Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

Guillaume was a jovial rogue, with a small, pointed, dark brown beard and moustache whose ends widely curled upwards and were stiff with wax. His brown hair was curly, like a boy's, and his twinkling blue eyes and full, fleshy lips gave evidence of a sanguine temperament. He was a robust man of about thirty summers, so far as I could determine, with powerful thighs and calves, strong shoulders and a vigorous chest. But most vigorous of all was the object of his consort's manual attention.

It seemed somewhat shorter than the prick of Jacques Tremoulier, but I vow that it was thicker by a goodly quarter of an inch, at least. Guillaume Noirceau had not been circumcised, so that the foreskin normally formed a protective cowl over the meatus. Yet now, thanks to the stroking which Dame Margot imparted, that fold of skin was stretched tightly and bared the tip. The lips through which his spunk would flow were puckering with avid desire, and they were exaggeratedly large. Judging also from the size of his thick and hairy balls, I felt that Dame Margot had no cause to bemoan the priapic capabilities of the spouse which Heaven had bestowed upon her.

“I swear, dear Margot, that if my prick were not so eager to plunge back into that tight, hot cunt of yours a second time, I should be quite content to let you draw forth my seed by the magic of your soft slim fingers,” he told her in a hoarse voice.

“But we have all the night ahead of us, my beloved husband, and you are certainly virile enough to enjoy many such returns to my loving cunt and still be able to spare one goodly spurt into my little hand,” she bantered. “Moreover, I have so boasted to my dear neighbor and friend, Lucille, that I feel you owe me a happy verification of my claims on your behalf.”

“Oho, so you and Dame Lucille have been discussing the secrets of our bed, have you now? Take care, Margot, a wagging tongue sometimes earns a good thrashing. Tell me why I should not now deny you the pleasures that your itching, burning cunt so covets, but instead use a good stout stick across your impertinent backside!”

“Do not be vexed with me, dear Guillaume,” Margot wheedled as she tightened her left arm around his shoulders, while her other hand busied herself with fondling his by now ferociously turgid cock. “You know that she and I have entered the grape-trampling contest on the morrow, and she is so certain of victory that she made a wager, to which I had no recourse but to counter.”

“Tell me of this wager then.”

“Right willingly, dear Guillaume, but first give me a loving kiss and rub the tip of your prick hard against my burning little cunt, so that I may delight in advance of the joy you mean to have with me,” Margot coaxed. Her good husband graciously complied with this request, and his hand squeezed her resilient buttocks as she squirmed passionately against him, their lips meeting in a long and soulful kiss.

I had already perceived the delicious little brown birthmark shaped like a tiny egg to the left of Margot's belly, exactly as Lucille had told her husband Jacques of its existence. But I found also that Dame Lucille, in the manner customary to women who gossip, was somewhat malicious in describing Margot's thighs as being a “bit lean.” I found them quite the contrary, being long, supple, beautifully and responsively muscled, the superb portals through which a man might enter the paradise he sought.

“Why, now, Guillaume, my beloved,” Margot cajoled after the kiss and the rubbing of his cocktip against her cunny had been accomplished, “she was so boastful of winning that she said she would send her husband to my bed so that I might press his prick soundly within my cunt, and so I in turn gave her my word that you would go to her bedchamber ready to do her service whenever she proposed if she emerged victorious tomorrow afternoon.”

“Now I am not so certain how this involves my husbandly honor,” Guillaume frowned.

But the black haired wench was as cunning as she was amorous, for she taunted him with Lucille's remarks: “Do not be vexed, my dear husband. Do you know what that hussy had the temerity to boast? Why, that you would be limp and useless in her bed a long hour before her husband was used up between my thighs!”

“She said that?” Guillaume bellowed in a voice of rage, and his eyes flashed indignation at the affront. “Well, then, I will abide by the terms of the wager, but you see to it that you win tomorrow, Margot, or you will have a drubbing you will not soon forget. Besides, there is the matter of a dozen bottles of the finest wine, and also the month's rental on our cottage if you emerge the winner.”

“I know that well, dear husband, and I am so confident of victory that I will give two of those bottles to Dame Lucille so that she may drink your health and tell all within her hearing that you are the best fucker in the whole village of Languecuisse!”

“And you will not be vexed with me if I bed that red haired slattern?” Guillaume anxiously inquired.

“Nay, my dear husband, no more than you will be angry with me if I prove that Jacques Tremoulier has little staying and much less standing power in comparison with your magnificent prick.”

Oh, the casuistry of women, especially of this black haired, olive-skinned wench from fair Provence! Thus had she at a single blow gained permission for herself to seek out adulterous joys – which I have no doubt she had long secretly yearned to taste! – whilst at the same time offering her bemused consort a chance to discomfit her neighbor and friend, Dame Lucille. One might apply the English proverb of eating one's cake and having it too, for such was Dame Margot's wily purpose in conceiving such a wager and in phrasing it just so to Guillaume.

At any rate, the prospect enchanted him, for he plunged himself to the very hilt inside her cunt, and then delved his median finger into the furtive rosette between the cheeks of her flossy, resilient bottom, thus granting her the ecstatic joy of dual friction in those two orifices which nature had provided for the priapic journeying of the male and the passionate acquiescence of the female.

Their mouths met in a fierce merging, and I could hear the slushing of their tongues as the one plied the other with feverish ardor. Dame Margot locked her supple arms around his brawny shoulders and gave herself up joyously to this joust. As for Guillaume Noirceau, he must have counted himself the most fortunate of husbands to have so loving and complaisant a wife, who would of her own free will permit his straying from her bed to that of her beauteous neighbor, Dame Lucille. Perhaps it was the thought of fucking the latter which added implementation to his vigorous thrust, as well as the tight enclaspment of Dame Margot's vaginal sheath about his stalwart cock. Whatever the inspiration, I can chronicle only that their second joust lasted well over a quarter of an hour, during which time his black haired consort achieved her climax at least three times before he finally spewed forth his copious libation into her devouring, voracious matrix.

I had had a long journey and I had seen much of the customs of a new land. It was time for me to seek my repose, awaiting the famous grape-treading contest of the morrow. I had a notion that somehow I might intervene and thus in my infinitesimal way determine the outcome of that contest. However, just before Guillaume and Margot prepared to renew their amorous frenzy for the third time that night, the worthy winemaker grumbled, “But there is one element of this contest which pleases me not, beloved Margot, wife of my bosom.”

“What is that, pray tell, m'amour?”

“Why, as you know well, it is the tradition of this village that the patron himself will bed the winner at each harvest time. Now I like not the thought that this scrawny, wisened, rich and boastful old fool shall have the right to gaze upon your naked treasures and to enfold them in his bony arms, but that will happen if you are the winner tomorrow.”