The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

CHAPTER TWELVE

After a week, Laurette's maidenhead was still intact. I was a witness to the two more futile attempts which Monsieur Claude Villiers essayed against the golden haired maiden's virtue. The first of these followed on the ensuing night after her marriage, and it took a comic turn very much like that which I have already described to my readers. The old fool had fortified himself with some powerful cognac after dinner, having bidden his bride await him in the nuptial chamber while he sat at his ease in his salon smoking a good cigar and sipping the fiery spirits. Just to make certain that he would be adequate this time, indeed, he actually opened his trousers and began to play with his dwindled organ so as to bring it to a state of competence before entering the bridal chamber.

Laurette had docilely disrobed and awaited him, meek as a sacrificial lamb, upon that great bed. This time, however, she had found a nightshift evidently worn by one or another of the patron's many pro tern mistresses which fitted her passably well. When he entered, he frowned to see that her white flesh was not at once displayed in all its gleaming beauty, for that would have been a further stimulant to his lustfulness. But, resolutely determined to breach the walls of the thus far impregnable castle of her chastity, he undressed himself and once again stood ludicrously bony-naked before the tender maiden. Once again he hastened to clamber upon her and to rub himself against her grudgingly-yielded loins. I waited nearby to determine whether again to make him fall short of the mark, but this time I did not need to. His excitement was so great in feeling the sweet silken-fronded friction of her cunny hairs against his throbbing yet still meager lance that he shot his bolt, spattering her round sweet belly, before he could even lodge the head of his tool between the pouting soft pink lips of her Venus.

So, once again his cock had recourse to her mouth, under threat of a sound flogging. And once again the farcical comedy went to its very end, with Laurette grimacing and closing her eyes and allowing her rosy lips to take hold of his detestable weapon. But work on it as she would, and her performance was somewhat longer this time because of his angry insistence, she could not succeed in making him reach the state of rigidity that was desired. He had to lie beside her and fall asleep and content himself with his scurrilous dreams.

The second attempt was made four days later, and this time the old fool gave her a stern order to await him naked as the day she was born upon the nuptial bed. When he entered, he carried with him some lengths of felt cord which he proceeded to wrap around her wrists and ankles and fix them to the bedposts, thereby spread-eagling her in the most vulnerable and lascivious way conceivable.

Laurette began to weep and to entreat him not to ravage her by force and against her will, for that way, she quavered, would lead to her detesting him and not at all respecting his husbandly status. But this appeal was lost on deaf ears as the patron greedily mounted the huge bed and knelt between poor Laurette's straining, yawning thighs. His hands this time lasciviously roved over her defenseless body, pinching her breasts and belly and hips and thighs till she squealed and squirmed. At least he managed a kind of half-potency and made haste to fling himself down upon her, his scrawny chest flattening her shuddering, milky bubbies and his thin dry lips stifling the cry that rose from her sweet, rosy mouth.

I believed then that Laurette was in the most terrible danger of all, but again I had reckoned without the intervention of demanding nature. So keen had been his anticipation of pillaging her treasure in this fettered and helpless condition that he again ejaculated his seed before it could reach inside her matrix. Just as the tip of his cock prodded between the tender lips of Laurette's virgin cunny, his eyes rolled in his head and his face turned a fiery red and this time his premature burst stickied her inner thighs and lower belly.

She was once again constrained to service him with her mouth, but the effort was again useless so far as rendering him potent again was concerned. Grumpily he flung himself down beside her without even bothering to release her bonds, and so fell asleep, ignoble and selfish wretch that he was.

During the interim between those two occasions when Monsieur Villiers sought to have sexual congress with his tender young bride, I made my way back to the little cottage of the Widow Bernard on one evening and to the rectory of Pere Mourier on another occasion. As it chanced, the fat French priest had been summoned to the parish of Jardineannot, about a dozen kilometers to the west, to perform the funeral service for a dear old friend. As a consequence Father Lawrence, telling his buxom landlady that he had been requested to substitute for Pere Mourier in the event that the villagers of Languecuisse might need spiritual consolation during the latter's absence, made a nocturnal visit to the little rectory. There he found the beautiful Amazonian housekeeper Desiree alone and ecstatically eager to give him another proof of her burning devotion. She prepared a tasty collation for him, even to a bottle of Pere Mourier's best wine, and the two of them ate and drank with gusto. When they had finished, he sighed with repletion and avowed that he would not be able to move for hours after so filling a repast.

