The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

CHAPTER TEN

The next day was virtually a holiday also, because the celebration of the harvest had caused the villagers to drink copiously of the good wine and many to quaff in excess, so that they slept like the dead till nearly noon. Besides, there was, I am quite sure, a veritable orgy of fornication in every cottage, and this physical excess coupled with over-indulgence in wine brings a delicious torpor even to the youngest and most vigorous. At any rate, Pere Mourier, after having his breakfast, left the rectory about noon to pay another call on Monsieur Claude Villiers for the purpose of making certain that the banns between that estimable patron and the virgin Laurette would officially be read the following Sunday. Also, as he informed Desiree, he wished to visit Laurette and her parents after having seen the patron so that there would be clarification on the part of all concerned in this important ceremony. Father Lawrence, who woke a little before the obese French priest, shared breakfast with him, and apologetically requested that he, rather than Pere Mourier, be allowed to speak on his own behalf to Madame Hortense Bernard with the aim of securing board and shelter during his stay in Languecuisse.

“I would not wish to inflict myself sight unseen on the worthy widow, dear colleague,” he told the French priest. “You see, if you were to speak to her, she would naturally accept me in advance without ever having laid eyes on me, simply because you have her full confidence. And since I am here in Languecuisse as a vacationer, not in my official ecclesiastical capacity, I wish to be sure that she does not find me displeasing as a lodger.”

“Such delicacy and tact is admirable, my illustrious confrere,” Pere Mourier beamed. “Of a truth, I fear the visits to M'sieu Villiers and Laurette will consume much time, since they too require diplomacy and deference. And I know you are eager to settle down to your well-earned comforts, whereas here, alas, we are too small and crowded to tender you the hospitality you deserve. By all means, call upon the good Widow Bernard, and mention my name. It will suffice, I am certain.”

“Believe me, Pere Mourier, I have nothing but the highest praise for the gracious hospitality you have already accorded me here. Indeed, were I to leave your pleasant little hamlet this very day and never return, I should carry away with me the warmest memories of that hospitality.”

Father Lawrence glanced slyly up at the Amazonian housekeeper, who was in the act of pouring out another cup of coffee for her obese employer. Her face flamed, and she very nearly dropped the pewter pot, which was fortunate indeed for Pere Mourier, as the liquid was scalding hot, and had it splashed into his lap, might well have unmanned him had it burned his cock.

“Well, well, that is kindly said,” Pere Mourier beamed, “but I trust that since you will be quartered not far from my humble rectory, you will not be a stranger once you have established yourself in the abode of Madame Bernard. And now I must be off to spread the good word and to put Laurette, that mischievous little vixen, and our saintly upholder of Languecuisse, into a rapport that will lead them shortly to the altar.”

He left the room, and Desiree at once sidled up to Father Lawrence, her bold eyes warm with remembered felicity from their night together: “Your Reverence will leave me desolate,” she murmured seductively. “How shall I endure your absence for an entire month, knowing all the while that you are exposed to the temptation of that impudent trollop Hortense Bernard?”

“But, my daughter,” he cried, feigning alarm at this piece of news, “do you imply that I am to be lodged with a sinful woman?”

“Just so, Your Reverence. It is well known that her husband took to drink as a result of her infidelities and also because he could not keep up with servicing her insatiable and lewd demands. Yes, it is true! On the night that he was so unfortunately drowned in the wine vat, he had been turned out of his own cottage by that shameless hussy so that she might entertain a handsome tinker who was passing through Languecuisse that day. He had gone thence to console his sorrows in the arms of Jacqueline Aleroute, the plump wanton who is wife to the old baker Henri. And he was just easing himself into her welcoming arms when, as luck would have it, Henri took a notion to come home earlier than was his wont, for his custom is to stop at the tavern after he has baked his bread for the next day and to finish a bottle of Chablis. Surprised in the very act of cuckolding the old baker, poor Gervaise—that was the name of Hortense's husband, Your Reverence—clambered out of the window. But as his trousers were dangling about his legs, he stumbled and fell into the wine vat.”

