The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was a tragi-comic scene, to say the least.

There was the blond youth standing just away from Laurette, his tattered trousers about his heels and his hands clutched over his turgid cock, his eyes bulging with mingled stupefaction and lust. There was golden haired Laurette, sprawled on the greensward, her drawers lying near her straddled naked thighs, her skirt and petticoat rolled up to her waist, her head raised up and her sweet blue eyes enormously dilated whilst her soft, trembling hands shielded her golden-ringleted cunt. And there, burly arms on his hips, in his black cassock and ecclesiastical hat, stood the glowering priest of the village, his mouth agape at the iniquitous spectacle upon which he had come.

“What devil's work is this?” he thundered irately. Mordieu! Is it truly the gentle virgin Laurette Boischamp whom I thus behold in the very act of surrendering herself carnally to this detestable young fornicator?”

At this denunciation, Laurette began to sob pitifully.

“What dreadful sin have you two committed?” Pere Mourier continued. He was short of stature and somewhat obese. He was possibly forty-five years of age, and his face was florid and his jowls were loose and flabby. His mouth was small but excessively fleshy, and his nose was bulbous. He was nearly bald, except for a sparse thatch of short gray hair which covered the rear of his skull and left his enormously broad forehead extending forward, thus giving him an aspect of a feared inquisitor. His eyes were closely set together, and surprisingly soft and brown as a woman's, under gray, shaggy brows.

“Clothe yourselves quickly and let me see no more of this abomination,” he went on. “You, Pierre Larrieu, would you dare defile this virgin out of wedlock? She is the betrothed of good Monsieur Claude Villiers. On the next Sunday, I am to pronounce their banns from my pulpit. And yet you would steal from that worthy humanitarian who befriends all the villagers that which is his sacred right!”

“Forgive me, Pere Mourier,” Laurette petitioned in a trembling little voice as she groped for her drawers and, modestly turning herself so that her back faced the angry priest, swiftly pulled them up over her thighs and loins and once more veiled her maiden crotch. “It was my fault, mine was the sin. Punish me, but do not harm my darling Pierre! If I could, I would wed him a thousand times rather, poor though he be, than the patron!”

“Child, child,” the priest interposed almost cajolingly. “You are too young and innocent to know whereof you speak. Monsieur Villiers is an honorable man, and he has given much to the Holy Church. He has given work and good wages and lodging to all the inhabitants of Languecuisse. To wed with him sanctifies you. You cannot think of marrying this boy whose lineage is spurious. He does not even work as a tenant farmer under the patron, so how then could he support a family? It is unthinkable that the two of you should commit such licentious wickedness.”

By this time Laurette had rolled down her petticoat and skirt and slowly rose, steadying her back against the huge oak tree, her face scarlet with sweet confusion. Her young lover, who had just failed of obtaining his objective between her snowy thighs, had tugged his trousers back on and sheepishly hung his head as the good father excoriated them.

“Were you not sent for this night, my little one?” the priest gently questioned now, “to go to the house of the patron to receive your deserved reward for your triumph in the festival this afternoon?”

“Oui, mon pere,” quavered Laurette.

“And yet you tarried that, you might have a sinful rendezvous with this vaurien, this good-for-nothing,” Pere Mourier went on, his jowls quivering with indignation.

“No, mon pere,” the youth valiantly interposed. “It was I who waited in the fields here for her and waylaid her. I told her that once she wed the patron, our joy was done forever, and I implored her to yield to me. Just once, and that is heaven's own truth, mon pere!”

“Well, well, well, I do not know whom to believe. What I saw with my own eyes told me only that both of you were about to commit mortal sin. But answer me on your hope of salvation in the next world, Pierre Larrieu—did you take her maidenhead just now?”

“Oh no, mon pere,” the youth blurted, his own face reddening with shame at the reminder of his failure.

“Well, at least that is something,” the priest conceded. “But both of you must be punished nonetheless. Pierre Larrieu, you will get you to your hovel at once, and before you seek repose, you will say a hundred Pater Nosters. And you will pray for divine forgiveness. You will not dare to lift your eyes to another virgin in this village or I shall tell the patron and have him banish you from Languecuisse. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, mon pere,” the youth groaned.