The beautiful chestnut haired widow roguishly told him that she would not disturb him for all the world, yet his indolence need not impair their enjoying the pleasures of Cythera. As he leaned back in the straight-backed chair, Desiree divested herself of her skirt and this time of her drawers also, for she had not anticipated the delightful visit of the virile English ecclesiast. Next, lofting his cassock and lowering his drawers, she seated herself with her back to him, her legs straddling over his, and reaching between her boldly yawning thighs, took hold of his already prodigiously excited spear and drew it towards her furry niche. Her sighs and gasps of delight pronounced, to express her words, the unusually stimulating angle of incidence with which his cock rasped against the volutes of her inner channel, granting her indescribable pleasure. By dint of squirming about and arching gently and then lowering herself, she was able to bring them both to a simultaneous fruition of erotic rapture.

And when they had both rested from this delightful pursuit of carnal gratification, she led him into the bedroom of Pere Mourier, and there, Eve-naked as he was Adam-unclothed, did renew with fiery vigor and enthusiasm their fleshly union. I witnessed two exciting bouts, the first of which took place with Father Lawrence firmly mounted over his beautiful and passionate steed, whereas the second foray was accomplished with Desiree kneeling on all fours and the apparently tireless English holy man behind her and foraging his sturdy weapon deep within her cunny.

On the other occasion, Father Lawrence showed that he was not at all unmindful of the debt he owed the Widow Bernard for her tender hospitality. He crept into her bedchamber after she had gone to sleep, only to find her tossing and turning restlessly and murmuring incoherent words. Drawing off the thin sheets, for it was another warm night, he tickled the lips of her cunny and her clitoris as well till he wakened her. Thus exquisitely attended, she uttered a cry of joy and held out her arms to him. He possessed her lingeringly. Midway through their juncture, he obliged her to draw her knees up against her sumptuous bosom, and then, taking hold of the backs of her knees, directed himself deeply into her moist and quaking love-channel.

On the Thursday afternoon which marked the start of the second week of Laurette's marriage to the elderly patron, both Pere Mourier and Father Lawrence conferred at the former's rectory on the subject of bringing this charming wench to her confessional. It was decided that Pere Mourier would pay a call this very evening on the golden haired young bride and gently remind her that it was high time she closet herself with her spiritual mentor and announce to him her new attitude on the subject of wifely obligations. Now Monsieur Villiers, angrily frustrated as we well know from not having perforated Laurette's coveted hymen, had decided to turn his attentions to his vineyards and to the bottling of the good wine from those grapes which had been harvested. Consequently, he spent the morning and afternoon out in the fields with his workers and with his overseer Hercule, and gave his bride to understand that he would be thus occupied at least through the following week.

Having returned at sundown, exhausted from his unwonted physical labors, the patron went straight to his bedchamber and to sleep. So when Pere Mourier was announced by the housekeeper Victorine, he found charming Laurette alone in her own room, fully clothed and deliciously provocative as ever to his expertly appraising eyes.

“My daughter,” he said unctuously, “it is high time that you make your confession. Will you not come to my rectory tomorrow afternoon so that this obligation may be fulfilled in complete privacy, as is befitting so grave a ceremony.”

Laurette cast down her beautiful blue eyes and averred that she would keep the appointment. And so on Friday afternoon, she made her way to the rectory, was smilingly received by the beautiful Desiree and ushered at once into the presence of the obese French priest.

But what was Laurette's surprise to find Father Lawrence there also, seated at his ease near the little curtained booth into which she was to go. Pere Mourier had had this second confession booth installed in his rectory, just off the salon, for special occasions, whereas most of his parishioners, naturally, avowed their sins in the church itself.

“Good day, Father,” Laurette stammered, rather nervous at discovering that she would have to bare her secret heart to not one but apparently two fathers confessor. “Do not be afraid, my child,” Father Lawrence smilingly responded, “it is only that the worthy Pere Mourier was gracious enough to invite me, a visitor from English shores to observe what close communication he keeps with his little flock here in this charming village of Provence. It may well be that I shall learn much from him to take back to England with me, and thereby spread more good. So go make a clean breast of your misdeeds and mis-thoughts, my daughter, and you will be heartened thereby.”

So the golden haired young beauty, mastering her embarrassment, entered the little confessional booth and knelt, down on the cloth-covered rail, whilst Pere Mourier made his way to the other side and began pompously: “I am ready now, my child, to take your confessional.”