“Your story is a tragic one, my daughter. But perhaps my presence in the abode of Madame Bernard will serve as an ameliorative influence. Through my counsel and guidance, she may be able to wrest the demon of carnal temptation from her spirit.”

“Perhaps, Your Reverence.” Desiree shook her handsome head. “But I fear she will seek to lure you to her shameless bed. The mere sight of a man in the same room with her sets her lusts aflame. And worst of all—oh, but I blush to relate it before Your Reverence!”

“Speak freely and frankly, my daughter, for there is no mortal sin with which I am not familiar. The more one knows of the devil's subtle ways of corruption, the better one is armed against them.”

“Yes, that is true, Your Reverence. Well—oh, but truly, it is so shameful that I blush out of outraged modesty even to hint of it!”

He fitted his arm round her little waist and gazed up at her with a benevolent smile as he gently responded, “I pardon you in advance, and compliment you on your modesty, my daughter. Now tell me honestly what penchant of Madame Bernard's so horrifies you.”

Desiree shivered as his arm tightened round her waist. Quickly, she bent to his ear and whispered, her opulent bosom rising and falling quickly in her emotions.

“You are certain that she prefers to be buggered, my daughter?”

“Shh, Your Reverence, you must not say such wicked words!” gasped the Amazonian housekeeper, her face crimson with sensual titillation.

“There is nothing wicked in words, my child, only in deeds. Well, then, be of good cheer, for I promise you I shall reason and remonstrate with this unfortunate woman who has not enjoyed your ascent to grace by being engaged as the housekeeper of a goodly man of the Church. I shall leave now to make the acquaintance of this misguided creature, my child. Do you recount your blessings to yourself after I am gone.”

“Yes, surely. Alas, Your Reverence!” Desiree let a languorous sigh escape her.

“What troubles you?” he rose and drew her to him, his hands squeezing the firm, jutting globes of her sumptuous backside through her skirt. “You need keep no secrets from me, my daughter, as I think you know already.”

“I—I shall be I—lonely without Your Reverence here to console me,” Desiree whimpered, her face downcast.

“Courage, my beautiful daughter! Tilt up that lovely face and give me a parting kiss of peace. I promise that you shall not be forgotten in my orisons, nor my thoughts either. If ever you are stricken with despair or aught else that troubles you greatly which your worthy employer cannot alleviate for you, I give you leave to call upon me at Madame Bernard's abode.” So saying, the English ecclesiast cupped her trembling chin with one hand and fused his lips to hers, while she wriggled lasciviously against him. Her tongue crept out and furled into his mouth as her arms wrapped around him, loath to release him. “Ohh, please, Your R—Reverence,” she breathed tremulously, “will you not appease my loneliness a last time before you depart? I am sure that once you go to reside with that lewd trollop Hortense Bernard you will be so preoccupied with trying to cast the demon out of her that you will have no time for your humble servant Desiree.”

“You must learn patience and discipline, my child,” he murmured. “There is not time for me to allay your grief completely, but I will grant you a momentary respite from your sufferings. Do you then hoist your skirt and petticoat and keep them at your waist, while you continue kissing me in farewell.”

“I—I have no petticoat on, Y—Your Reverence,” Desiree quavered.

“So much the better, then less time will be lost,” he retorted.

The chestnut haired Amazon swiftly tucked up her skirt, under which she was voluptuously naked, and kept it wadded up in a roll above her belly with one trembling hand, while her other foraged at once to his cassock just at the point where his sexual weapon flourished. But the English ecclesiast halted her and shook his head. “No, my daughter,” he said kindly but firmly. “You must learn the lesson of forbearance. I alone will ease your anguish, but you must withhold yourself in all other ways. Use that soft hand to clamp against my back to support you, and now give me your soft red lips.”

She reluctantly obeyed. Once his lips crushed against hers, he clamped his left arm round her pliant waist and approached his right forefinger to the thick dark chestnut bush which hid her pink-lipped cunny. Delicately, very lingeringly, he began to frig the beautiful Amazon, the tip of his wiry finger just grazing the quivering, coral petals of her cunt hole, till the voluptuous young widow began to gasp and sigh and to squirm herself this way and that. “Do not let your skirt fall, my daughter, or I shall stop at once,” he warned her, “and continue to kiss me lovingly to signify your sorrow in our parting.”