“Then go!” the priest commanded, shaking his fist in the direction of the sky.

Pierre Larrieu hesitated a moment, reluctant to leave his sweetheart to the mercy of this fat ogre, for such he must have appeared to the passionate young lover who had been at the very gates of paradise only to be denied entry. “You—you won't punish Laurette too hard, mon pere?” he faltered.

“I am the spiritual leader of this village, my son,” Pere Mourier sanctimoniously observed, “and I am responsible for the soul of Laurette as much as for yours. Yet knowing her to be an innocent maiden and susceptible to the flattery of such rogues as yourself, I will temper justice with leniency, chastisement with forgiveness. Go now, before I tell the patron how you nearly stole his bride from him this night!”

Pierre Larrieu bade a wistful adieu to his blushing, embarrassed sweetheart, and then strode back towards the village. The priest waited until the sound of his footsteps had died away and then turned to Laurette: “My child, the devil himself lurks in darkness to lead astray the faithful. But we must drive the devil out. By rights, I should tell the patron what I saw just now. No, do not speak!” and he held up a warning hand as Laurette opened her lovely red lips. “You must humble yourself, my child. I will forgive your transgression if you submit humbly and docilely to chastisement. If you do this, I will know that you act in good faith. I will have word sent to Monsieur Villiers that you were taken ill this night and could not appear before him to accept your prize. Then of course I shall pronounce the banns, and within a fortnight you two will be man and wife. Then no sin will have been committed, and your transgression will have been pardoned, since you will have won redeeming grace by your submission to your spiritual confessor. Do you submit yourself, my daughter?”

Poor Laurette gave a disconsolate little sigh and nodded. Doubtless she thought to herself that even a session with this dour holy man was infinitely preferable to being alone with the obnoxious patron. Pere Mourier bestowed upon her a smile such as he reserved for a fallen angel who had returned to the fold. “Then come along, my daughter,” he obsequiously urged, and took hold of her wrist to ensure her compliance.

I quickly hopped to a fold of her skirt, curious to witness what would befall her. I wondered whether she would be escaping the fire only to fall into the frying pan, as it were. Had this been London, I would have been sure of it, but I did not yet know the habits of this portly holy man. En route to his ecclesiastical abode, Pere Mourier adopted a gentler tone of voice—though it was still sonorous—in an attempt to put Laurette at her ease: “Come now, my child, do not look so sorrowful. Since you are still chaste, your estate is not damaged in the eyes of our worthy patron, who has given me to understand that he adores you and fumes with impatience to make you his lawful consort. To be sure, my daughter, you must pay the penalty for your weakness in having even considered such lubricity with Pierre Larrieu. You will confess to me exactly what you did, my poor misguided child, and then I shall decide what chastisement best befits your conduct. Once having sustained this with fortitude and humility, you will be in a state of grace and I shall make your apologies to the patron for having been unable to attend his summons.”

“Oui, mon pere,” Laurette murmured, hanging her fair head and uttering yet another sigh of lamentation, doubtless at the thought of what she had missed with her young lover.

The little church with its towering steeple was situated about a quarter of a mile west of the vineyards, and beside it was the rectory which quartered the good father. He took hold of the knocker and struck it three times on the door, whereupon after not quite a minute of waiting, it was opened by no less than the handsome widow Desiree.

“Good evening, Madame Desiree,” the portly priest beamed, “as you see, I have returned with the prodigal lamb. May I entreat your indulgence to perform an errand for me?” Then, turning to the startled, golden haired maiden beside him, the obese holy man gently added, “Madame Desiree was gracious enough to accept the post of housekeeper to me, since I am an impossible cook and have no time for tasks of domesticity because I must constantly look after my little flock.”

“Oh,” was all that Laurette could find to say. But then, glancing in wonder at the beautiful, chestnut haired Amazon, she naively inquired, “But I thought -”

“Yes, my child, it happened this very afternoon. Madame Desiree is a widow, as you know, and there are many temptations lurking in this village where passions are hot and the blood is warm thanks to the sun and the good grapes. So for her own salvation, she was happy to accept to post I tendered her. As for myself, I am indeed fortunate to have found so capable and so devout an assistant who will rid me of the burden of the small, irritating chores so that I may have more time to drive out sinfulness from Languecuisse.”

