The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

CHAPTER TEN

The two delightful sisters Denise and Louisette had, it seemed, not actually completed their tallying when an inevitable drowsiness took hold of them after they had eased the tautness of their young nervous systems by means of that stimulating little jeu de con known as soixante-neuf. For shortly after the cabin's dimensions had reverberated to the multitudinous amorous sounds that, in company within those scant dimensions, two nubile sisters and one waif with her protector-guardian could manage to emit while they gamboled at carnal delectation, I heard the gentle breathing of Denise and Louisette, and, not much later on, the robust snores of good Father Lawrence, who was only proving that age-old maxim that although the spirit may be willing, the flesh more times than naught is often weak – particularly when it has been called upon so repetitiously to give good account of itself and stand to tributary attention before those citadels of flesh which, I warrant you, have crumpled more heroic assailants than all the castle walls of antiquity.

At any rate, whatever the reason, all four were soon happily asleep, while the good ship Bonaventura peacefully made its way across the Channel. The rocking of the gentle waves lulled me, too, to slumber inside my metal prison, but this time I could more willingly bear the tribulation of Dame Fortune, always a fickle jade, since at last into the fecund mind of my unsuspecting ecclesiastic-jailer, there had come the notion of what important part the soft silken down and follicles and strands and tendrils and wayward peeping of cunt-hair could impart to the destiny of man as well as of maiden.

Indeed, so heartily did the sisters and tender Marisia and her good guardian sleep that the cry of the seamen high on the spymast, “Land ho, Dover!” resounded all through the ship before at last Father Lawrence loudly groaned, grumbled, then, bumping the chest and muttering some inaudible Latin phrase which I suspected was not at all a blessing, came to his feet and took cognizance of the late hour.

“Open your eyes, my daughters,” he cried resoundingly, “and greet the new day – we are upon the English coast and you will see the land which will shelter you after your leave-taking of la belle Frame!”

Marisia, who, I trust, had put her nightshift back on, was first to scurry to his side to peep through the porthole. “I see the cliffs, mon Pere,” she cried, “but oh they are not nearly so jolie as the landscape of the village of Languecuisse.”

“You must not be so quick to judge things by your first impression of them, my child,” he said gently. “As you grow older, you will learn to revise your opinions a dozen times over. This is the way of the world. But it is true that, when the sky is gray and the winds gusty, the chalky cliffs do not give a visitor from the warm sunny Provence the feeling of home. Yet fear not, my child, I will look after you, and even though you be within dreary surroundings, yet will I make a warm place for you in my heart so that you will not believe that we English are cold by nature.”

Oh, the sly pedantic rogue! A warm place in his heart, indeed – say rather in his bed, and it was not his heart that longed for the raven-haired fledgling who had already displayed more unrestrained interest in fornicatory matters than many a frigid virgin in her twenties brought to bed with an eager mate. The long, rather than the short, of it was that he longed for her with all his cozening prick!

Now he murmured, “Do you know whether your new sisters Denise and Louisette finished their tallying last night, my dear child?”

Marisia, giggled. “Ah, no, but I do not think so, mon Pere. When I went back to my bunk above them, they were kissing each other and wishing each other happy dreams, and I did hear Denise say that there would be time to reckon the true count some other evening.”

“Well, so there will be this very night, for we stay at a hospitable little inn halfway between Dover and London. It will be our last night together as companions; for tomorrow night, you and Louisette and Denise will sleep for the first time in the Seminary at St. Thaddeus.”

Then to the sisters he called, “Hasten to dress yourselves, Denise and Louisette! There will be just time to consume your breakfast before our staunch vessel docks at Dover, and then we shall take the coach as far as the little village of Somerset, where we spend the night before we make our happy entry into old London town.”

To Marisia he added, “Help them speed their preparations, dear Marisia, for I wish you to be as tender and steadfast a companion and dear friend to them as if you were their sister also.”