Her burning lips fervently mashed to his, and her tongue voraciously dug between his lips, scraping his teeth and gums, while her fingers, like talons, clawed at his sinewy back. His forefinger resumed its fractional caresses over the labia of her Venus, which at once grew moist and began to twitch and to grow a darker pink and inflamed from the access of lustful desires which his titillations evoked. Her eyes dilated enormously and were misty with her swiftly rising passions as she breathed, “Ohh—ahhhh—ohhh, ahh, Y—Your R—Reverence—oh, I implore Your Reverence not to torture me like this, but to plough my furrow with that hard rod of yours, it is what I so dearly need, if I am to be denied it for the future!”

“Think upon your remembrance of the communion I granted you last night, my daughter, for its exemplary vigor should not be so soon forgotten,” was his bantering response, “and remember this invaluable precept, that anticipation is sometimes even more rewarding than realization. Better still, summon your inventive mind to pretend that what you feel between your sturdy thighs is that which you enjoyed last night to such overweening measure, since what I now deign to accord you is also a member and part of me.”

“Aii—ohh—ahh—y—yes—Y—Your Reverence,” moaned the passionate Amazon, whose loins had begun to writhe and jerk convulsively as his clever frigging drove her apace towards gushing climax, “but the other m- member was ever so much longer and thicker—ahhh!”

“Ingratitude is the curse of the world, my daughter,” he said sententiously as he kept frigging her pouting cunt lips, while now his left hand gripped the scruff of her neck to force her to kiss him without ceasing, “that I attend your needs at all when I have errands to perform this day must show you that I hold you in some little esteem, so be content. Am I not quieting your fervor somewhat?”

“Ahh—oouuuuu—ahrrr—y—yes—ohh, Y—Your R—Reverence,” Desiree fairly sobbed, “but it takes so long with your finger—ohh, if only your great rod were stuffed inside me to the very roots, my fondest memories of Your Reverence would be magnified a thousand-fold—ahrrr—ohh, quickly, in mercy, for I am burning up inside my slit!”

“Kiss me gratefully then, my child, and I will see to your assuagement,” he whispered. When again her feverish, hot and moist lips crushed on his and once more her nimble tongue flicked and serpentined between his lips, Father Lawrence deftly sought with his questing forefinger-tip the little nodule of her clitoris, sweetly hidden in its fold of soft pink love-flesh, wherein was contained all the potency of her sexual fever. No sooner had he grazed this simulacrum of a male cock than it throbbed and stiffened, and a moaning, inchoate cry escaped the writhing housekeeper. Her thighs shook with tremors, and she was hard put to it to retain her uptrussed skirt against her belly, but his left hand supported her by tightening its grip against her neck.

Tantalizingly, he rubbed the little button of her erotic grotto till she was beside herself and the most uncontrollable spasms shook her as she pressed and arched against him, employing all her wiles—even those of her fiercely cajoling tongue that sloshed about so avidly on his mouth- to seduce him into fucking her. But with heroic self-control Father Lawrence resisted her temptation (for a reason that will soon be made manifest to my readers), simply contenting himself with prodding her clitoris this way and that till at last Desiree announced her flooding climax with a raucous cry of rapture, and flung both arms round his neck as her body jerked and writhed its frenzied responses. He wiped off his copiously bedewed forefinger on her rumpled skirt, then kissed her chastely on the forehead and told her he would remember her in his meditations. And then, while she retired, weeping disconsolately, to the kitchen to see to Pere Mourier's afternoon nourishment, Father Lawrence left the rectory.

The cottage of the widow whom the good Pere Mourier had recommended as a possible housekeeper was not far from the rectory, a pleasant stroll through verdant fields and hedges, not unlike that which Laurette Boischamp had taken the night before with such dismal consequences as my readers readily recollect. Father Lawrence walked slowly, enjoying the landscape, the blue sky and warm sun, serenely at his ease. At length he came to the little cottage and rapped upon the door for admittance, whereupon it was opened by a stunningly buxom female the sight of whom at once brightened the worthy ecclesiast's eye.