After this sententious introduction, he asked the Amazon to dispatch herself at once to the house of Monsieur Claude Villiers and to inform that worthy patron that dear Laurette had been afflicted with a small seizure and conveyed her most humble apologies for being unable to present herself in his presence that night. Pere Mourier bade Desiree add that Laurette was recovering, and that she looked forward to the next Sunday when her name would be announced from the pulpit as the intended consort of so noble and charitable a man. And finally, he declared that when Desiree had performed her errand, for which he gave her goodly thanks, she might go promptly to bed.

The handsome Amazon eyed Laurette rather scornfully, as if appraising her and comparing the virgin's charms with her own, which, as I have already related, were certainly considerable and splendidly proportioned. Then, after having procured a shawl against the possible chilly gusts, she set off across the vineyards for the abode of the patron. Pere Mourier, resuming his hold of Laurette's wrist, led her inside his dwelling, and thence to his very bedchamber. Here, having surreptitiously bolted the door, he turned to her and bade her go down upon her knees and clasp her hands and bow her head for her confessional.

“Now then, my daughter,” he began, “open your heart and do not be afraid to confess your sinful thoughts as well as deeds. A good confession is half the battle towards redemption of the sinner. Never forget this.”

“I will remember it, my father,” Laurette meekly returned.

“Now, answer me truthfully. You are certain that this rogue did not deflower you? I know that you are still a tender maiden, dear Laurette, but since you are intended for your nuptials within a fortnight, surely your worthy parents must have given you some inkling of the duties which fall upon you as the bride of the patron. You understand, then, what I mean?”

Laurette's fair, milky cheeks turned a vivid crimson as she nodded. Drawing a deep breath, and keeping her eyes modestly lowered, she faintly replied, “He—he didn't do it to me, my father.”

“But he was about to, was he not?”

Another nod and a heartfelt little sigh: doubtless once again poor Laurette was remembering the forbidden moment of near-ecstasy which the worthy priest had so unexpectedly halted.

“But did you not struggle and resist this ravisher?” he sternly resumed his interrogation.

“N… no, my father. I—I love him so and it was to be the last time we met before—before -”

“Before you took your vows of matrimony, I daresay. Well, my daughter, as a compassionate man who understands the foibles of his brothers, I can perhaps understand your weakness. But surely you could not think of wedding Pierre Larrieu. And to give yourself to a man out of wedlock is surely sinful, this you know from all my teaching and that of your good parents, do you not?”

Laurette's golden head dropped even more as she whispered an affirmative.

“Now, if he had forced you against your will, and if you had cried out for help, my daughter,” the obese priest pursued, “the sin would not have been yours. Am I to understand that you allowed him to unclothe your private parts so shamefully? When I came upon you, my child, I blanched with horror to observe that your drawers were lying upon the grass beside you and that your petticoat and skirt were rolled up to your belly. Was this done by force, my daughter? Be truthful now!”

“It—it was not done by force, my father,” Laurette quavered, and two big tears glistened in her large blue eyes.

“Alas, what you have just told me fills my heart with sorrow. For a pure maiden to permit such licentiousness is indeed reprehensible, my poor child. Do you give me your promise never to see this wretch again?”

“But, my father, I would do so, and yet what if through no fault of mine he appears before me?”

“Take care, my daughter,” Pere Mourier's shaggy brows knitted in a stern and foreboding look. “Do not try to entrap me in such devil's logic! Why, then, in that instance, you will modestly remember your station in life and the fact that you must not allow a blemish to stain the good Christian name of Claude Villiers. And you will tell this scoundrel that it is odious to you to be accosted by him. So much for that. And now, my daughter, the moment has come for your chastisement. Are you prepared to submit to it at my hand?”

Laurette, who was blushing from her temples to her milky throat, uttered a poignant sigh and nodded.