With this he donned his cassock, but in taking it up from where he had laid it the night before, he swung it against the chest, and I was half affrighted out of my senses, for the locket swung against the unyielding oaken coffer with a noisy thud that fairly dashed me from one end to the other inside my cramped metal prisons and all of Laurette's silken lovecurls piled upon me and very nearly suffocated me with their soft caressing mass.

“Ah, what is this?” he muttered half to himself, and forthwith put his hand into his pocket, and all at once I felt myself lifted up into the air. Oh, happy moment, that he had deigned to take notice of the touching memento which gentle golden-haired Laurette had gently bestowed upon her young niece Marisia, for now at least there sprang into my being the ray of hope that I might yet be freed.

But not, alas, at that moment. I heard him say, to himself, “Ah, I recognize this trinket! It has graced the white throat of sweet little Marisia, and so it is dear to me, and I will keep it safe upon my person as my own memento of our joyous meeting. Impressionable as the dear child is, it would not be seemly to let her pine for the bucolic days she knew at Languecuisse, for she has a destiny that brooks no recollections of the past.”

And with this, he thrust me back into the pocket of the cassock, deeper than before, whereupon I rubbed my legs together in a furious outburst of powerless rage.

How long would it be before he again deigned to notice me, I asked myself with some brief anxiety in the matter. Oh, I did not need nourishment for quite some time yet, but the day must inevitably come when the pangs of hunger would urge me to spring upon some portly man or, better still, the delicate, soft, perfumed, gently nurtured flesh of a female in the prime of life and draw sustenance to strengthen me. Was there no way to emerge from this metal dungeon, whose confines were all too limited as regards scenery and freedom of movement? I had faith, so far as mementos went, I did not need this incarceration amid the pussy-curls of sweet Laurette; I would never forget her – I could not, since her haunting intimacy had been strongly with me from that very first moment when she had taken the scissors to her dainty lovegarden and depilated herself of that sweet spring of dark golden cunny-hair in whose silken bed I had been so obliviously reposing!

The ordinary flea would, at this point, doubtless have given way to his trepidations arid, resigning himself to doom by starvation and suffocation, believed that at least if he must come to a final end, there could be no more hallowed way to die than about the person of a doughty ecclesiastic who had shown his mettle against sinners full many a time. But I am no ordinary flea, and therefore I could only be impatient with such meek resignation. No, I was destined too for great things, or I would not have been chosen out of my millions of colleagues to chronicle the foibles of man and maid and to observe how righteousness goeth before a fall (into a maiden's or even a widow's bed!)

I consoled myself with the anodyne of recalling that Marisia had several times mentioned, with nostalgic tenderness, her liaison with her young aunt Laurette. Then this tender sentiment must one day sharply restore her yearnings for those happy days when she and her aunt completed with such cunning carnal collaboration to thwart the senile lusts of old Monsieur Villiers. And when that day came, she would recall the locket and cajole Father Lawrence into restoring it to her, I was certain.

Then suddenly the hideous thought sprang into mind-what if, on reaching St. Thaddeus, it became incumbent upon Father Lawrence to don a new style of cassock, for every order has its own identifying habit? And what if the cassock in which I was tucked away were sent to be laundered as is often done by Amazonian beldames with massive biceps who wash clothing in a stream and beat it dry with great rocks which they dash pitilessly upon it with their powerful hands? Oh, that I should come to my death by being ignominiously squashed by the concussion of stone against metal brought into fatalistic conjunction by the harsh and unloving hand of a robust female after having paid poetic tribute to the gentleness of human womankind all my articulate days!

But I sternly rebuked myself for even considering this theoretical – if all too void – possibility. No, I was made of sterner stuff, else would I have perished long ago from the annoyed slap of some pompous prelate whose flaccid, obese posterior I had bitten in quest of my dinner, or the petulant fillip of the fingers of some courtesan who, finding that she had an undetermined itch in her hinder or pubic parts, did by ill luck encounter me in her gropings and so snuff out my bright golden youth. And since all fleas are necessarily fatalists, to the extent that even the most superannuated vanity which they oft borrow from the two-legged species does not delude them into believing they are or ever can be immortal, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I could not have lived so long as this and done so much and expounded so much of human fripperies and caprices unless I were fated to go on yet a little time to know the end of Father Lawrence's peregrinations and, more particularly, why destiny had decreed that I was to return nolens volens to the odious Seminary of St. Thaddeus.

