Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

“Amen to that, my hospitable daughter,” Father Lawrence rapturously agreed. “And now that I have regained my full composure, prepare yourself to feel the end of my blade within that marvelously narrow chink of yours!”

“Oh, I am ready, even though it kills me,” panted the lovely victim.

Thus exhorted, the English ecclesiast ground his teeth and thrust manfully forward, while at the same time distracting his naked landlady by continuing to fondle her panting breast and to frig her turgifying clitoris. Hortense Bernard writhed lasciviously, uttering one sobbing little cry after another, yet stoically she did not succumb to his vigorous charge but thrust back her naked hips so that he might harpoon her fundament to his very hilt. Thus he felt against his belly the shuddering, wriggling globes of her opulent backside, and his face turned purple with contorted lubricity as he required all his reserve powers to withhold the deluge of love-juice which yearned to burst forth without more delay.

His forefinger speeded its perorations against her dainty nodule, and augmented Hortense Bernard's furious responses. Her fingers clawed the sheets, her face turned restlessly from side to side, and he felt the naked breast within his cupping hand jut and rasp its swollen nipple bud against his palm as evidence of her fervent attunement. Now he began to work his mighty weapon in and out of that protestingly contracting channel, and the naked young widow squirmed and twisted herself this way and that as if to disengorge herself of the spear that was decimating her bowels. But in truth this was the last thing in the world she wished for, if I am to judge by her babbled supplications and whimperingly sobbed-out cries: “Ahhhrrr! Oh, faster, harder, Your Reverence! Ahh, your finger is driving me near to swooning-oh, oh, hold it back, Your Reverence, till I am ready too! Deeper, harder into me, I implore you-oh, what bliss, what joy you bring me!”

His forefinger flattened the stiffened tidbit of her clitoris back into its dainty little cowl of pink flesh, then let it bob up in all its turgified manifestation; then he rubbed it from side to side, then pressed it down only to let it spring up again. By this sly means, he drew her ever closer towards that abyss of passion into which the hot and tight and squeezing enclaspment of her rectal walls against his imbedded ramrod threatened to plunge him at any instant. Finally, sensing from her quaking spasms and the tireless wriggling of her velvety, naked hips that she was almost at pitch, he called out to her to accompany him on this flight into the empyrean. Then, with two or three violent eviscerating digs of his bursting weapon, he flooded her bowls with a deluge of hot viscous fluid even as her own mossy nook gave down its creamy libation to his delving forefinger. In her spasm, the comely widow's arms and legs gave way beneath her and she sprawled flat and full-length upon the bed with the good father closely joined to her as they both gasped out their ecstasy. And thus the visiting English ecclesiastic took up his new domicile and at the same time consoled the secretive burning desire of the frustrated and beautiful Widow Bernard.

True to his promise, Pere Mourier read the banns of the forthcoming marriage between Laurette Boischamp and Monsieur Claude Villiers that very next Sunday. Laurette and her parents sat in one pew, and the tender golden haired virgin lowering her eyes and bowing her head in so maidenly downcast an attitude as to win favor even with her strict and upright parents. As for the worthy patron, seated in a pew opposite his bride-to-be and his intended in-laws, he stole covert glances at the luscious young virgin who was destined for his bed. He had but ten days to wait, since the wedding was to be performed on the afternoon of Wednesday week.

I promised myself to attend the lovely virgin Laurette and do my best to protect her in her hour of greatest peril. I felt a strangely compassionate sympathy for her, so soon to be linked to this scrawny, miserly and peevish old man.

In the church that same Sunday, seated in the same pew, there sat Dame Lucille and her good man Jacques Tremoulier, and Dame Margot and her faithful Guillaume Noirceau. During Pere Mourier's sermon, which had to do with St. Paul's maxim that it was better to marry than to burn, I caught the two wives stealing glances from time to time at the two sturdy husbands. I noted that Lucille and Guillaume exchanged as many meaningful glances as did Margot and Jacques; hence I concluded in the time that had elapsed since I had paid a visit to their cottage, the two couples had ably managed to trade consorts and spouses in a way that left them still amicably good neighbors and the best of friends. So I had been right in concluding that they did not need any assistance in working out their little destinies. But then, they were mature women mated to virile and broad-minded men, whereas poor Laurette had already been deprived of her young swain who should have been the one to bed her and to give warm nature what it surely required, and in compensation needs must accept the bony, doubtless impotent carcass of the patron as her legal bedfellow.

It is said that happy should be the bride the sun shines on, and in truth the Wednesday of Laurette's union with the patron of Languecuisse was a gloriously sunny, pleasantly warm day that drew all the villagers to Pere Mourier's church to witness the ceremony.

Laurette appeared down the aisle on the arm of her father, in his best suit. She, with her two golden braids falling to her waist, wore a humble cotton gown, with long skirt hiding her dainty ankles, widely flaring from her hips like a kind of hoop and thus disguising all the tempting young charms hidden under it. Her lovely blue eyes were red and swollen, for she had been weeping. She still mourned her lover Pierre Larrieu – I say her lover in spirit only, for you will recall that the unfortunate Pierre was thwarted at the most critical moment when he had hoped to pillage her maidenhead away from its lawfully intended possessor. Yes, she had been faithful to the ordainment which both Pere Mourier and Father Lawrence had imposed upon her: to hold no converse or meeting with the young rogue and to save herself chastely for Monsieur Claude Villiers.

I could hear her mother scolding her in whispers amid the bustle and the hum which prefaced the holy ceremony. Madame Boischamp was vexed that her daughter should put on so mournful and lugubrious a face on this the most glorious day of her entire young life. At one fell swoop, little Laurette was to be elevated to the estate of a great lady, the consort of the savior of the village itself; yet she wept. Was there ever a more unreasonable wench? It was only maternal pride, and to be sure, the greedy thoughts of how she and her husband would benefit from their own new status as relatives by marriage to Monsieur Villiers that had kept Madame Boischamp from taking a hickory switch to Laurette's tender virgin backside before the wedding.

The ceremony did not last long, and after the villagers had poured out into the churchyard, the beaming patron, in drab black suit which made him look more a scarecrow than ever, joyously proclaimed that there would be wine and freshly baked bread and cheese distributed as a gratuity to everyone in Languecuisse. His overseer Hercule would see to it. They were all to drink to his health and to wish him and his bride long life and many sons.

A cheer went up at the patron's generosity, but it drowned out many of the mocking and even scabrous jeers of the older women and the overworked and harassed elders, who wished Monsieur Villiers no joy whatsoever of his bride and who tauntingly predicted that he would leave her maidenhead intact for all his efforts this night of consummation.