“Oh, mon pere,” the woman exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth, “has something happened to Pere Mourier that you are here to replace him?”

“Be of good cheer, my daughter,” Father Lawrence at once responded in quite passable French, “your concern for my confrere tells me in what high esteem you hold him. He, on the other hand, spoke warmly to me only last night, praising your zeal and devotion as one of his parishioners.”

“The dear man,” the widow cooed, raising her eyes to heaven, “may he be forever blessed! But then is it that Languecuisse is to have two priests, Your Reverence?”

“No, Madame Bernard, for you see I am just here on my vacation before I return to the seminary in England where I shall take up my duties,” he smilingly informed her. “But as I am a stranger here, Pere Mourier was good enough to suggest that you might be willing to give me board and lodging, for which I will pay well. I seek privacy and quiet for my meditations, and I would not intrude upon you in the slightest.”

During this little speech, the buxom female openly eyed the virile, mature English churchman, while he, to be sure, discreetly surveyed her charms, recalling what Desiree had mentioned of her carnal foibles. Hortense Bernard was not much older than Desiree, by perhaps two years at most, with light brown hair that fell in a lustrous sheaf to her shoulder blades, a winsome, round face with widely spaced large soft brown eyes, a Grecian nose whose broadly flaring wings indicated a sensual temperament, as did the small but overripe lips of her red mouth.

But it was her figure which demanded the most attention. Even the wide skirt which she wore could not disguise the truly juicy curves of full, appetizing haunches, of robust and sturdy thighs well able to bear many a vigorous charge from the spunk-laden weapon of a lusting male. The fine plump, well turned calves were bare, and their skin was of a fine carnation tinting calculated to whet the sexual appetites of even such a discriminating philosopher of womankind's foibles as Father Lawrence had already proved to be. As to her bosom, the low-cut blouse accentuated its sumptuous treasures: two narrowly set, high-perched round melons, which, if one peeped down the cut of the blouse, displayed wide, pale coral circles amid which rose darling orangeish pink-hued tidbits that fairly made Father Lawrence's mouth water, if I am any judge of the look in a man's eyes when he gazes upon a female.

I rested on his left shoulder, conserving my powers, for I too was on vacation. The warm sun, the langorous climate, had made me pleasantly drowsy ever since my arrival; as for subsistence, I had already dined enough soon after coming to Languecuisse to be able to quell the occasional bloodsucking urge which rose in me from time to time. What interested me most, dear reader, was the unfolding of this rather complex relationship between the fat French priest, the tender Laurette and her ill-starred lover Pierre, the Amazonian Desiree, and Father Lawrence. Somehow, I believed, that before the last-named's stay in this village should come to an end, there would be amusing and dramatic episodes to include in my memoirs and to recall in my old age. For even a Flea can gradually lose his powers, very much like a man, and thereby be relegated to re-contenting his primal urges with fond, burning reminiscences.

“Oh, Your Reverence, it would be a great honor for me to give you shelter in my humble cottage,” the Widow Bernard remarked, with a great fluttering of long thick curly eyelashes and a charming blush that would have done credit to a girl in her tenderest teens. “Since my poor husband died, I have had an empty room which unceasingly saddens my heart each time I pass it, for it was in that very chamber that my loving Gervaise and I came together in connubial joy, alas.” She sniffled fetchingly and modestly lowered her eyes. I could see that Father Lawrence was already smitten and well on his way to forgetting the clandestine delights which Desiree had procured for him in his quivering eagerness to have the Widow Bernard to himself.

“It is most generous of you, my daughter, and heaven will bless your thoughtfulness,” he told her with an unctuous smile. “Here are ten francs to pay for the first week of my lodging. I trust there will be sufficient left of that amount to purchase such little food as I may require.”

“Oh, Your Reverence, with so much money I can easily feed you on roast goose and tender duckling,” exclaimed the delighted widow. “Do honor me by entering my humble abode and letting me show Your Reverence to his room. No man has entered it since poor Gervaise left this world to find his eternal reward, which I steadfastly and daily pray he has attained by now.”