Laurette's soul was a tender one and a sweet one, I am certain. In the main she had not really much to confess in that short time which had elapsed between her last confessional and her first week of marriage. Solely, she accused herself of deep regret that she had been forced to marry against her will, because she did not love her husband and was not sure that she ever could.

To this, Pere Mourier assumed a highly sententious line of reasoning, reminding her that the Israelites, after escaping Egypt, remembered their sorrows and their tribulations for centuries thereafter by means of ceremonials. “Just so,” he concluded, “must you realize that in return for blessings and good things, you must pay the price of some small annoyances, for life is never perfect, my dear child.”

“Alas, mon pere,” Laurette sighed, “I tell myself this daily, but it does not seem to ease the pangs in my grieving heart. I still mourn my Pierre.”

“That is scandalous, my daughter. Satan himself lurks in the darkness, waiting to seize your mortal soul the moment you entertain thoughts of adulterous consorting. For such it is, and do not doubt it; now that you are wed in lawful estate to the good patron whose name you bear, it behooves you to remain as irreproachable as Caesar's wife herself. Try to remember that, my child.”

“I—I will, mon pere,” Laurette quavered. She had doubtless thought herself finished with this painful interrogation when suddenly Pere Mourier interposed: “Now, before I give you your penance, my daughter, you must tell me whether you have made every possible effort to be a good and obedient wife to your husband.”

“Yes, mon pere, I—I am sure that I have done my best,” was the tremulous answer.

“Well, then, that is virtue indeed if it is so. But I would have a strict accounting from you, Laurette, as to this vital question: Have you humbly and truly granted your husband his conjugal rights? By this I mean, of course, have you permitted him access to your body that he may cleave unto you, as is prescribed by all the tenets of a good marriage?”

“I—I have gone to bed with him when—when he has wished it, yes, mon pere,” Laurette's voice trembled even more now, “but, and I do not know why, he—he has been unable to make love to me.”

“What is this?” thundered the fat priest. “Do you mean that he has not yet taken your-maidenhead?” »N—no, mon pere. But it was not for want of trying, I swear to you.”

“That makes no difference. If you are still virgin, it could only be because of your wicked resentment of the worthy patron and your clandestine and unholy lust for that scoundrel Pierre Larrieu whom you yearn to put in your husband's rightful place. This is sinfulness, my daughter, and must be chastised severely. I exhort you to see to it, this very night—aye, mark my words, Laurette!—that you bring your husband to a consummation of this marriage. Do you understand me? He is to take your hymen in the nuptial bed before the sun rises on the morrow. Then I bid you come to confessional tomorrow at one in the afternoon, to relate to me whether you have fulfilled my ordainment. And woe betide your bottom, my rebellious child, if I find that you have not heeded my counsel. Now go back to the house of your husband and recite a hundred Hail Marys.”

Laurette emerged from the confessional booth, her face streaked with tears, her eyes downcast, and she did not even give Father Lawrence a second glance as she left the rectory, her mind full of poignant anguish at the thought of the edict which the fat French priest had laid upon her.

I had decided to remain in the salon to find out the reaction of these two worthy ecclesiasts, for I suspected that they themselves had designs upon this delicious virgin. Pere Mourier had already shown as much in his lascivious scourging of her naked bottom. And after having witnessed Father Laurence's lusty fomicatory antics with the two beautiful widows Desiree and Hortense, I felt him made of the same cloth as Pere Mourier.

“You see, Father Lawrence, how stubborn the child is?” Pere Mourier wagged a fat reproving finger, then shook his head with a doleful sigh. “Lucifer wages a frightful struggle with me for the possession of her tender soul. If the two of us do not prevent her from casting aside her marital obligations and fleeing to the arms of that good-for-nothing, she will be damned to eternal perdition. And I do not mind telling you, in all confidence, Father Lawrence, that the worthy Monsieur Claude Villiers will at once cease his contributions to my little parish, which would leave me impoverished and unable to carry out the good works of faith which this so often sinful village so desperately needs.”

“I see your predicament, my confrere,” the English ecclesiast gravely agreed. “You shall have my aid, I pledge it. But how shall we constrain Laurette to keep her vows?”

