The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

CHAPTER ONE

Those of you who have read my initial memoirs and followed with me the vagaries of erotic inconstancy which was my lot to observe at the seminary of St. Thaddeus remember with what a dismal mood I took my leave of that illustrious institution, having observed at first hand (or, more accurately, first-skin) the orgiastic behavior which imbued seemingly each of the members of that holy order as regards conduct towards young, hapless maidens.

And so when I found myself outside of that edifice which had housed so many scenes of carnal ardor, I let myself be wafted by a gentle southerly wind which took me to the memorable little village in Provence. As I had always wished to see France, I welcomed this fortuitous disposition of the elements and was content to settle in that charming hamlet which is so appropriately named Languecuisse. (The name itself suggests romantic physical encounters, since in translation from the French it means ‘Tongue Thigh.’) At Languecuisse, as those of you who have read the second volume of my autobiography are doubtless aware, I sought the opportunity to relax in this bucolic setting, where grapes were trodden out by the bare feet of entrancing young girls and women on whom the Gallic sun had smiled – and with good reason. I found that a kind of primal and yet enduring joy was fostered by an atmosphere of which wine-yielding grapes were harvested and laborers tilled the soil in expectation of their just reward. There were amorous frolics which I espied in my flea's way, and which, after the almost inevitable monotony of captivity in that English seminary, I looked upon with a less jaundiced eye.

I witnessed, among other tender conjugal scenes, the rivalry between the good Dame Lucille and Dame Margot, who, each proud of her husband's prowess between the sheets, permitted her spouse a virtually unheard-of freedom in bedding her rival, so that he might at last come to realize the good fortune which the Goddess Venus had seen fit to extend to his household.

But most of all, I was attracted to the tender virgin Laurette, that golden-haired maiden who, even upon my entry into Languecuisse, mournfully faced the prospect of a wintry union with old, withered Monsieur Villiers, though her sweet, dewy eyes and her quivering milky-white flesh yearned for union with a tender lover more nearly her own age. As you will also recall, I witnessed how indulgent Venus, watching from on high on Mount Olympus, deigned to favor Laurette's destiny by causing her elderly husband to die of a heart attack as the result of his excitement sustained when his charming golden-haired bride fondled his senile cock while Marisia, the not-quite fourteen-year-old ward of the old fool, applied her dainty pink tongue to that same incompetent instrument.

I had come to believe, as a happy sequel to my gloomy sojourn in the seminary of St. Thaddeus, that there was great truth in the Latin proverb, 'Amor cincit omnia.' That valiant adage, which means 'Love conquers all,' seemed to come to new life and meaning when beautiful young Laurette found herself a widow who had inherited the vineyards and the house and the golden francs of the patron of that little French Village in the heart of Provence. And I applauded her shrewd girlish cunning in overcoming the resistance of the curate of that village, fat, licentious Pere Mourier, to her remarriage to her true love, young Pierre Larrieu, by the simple expedient of bestowing upon the priest the gift of the little vineyard, where her humble father had been a poor tenant, as well as the rental on the cottage in which she herself had been born. She had thus ingeniously purchased dispensation enough to absolve her from any charge of harlotry in the eyes of that fat lecher, and she could thus go to her marriage-bed with lusty vigor and the full joy of her eager and wakened young senses in mating with a splendid young man whose cock, needless to say, would never fail to perform its marital obligations in saluting the sweet tightness of her delicious cunny.

I had even (since a flea has sensitivity and imagination and human compassion which sometimes exceed even the attributes of those mortals on whom my colleagues and I are wont to find our sustenance by biting and blood-sucking) thought that I might settle down in Languecuisse and follow with a benevolent and somewhat paternal eye the flowering of that blessed union between Laurette and young Pierre. Since we fleas have a longevity greater than is supposed, I must confess even to having daydreamed of finding my own flea-ish mate and engendering a brood of progeny who would, like myself, waft on the wind from nation to nation to espouse the doctrine of happiness through true love. I might, I told myself, even live long enough to see the offspring of Laurette and Pierre indulging in their own delightful carnal gambols with mates of their own uninhibited choice. For in that gentle French village, the only baleful eye was that of good, portly Pere Mourier, who had a positive genius for ferreting out the fornicatory sins of his parishioners. And since Laurette was now a rich widow, soon to be properly wedded and bedded and bring to her Pierre not only the bounties of her own voluptuous young body, but also the gold-filled coffers of her defunct old husband, it appeared to me that no one henceforward could declaim against the Goddess Venus in the years ahead.

For, look you, I have lived long enough and seen enough to conclude, somewhat cynically, that the good Mother Church tends to send its most zealous priests and missionaries and doers-of-good-deeds only to those lamentable locales where there is flagrant sinning which puts not a penny into the poorbox. Because Languecuisse would not be likely to come to the attention of the ecclesiastical authorities, I felt certain that Pere Mourier would live out the rest of his days without bothering those lovers who sought out the greensward and the hayricks and the night-shadowed fields to protect their adoration of each other's flesh. And then, when he passed from this mortal coil, another priest, no more and no less venal, would come to replace him, and finding nothing but love, would have no need to write excoriating reports back to his superiors. Yes, I told myself, Languecuisse would be a golden hamlet, and a golden age of love would make it thrive.

But in my daydreaming, I grew careless, lulled by all the happiness about me. And even though Father Lawrence took his vacation at Languecuisse before returning to his new assignment, which was the very seminary of St. Thaddeus from which I had fled, I still would not heed the faint presentiment of danger which threatened even so small a creature as myself.

