Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

He gave another thrust, and Laurette winced and uttered a shrill little, “Aahh, it hurts me, mon pere!”

“That is the proof of your chastity, my daughter. Courage, now, for the hurt will soon be over then your state of consummation will bring you towards that bliss which you have so long sought.”

Now, carefully letting himself down upon her, mashing her sweet, soft belly with his own fat paunch, his hands gliding under her backside to grip the plump satiny rounds and thus steer himself towards the achievement of her “edification,” Pere Mourier set his teeth and shoved forward with a mighty lunge. Laurette's body writhed and stiffened; her hands at once clenched into little fists and began to hammer at his naked back, and her knees rose up on either side of him, yawned hugely apart, then clashed together at him in the wildest protest. At the same time, a shrill squeal like that of a sacrificed animal burst from her throat, but the deed was done.

“Ah, I am in her to my balls, Father Lawrence,” Pere Mourier exulted. “How tight the little darling is! I can feel the walls of her womb kiss and clutch my cock ever so lovingly. Oh, what delight, what rapture! Never in all my days have I fucked so sweet, so young, so tasty a morsel; never before have I felt the grip of so tight a sheath as Laurette's!”

She had twisted her face to one side, and her fist still futilely beat against massive, sweating back. But the harpoon had plunged to the depths within her, and she was pinioned by his weight and by his grip on her bottom cheeks. Well in her saddle, he now began to fuck her with slow but deep and eviscerating stabs of his massive weapon. The first few times, she sobbed and wriggled and cried out, “Aahh, arrr, oh, mon pere, mon pere, you are hurting me so!” But as he began to establish a smooth and mellifluous rhythm of back and forth and in and out, his massive ramrod drawing just to the lips of her distended crevice and then driving home till their hairs mingled, Laurette began to moan and to arch herself to meet his delving digs.

Father Lawrence watched all this, though I do not think in a scientific mood, for the black silk stuff of his cassock thrust out at a prodigious angle at the point of his loins. At moments, Laurette's glazed, supremely dilated eyes rested on him, but unseeingly, for all her life now was concentrated into the tight, unvirgined channel of her quaking cunt. Her fists no longer beat their supplicating tattoo upon her ravishers back, but instead her fingers clawed at his shoulders like talons as she met his charges. Now her naked calves clamped round his hairy thighs as she locked herself to him and resigned herself, since the forfeiture of her maidenhead was truly only the first step towards that voluptuousness which her “instruction” was meant to achieve.

“How she claws at me and clutches me, this darling vixen,” Pere Mourier hoarsely declared to his watching colleague. “Oh, how gloriously tight she is, even though I have pronged and stretched her quim with all my vigor! Each time I draw my cock back, I feel the narrow walls of her cunny clench and grip after me, as if begging me to return – there, Laurette, my passionate daughter, and there, and there too – do you feel me in your cunt, does my cock make you know what it is at last to be a woman, my daughter?”

“Aahhrr, oh yes, yes, mon pere,” Laurette moaned in her delirium, rolling her head from side to side, taking tighter hold of her ravish-er's shoulders, and reaching up to clutch her beautiful thighs around his fat, hairy bottom. “Do not spare me, let me make a good penance, mon pere! Oh, I am fainting from your thrusts, you stretch and gouge me there, oh, mon pere, hurry, hurry, I cannot bear my penance!”

“In a moment, my daughter, I will lave your hurts with good hot spunk! It is an infallible antidote for the lacerations of a maiden's hymen as you shall soon feel. Hold tight to me, my daughter, and strive with me mightily for the redemption of your womanly estate!” he panted. His fingers gouged her quaking bottom cheeks, and now he began to quicken his strokes within her deeply harpooned cunny, making Laurette gasp and jerk each time the hilt of his prong sheathed in her clinging, tight scabbard. Now her head had fallen back, her eyes rolling to the whites, and her nostrils opened and closed incessantly. Her teeth chattered, and her red lips were moist and parted and trembling. A tumult raged within her loins, and now the moment had come to slake it. Drawing a deep breath, Pere Mourier flung himself once more to the charge, his hairs grinding against Laurette's golden cunny curls. Then his body shook and vibrated as he reached his climax. Laurette uttered raucous cry as she felt the hot deluge gush along her distended love-canal. Yet he had not brought her to climax, for I have observed that a virgin rarely achieves her paroxysm after an initial pronging, since not only the twinges of her shattered maidenhead but also the long enforced continence which her parents had imposed upon her most naturally prevent her ardent temperament from erotic expansion in this wise.

He withdrew his bloody blade, and Father Lawrence solicitously handed him a cloth whereby to efface the irrefutable evidence of Laurette's chastity. The English ecclesiastic had procured a ewer of water, and now dampened another cloth and sponged Laurette's sweating forehead and cheeks, the while avidly staring at her sprawled nakedness.

“Is – is my penance over now?” Laurette murmured faintly. Her knees were uparched, and had come together, but her bubbies still rose and fell with erotic fervor. Pere Mourier uttered a sigh of satiation. “I shall ask my colleague to pronounce the last portion of your penance, my child,” he said as he seated himself on a chair and taking another of the dampened cloths, mopped his own perspiring brow and chest with it.

“Oh, do so, I implore you, mon pere,” Laurette breathed, letting her legs down and unconsciously spreading them so that once again the access to her sweetest treasure was gaped to the gleaming eyes of the English ecclesiast. “I have never felt such sensations, I shall swoon, I know I shall, and yet there is still torment within me.”

“Then it is I who shall help you overcome that torment, my child,” Father Lawrence stoutly declared as he drew off his cassock and joined her, virile and naked and sinewy, upon the rumpled bed. Turning her gently onto her side to face him, he kissed her lips tenderly, while his left hand stroked her tremoring bare bottom. Laurette uttered a little sigh and closed her eyes and shivered, but did not draw from him. Yet when his massive cock prodded against her tender belly she gasped and glanced down, then blushingly whispered, “Oh, surely that is not part of my penance too, Your Reverence? It will surely never go inside me now!”

“But quite the contrary, my daughter, since my confrere has already prepared the terrain so well. You will see how you accommodate yourself to its dimensions. Now clasp me tightly with your white arms and kiss me soundly, while we say our orisons together to make you a good and loving wife!”

Laurette shiveringly and trustingly complied, and Father Lawrence began to cup and squeeze her bubbies with his right hand, while he slyly rubbed the tip of his massive cock along her abdomen and thence to the furry niche of her just deflowered cunny. She wriggled and squirmed against him, her arms tightly locked around his shoulders, giving him back kiss for affectionate kiss, but keeping her eyes modestly closed as befitted so gentle a maiden newly come upon her wifely state.

“I would not compel you against your will, my daughter,” he said gently. “So with your little hand, you yourself guide this eager pilgrim into your soft bower. You shall yourself prescribe the extent to which it shall go wandering!”