“Amen to that,” said Father Lawrence. “Do you go ahead of me, Madame Bernard, to show me the way.”

The buxom widow inclined her head deferentially and went forward whilst he followed her. His eyes fixed on the swing of her magnificent spacious hips, watching the undulations of her truly remarkable backside which her skirt plaqued against at each quick step she took. And remembering what Desiree had intimated to the virile English churchman about the Widow Bernard's predilection, I myself could attest to her being superbly endowed to service the unnatural lust of a man who would fain emulate the perverse sexual practice that was in Biblical times associated with the infamous city of Sodom.

She opened a narrow door and again inclined her head as he entered. The furnishings comprised a low bedstead, a chest of drawers, a footstool and a sturdy, short-backed chair, and there was a tiny window placed at about the height of a man's shoulders. Father Lawrence went to it and stared out, then turned back, a satisfied smile on his lips. “A really exquisite chamber, Madame Bernard. There is here all the privacy I could wish for. I am grateful to you.”

“But it is I who am beholden to you, Your Reverence. Ten francs—oh, it is a bounty from heaven itself!” she gushed, and, seizing his hand, bore it to her lips and kissed it.

Benignly, he patted her head with his other hand and responded, “You do me too much credit, my daughter. What is money but a medium of exchange, to be shared with those who are in need of it? And now, with your permission, I will enjoy a little nap, that I may regain my strength.”

“Certainly, Your Reverence, certainly,” the buxom widow cooed, her voice low and sweet and fawningly deferential as she backed out of the room, curtsying in obeisance, then closed the door behind her.

Father Lawrence unpacked his valise, which he had brought from Pere Mourier's rectory, and, examining the drawers, found room for his few articles of clothing. Then, removing cassock and his little cornered hat and placing them atop the chest, he stretched out on the bed clad only in his drawers. The weather was still extremely warm, and hence there was no need for undershirt. Yet no sooner had he closed his eyes and emitted a sigh of content than I perceived a gradual swelling at the crotch of his drawers, till before very long his virile cock was in gigantic erection. Perhaps he was dreaming of his tryst with Desiree, or perhaps of an imagined tryst with virginal Laurette, I cannot tell; but whatever the cause, his organ was readied to decimate a hundred maidenheads.

About ten minutes later, there was a discreet tap at the door, but Father Lawrence made no sign of having heard it; his breathing was regular, his eyes were closed, and his massive organ stood up like a totem pole. Presently, the door opened very slightly, and the Widow Bernard peeped inside; not hearing a sound from her new lodger, she opened it a little more and stepped inside the room. At once she beheld the mighty protuberance, and her brown eyes widened, whilst a delicious rosy color suffused her cheeks. She approached the bed oil tiptoe and bent down to stare at this symbol of virility, her lips forming an 0 of astonishment. At that very moment, Father Lawrence opened his eyes and regarded her.

“Is something amiss, Madame Bernard?” he asked.

Her blushes spread as she hastily turned her gaze from his loins to his chest, and she stammered, “Oh—n—no, Y—Your Reverence, I—I merely came in to ask whether you might not wish something to eat when you waken. Not knowing that you were to board with me, I have very little in my larder save for myself, so I shall have to go to market to prepare delicacies for your evening repast. And—and I wished to ask you what your preference was.”

“I shall eat whatever you eat, Madame Bernard. Do not go to any trouble on my account, I pray you.”

“As—as Y—Your Reverence wishes,” Madame Bernard stammered. But she made no attempt to withdraw, and once again, as if by hypnosis, her eyes were compelled to turn back to that upraised structure which prodded up the thin stuff of his drawers to bursting point.

He returned her gaze levelly as he lay, with head pillowed on his folded arms. “Did you wish to tell me anything else, Madame?” he politely inquired.

“N—no—Y—Your Reverence,” she quavered. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her sumptuous bosom seemed to rise and fall with an erratic rhythm. The fiery hue of her blushes had spread to her throat and dainty little ears by now.