But I had reckoned without the inimitable trait of feminine jealousy which had piqued even so ingenuous a heart as charming Laurette's. When Monsieur Villiers had adopted raven-haired Marisia, Laurette had become the aunt of this delectable morsel just past puberty. And having observed how precociously gifted her young niece was in matters of the male cock, Laurette had doubtless told herself that the continued presence of Marisia in the house which she and her hand some Pierre alone would occupy, presented dangers Benign as she was toward the orphaned girl on whom her deceased old husband had fixed his legal indulgence, Laurette doubtless dreaded coming upon Pierre and Marisia in an unguarded moment and finding herself cuckolded by that very same orphaned ward. So to remove the temptation of Pierre – even though Laurette could well tell herself that with her voluptuous beauty and her greater experience in fucking than Marisia could possibly have had, she could count on holding Pierre's priapic interest for years to come – she had agreed to let Father Lawrence take Marisia back to England as a novice, and had given the girl her blessing.

I could not really censure Laurette for such a clever move; it was simply done in the light of her own future happiness, which she had a thousand times over earned by her dutiful obedience to the miserly old patron of Languecuisse whose odious and impotent advances she had tried to sustain as his legal consort. And having thus convinced myself that all was well in Paradise and that the thorn was at last out of the rose, I granted myself the luxury of a little nap. I chose the golden tendrils of Laurette's sweet cuntcurls. Somnolent and placid in my anticipation of an untroubled future – for we fleas, because of our intelligence, have as much erotic imagination as you mortals in the ability to conjure up scenes in which we play the principal roles instead of your doing so – I did not waken until it was far too late. Laurette, as if to make up for the human weakness by which she was sending her niece away from Languecuisse, had taken a pair of dainty scissors and cut off some of the golden ringlets which aureoled her sweet pink cunthole. These she had encased in a little locket and hung this token of her remembrance and affection about the ivory neck of Marisia.

Oh, horror upon horror, to wake from my dreams of glory and erotic mastery over another flea who would be the most beautiful and desirable of all she-fleas, and who would bring to my unbridled imagination and sexual proclivities a talent of fusion and stimulation certain to demand the very best out of me, only to find myself imprisoned within a little round locket offering me not even a chance to make a half-hearted hop from corner to corner.

Oh, perfidy, to allow myself to be thus entrapped by the very maiden whose destiny I had profoundly and compassionately guided. And this was my reward, this dungeon, without air or food, locked inside a receptacle chained about the neck of an unsuspecting young orphan who herself, I knew now, was totally unprepared for what awaited her when she would arrive at the notorious seminary of St. Thaddeus.

At first, I had felt that my eyes were blurred with sleep, but such was not the case. Even as I realized my unforeseen captivity, I heard the resonant, mellow voice of Father Lawrence, only two feet away, informing the charming Marisia that the two of them would be in London a few days hence.

“There, my daughter,” he told her unctuously, “you will have the great joy of being initiated as a novice in this holy seminary, and I shall be privileged to be your sponsor in this worthy entry into Mother Church.”

And then I heard the not-so-naive Marisia whisper, “Oh, Your Reverence, I ask only one boon. It is that before I am made novice, you, all by yourself, will initiate me with your great, wonderful prick and show me truly what fucking is.”

No, it was no nightmare, and it was not the veiling of my eyes with unaccustomed sleep. I moved cautiously in my prison, discovering what leeway was left to me of what had once been limitless freedom. My legs encountered only the hard metal through which not even I could bite. Yet my proboscis, ever sensitive to change and to nuance, detected the delicious tang of Laurette's cuntcurls which had been the eiderdown of my fatal nap. Philosophically, I told myself that I was only getting my just desserts; I, who had witnessed so much fucking and, the better to observe its complex and varied details, had taken my vantage point usually in the most intimate portion of the male or female anatomy, had been trapped by this habitual choice of site. And as I had napped in the golden cuntcurls of Laurette's golden fleece, it had been a kind of accolade which I had shown the charming girl, because my joy in witnessing her good fortune that she had achieved after the toils of her unhappy wedlock to the old patron.

I knew that the situation was not immediately desperate. Like camels, we fleas can live for a long time without nourishment. Surely, I told myself, Marisia would one day open this locket and gaze tenderly upon those precious tendrils which her aunt had placed in this little memento to symbolize the conspiratorial tricks they had played on old Monsieur Villiers, tricks which had brought about the relatively happy death of the old fool, paving the road to romantic raptures for Laurette.

But as the charming girl made ready for her voyage to London in the company of good Father Lawrence, I began to have some slight misgivings. Thirteen and a half years is a tender age, an impressionable age, at which a girl passes out of puberty into nascent girl and womanhood. Now, Marisia had already learned enough of the male cock to desire a more lengthy and thorough acquaintanceship with it. The dear child, for all her fondness for her Tante Laurette and her joy in having her only living and charming young relative grant her leave to go along with Father Lawrence, might forget the locket entirely in her absorption with cock. For at the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, there were a goodly number of virile priests – such as Father Clement, Father Ambrose, and those other holy men whom I saw carnally enjoying Bella and Julia – who would give her all the cock and more which her sweet little cunny might desire. She might, indeed, get so much that she would have no time for nostalgic reflections upon the golden hours of the past, and still less, therefore, upon the golden tendrils which reposed in this locket, I in their scented midst. What then? On this gloomy thought, then, dear reader, as I drowsed there in my dreary prison, nestling on those love-perfumed curls, my anxiety grew more imponderable with each passing hour as Marisia and Father Lawrence prepared to return to that sanctuary of sexual satiety which I had thought never to see again in all my flea-ish life!