climate, had made me pleasantly drowsy ever since my arrival; as for subsistence, I had already dined enough soon after coming to Languecuisse to be able to quell the occasional bloodsucking urge which rose in me from time to time. What interested me most, dear reader, was the unfolding of this rather complex relationship between the fat French priest, the tender Laurette and her ill-starred lover Pierre, the Amazonian Desiree, and Father Lawrence. Somehow, I believed, that before the last-named's stay in this village should come to an end, there would be amusing and dramatic episodes to include in my memoirs and to recall in my old age. For even a Flea can gradually lose his powers, very much like a man, and thereby be relegated to re-contenting his primal urges with fond, burning reminiscences.

“Oh, Your Reverence, it would be a great honor for me to give you shelter in my humble cottage,” the Widow Bernard remarked, with a great fluttering of long thick curly eyelashes and a charming blush that would have done credit to a girl in her tenderest teens. “Since my poor husband died, I have had an empty room which unceasingly saddens my heart each time I pass it, for it was in that very chamber that my loving Gervaise and I came together in connubial joy, alas.” She sniffled fetchingly and modestly lowered her eyes. I could see that Father Lawrence was already smitten and well on his way to forgetting the clandestine delights which Desiree had procured for him in his quivering eagerness to have the Widow Bernard to himself.

“It is most generous of you, my daughter, and heaven will bless your thoughtfulness,” he told her with an unctuous smile. “Here are ten francs to pay for the first week of my lodging. I trust there will be sufficient left of that amount to purchase such little food as I may require.”

“Oh, Your Reverence, with so much money I can easily feed you on roast goose and tender duckling,” exclaimed the delighted widow. “Do honor me by entering my humble abode and letting me show Your Reverence to his room. No man has entered it since poor Gervaise left this world to find his eternal reward, which I steadfastly and daily pray he has attained by now.”

“Amen to that,” said Father Lawrence. “Do you go ahead of me, Madame Bernard, to show me the way.”

The buxom widow inclined her head deferentially and went forward whilst he followed her. His eyes fixed on the swing of her magnificent spacious hips, watching the undulations of her truly remarkable backside which her skirt plaqued against at each quick step she took. And remembering what Desiree had intimated to the virile English churchman about the Widow Bernard's predilection, I myself could attest to her being superbly endowed to service the unnatural lust of a man who would fain emulate the perverse sexual practice that was in Biblical times associated with the infamous city of Sodom.

She opened a narrow door and again inclined her head as he entered. The furnishings comprised a low bedstead, a chest of drawers, a footstool and a sturdy, short-backed chair, and there was a tiny window placed at about the height of a man's shoulders. Father Lawrence went to it and stared out, then turned back, a satisfied smile on his lips. “A really exquisite chamber, Madame Bernard. There is here all the privacy I could wish for. I am grateful to you.”

“But it is I who am beholden to you, Your Reverence. Ten francs – oh, it is a bounty from heaven itself!” she gushed, and, seizing his hand, bore it to her lips and kissed it.

Benignly, he patted her head with his other hand and responded, “You do me too much credit, my daughter. What is money but a medium of exchange, to be shared with those who are in need of it? And now, with your permission, I will enjoy a little nap, that I may regain my strength.”

“Certainly, Your Reverence, certainly,” the buxom widow cooed, her voice low and sweet and fawningly deferential as she backed out of the room, curtsying in obeisance, then closed the door behind her.

Father Lawrence unpacked his valise, which he had brought from Pere Mourier's rectory, and, examining the drawers, found room for his few articles of clothing. Then, removing cassock and his little cornered hat and placing them atop the chest, he stretched out on the bed clad only in his drawers. The weather was still extremely warm, and hence there was no need for undershirt. Yet no sooner had he closed his eyes and emitted a sigh of content than I perceived a gradual swelling at the crotch of his drawers, till before very long his virile cock was in gigantic erection. Perhaps he was dreaming of his tryst with Desiree, or perhaps of an imagined tryst with virginal Laurette, I cannot tell; but whatever the cause, his organ was readied to decimate a hundred maidenheads.