Wishing to draw her from this curious state of fixation which rendered her incapable of moving from the spot, Father Lawrence gave her a long meaningful look and then pursued, in a calm tone, “You stare at my cock, Madame Bernard, as if it were a unique phenomenon. I do not seek to offend your gentle modesty, but deem it necessary to explain that this condition is natural to me when I am completely at my ease and most often when I seek repose. I would not have you think that it is meant by way of assault upon your undisputed virtue.”

“Ohh, Y—Your Reverence—I—I did not th—think that at all,” the blushing widow gasped, “for certainly a man of Your Reverence's quality would never deign to take notice of so lowly a person as myself. But—but your c—cock is so s—swollen that I could not help looking at it.”

“You must not disparage yourself, my daughter,” was his mellow reply. “Your kindness in granting me shelter during my sojourn in Languecuisse at once elevates you above many in this charming village. Besides which, you are handsome and comely of face and body, and I marvel that no righteous man has not sought to replace your late husband.”

Hortense Bernard lowered her eyes and faintly retorted, “I—I have tried to find a man who would take the place of my poor Gervaise, but there are few who can compare with him, Your Reverence. Of—of course, he had his weaknesses too -”

“As do we all, my daughter.”

“Yes, Your Reverence. I was going to say, my poor Gervaise did not always come to bed with me as often as I would have wished, though he was very much a man like Your Reverence—I—I mean -”

She turned aside, woefully embarrassed to have been so bold, but Father Lawrence, far from being wroth over her bawdiness, encouraged it by pursuing: “You do not offend me, my daughter, in likening me to a worthy consort who gave you heaven, and it is pleasing when man and wife take satisfaction, for true marriages are made in heaven, and it is pleasing when man and wife take joy of each other.”

“I—I am sure of that, Your Reverence. It was only that Gervaise—well, he did not take his joy when it was offered, and we often quarreled over that. Looking back now, I repent my sinfulness, Your Reverence. I—I asked him to—to do things to me that he swore were not proper even between husband and wife. And so he took to drink and forsook my bed.”

“Nothing that is done in love between man and woman can be improper, my daughter. It is a pity he did not comprehend this great maxim.”

“Oh, yes,” she sighed, twisting her fingers nervously about and still averting her scarlet face from his gaze.

“Perhaps it will ease your troubled heart to reveal to me the nature of the dissension between you, and your deceased spouse, Madame Bernard,” he prompted.

“Ohh, Y—Your Reverence, I should never dare!” she breathed.

“But unless I know, I can hardly prescribe for your distress, my daughter. Come, I have told you I am on vacation from my order for this entire month, so regard me rather as a sympathetic friend and not a Grand Inquisitor,” he affably remonstrated.

“You—you will not sc—scold me or sermonize me?” she whispered.

“Not one whit, I promise. Quickly, speak!” he urged, sitting up on the edge of the bed and taking her trembling hand.

She hung her head like a little girl caught in mischief and finally blurted out, in a very tremulous voice, “I—I sometimes wished Gervaise to—to take me from—from behind, in the way I—I have seen animals couple in the field.”

“Why, that is but following the example set by nature. How, then, could he take offense?”

The buxom young widow squirmed and turned her face aside, while she furtively tried to draw her hand away from his, but Father Lawrence held on tenaciously, persisting: “Be honest with me, my daughter. Once you have disclosed the secrets you have hidden in your mind because they trouble you, they will no longer be a source of distress to you.”

“Y—yes, Y—Your Reverence,” Hortense Bernard stammered, more and more embarrassed. “It—it wasn't only taking me from behind that—that my husband objected you, you see.”

“But I do not see at all, my daughter. Be more explicit!”

“Oh, d—dear! It—it is so difficult for me to speak of such delicate things to—to a man of the cl—cloth, Your Reverence.”

“But that is precisely why it will be helpful to you to reveal your problems, my daughter, since men of my ilk are more worldly and comprehend better the complex difficulties which beset the uninformed. Speak, I pray you!”

“I—I wished him to—to put his c—cock into the other place, Y—Your Reverence.”

“The other place,” Father Lawrence feigned ignorance of what the comely widow meant. “Why do you not show me, for actual illustration is always enlightening. Take off your skirt, and indicate to me this other place to which you allude.”

