The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

CHAPTER SIX

The roistering had died away and the sun had set on the little village of Languecuisse. I had made my way, at the conclusion of the grape-treading contest, to the humble cottage of the Boischamps, where I crept unnoticed into the bedchamber of the fair Laurette and reposed upon the thin pillow where she was wont to lay her golden head at night without male companionship. This night was to change such circumstances. Yet you would have thought, seeing her so mournful while her mother fretted about her, that she was being prepared for execution on the guillotine. There were tears in those cerulean blue eyes which crept down the soft round cheeks of that sweet, innocent face. The red full lips trembled with woe, as her mother chided her in a most officious contralto voice, “Do you stand still, Laurette! Ventre-Saint-Gris! M'sieu Villiers will grumble if he sees your eyes red from weeping. Why, girl, it is an honor which every maiden in Languecuisse envies you this night. Imagine! To be invited to the house of the patron himself, and just think that you have won a full month of rent on our home for your industrious work in the cask this afternoon. And just think of those bottles of wine! How your dear father and I will enjoy them!”

“That is all very well, chere Maman,” Laurette sighed in as sweet and languorous a voice as I have ever heard from a maiden, “but you know very well that I detest M'sieu Villiers and I do not want to be his wife at all.”

“You exasperating minx, take care lest I box your ears,” the mother cried in great dudgeon. “Pere Mourier is to read the banns from his pulpit after High Mass next Sunday, as you well know, and you will be wed ten days later in the good Church, with your poor father and mother overcome with joy to see your ascent from the poor and cast-down to the most exalted. Why, think, child, you will be rich! You will have beautiful gowns to wear, jewels, the finest of food. You may even journey to Paris, which your father and I have never seen and never shall because we are too poor. And you complain, ungrateful girl!”

“But all those joys are for you and Father,” Laurette entreated sorrowfully, “for it is I who will have to share M'sieu Villers' bed, not you.”

Her mother slapped Laurette's soft cheek drawing a piteous cry from the unhappy maiden. “You impertinent baggage! You are not yet too old to taste the strap on your naked bottom, girl, so cease this wailing and stupidity at once, or I shall have your father attend to you this moment! And then how will it look when you go to the house of the patron with an aching bottom under your finest skirt and drawers?”

“But I don't love him, Maman,” Laurette again uselessly protested, wringing her hands in despair. “Didn't you love papa when you married him?”

“It is the duty of a wife to attend her husband in all circumstances of sickness and health,” her mother piously enjoined. “As to your father, I learned to love him after we were wed, and as a consequence you came from my womb. Tell yourself that you are fortunate in providing comfort for your parents in their old age after all the labor and the many sous they have expended upon you during your childhood. You have won redemption in the heavens for this good deed. As for love, bah—what is that? All men are alike in the dark betwen the sheets, as are all women. You will soon find this out, but I do not need to tell you your duties, for Pere Mourier who is your confessor will remind you with what obligations a young bride must be burdened when she accepts the holy state of matrimony. Yet by accepting them, Laurette you are guaranteed a happy future. Come now, let me see you smile again. Things are not so bad. Old M'sieu Villiers will not live forever, and if you are discreet, there are ways of having your pleasure with another lover. But mind you do not disgrace your married name or bring shame upon your parents.”

“But I would rather marry Pierre,” Laurette insisted a last time and earned herself a slap on the other cheek, which left roses amongst the lilies and drew yet another woeful cry.

“That no-account bastard! What future could you have with him, except to bring forth a parcel of brats into this cruel world?” her mother indignantly ranted. “It is simply by the goodness of his heart that the patron gives that miserable young wretch employment. He lollygags about, hardly does a good day's work, and I am told he spends his time actually trying to write sonnets to his lady love. If ever I hear that your name appears in those sonnets, Laurette, bride though you may be of the good patron, I shall bid him thrash you well for sullying our good name and his. Now, get a bit of powder on your cheeks. I have some rice powder, saved from my own wedding years ago, and it will do well for this occasion. And then Hercule will escort you to the patron's house.”