Removing his little hat of office, the portly priest moved now to a chest of drawers beside his narrow, low bed, opened the top drawer and drew out a scourge. It was made of brown leather, with a short stocky handle from which dangled a thin thong about two feet long. At the last six inches of this thong, the leather had been split down the middle to form two tapering lashes, about a quarter-inch in thickness and as much in width. When he turned back to her, Laurette shrank back, eyes wide with fright, and clasped her soft little hands to her rosy mouth.

“Yes, my child,” he said sorrowfully, “one drives out sin by chastising the very flesh where it has entered or sought to enter. I do this for your own salvation, my sweet daughter. Accept the scourge in true humility as reparation for your having yielded, even infatuated though you were, to the impure desires of this young scoundrel. Mayhap this punishment will also bring you to sober reflection upon the precepts you must follow to obtain a good and holy marriage.”

“I—I will, my father,” poor Laurette faltered.

“Excellent! Your docility and resignation restore in me the glad hope that redemption is still possible for your soul, my gentle Laurette. Now, I enjoin you to kneel up upon that chair, to hoist your skirt and petticoat to your waist and hold them there tightly while I proceed to inflict your well-merited punishment.”

He made a gesture with the scourge toward a heavy, straight-backed chair near the window, whose shutters had already been drawn for the night. Poor Laurette slowly arose, and reluctantly approached the altar of her atonement. Slowly she knelt down upon the hard seat of the wooden chair, and as she grasped the hems of skirt and petticoat, I hopped upwards till I had reached the crown of her lovely head. Very slowly she drew up these protective garments till they were lodged about her waist, thus exposing her beautiful buttocks snugged in the tight thin drawers which she had already once discarded such a little while ago and under such different circumstances.

The worthy priest now advanced, his eyes glistening with anticipation. Transferring the scourge to his left hand, he proceeded to insert the fingers of his other hand inside the waistband of Laurette's drawers. The poor girl uttered a cry of shame, and turned her scarlet face toward him in agonized appeal.

“Do not dismay, my daughter,” he gently consoled her, while tightening his grasp of the waistband of her thin drawers, “this humiliation which you are about to feel is properly wholesome, since it at once indicates to me that all sense of modesty has not yet fled your gentle nature. If there is pain and shame in your punishment, my child, know that we must all suffer upon this earth, not only for our sins but also for those which we even consider and ponder upon.”

“But—but, mon pere,” Laurette quavered, “can—can you not punish me over my drawers? They are very thin and they will not protect me very much from that awful whip.”

“Alas, my child, this is simply vain pride which compels you to speak to me, your confessor,” Pere Mourier sighed. “Moreover, we speak now of degrees of shame. If you felt naught at exposing your most intimate parts to that young scoundrel a moment ago, how surely can you argue against baring yourself to the disciplinary scourge which will drive out wickedness? Resign yourself, my daughter, for it is the custom of a father who thrashes his daughter, just as I, your spiritual father, am about to do, to administer it upon the naked flesh itself. Bow your head humbly and pray for redemption, dear Laurette.”

The poor girl did not dare refuse his advice, and so with a stifled sob of apprehension and despair, bowed her head and submitted herself. With a greedy smile, the portly holy man tugged down her drawers till they rested just above her knees, thereby exposing the magnificent, milky white contours of her bare behind and splendidly rounded soft thighs. At this exposure, Laurette gasped, and she contracted all of her muscles in an instinctive defense which of course only served to accentuate her magnificent development of the posterior. The cheeks of her bottom were marvelously rounded, with the most harmonious proportion of curves from waist to hips. They were set rather closely together, resembling the ambery furrow which parted them, and their plump summits and the mouthwatering, swelling base of those luscious nether globes would have tempted a saint to risk perdition. I much doubt that Pere Mourier was a saint, and I suspected then at once that this means of chastisement was also a favorite penchant with him. For his florid face became still redder, and his eyes sparkled with an unholy joy, while the broad wings of his nostrils flared and shrank. Not only that: I perceived a sudden protuberance making itself known against the stuff of his black cassock just at the juncture of his thighs.

He did not at once begin the discipline. Instead, his thick, short hand lingeringly passed over the milky skin so liberally proffered to his licentious view and touch.