“I have in mind a scheme that, while it is somewhat audacious, will surely prove successful. You overheard me telling the wench to see to it that her husband deflowered her this very night? Well, why should we not make sure of this ourselves? He has been out to the vineyards all this week and will come home late in the evening. Let us therefore go to his abode and secrete ourselves in the closet of his bedchamber. Thence we can watch to behold Laurette's obedience or lack of it. And should she seek, once he falls asleep, to steal out of the house to her wretched lover, we shall be there to enforce her righteousness. You, being a foreign priest, will terrify her all the more by your authority, since she now knows that you and I are in league together against the demon which seeks to seduce her soul.”

“A master stroke, Pere Mourier! I could not have thought of a better one myself. Well, then, let us go quickly and take our place without danger of discovery.”

“There will be no need to worry about our presence in the closet,” Pere Mourier winked at his English colleague. “The good Victorine, whom I have known for many years, is a pious soul. Moreover, she is spited because the patron did not wed her instead of Laurette, and it is human nature that she will try vindictively to make certain that the girl, once having snared the prize of marriage, lives up to it most strictly!”

I took this for an invitation for myself as well, and hopped upon the broad black hat of Pere Mourier, which protected his florid face from the hot Provence sun.

When they arrived at the home of Monsieur Claude Villiers, Pere Mourier had a whispered conversation with Victorine while Father Lawrence pretended not to listen. I, at my ease on Pere Mourier's black hat, heard everything. The French holy man had, it seemed, consoled Victorine on many a previous occasion when her grief for having lost two husbands (one from death by natural causes, the other because the man had run away with a young serving wench) became too much for her to bear alone. Hence there was a sympathetic bond between them, and out of memory of this, the patron's housekeeper agreed to say nothing to her master and to hide them both in the spacious closet of his bedchamber. The patron, she believed, would return by seven that evening, would dine and then summon his tender young bride to bed. At the moment, she informed them, Laurette was napping in her own room.

So the two cassocked ecclesiastics secreted themselves in the closet, while she brought them a sausage, bread, cheese and a half-bottle of good Anjou wine to quell their hunger—though I might have told her that their real hunger was for the white, soft flesh of gentle Laurette. And when they had made their meal, they drowsed. But I remained vigilant, for I wished to learn what mischief they intended to the lovely golden haired virgin.

Sure enough, as Victorine had predicted, the senile old fool came back to the house shortly after the grandfather's clock in the hallway had struck seven, and, after performing his ablutions and changing his earthstained garments, seated himself at the table and dined. Victorine informed him that the charming Laurette was feeling out of sorts, had napped much of the afternoon and begged his indulgence to permit her to take her evening repast in her own chamber. “So be it,” he snapped, “but you will tell Milady Villiers that she is to attend me in my bedchamber directly I have finished. If she demurs, remind her that she is my wife and that I have the right to thrash her with a switch if she does not obey in all things!”

Smirking at his own self-importance and the feeling of power it had given him to have such an autocratic order transmitted by the woman who had been his mistress to her far younger, more beautiful rival who was now his wife, scrawny old Claude Villiers ate a hearty supper, fortified by several glasses of Burgundy, and with his coffee had two glasses of cognac and then a cheroot. Finally, about eight-thirty, he got up rather unsteadily from the table and made his way to his bedchamber, his ugly features flushed and contorted with inflamed desire. He meant, this night, once and for all, to make Laurette his.

Victorine, out of compassion for the tender young damsel, had gone to Laurette's room to urge her to hasten to the master's bedchamber so as to avoid his wrath, and Laurette was consequently awaiting her elderly husband, seated in a chair, hands folded and eyes downcast. Monsieur Claude Villiers cackled with anticipatory glee at the sight of this demure, golden haired virgin so docilely attendant on his bidding. With a loud belch, he ordered, “It is well for you, my pigeon, that you came to my summons. And now, without more ado, I bid you undress all naked, as I mean to consummate our marriage and rend that chaste barrier which turns you from innocent damsel to loving, obedient wife!”

Laurette by now had understood that any pleas to spare her modesty were little more than wasted breath, and so, rising from the chair, her milky cheeks turning red with shame, silently divested herself of her garments, till she was deliriously nude from head to toe. Godiva's hair was long and a true shield to the prying eyes as she rode through Coventry, but Laurette could hide none of her beauties, for her two long golden braids were at best decorative. Yet they gave her a look of exquisite girlishness and naivete which, understandably, inflamed the already furious passions of this niggardly old fool.

“Now you will undress me, wife,” the patron commanded. And when shy, tender Laurette hesitated, he snarled, “It will be a proof of your sweet docility as my wife, a sign that you accept your status. Otherwise, I shall thrash you to the blood, and do so daily till you are my willing slave! Now do it quickly!”