During my ruminations, there had been a knock at the door and a humble seaman entered, charged by the cook at his galley to provide breakfast for the four passengers. The man had vision, whatever else may be said for him, for after Father Lawrence had taken the tray with effusive thanks, he whistled softly under his breath, and remarked in coarse French which truly smacked of the port of Marseilles, “Ma tete, si ces jolis cons-la ne sont gatees d'demeurer avec un pere qui est aussi Pere et ne peut pas les basier comme il faut,” which was a very whimsical play on words, since the translation came to “By the head of my prick, what a shame that these lovely cunts aren't wasted staying the night with a father who's also a Father and so may not fuck them as their tastiness merits.”

But Father Lawrence had ears as sharp as his own worthy hymen-rending implement, for he countered swiftly before the seaman could quit the cabin, “Les bon vintages ne gatent jamois d'attendre,” which means “Good wine only improves the more by waiting to drink it.” I heard a gasp from the seaman, who doubtless had not expected so apt a riposte, and then the cabin door banged to, and Father Lawrence, with a dulcet tone to his voice as if this interchange of bons mots had sharpened his appetite for food as well as for cunt, exclaimed, “My daughters, fall to and eat your fill while I say grace for the bounty of manna which the Lord provideth, and then let us go on deck so we may disembark among the first. I am eager to convey you safely to the coach which takes the high road to Somerset, so we may be at our ease in the good inn there. It happens I know the landlord there as I might my own brother, and he will set before us a Lucullan feast of good roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and a Stilton cheese and ale and a gooseberry tart dripping with rich juice out of its fragrant brown crust, and then, I warrant you, my daughters, you will not look ill upon our England.”

So for the next four hours of that disembarkation, I jogged along in his pocket as the coach, swaying and creaking, took the high road to Somerset. Marisia sat beside the English ecclesiastic, and when the driver took a perilous turn in the road with a noisy crack of his whip and a loud oath to his horses, Marisia swayed against Father Lawrence so suddenly that I almost felt the metal locket pinch together; had she been goodly of girth, this might well have happened and my story would have ended here upon this high road to the village of Somerset, which was halfway to London and the odious Seminary.

I had never known that a road could be so torturously crooked, for nearly every two or three minutes, with a little squeal of giggle, Marisia tumbled against the good Father, who murmured some chiding or soothing formula to ease her sweet confusion. But after about a dozen or more such pressures against my confining prison, I began to believe that the road itself could not be altogether blamed for these losses of equilibrium; for Father Lawrence did not seem to sway no matter how much the raven-haired baggage flung herself to his side. And thereby I concluded that the ingenuous little peasant virgin was purposely pretending to be tipped by the errant hooves of the thundering horses, for the sole reason that she wished to enchant Father Lawrence to the utmost and so he would renounce his vow of chastity and continence as regards her (for I had not heard him take that selfsame vow with any other female since my flea-ish gaze had first reposed upon his virile countenance) and grant her the dispensation of her maidenhead.

Finally, much to my relief, he murmured, “Come, my daughter, lay your head upon my shoulder and put your arm about my waist to sustain yourself against the harrowing ardors of our journey, for I would not have you overly fatigued and bruised. That tender creamy skin of yours must have no marring bruise on its lilial surface, or my colleagues, in their examination of you when your novitiate is come upon, will pronounce me the rude and unsanctimonious perpetrator.”

Whereupon the naughty minx responded, “Oh, mon Pere, I would not mind if my naked skin were black and blue from head to toe if only you would pluck my little flower and put your great prick deep into my little nestling place, for since I have seen and touched it I have been burning between my legs and only its sojourn there can put the fire out.”