By this time, his cock had attained its full girth and length, was even more formidably rigid before her dilated, humid eyes. Hortense Bernard drew a long quivering breath, and then, eyes downcast, tremblingly unhooked her skirt and let it fall about her trim ankles. It was at once apparent that she wore nothing under the skirt, for the soft curves of her carnation-skinned belly appeared, marked by a wide and shallow navel-niche, and then below a thicket of light brown curls which flourished most luxuriantly over the plump aperture of her cunt. Before he could exclaim upon this revelation, she had turned her back, and, putting a quivering forefinger towards the narrow, shadowy groove which separated two magnificently ripe, upstanding round hemispheres, whispered, “It—it was in here, Y—Your Reverence, I—I wished Gervaise to put his—his th—thing. But he said it was wickedness to do so. I entreated him to do so as a mark of his husbandly affection, for I was always willing, nay, eager, for him to possess me the regular way. Yet he rebuked me whenever I implored that boon.”

The English ecclesiastic's eyes blazed with avid concupiscence at the sight of those bewitchingly jutting bottom globes, and promptly extended a hand to stroke and caress their velvety rotundities. Hortense Bernard started, and looked round with widened eyes at this gentle caress; in an access of false modesty, doubtless, she had clapped her other hand over her furry slit. “He was wrong to deny you what you sought, my daughter,” he at last pronounced in a voice that was hoarse and unsteady, “particularly since you did not shirk your expected marital duties. You sought only a special mark of affection, yet he pitilessly denied you.”

“Yes, that is true, Your Reverence,” the beautiful half-naked widow sniffed.

“Do you still harbor these desires, my child? Do you still long to be buggered?”

Hortense Bernard closed her eyes, and a long voluptuous shiver rippled down her back as she faintly avowed, “Y—yes, Y—Your R—Reverence.”

“Then I will offer myself to accommodate your needs, my child. Unless, to be sure, my offer offends you?”

“Oh no!” the brown-haired widow breathed, glancing down again at his mighty cock, and the tip of her pink tongue delicately fringed the corners of her quivering lips by way of excited expectation of this unforeseen boon granted by her new boarder, whose estate as spiritual dignitary did her humble abode such honor.

“Then I must prepare the terrain at first. Do you lie across my lap, my daughter,” he instructed. As soon as she had blushingly complied, he circled her waist with his left arm, raised his right hand and dealt her a sonorous slap on the ripe summit of one of her velvety naked bottom-cheeks which left a bright pink outline of his chastening palm.

“Ohh!” she gasped, glancing fearfully back, doubtless wondering how this interlude was to lead her to the Sodomitic bliss she had so long yearned for.

“Do not move, my daughter,” he bade her, applying a lusty second slap on the other nether globe which left an even brighter mark on her fair soft skin, “a little spanking will warm your backside and arouse your blood and muscular tone, thereby preparing you for what would otherwise be a somewhat trying ordeal.”

Thus edified, Hortense Bernard closed her eyes and clenched her little fists, submitting herself to this “preparation.” Her naked loins wriggled lasciviously over Father Lawrence's frenziedly bulging crotch, no doubt taxing his own herculean powers of self-control to the very utmost, but manfully he continued despite this tantalizing distraction to apply vigorous slaps all over the twin hemispheres of her succulent rump till it was scarlet and she was sobbing and wriggling and kicking in the most exciting way.

“Now I think we may proceed to the gratification of your secret desires, my daughter,” he remarked in a thick voice that shook with lust.

“Do you remove your blouse and get upon the bed on all fours, your legs well spread apart to ease the penetration.”

Slowly the young widow clambered up from his lap, and, after first rubbing her flaming bare bottom energetically, divested herself of her blouse and was naked as the day of her birth. Getting onto the bed, head bowed, palms bearing down on the counterpane, knees widely straddled, she presented him with the mouthwatering spectacle of her furiously inflamed backside. By contrast, her untouched thighs and calves gleamed with a soft carnation sheen that was exquisite to behold.