Once again, with that enchanting intuition which seems to come to the aid of the youngest female in moments of crisis, Laurette submitted. Eyes downcast, cheeks aflame, she applied her trembling fingers to his garments till at last he appeared wisened, emaciated, hairy and naked, before her, the obscene little dangler between his lean thighs flaunted to her chaste modesty. But to his delighted surprise, gentle Laurette, far from shrinking away at the manifestation of his maleness, hesitantly put out a little white hand and timidly took hold of the head of his cock.

“My little darling!” the overjoyed old patron cried in his reedy voice. “I have been too harsh with you, I see, menacing you with a beating. I should have understood that, pure and innocent as you are, it needed time for you to comprehend the pleasures of the bed. Ah, Laurette, you do not know how happy you have made me now, nor how happy you shall soon make me. That's it, hold and fondle my cock and make it strong and powerful for the sweet ordeal of fitting it into that plump, hairy little slit between your round white thighs!”

Laurette, though her blushes had spread nearly to her luscious white bubbies, continued to hold the head of her old husband's cock, and now put her left arm round his waist, her eyes closed, and voluptuous shivers stealing through her divine nakedness. Now her thumb and forefinger took hold of the half-roused gnarled shaft and gave it a tender little pinch. “Oh, my beloved wife,” he groaned, “how you entrance me! But come, let us take our pleasure on the soft broad bed, rather than tire ourselves by standing thus!”

In the closet, where the two priests had long kept their patient vigil for just such a sight as they now beheld, Pere Mourier nudged his English confrere and whispered, “Mordieu, does not the vision of such white, radiant naked flesh send flames of inspiration through your being?”

“Of a certainty, Pere Mourier. It is, alas, risible to see that meager old man essay to give so voluptuous and young a wench the pleasuring which only a robust and virile lover can afford her. And she is well made to accept such devotion, mark you. Ah, what finely rounded thighs, what delicious, haunches! And that soft, sweetly dimpled belly, made to cushion a man's weight as he lies upon it, his firm member thrust to its very ell-length deep within that sweet little golden downed nest of hers!” rhapsodized the English ecclesiast.

“You are a man with spiritual kinship to me,” quote the fat French churchman. “I too share your desire for the charming Laurette. Ventre-Dieu, the two of us might contrive a way to educate her in her conjugal duties, yet without robbing the worthy patron of this humble village. Yet perhaps I offend your moral scruples by intimating such a devious act?”

“Not so, not so in the least,” declared the bluff English holy man, “my blood boils at the way her little white hand timidly acquaints itself with his dwarfed old garden tool. I would right willingly spade her garden and harvest all the sweet bounty therein!”

“Methinks that if what we are watching now does not produce the consummation which will sanctify this union, we may achieve our communal desire,” Pere Mourier declared. “For she is young and impressionable and most devout. To thunder forth our wrath against her shirking her marital obligations will bring the naughty child to terms, mark my words upon it, Father Lawrence! But watch how she does her sweet maidenly best to bring M'sieu Villiers to point!”

Laurette had released her old husband's prick and relinquished hold of her soft arm about her waist, permitting him to grasp her by the wrist and draw her, feverishly and pantingly towards the connubial bed. The sweet girl stretched out upon it, hiding her face in the crook of one beautifully rounded white arm, while the patron, gasping and groaning like a fish out of water, scrambled onto the bed and knelt beside his adorable young bride. “Oh, I am implore you, my little pigeon, to go on with what you were just doing,” he supplicated in his cackling voice. “I must possess you or die of frustration! Take hold of my prick again, my sweetling, and nestle it in the soft warm cove of your little hand, that it may grow to requisite vigor!”

Laurette dutifully lifted her other hand and groped for his still dormant weapon. Her fingertips tickled and glided over it from head to balls, while the two stealthily eavesdropping clergymen held their breath and stared through the crack in the closet door at what was taking place.

Gradually, under her delicious ministrations, his cock hardened to commendable size and length, though it could in no way compare with the potency of Pierre Larrieu, and still less with the mighty ramrods possessed by those two who espied this intimate scene from their closet hiding place. Meanwhile, the patron, his face screwed up in a rictus of tortured bliss, scrambled with his bony fingers over Laurette's upper thighs, her dimpled belly, and her golden ringlets which throve over her soft, pink lipped cunny.