“It is true that spunk is an infallible remedy for inner fires, my daughter, but I cannot grant your wish till my brethren have had ample time to consider you and put you to the test. Yet you will not forget the important tally and the vow you have taken, will you, my daughter? That is the only way you can withhold yourself for the eventuality of my gratifying you as your sweet virgin cunt so passionately desires.”

Rogue though he might be, this virile and robust English ecclesiastic, he was surely an honest one; and I, who have seen much skullduggery and slyly insinuating hypocrisy in this world which the great Voltaire once cynically termed as the best of all possible ones, would not give you tuppence for a Machiavelli as against a brigand who forthwith declared his felonious intentions. Besides, having witnessed too many scenes of licentiousness at the Seminary which we were rapidly approaching, I had decided to champion Father Lawrence against the horde of well-fed, complacent, worldly prelates who would assuredly seek to best this novice priest in their midst by making off with all the sensual spoils – that is, and as the French say, ca va sans dire, could I but manage to fly out of this intolerable locket.

“Oh, I will remember it, mon Pere,” sweet Marisia sighed, “for I have no one in the world save you to comfort me.”

“Spoken like a grateful and devout daughter, dear child! Now it is paramount that you and your new friends Denise and Louisette learn as quickly as you can some of the vagaries of our English tongue, so you will not be at too great a disadvantage before my colleagues, who are eloquent in that language as they are in Latin. And there are even some who will roll out and thunder forth the most sonorous of Latin tags, thus thinking to impress and convert you to their doctrines. Be on your guard, my daughter, and when you find yourself before an imponderable dilemma, say to them, 'I have taken a vow of chastity, Your Reverence.' Let me hear your sweet rosy lips intone those words, Marisia.”

Whereupon the raven-haired maiden echoed the sentiment with the most charming, lisping French accent, and I felt that, given her inherent sauciness and naively inventive gifts, she might yet escape the odious fate that had befallen the by now thoroughly fucked-out Julia and Bella. And yet the perils Marisia faced were legion, for how could she, with all the spoken vows upholding chastity she might conjure up at the imminent moment of her deliverance from virginity, gainsay the ravening hunger of these seminary monks whose penchant for tasty, fresh, unsullied cunt surpassed even their appetite for good food and drink?

“Oh, admirable, my daughter,” he delightedly exclaimed, “and if your new friends learn only that supplicatory phrase, they too may hope to save their cherries from being devoured by those who would think only of their own selfish gustatory pleasures and not one whit about the immortal souls of the maidens from whom they plunder such sweet tidbits!”

As if to answer my own unspoken – and, even if spoken, surely impossible of hearing by human ears – Father Lawrence expatiated on this theme: “For, look you, Marisia my daughter, there is a virtue in what might be called passive resistance to adversity. When danger threatens and the odds are seemingly insuperable, the meek answer turneth away wrath. Now, who could fault you on your precocious devoutness if, when it seemed inevitable that the possessor of some angrily throbbing, violently swollen cock would not be satisfied till he had plunged that fearsome tool into the floss-veiled niche of your virgin pussy, you were to lower your modesty as befits a gentle, inexperienced maiden, and say, 'Oh, I must not, Your Reverence, because I have taken a vow the breaking of which would imperil my hope of redemption!' Oh, no, my daughter, in the face of such humility and piety, only the most unprincipled of villains not fit to wear the black of the holy order could dare to spurn your petitioning and force himself, huffing and puffing and his face crimson from immodest congestion, into the sanctorum!”

“I perceive your drift, mon Pere,” Marisia answered thoughtfully, “but I am only a frail girl, hardly out of puberty. How could I refuse a goodly man, the more so if he waxed fearfully irate with me for my disobedience?”

Could it be that this untutored peasant girl had already anticipated the wisdom of a newer adage that holds that when rape is inevitable, 'tis well to submit and enjoy it out of sheer discretion? Oh, clever, guileful, virginal Marisia, prize among maidens, who would fain eat her cake and have it too!