But at this moment, as happy fortune would have it, there was a knock on the door of the Boischamp cottage, and when Laurette's mother opened it, she found a little boy as harbinger of tidings from the patron himself. It appeared that the overseer had been taken ill of a sudden and was confined to his bed, and therefore the charming M'amselle Laurette would go unattended to the house of the patron at her earliest convenience so that he might accord to her the prize she had so gloriously carried off this afternoon. Laurette's mother's frown showed that this news was not especially welcome. She had hoped for greater honor for her daughter by being escorted by the overseer himself. But since this was not possible, it was important only that Laurette reach the patron's house so that the ceremonial and prize might be accorded her, this being the first real step towards the eventual marriage on which she had set all her mercenary hopes. She therefore sharply instructed Laurette to waste no time in going across the field, but make straight for the house of the patron at the top of the hill, and there to be dutiful, obedient and humbly grateful in all things. “And I wish you to mark well what I say—in all things, you obstinate minx. For the patron will doubtless report to me on the morrow of your behavior this night in his luxurious abode, and woe betide your naked bottom, Laurette, if the report does not do you justice. Now go and do not loiter!”

Laurette had been dressed in her prettiest gown, a camisole, and blue drawers, but her legs were deliciously bare and her dainty feet were shod in the rough shoes which were all that peasants could afford. She set forth valiantly across the rolling vineyards. Her parents sat themselves down to a celebration collation of wine and sardines to congratulate themselves on the excellent match they had brought off for their only, beautiful and virginal daughter. They were too greedy in their anticipation of profiting from this ill-matched union to consider that their virginal child might encounter grave dangers as she went alone through the vineyard under a darkened sky. I decided to accompany her as a kind of guardian angel, because I had already determined that if she should be closeted with the senile patron and he should attempt to fuck her, I would prevent fruition of his perfidious scheme, at least until they were legally united. Remembering what I had read in history of the ancient custom of the droit de seigneur, I thought it not unlikely that a man of his unsavory and lecherous character might attempt to pluck the flower and then send her back to her parents and say she was spoiled and not worthy of being his bride.

Laurette walked along slowly, head bowed, her slim little fingers clasped together as if in prayer and meditation. The wind was soft and gentle and it caressed the hem of her gown and the sweet white flesh of her ankles and lower calves. The moon shone down in all its radiance, and even the stars twinkled their admiration of this golden haired virgin wending her way to the house of the lord and master of the village and towards a fate which, innocent though she doubtless was, she surely must suspect and apprehend.

And then suddenly, as she turned the bend of one lofty, thick hedge of brambles which set off the vineyard of one farmer-tenant from the next, a shadowy figure rose and seized her. But before she could cry out he put his hand over her mouth and whispered, “Cherie, don't you know me? It's your Pierre!”

Laurette uttered a cry of joy and flung her beautifully rounded arms around her lover. They embraced lingeringly, and it was a tender though passionate kiss. In it I could see nothing that suggested that either of them was corrupt. “Where are you going by yourself in the dark, my dearest one?” Pierre murmured in a manly, resonant voice.

“You know very well, alas,” Laurette uttered a doleful sigh. “I have been summoned to the house of the patron to collect my prize. And worst of all, dear Pierre, a catastrophe has befallen me. My dear Mother has just announced to me that Pere Mourier would read the banns of my betrothal to the patron next Sunday. Oh, whatever shall I do? You know how I detest him. You know how he treats all the women who work in the fields. He pinches them, Pierre.”

“Has he pinched you? If he has, I'll strangle him, I swear to you, Laurette.”

“Sh-h-h! We must not be overheard. We have so little time. If we loiter, he will send again to my parents at their house to see what is keeping me, and our secret will be discovered. Oh, Pierre, whatever shall I do?”

“If I had many francs, I would wed you myself and take you far from this wretched little hamlet,” the youth stoutly declared. “But you know that I have nothing except the charity which the patron gives me. And I know also that I am his bastard son, though he will not recognize me. It is not right that he should wed you, Laurette, when we have pledged ourselves to each other ever since we were both thirteen.”

“I know,” she nodded sadly. “We always hoped and prayed that some miracle would happen so that we could be wed. And we have not even had joy of each other. And now tonight, I am very much afraid he will demand his rights in advance before I am his wife. I loathe him. To think of his fingers pinching my naked flesh puts me in a fit of horror. Oh, if I am doomed to surrender to him, will you not, for the last time that we shall be able to meet before my marriage, teach me what love truly is, dear Pierre?”

“Do you really mean it, Laurette?” the youth gasped. Laurette nodded, then buried her blushing face against his chest. He uttered a cry of exultation. “Oh darling, my darling one! Then come with me. There is a little knoll by a tree just off old Larochier's plot, and there we shall hide and I will teach you all I know of love, my beautiful Laurette!”