“Oh, enough, my beauty,” he at last groaned, “you will make me lose it all, and I must put it deep into your little slit! Open your legs, my pigeon, and prepare yourself for my charge! I will make you beg for mercy, as I promised!”

He crouched now between her obediently spread open thighs, and with his trembling fingers sought to gape apart the sweet warm corals of her quim so that he might engage his tool within that amorous antechamber. But no sooner had he at last fitted the nozzle of his organ between those soft pouting prisms, then his body stiffened and his eyes bulged glassily and he uttered a raucous cry: “Ohhh, I cannot hold it back, oh, you have undone me with your sorcery, you little vixen!”

And sure enough, there dribbled from him a few gouts of sticky essence, but they were not lodged within the matrix that he had so boastfully sworn to fill. Recovering at length from the seizure, he at last procured a cambric kerchief and mopped her thighs and belly and his own once again dwindled tool. Then, still resolute despite his failures, he had recourse to a bottle of brandy which he had caused Victorine to place on a little tabouret near the bed for just such an occasion. He gulped down half a glass and then sputtering, and with tears in his eyes, declared that he had hardly begun the battle for her maidenhead, which would fall like the very walls of Jericho before the moon set in the heavens.

During this while, Pere Mourier and Father Lawrence heatedly expatiated on the voluptuous beauties of Laurette's naked body. The French ecclesiast held for her bubbies, whose impudent, jouncy globes entranced him most of all her fair person, whereas the virile English churchman fancied the plump rounders of her backside and the appetizing golden-fleeced mound of her Venus.

“But, my dear confrere,” Pere Mourier concluded, “there is really no need to apportion out all these delicacies, since the two of us shall share and share alike once the sweet and timid maiden comes under our sway.”

“But how can you be certain that she will?” Father Lawrence demanded.

“You are forgetting Victorine owes me many favors. And in return, she has promised not only to secrete us in this fine closet and to bring us wine and food to enliven our long wait, but also, after the worthy patron starts to snore, to bring his gentle bride a message from her rascally lover. She will flee to him, and it is then that we shall apprehend her in the very act of wishing to go forth to an adulterous tryst. Then we shall have her, I warrant you. But, watch now, the brandy has given him false courage and he will try again!”

It was quite true. As Laurette lay submissively on her back, her face still hidden by her covering arm, the scrawny patron had returned to bed. Now he was fiddling with his own diminished tool, panting and cackling like a madman loose in Bedlam as he sought to rigidify himself to adequacy for the delicious task. But for him, alas, it was to prove more arduous than any of the labors of Hercules—and I do not refer to the thus-named overseer who, I do not doubt in the least, could have broken through Laurette's maidenhead with a single stab of his sexual weapon.

Finally, confessing himself defeated, he piteously begged her to grant him once again the touch of her little hand upon his private parts. She did so resignedly, uttering a desolate little sigh. He knelt beside her, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, surrendering himself entirely to the longed-for voluptuousness. Her soft white little fingers enlaced themselves around his drooping shaft, then fondled and tickled his balls, then returned to stroking and daintily pinching the head of his useless protuberance. Finally, with a groan, he crawled between her thighs and flung himself down atop her. His hands clutched her white, swelling bubbies with a desperate urgency as he began to grind his loins against her sweet mount. But try as he would, even the sight and the feel of her naked body against his did not have the needful effect. Finally, with a long, heart-rending groan that almost made the two hiding priests chuckle, so dolorous was its lamentation and renunciation, Monsieur Claude Villiers kissed Laurette chastely on the brow and stretched out on his back beside her. In a moment or two he was fast asleep. His fatigue as well as the brandy, on top of all the rest he had imbibed, had withdrawn him from the tourney this night.

“Now it will be but a few moments till Victorine brings in the spurious message,” Pere Mourier whispered excitedly.

It was in all a quarter of an hour before the door gently opened and Victorine stuck her head inside. Hearing the snores of her master, she took heart, opened the door a little more and tiptoed towards the great bed. She put her hand out to touch Laurette's naked breast. The young virgin, not yet fallen asleep, was about to start up with a cry when Victorine bent a finger to her lips, murmuring “Shhhh! Do not wake the master, my little one. I have a message for you from Pierre Larrieu.”

“Oh, Victorine, what is it? Oh, how I've longed to hear from my sweetheart. I thought he had forsaken me and left the village.”

“No, my gentle lamb, not so. He has told me to come to you and bid you meet him out on that same grassy knoll where you last had rendezvous with him. Come, I will take you to your chamber, and there you can dress and hasten to your lover.”