Poor Laurette fidgeted about uneasily on her chair of penance during this greatly prolonged interlude. Her little fingers convulsively twisted again the uptrusssed cloth of her gown and petticoat while the good father stood slightly to her left surveying the bewitching nakedness which his golden haired penitent so unwillingly revealed. Laurette's thighs were beautifully made, neither too plump nor too lean, swelling with gradual ripening above the knees till they merged with the plump roundness of her backside. Her lovely calves, too, were well worthy of admiration, as were the adorable, soft knee hollows. Pere Mourier frowned and approached the chair as if dissatisfied with the position of his victim.

“Bend your head and shoulders over the back of the chair, my daughter,” he instructed in a voice that thickened with lubricity. “Very good. Offer your sinful bottom to the corrective sting of the scourge, for this too is an act of humility which will not be forgotten. And now, move your knees a little more apart. Just so. I shall begin shortly, so steel yourself, my child.”

He bent now and tugged her drawers a little farther down, wishing to uncover as much of that milky flesh as possible, though he did not intend to scourge all of it. For his eyes feasted on the trembling cheeks of her backside, which had begun to quiver and restlessly contract as her suspense was agonizingly continued.

Finally, placing his left palm on the small of her back so that it might revel in its contact with her gleaming white skin, he raised the scourge and applied a rather gentle lash across the tops of her deliciously swelling hips. More startled by the unexpected contact and by fear than by pain, gentle Laurette uttered a little “Ohh!” And her naked hips squirmed from side to side. Hardly the faintest pink mark blemished the milky flesh where the split thong had kissed. But by now the obese father's sexual weapon was ferociously extended, forcing out the thin black stuff of the cassock as if savagely intending to pierce it in its quest for freedom.

A second lash now followed, slightly lower down, the two tips of the lash whisking around towards Laurette's tender groin. Another “Ohh!” escaped the lovely penitent, and she convulsively clenched her thighs and bottom cheeks. “No, no, my daughter,” he said hoarsely. “Do not resist the discipline. Submit yourself completely, for that is the only way to escape perdition. Once more, stick out your backside and move your knees well apart.”

“Oh, do please hurry and end it, mon pere,” Laurette whispered, her eyes tightly closed and her little fingers whitening as she clutched her up-trussed garments.

But this was a supplication which Pere Mourier had no intention of granting, for I comprehended that this worthy father delectated in this flagellatory penchant of his, which attained its greatest satisfaction when the ordeal was endlessly prolonged by all kinds of interruptions and nuances and sermonizings. There was, to be sure, practical wisdom in his method of application: the longer he kept poor Laurette kneeling on that straight-backed chair, the longer his glittering eyes could feast on the twisting, wriggling, flexing and contracting cheeks of her voluptuous and virginal behind, thus inflaming his carnal passions to superlative degree.

He took careful aim now, and adroitly whisked the leather thong across the very center of Laurette's rotundities, so that the tips of the split end flicked round towards her tender maiden crotch. The half-naked young virgin emitted a squeal of anguish, and her hips plunged this way and that, which made the cheeks of her delicious milky bottom jiggle in the most lascivious way. In turn, that sight caused Pere Mourier's sexual organ to attain its maximum rigidity and length, and it was indeed formidable as it prodded out the stuff of the black silk cassock. Another lash followed, no more severely administered than the others, this one wrapping around the voluptuously up-swelling base of her naked behind and drawing still another involuntary twist which brought into fine relief the magnificence of her bottom and thighs.

“Repent, my daughter,” he said in a hoarse, trembling voice, “for the heat of the scourge will cleanse your iniquities. Verily, it will act as a catharsis for those noxious tendencies to sinfulness which lurk within the very region I am castigating. Tell yourself, my poor child, that each stripe which the discipline imparts to your impudently jutting posterior is a forward step along the pathway to your eternal salvation.”