The knoll was indeed an ideal hiding place, in a little declension of the ground and comfortably guarded by a thick, towering oak tree whose branches were leafy and obscured the starlit sky as if compassionately wishing to grant these two young lovers their little time for solace and privacy. Pierre Larrieu tossed down his hat, and then removed his coat and laid it on the thick greensward, a gesture as courtly as that of any knightly cavalier. “Do you lie down there, Laurette, you will not stain your pretty gown from the grass,” he urged. The sweet girl blushingly obeyed, turning her face to one side and hiding it in those soft little hands. He knelt down, his face taut with youthful excitement and passion as he gazed upon his lovely, virginal sweetheart. As she had settled herself, the hem of her gown lofted to a pair of the most bewitchingly dimpled milky knees I have ever beheld. He bent down towards her, his fingers took hold of her deliciously rounded naked calves and fondled them, while his lips pressed a long and burning kiss on one of those adorable dimples. Laurette uttered a little cry of feigned apprehension in which, however, could be heard the full overtones of an exquisite eagerness for carnal knowledge: “Oh Pierre, what are you doing?”

“You said I might teach you love, my darling. If we have only this hour for the rest of all eternity, let me do as I wish for the first and last time.” She could not gainsay so eloquent an argument. So shyly, still hiding her face in those soft hands, she murmured tenderly, “I can deny you nothing this night. When I think that in a little time I shall be alone with that detestable old man who wishes to pinch my bottom and my breasts and every other part of me, I shall pretend that it might be you there instead of him, dear loyal loving Pierre!”

I could see already that there was a suspicious bulge at the top of his patched, tattered trousers. It was understandable after so exciting a declaration from those virgin lips. Perhaps Pierre, who was accused of writing sonnets instead of doing his arduous chores, had unexpected inventiveness as a lover, but he was also conscious that there was very little time. Moreover, I have no doubt, had he revealed all his lore of young love, he might have given Laurette the impression that he was a profligate instead of her devoted swain. Whatever the reason, he took hold of the hem of her gown and lofted it to the waist, revealing a single lawn petticoat, which undoubtedly had also been provided by her mother, since the material was yellowed by age. Laurette uttered another little sigh, but did not move, having given him carte blanche to proceed. This he did without further delay. Up went the petticoat to join the rolled-up gown, and now the occasional ray of moonlight which filtered through the leafy branches of the great protective oak tree dappled the milky flesh of beautiful young Laurette, naked from her ankles to the hem of her tight drawers. He put his hands on her thighs and stroked them lovingly, until her muscles twitched and her bosom began to rise and fall in flurried response. “Oh, my darling, what are you going to do to me?” she whispered tremulously.

“I want to fuck you, Laurette. I want to put my cock into your sweet little virgin cunt. Please let me do it. There will never be another time for us—you know that. From now on, you will have to endure the patron's cock, and you will mourn your Pierre because he is not there to comfort you and give you what your sweet cunt should have,” he boldly told her.

“I am a virgin, as you know, dear Pierre,” she murmured, still averting her face and shielding it with her hand, “but I have heard papa and maman talking when they thought I was asleep, and I know that fucking makes babies. The patron would not want to marry me if you gave me a baby, Pierre.”

“Little innocent, if he is going to wed you within a fortnight, he can never know whose baby it is you carry in your belly,” Pierre laughed. Already his fingers had begun to stray under the hem of Laurette's drawers, tickling her groin and the satiny soft flesh of her inner thighs, drawing little squeals and wriggling paroxysms from the delicious girl.

“That is true,” she at last admitted as her head turned to the other side, although she still hid her face from him.

“Then let me take down your drawers and fuck you, Laurette. Look what I have for you, my darling,” he panted as he opened his trousers and liberated his sturdy young cock. He had been circumcised, and the deep groove set off his vigorous young thick-veined shaft from the large, oblong tip of his weapon. Laurette at last dared to take her hands away and to plant her palms at either side of her body as she stared at this phenomenon. Her eyes grew very large and her lips made a little 0 of perturbation.

“Mon dieu, my darling Pierre, I did not dream a man could be so big as that down there! And where are you going to put that monstrous object? Surely it will never go into my little slit.”

“Let us find out whether it will or not, my dearest one,” he urged hoarsely.

“Oh, I am so afraid—wait, wait, don't take my drawers off yet,” Laurette gasped as his fingers had already begun to insert themselves under the hem. “What if the patron finds that I have lost my maidenhead? I will be spoiled for him and he will cast me aside. Then my father will thrash me with the strap and disown me. Would you want that to happen to your poor Laurette?”