“In my own turn, sweet child, I discern your meaning,” Father Lawrence responded. “But remember the stripling David bested mighty Goliath, champion of the Philistines, by employing both prayer and stratagem. And even then, if all else fails, consider that when one is overpowered in spite of every ruse and supplication, the sin is lifted to repose squarely on the shoulders of the brutal seducer who is too callous to be moved by prayerful entreaty or tearful timidity.”

“Oh, mon Pere,” Marisia's fertile young mind was not yet done with this theoretical embroidering, “I am comforted by your words, and yet it greatly troubles me to think that even if I am overpowered against my will and, as you say, am not capable of mortal sin, my frail body may experience improper yearnings roused by the very force that overtakes me. What then, mon Pere?”

“Why, then, my daughter,” he said after a moment's pondering, “you are still blameless, for without the brutal usage of force against your tender cunt, you would not experience these naughty emotions of your own virginal accord. But one last question, my dear child – have you yet come to the curse visited upon Eve, by which I mean your monthly time when nature compels you to reject even the most desirable of suitors?”

Marisia giggled. “Oh, oui, oui, mon Pere, mon temps de la lune, oui, only a month before I came to stay with Tante Laurette, it came upon me.”

“Ah,” he joyously exclaimed, “then here is your stratagem to oppose brute force. Only the least fastidious of rogerers would wreak his heinous will upon a virgin cunt, for then he would find two separate Sowings of bright red blood to staunch. So, Marisia, tell your impassioned lecher that the curse is upon you.”

“Oh, I will mon Pere! But you must contrive to fuck me before that time,” Marisia cooed. Again she did seem to sway against him, and he coughed, doubtless to hide his emotion in the face of so sweetly gracious a plea.

After a solemn pause, he ended this tremendously weighty discourse by murmuring to his raven-haired ward, “You must manage to indoctrinate your companions Denise and Louisette as to all these manifestations of chastity, my child. And tonight you must aid them in completing their tally of pussyhairs, for a reason that I have devised as you well can guess and which will keep all three of you from what I believe to be immediate risk of being sullied too early in your estate as novices. Now let us close our eyes and drowse a bit so that the tedious journey will not overtax our energies, my dear Marisia.”

Denise and Louisette in their corner of the coach had been chatting away in a low voice which I could scarcely hear, but I was not altogether certain their topic was the beauty of the English countryside. The coach jogged on, and I myself sought to drowse, for sleep knitteth up the raveled sleeve of care, as good Shakespeare once said it, and by sleep perchance I might manage to forget for the nonce the pussyhairs of dear Laurette which had begun to tickle and stab me each time I was buffeted about in my locket-prison.

Much later, when I did waken – finding that I had happily been able to forget my cares for a lengthy time – I heard the drone of Father Lawrence's voice, and discerned that he was once again engaged in teaching English to sweet Marisia. There were endless repetitions of phrases, echoed by her exquisitely timbered voice with that inimitable Gallic accent which made her the more provocative, such as, “Oh, no, I cannot, Your Reverence” and “Do not force me, Your Eminence, I am but a frail and humble maiden” and, finally, “My parents taught me obedience to my betters, Your Reverence, but, alas, this day I have the curse.”

“Oh, what a pair were the English ecclesiastic and the naive French nymphet! I began at last to lose the dismal gloom which had fallen over me in believing that I was brought back inexorably by the will of an unkind fate to the Seminary of St. Thaddeus. Indeed, when the driver of the coach bellowed, “All out for Somerset,” I confess I was almost anxious to hear the resumption of this English lesson, to say nothing of following closely the tallying of maiden love fronds! There is nothing quite so exciting, so thrilling, even to a flea, as the prospect of counting the cute, curly cunt hairs of a creature crying for congratulations upon carrying out the act of coming under the carnal influence of a cadaverous cock.