Having delivered himself of this oratory, the holy father dealt Laurette another stroke, this a bit more sharply so that the tips of the split leather thong flicked perniciously into her loins and very likely brushed the downy golden fleece of her virgin cunt. Her shrill “Ahhrr, oh I am suffering, mon pere!” said virtually as much as did the frantic and lascivious gyration of her naked hips. She turned back her tear-stained face appealingly to him, while her little hands feverishly twisted in the uptrussed stuff of her garments. Sternly he bade her not to let these fall on pain of incurring greater severity in the treatment he was meting out to her; and then, moving a little more to the left and farther away from her but yet retaining his left palm on her naked lower back, applied two or three quick strokes straight across the lower curves of her milky backside. These drew sobs and tears and new wriggling maneuvers which made his eyes blaze with sexual ferocity.

Yet actually the scourging was not overly severe. True, there were faint pink streaks fro the tops of her hips to her uppermost thighs imparted by the leather discipline, but there were no really cruel strokes to torture her. I thereupon concluded that this was a voluptuous flagellation, altogether ideal for bringing the blood to the surface of the pure soft skin as well as inflaming the penitent's subconscious ardors for what purpose my readers and I can well guess.

“Oh, I implore you, mon pere,” Laurette tearfully petitioned as she shifted her beautiful bare knees on the hard wooden seat of her punishment chair, “I am not very brave and I cannot endure this much longer. Please do finish it and pardon me, I beg of you!”

“Courage, my child, you have yet a good deal to suffer before your sins are purged,” he retorted: “Would you bargain with the devil, then, for a lesser chastisement simply because your mortal flesh is weak and thereby lose your hope for heaven? Steel yourself and grit your teeth, Laurette. I am going to whip you very smartly now, my girl.”

He was as good as his word, too. Now the leather scourge flew through the air with more authority, applying horizontal stripes all over Laurette's naked seat, while the unfortunate beauty sobbed and wailed and incessantly jerked her hips this way and that to evade the burning kisses of the lash. At one point, a particularly stinging cut across the base of her wriggling backside made her drop her clothes which promptly covered up the condemned area. But so enthusiastically engrossed was he in his good work of saving her soul that he did not chide her for this neglect, but instead with his own left hand hoisted up her garments once again. But, not satisfied, he then dropped the scourge to the floor and sternly told her that he meant to lift her clothing so that it would not fall back again to terminate her punishment before he meant it to end. Thereupon, coming very close to her, he put his hands caressingly about her thighs and hips, fondling them a good deal, till at last he raised skirt and petticoat and dragged them up over her head and shoulders, letting them fall over her face to blindfold her and thus exposing her naked save for her camisole, which was a kind of vest that descended only to about the middle of her milky back.

Then, telling her she might clutch the rungs of the chair in front of her to sustain herself, he retrieved the scourge and set about whipping her in earnest. Moving from side to side so as to command her entire bottom, he applied first a horizontal stroke, then a diagonal one, while poor Laurette, beside herself with pain and shame, cried out and twisted and jerked and wriggled in the most exciting manner.

“There,” he said soothingly as he laid on a final stroke which wrapped the two split ends of the thong against her naked belly and drew a piercing cry from the unfortunate penitent, “you have paid the price for your licentiousness, my girl, now kneel there in penitence and make your silent prayers to him who will be your lawful husband, that he will accept you to his bosom as a pure, untainted virgin. Meanwhile, I will soothe your hurts.”

Casting aside the scourge, he approached the chair on which the half-naked, golden haired virgin knelt weeping and still squirming about. His pudgy hands, the backs of which were covered with thick black hairs, greedily but very lightly stroked and palpitated her naked bottom. Laurette gasped at the very instant she first felt his profaning fingers take such audacious liberties, but she did not dare protest, fearing another application of the wicked scourge. Besides, her face covered by her petticoat and gown which he had pulled up over her, she could not see that he had rolled up his cassock to the waist and secured it with a couple of pins which he procured from the top of his dresser, thereby denuding himself in all his obese, hairy and massive maleness. For the cock of Pere Mourier was really enormous; it surpassed in girth that of Guillaume Noirceau, and it was fully as long as that of Jacques Tremoulier. The head was a huge, obscene plum in size, with thick lips twitching as if impatient to disgorge their spew.

A fit of trembling overtook Laurette as she crouched on her whipping chair, compelled to tender her streaked naked bottomcheeks to the holy father. But after a bit, as she discovered that his fingers did not hurt her stripes but rather benevolently caressed and fondled the quaking globes of her behind, she relaxed her vigilance and terror. Sobs still shook her lovely body, but they were muted now, delicious music to a flagellant's ears.