“I tell you that the patron will not be able to perform his marital duties, so old and dried-up is his cock. Two weeks ago, when he did not know I was watching, I peeked between the shutters in his bedroom and I saw him bedded with Desiree, the widow who is to be the new housekeeper for good Pere Mourier. They were both naked, and he was kneeling over her and she had both hands plying his dwindled cock to rouse him to fuck her. I swear to you that it was useless until she finally took it in her mouth. Even then he could not keep it hard long enough to get it between her legs, but dribbled off his seed into her mouth.”

“Pierre Larrieu! You are wicked and sinful to tell me, a maiden, such wicked and lascivious things!” she gasped. But then, in the manner of all maidens who are curious about the particular and peculiar phenomenon of fucking, she breathed, “Do you mean that Desiree actually put her lips over the patron's th-thing?”

“I swear it on my hope of salvation, my dearest Laurette. And that is why I swear your maidenhead is in no danger. He can never learn whether it is there or not, because he will not be able to enter your sweet little cunt, unless he does so with his fingers. Oh, Laurette, I am bursting for you! Please let me fuck you! Besides, we are wasting too much time talking and the patron will be looking for you.”

“Yes, that is true, Pierre dearest. Very well! I would much rather have you fuck me than M'sieu Villiers. For I love you so dearly that it grieves me to think that it will be the patron who will take off my drawers henceforth and not you.”

With a cry of joy the youth ripped off Laurette's drawers, and exposed the soft, sweet mound of her cunt. The lovely little golden ringlets curled over the soft thick lips so protectively and lovingly that he was enchanted by them and let his fingertips play with those silken hairs. Meanwhile, Laurette had twisted her face to one side and covered it up with her hands, as if thus she was not party to what was being done and hence in no way a mortal sin.

“Oh, Laurette, my beloved sweetheart,” he gasped as he bent his head and applied a lingering kiss on the tangle of soft golden curls which shielded her virgin cunt. Laurette squealed and arched herself up instinctively, while at the same time she put up her knees and parted them to grant him access to her bower. Thus encouraged, Pierre Larrieu clasped the naked thighs with his ardent fingers and, deftly disengaging her drawers, cast the final veil aside. He then hoisted himself into her saddle, and at once brought the tip of his cock to bear against the furry nest of her love mound. Laurette uttered a gasp, “Oh, gently, darling! I don't think it can get into me, it is so big!” She lifted up her arms to him, and the youth put his arms under her shoulders to support her as his hips fused with hers. She shivered exquisitely as she felt his cock tip nuzzle against the soft pink lips of her sweet maiden's cunt. I was nearby on a blade of grass, with full view of what was taking place, and I could not find it in my heart to disturb these young lovers, meeting thus upon so sorrowful an occasion.

Pierre crept forward a little, just engaging the tip of his weapon in the pouting lips of her crack, and Laurette again uttered a little squeal of mingled delight and fear. “Oh, Pierre, do it gently, I beg you. It tickles so nicely. Do not hurt me.”

“Oh my darling, I would never hurt you. Oh, how wonderful it is to fuck you, Laurette! Your thighs are so round and firm and white, you do not know how I have dreamed of doing this for so many years!” he declared.

Carefully he pushed forward a little more until the head of his prick was by now swallowed up just inside the lobbyway of Laurette's virgin orifice. She clung to him desperately and tenaciously at the same time, her eyes closed, her face scarlet with delicious blushes, awaiting the act which would make them one inseparably, no matter what should be the outcome.

“Now I must push it in a little harder, darling, and it may hurt just a little bit,” he gallantly warned, as he steeled himself for the fray. “But once the pain is gone, I promise you only joy unsurpassed. Oh, darling Laurette how the lips of your cunt fairly kiss my cock, as if bidding it to go in all the way!”

“Oh yes, I can feel them trembling about your thing,” Laurette whispered shyly, convulsively digging her fingers into his shoulders. “Then fuck me, darling dear. Please fuck me now!”

He drew a deep breath and then surged forward. At the same time Laurette, plagued by the vestigial fears which every virgin knows, even in moments of rapture, squirmed and tightened her thighs. The effect was to make him fall somewhat short of the mark of her hymen, although he undoubtedly must have banged against it, for she cried out, “Ai-i-i! I did feel a twinge then, darling. Oh, darling, I know it will hurt me, but I will be brave for your sake. Take me, fuck your little Laurette!”

“Who talks of fucking under the sky and the moon and the stars when the Creator Himself can look down and behold such wickedness?” there suddenly boomed a choleric voice.

Pierre Larrieu and Laurette Boischamp uttered a simultaneous cry of terror as the youth rolled off the half-naked, palpitating virgin. There, towering over them, stood the priest of the village, Pere Mourier.