Laurette carefully crept out of bed, a naked young goddess, and followed Victorine back to her own chamber. The two priests rose, stretching their limbs and suppressing their gasps as the circulation was restored to their bodies. In a trice, they were once alert and eager for what would follow. “We shall give the naughty little wench a moment or two to clothe herself, and then we shall go into her chamber and sermonize her,” Pere Mourier decreed.

They gave her all of three minutes, I should judge, before they left the patron's bedroom and went to Laurette's door. Pere Mourier knocked twice, very softly. Laurette, doubtless supposing it was Victorine, hastened to open the door, and then recoiled with a stifled little cry of terror. What a bewitching picture she made, for she was clad only in her drawers and camisole. She had doused her lovely face with cold water to efface the tears of repugnance which this interlude with her distasteful husband had caused her. And she was ravishingly desirable, those two long golden braids hanging down to her waist, her round bubbies tumultuously heaving in her apprehension at beholding her father confessor and his English colleague.

“What—what are you doing here, mon pere?” she gasped as Father Lawrence deftly closed the door behind him and drew the bolt…

Pere Mourier shook a fat, admonishing finger at her. “Oh, my poor child, I have come in the nick of time to dissuade you from committing the most adulterous wickedness.”

“I—I do not understand what you are saying, mon pere,” Laurette stammered, turning scarlet with sweet confusion.

“And now you commit another sin, that of lying to your good father-confessor,” the obese holy man rebuked her in a pompous voice. “I had asked good Father Lawrence to come with me on making my rounds of the parish this evening, and when we called here, the good Victorine had just received a message from a little boy whom this vaurien Pierre Larrieu had sent with this infamous summons to a sinful rendezvous. Thank heaven she had the presence of mind and the loyalty to her dear master to inform me of this message, or even now you might be in that wretch's arms. Oh, my daughter, you have put your feet upon the pathway to perdition. And look—you bedeck yourself in your flimsiest undergarments to entice this forbidden lover to the body which belongs solely to the worthy Claude Villiers.”

“Oh, mon pere, I cannot help it,” Laurette sobbed. “If you only knew how horrible it is for me to have to lie abed with that vile old man! It is true that my Pierre is a bastard and so cannot wed me, yet I would rather be his harlot and lie with him in the fields than suffer the indignities which M'sieu Villiers subjects me to in the guise of wedlock. What am I to do, mon pere?”

And with this, the lovely girl flung herself down on her knees and clasped her hands and held them up to the obese French holy man, as the tears rivuleted down her flushed soft cheeks.

“I will tell you this, my daughter,” thundered Pere Mourier, “if you take one step further out of this room to visit that rogue, I will excommunicate you from Mother Church. Not only now, but at any other time hereafter. Besides which, I intend to tell the patron how you are ready to cuckold him only a few moments after he had sought with all his devotion and gentleness to possess you.”

“Oh, oh, no, you would not tell him that! Oh, I would die of shame! And you must not curse my darling Pierre, he is honest and good and kind, and his only sin is in loving me. Please, Pere Mourier, forgive him, and forgive me too.”

She looked up at him, her eyes blinded with tears, and she clasped his fat thighs with her beautiful arms in the most exquisite attitude of supplication. The voluptuous effect of such beauty at bay was instantly visible as Pere Mourier's massive cock jabbed out the thin stuff of his cassock.

“There is perhaps a way, my daughter,” he said hoarsely, with an imperceptible little glance at the smiling Father Lawrence who stood behind the kneeling girl, “whereby you can make your penance and yet save your marriage, without committing this deadly sin with the young scoundrel.”

“Tell me how, mon pere! I will do anything you ask,” Laurette avowed.

“Having made much study of the ebullient nature of male and female,” the fat French priest sententiously began, “I think I can evaluate your case astutely, my poor benighted daughter. The holy estate of matrimony is surely to be sought for one of your lowly status, true enough. But in your particular instance, since I have seen with mine own eyes how lasciviously inclined your secret nature is—do not try to deny it, my child, for you recall that I beheld you and this Pierre Larrieu about to commit adultery—my belief is that once you have overcome your vapours and timidities natural to your physical condition of virginity, you will no longer dread the legal contact with your illustrious husband. Therefore, once we remove these vapours and these timidities, my dear child, you will be amazed at how little inclination you have to seeking out this young wretch for your illicit pleasures, because you will be edified sufficiently to partake of them naturally and honorably with your own husband. Tell me this quickly—has he yet taken your virginity?”