He rose, too, and removed his drawers, giving his massive cock free rein. For a lingering moment, he squeezed and massaged her scarlet buttocks with appraising fingers, while the beautiful naked widow whimpered and wriggled, till at last he pried open those Callyphygian hillocks and exposed the crinkly little rosebud of her arsehole. The dainty lips contracted with becoming modesty, which only served to inflame Father Lawrence the more, judging by the throbbing movements of his swollen cock. Maintaining the globes yawned apart with thumb and median finger of his left hand, he approached his right forefinger to the soft rosette and caressed it a bit, while Hortense Bernard moaned and sighed incoherently, then gently intruded just the tip within the narrow lobbyway of that furtive little cleft dedicated to the perversities of Sodom.

“Ohh, Your Reverence!” she breathed, her hips jerking fitfully as the result of this preliminary probing.

“Patience, my daughter,” he admonished. “I have the wherewithal to satisfy your longings, and I ask only your unmitigated cooperation to produce the result you have so long petitioned for.”

With this, withdrawing his forefinger, he moistened it with copious saliva, and then anointed the crinkly cleft, again causing her to shift on her knees and to weave her hips in the most lubricious manner. Next, spitting on his right forefinger and median finger a second time, he rubbed the moisture over the fulminating head of his surgingly rigid cock and thence over the tautly drawn, heavy-veined shaft. “Now we shall essay a matching of measurements, my daughter,” he told her. “Do not retreat when you first feel me make inroads into that tight chamber, or the good work will have to be repeated.”

“Oh, n—no, Y—Your Reverence,” she moaned, shuddering with erotic fervor throughout her entire naked body.

Now he put both hands to work against the quaking summits of her inflamed backside, yawned them voluminously till the dainty niche itself was lewdly distended and gaped in readiness for his adventuring, and then fitted the nozzle of his organ to the orifice, edging it forward with two or three tentative pushes, till at last the lips grudgingly gave way to superior strength and accepted just the tip of his formidable cockrod. A low groan of bliss escaped the naked patient, who bowed her head still lower and dug her fingers into the counterpane to steel herself against the brunt of his assault.

“Now to the good work,” he gasped, and thrust vigorously. Hortense Bernard, grinding her teeth, met the charge with heroic resistance as his cock slowly dug forward into the narrow channel. From what Desiree had told him, she was certainly not virgin in that crevice, but she remained virtually as tight as a virgin, a circumstance which magnificently implemented Father Lawrence's carnal joy in servicing her thus. By now, a solid inch of his rigid weapon was engulfed in that warm, narrow cavern, and visible contractions made her bottom cheeks quake and shudder against his compressing hands which continued to yawn them so their owner might not escape that which she had so boldly sought.

“Brace yourself again, my daughter. I return to the task,” he panted, and with a jerk of his loins sent his cock delving deeper still; a muffled cry exuded from her panting lips, as nearly half of the English ecclesiast's turgid lance burrowed inside her rectal canal.

He halted himself, shuddering to feel the rudely distended passageway spasmodically clutch against his imbedded organ in a series of convulsive pressures, which compelled him once again to exert the utmost self-discipline in not yet releasing the gouts of spunk.

“Am I hurting you, daughter?” he solicitously demanded, his voice trembling and hoarse with a ferocious lubricity now rampant within him.

“Ohh, Y—Your Reverence,” Hortense Bernard panted, “it is all that I can bear—no man before has ever stretched me so fairly—aaaahh, oh give me a moment to regain my strength so that I may enjoy all of you within me!”

“Right willingly, my child,” he breathed, “for I too am in need of respite. But do you bow your forehead to the counterpane; thereby you will angle up your backside all the more delightfully for my thrusting.”

The comely young widow immediately acceded to this request while her thighs began to quake and threatened to give way beneath her in near-fainting ecstasy. Father Lawrence crouched forward and extended his left hand under her to cup one of her ripe bosom globes, which he squeezed lovingly, while he groped his right forefinger towards the little lodestone of her clitoris. When he had attained the latter objective, Hortense Bernard uttered a sobbing cry of indescribable delight: “Aiiii, ohhhh, you will make me die with pleasure, Your Reverence! I swear that no one before has ever roused my vitals as you are doing now! Oh, blessed be the hour that you took it into your head to seek lodging in my poor abode!”

“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.