He crouched a little so that he might better examine the inflammation which the scourge had left on those lovely hindquarters. Towards the end of the flogging, the tips of the lash had bitten against the inner edges of both bottom cheeks, and there were dark red little blotches visible. His fingers first lightly stroked these marks; then very slyly and very slowly, he took hold of the lower curves of her behind and pried them asunder, disclosing the crinkly little rosebud of her virgin anus.

“Ohhh! Oh, what are you doing to me, mon pere?” Laurette gasped, and the muscles of her bottom furiously tightened to hide this most intimate spot of all.

“My child, I am going to lave your hurts with some soothing oil. Do not be afraid. Surrender yourself, for this is a part of your penitence,” he replied in a trembling, harsh voice, burdened by his overweening lust.

“I—I will submit,” Laurette breathed, nearly swooning with shame, “But do please hurry and end my punishment, mon pere. My bottom hurts so terribly and I am dying of shame to be like this before you.”

“That very humiliation is part of the punishment,” he sagely observed. “Now stick your bottom out a little more, my child. Ah, that is excellent! Now do not be alarmed and do not move until I tell you to.”

With this, tightening the dig of his stubby fingers into those tender inner bottom curves, he distended them to the maximum. Before Laurette could cry out at the sharp twinge which this caused her sensitive anus, he had advanced the huge plumhead of his cock against the dainty crinkly ambery-pink rosette. The heat and firmness of that spear point made Laurette utter another cry and again contract her muscles, whereupon he angrily rebuked her: “If you do not stop this wriggling about until I bid you do so, my daughter, I shall be regretfully compelled to give you another scourging. This will be on the fronts of your thighs, and will also properly chastise the most sinful part of all, which you have merited by lying in the field with that miserable apprentice!”

With a heartrending sob, Laurette resigned herself. Once again, the obese priest prodded the tip of his savagely swollen cock against her nether orifice and was just about to engage it within the shrinking, tender virgin lips when there was a hammering at the door.

His face turned nearly purple with frustrated rage; for a moment he hesitated, but the hammering resumed. Muttering something under his breath, he unpinned his cassock quickly and, frantically looking about, at last seized a hymnal which he held over the juncture of his thighs to conceal the impious swelling. Laurette uttered a cry of distress: “Oh, do not let anyone see me thus, mon pere!”

He had gone halfway towards the door when her cry reminded him of the impropriety that might be exposed to alien eyes. Muttering something again, he hurried back to her, dragged down petticoat and skirt to conceal her striped naked bottom, and then whispered, “Remain just as you are and do not say a word!”

Then, composing his florid, contorted features into a semblance of benign serenity, Pere Mourier at last went to the door and opened it.

It was his Amazonian housekeeper Desiree, breathless, her face flushed, her eyes shining. He noted that the bodice of her blouse had been disarranged and exposed rather more of the valley of her sumptuous bosom than was proper in the rectory. But before he could remonstrate with her over this immodesty, she burst out: “Oh, mon pere, I just came back from the house of the patron, and I told him about little Laurette. He was grief stricken, but he bids you attend so that she will be well and in good spirits for the announcement of the banns. But just as I entered, mon pere, I was in time to admit a visitor who asks for you. He is Father Lawrence from London, mon pere. Shall I admit him?”

“I will go to him in the little salon, Madame Desiree,” Pere Mourier said in a composed voice. “Will you do me the sweet favor of bringing wine and some of those little cakes which you said you had baked to celebrate your first day as my housekeeper? My guest will no doubt be thirsty and hungry, if he has come so far.” And he gave the Amazonian beauty a fatherly pat on her opulent hip. His hand lingered a little more than was absolutely necessary. I could see it all now. This patriarch of the little village of Languecuisse, having attended the grape-trampling contest, had doubtless seen Desiree's lewd exposure and her most intimate person while in the cask. And having been inflamed by the sight of her magnificent bottom and furry slit, he had decided to assuage the loneliness of his bare and sparsely furnished little rectory with her beauteous charms.