“Oh, no, no,” Laurette gasped and hid her blushing tear-stained face in the folds of the fat priest's cassock.

“Then this verifies my supposition and my theory, my dear child,” Pere Mourier resumed. “Inwardly, your lascivious desires make you yearn for coition, while at the same moment your virginal hymen imposes upon you an abhorrence and a frigidity which defeat your nature. Once removed the latter, and the former may be then fully channeled towards the greater pleasure of a lawful consort. And thereby lies the penance which I shall set you here and now, my sweet Laurette.”

She looked up at him wide-eyed, not quite understanding his sly and cunning aim. “Wh—what must I do, then, mon pere?”

“Prepare to yield your maidenhead to me, your father confessor, who has known you since you were a tender child. I will thus be your devout initiator, my charming child, and educate you towards your proper conjugal duties.”

“Oh! you—you cannot mean -” Laurette stammered as she rose to her feet and shrank back, eyes huge with stupefaction.

“You misunderstand me, my daughter,” Pere Mourier suavely interposed. “I do not mean to take you in lust as would this unworthy Pierre. No, my daughter, it will be an act of edification, simply that and nothing more. And I absolve you from any sin, since I have prevented you from your commission of adultery this night. Is that not so, Father Lawrence?”

“He speaks the truth, Laurette,” the English ecclesiast collaborated his French colleague.

The lovely Laurette did not know what face to put upon this situation, as she could not still believe her ears. But the fat priest lost no time in acquainting her with his intention, since he at once doffed his hat and cassock and stood in all his hairy nakedness, his massive cock already savagely distended. “Nature has better endowed me, my child, than even your forbidden lover,” he declared. “Now to begin your penance, remove the camisole and drawers and place yourself in repose upon your bed. I will attend you, and zealously seek to instruct you in these duties in which you have been so remiss with your loyal loving husband.”

“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.

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!”

Lulled by his kindly guidance, and her senses already inflamed by the good work of her initiator, Pere Mourier, Laurette shyly took hold of the good father's massive cockhead. Tentatively, she rubbed it very lightly against the gaping pink lips of her love-slit, gasping and wincing at the faint twinges which recalled to her the taking of her chastity. Meanwhile, his left hand roved all over her bottom, and finally his forefinger slid down the sinuous, ambery cleft which separated those succulent hemispheres till he had found the dainty, crinkily fissure of her anus. He began to prod the lips very lightly, and Laurette moaned with sexual fever as this caress wakened all her innately libidinous tendencies. At last, with a gasp, she fitted the head of his cock between her soft cunny lips, and then frantically locked her arms about his shoulders and clung to him in trusting confidence that he would do the rest.

Slowly, Father Lawrence edged his blade along the pathway already hollowed out for him by his French colleague. Laurette caught her breath as she felt his turgid ramrod sink along the quivering volutes of her love-channel. Her right thigh rose to clamp over his leg as she arched herself to him. At the same moment, his fingertip prodded inside the clenching lips of her bumhole; thus impelled, Laurette glued her mouth to his, and, her naked bubbies flattening his surging chest, totally surrendered herself. With a single massive thrust, he dug inside of her to his balls, silencing her long-drawn moan of ecstasy with a furiously impassioned kiss.

Then he began to fuck the beautiful, golden haired maiden—or strictly speaking, young bride, for to be accurate, it should be said that she still retained two of her virginities—and Laurette feverishly responded. Pere Mourier looked on with jaundiced eye. He could perhaps content himself with the thought he had awakened all this exquisite response, but, alas, his confrere would profit therefrom. Still, he managed a smile of consolation at the notion that there would be other penances and other expiations whereby once again he could savoringly enjoy the golden haired, white-skinned loveliness of this naked beauty.

Now Father Lawrence slid his right forefinger down between their bodies and attacked her already turgid clitoris. Artfully he rubbed and rolled the little button, whilst his other forefinger foraged slowly and deeply inside her bottomhole. Synchronizing this dual manipulation with his own regular digs and withdrawals, he soon brought Laurette to moaning ecstasy, and at last, digging her fingernails into his sides, she threw back her head and cried out in wordless rapture as she felt his violent gush inundate her. And by the quaking of her own appeased, naked body against his, she flowed down her own secret tides to meet his own, and thus attained her first womanly climax.