Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

“Oh, mon pere, you aren't going to – oh, surely, you don't mean to do this to me?” Laurette gasped incredulously.

“It is up to you, my child. If you persist in shirking your obligations, if you are still drawn towards this adulterous rogue, then your Pierre is excommunicate, and your husband shall be told why. Moreover, because of your wicked obstinacy, I shall regrettably be compelled to scourge you to chasten your wicked spirit and suppress your heinous nature. You have your choice, Laurette.”

“Oh, I would die before I let you hurt my poor Pierre, and I could not bear to have the patron know my loathing of him,” Laurette wrung her hands in her dilemma. “But at least, to spare me greater shame, do ask Father Lawrence not witness what you intend to do.”

“But he is here, my daughter, exactly to insure to you that mine is not an act of lust, but only that of simple instruction,” was the fat priest's sly response.

Seeing that she was well trapped, judging that the sacrifice of her maidenhead to her own father confessor would be less onerous for her and Pierre than the alternative, Laurette, softly weeping, hesitantly removed her camisole and then at last tugged down her drawers and stepped out of them. Both priests uttered gasps of admiration at the gleaming white, naked statuary of her supple young body. Her instinctive maidenly modesty still strong, Laurette clapped both hands to her cunny and bowed her head.

“You have done well, my daughter,” Pere Mourier declared, his voice thick with impatient passion, “and this shows good faith. Now accede to my other order, which is to lay yourself down upon your bed and make ready for me, your sanctified initiator.”

Laurette reluctantly obeyed. Upon her back, a hand over her eyes, her other little hand clutched into a tight fist at one naked luscious haunch, she awaited her perilous moment. His eyes gleaming with avaricious concupiscence, the fat, hairy churchman clambered on to the bed and knelt beside the shivering, naked penitent. His fat, hairy hands roamed leisurely over her smooth belly, her panting teaties, the valley between them, her tender sides, the slopes of her delicious hips. I knew I could not save Laurette from both these lusty suitors, and I confess I was impelled by curiosity to witness precisely how the tender maiden would react when the destructive breach was made against her cherished virgin's seal. Perching on the other side of the pillow on which her golden head now reposed, I watched the procedure of the French clergyman.

For all his greedy desire, he did not hasten, for which I gave him credit. His hands caressed the shivering thighs and flanks and belly and breasts of the naked virgin, till he was shivering too. She kept her arm tightly thrust over her lovely blue eyes to hide the sight, and I will grant that if Claude Villiers was unappetizing, Pere Mourier could not be considered a tastier bridegroom save only in one respect: his throbbing, swollen cock. And yet, since it was by this sole part of his anatomy that Laurette was to be “edified,” it did not really matter that he was hairy, fat and ugly of visage.

Gently he made Laurette part her thighs, and while his fat right hand smoothed and stroked her inner thigh, his left forefinger very delicately tangled amid the golden lovecurls of her slit and tickled the plump corals of her cunny. Her body was tense and quivering in an attitude of defense, yet when his fingertip at last brushed the soft hidden labia of her virgin cunt, she uttered a tremulous little gasp, and unconsciously arched up her loins and belly as if eager to taste more of this exquisite friction which was attuning her. Pere Mourier shot a triumphant glance at Father Lawrence, as much as to say, “Did I not tell you she was of lascivious nature?” and accelerated his tickling. The pad of his forefinger now began to rub in a slow circular movement round and round the dainty little cleft. Presently, the golden lovecurls seemed to become ruffled, and there peeped through the sweet pink petals of that flower which Monsieur Claude Villiers had longed to pluck and was still far from plucking. Laurette's naked breasts began to rise and fall with a spasmodic rhythm now, and her head turned restlessly from side to side, though she still hid her eyes from the florid, passion-contracted visage of her father confessor.

“Do I hurt you thus far, my daughter?” he unctuously queried.

“N – no, mon – mon pere,” Laurette quavered. Long rippling tremors now beset her rounded white thighs, traversing from the knees on along into her gaping crotch and I perceived that the rosy buds of her nipples had stiffened, and now projected out in taut, crispened firmness, a symbol of her wakening to the first true carnal evocation of all her womanly senses.

“You see, my child, how little there is to fear?” he told her, as his finger now moved to find the nodule of her virgin clitoris. Having come upon it, he delicately rimmed it back and forth, till Laurette wriggled and convulsively squirmed her hips this way and that. Little inarticulate sighs and gasps exuded from her parted lips. Her toes twisted and crispened, and the muscles of her lovely white calves flexed and shuddered as the amorous enervation began to seethe through every nerve and sinew of the luscious naked body.

By this time, I could see the enchanting pink crevice formed by the two dainty, plump, parted lips, like a flower opening its petals to the sun. His titillations had found the key to Laurette's strongbox of desire, and the suspicious moisture about those adorable labia proved that the astute science of this licentious holy man had rendered the tender virgin far more tumescent than even Pierre Larrieu had been able to do out there on the grassy knoll.

“Oh, what a delicious pink sweet soft cunt!” he breathed in rapturous admiration. “See, Father Lawrence, how it longs to be liberated of that obstreperous barrier which alone denies our sweet Laurette the boon of marital consummation! Courage, my daughter, the moment is not far off when the veil of mystery shall be lifted from your sweet blue eyes and you shall behold the glory of fleshy union. And imbued with this newly acquired fervor which I shall teach you, you can then welcome your worthy husband to your bed with eager arms and readied thighs!”

Now with his thumbs and forefingers Pere Mourier pinched apart the sweet pink lips of Laurette's maiden grotto, and bowing his head, applied a loud and smacking kiss upon her very core. She arched herself, deliciously and wantonly, though I am certain it was done out of her subconscious nature, just as the good father had predicted. Now I heard the sloshing of his tongue as he darted it deep within her chalice, and Laurette uttered a shrill cry nigh unto ecstasy, as she dug her hands into the sheets of her bed, her widely opened eyes staring down at him, her nostrils dilating and shrinking tempestuously.

“Oh, mon pere, what are you doing to me! Oh oh, I can't bear it, I shall faint, you are driving me wild, mon pere!” she babbled.

“Yes, my daughter, now you are ready for your initiation. I feel your sweet little clit throbbing like an engine just inside the soft mouth of your virgin cunny,” Pere Mourier tersely exclaimed. “Your belly quivers and jerks, and your skin is warm and moist with longing. Prepare yourself, my daughter, for the moment of consummation.”

With this, still keeping her lips well-pried apart, he edged the taut head of his bludgeon just inside them and then gave a little push to insure the forward trying on towards the stubborn barrier. Laurette moaned, turned her face to one side, closed her eyes, but the heaving of her flinty-tipped bubbies and the spasmodic tensions which raced along her yawning thighs betrayed her mounting impatience to learn at last the way of a man with a maid.