Anonymous - The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

“Oh, Guillaume, how little you know after these many years of marriage,” Margot lovingly whispered as she bent her head to deposit a tender kiss upon his limpened cock. She began to fondle it between her palms, until it showed signs of restoration, and then she added, “I know the tradition as well as you, but a woman has ways of seeming to yield to an importunate lover which will excite him and defeat his purpose. I give you my word of honor as your faithful wife that if I am brought to bed with Monsieur Claude Villiers, not one drop of his aged spunk shall reach my matrix. I will so dissport myself with him that, I warrant you, his seed will spurt on the ground before his prick comes within a yard of the little cleft which is reserved for your mighty tool.”

This speech so enflamed the good Guillaume Noirceau that he rolled over onto his back and, pulling his naked, comely wife over on top of him, let her mount him and take the initiative, so that he might fondle her dangling pear-breasts and pinch and smack her wriggling backside as she arched up and down on his rigid prick. I was amused at this happy solution to their hypothetical problem, and so I left her tresses to perch on the top of the dresser opposite the bed so that I might take my well-earned repose and be on hand at the harvest-time festival, ready to intervene as I saw fit and thus, in my imaginative Flea's way, alter the destiny of mankind and, of course, womankind as well.

As early as dawn of that next morning, it was evident that the day of the grape-treading contest would be serenely beautiful so far as the elements were concerned. There was no wind, the sun was warm even as it climbed in its early journey over the heavens, and the radiant blue sky looked down upon the little village of Languecuisse.

As for myself, I looked down from my little corner of repose to regard Dame Margot and her worthy benedict Guillaume wrapped in each other's arms. The sheets were awry and rumpled and profusely stained with their many offerings to Venus and Priapus the night before. It was evident that both of them were lusty lovers and that Dame Margot was sufficiently endowed with energy and zeal to give a good accounting of herself in the wine vat just as she had done in the bed of love. She had been amply fucked many times that night returning to each bout with the same frenzy she had taken to the first. Her cunt was hungry for cock, without a doubt.

I decided to attend the festival and to examine the contestants before deciding what role I should play. After having listened to the conversation of Lucille and Margot and their husbands, I was not too greatly concerned with their boasting or their wagers. Both couples had a sanguine outlook which would prevent dire deeds of dark jealousy should one or the other persuade the other wife or husband to transfer, temporarily of course, carnal allegiance. Between Lucille and Margot, there was no particular reason why I should choose to befriend one over the other. What interested me far more was this Laurette Boischamp whom Jacques Tremoulier had praised as an exemplary paragon of all the feminine virtues and of beauty. If, as I had heard, this exquisite damsel was fated to wed a doddering old fool, then perhaps it was best that I intervene on her behalf to protect her tender maidenhood from the ravages and despoilment by this detestable Monsieur Claude Villiers.

I left the cottage of the Noirceaux and moved about the little village, familiarizing myself with it and at the same time enjoying the good warm French sun. By noontime, the crowd was already gathering just outside the long, low edifice where the grapes were stored after harvest and ultimately bottled. This establishment was of course owned by the patron of the village, the same Monsieur Villiers. It stood about a quarter of a kilometer from the first vineyard, and at a considerable distance from the last of the many little cottages which made up this pleasant panorama. The foreman of the vineyard, who was a sort of overseer, a burly brute of a man with beetling eyebrows, a massive chin and beady, suspicious little eyes, was ringing a cowbell to summon all the workers to enjoy a lunch of bread and cheese and wine furnished them by their estimable and charitable patron himself. There were tables and benches, and some of the wives of the villagers acted as cupbearers, modern Hebes, so to speak, moving about with jugs of wine and filling the cups of those who sprawled on the benches ogling them. I saw many a hand reach out shyly under a skirt or into a blouse during this festivity, and it spoke well for the ardent temperament of these villagers of Provence. The warm sun and the good wind and the generous exposures of tempting female flesh began to evoke a kind of bucolic orgy. Several of the couples, after they had eaten and drunk their fill, crept away from the benches and made their way either to a large barn to one side of the storage building or boldly went into the hedges surrounding the first vineyard, where they fell on each other without more ado and coupled heartily and swiftly. And then, their tensions thus immediately alleviated, they rearranged their rumpled clothing and made their way back to the benches to await the principal ceremony.

Finally, about two in the afternoon, the foreman, whose name I had learned was Hercule Portrille, rang the bell once more to summon the attention of all the gaping spectators. He then announced in a bellowing voice that could have been heard a league around that the excellent Monsieur Villiers would speak to them all to open the contest and give it his blessing.

I had found myself a place of concealment near a discarded and emptied bottle of wine near the little platform on which this brawny overseer stood to address his subordinates. When I beheld the patron, my sympathies were immediately with Laurette, though till this moment I had not laid eyes upon her. He was easily sixty if he was a day, he was nearly bald, with a circular fringe of white hair about his bony skull which gave him a most repulsive look, and his face was cunning and without the least redeeming quality of compassion or good fellowship so far as I could tell. A sharp pointed nose, thin ascetic lips, watery blue eyes that peered suspiciously at his workers as if begrudging this brief charity of dispensing food and wine as well as working time to such a gathering at the cost of his own cashbox. In a word, Monsieur Claude Villiers was not the kind of lover whom maidens would ever praise in their orisons; he would be more likely to figure in their jeremiads.

His voice was reedy and cracked, like a broken flute, as he mounted the platform, surveyed his menials with a frosty smile, and bade them welcome to the annual harvest of the good grapes of Languecuisse. “I now declare the contest open, and I wish all of you bonne chance!” he concluded. “To the winner, as has already been announced, will go a dozen bottles of my very finest wine as well as a full month of free rental on the cottage in which she is fortunate enough to dwell.”

“The old fool,” murmured a handsome, brown haired matron who sat at the end of the bench nearest the bottle on which I perched. “He does not mention that he expects to fuck her whose comely feet press out the most wine from the grapes in her vat. If he did, I have no doubt only the greediest of wives would enter such a competition, for bedding with M'sieur Villiers would be worth much more than a month of free rental. It would be an ordeal in itself to make such a withered prick stand at attention, mark my words.”

“Have you not heard, Dame Caroline?” her neighbor across the table, a stout, pleasant-faced beldame with graying black hair but yet voluptuous curves of bosom and haunch to boast of, countered. “It is certain to be the fair Laurette, because that old fool intends to wed her. He has told Hercule to put fewer grapes into Laurette's cask than in those of all the others. Doubtless he wishes to sample his prize in advance and also accustom the unfortunate wench to her future duties.”