The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

CHAPTER TWO

While I dwelt in my little metal prison, I had ample time to ponder what was likely to befall me, quite apart from my compassionate fears for the charming Marisia who naively believed that Father Lawrence was taking her to a kind of terrestrial paradise. When I had first arrived at the hamlet of Languecuisse, it had been in September when the sun was still gentle and the harvest time was warm and benevolent. But now it was October and, although Provence would still retain its benediction from the golden sun whose rays caressed the bursting grapes, London would be, by contrast, cold and dreary. I had thrived on the warmth of that little French community, and I had grown fat I must confess, with the nourishment derived in my inimitable fashion. Alas, London would recall to me the coming winter, the dense fog, the cold and penetrating wind and rain. Many of my brethren perish in the fall and winter unless, to be sure, they have journeyed to the safety of warmer climes. Yes, now, as I reclined on those soft golden tendrils of Laurette's pussy-hairs, I wished that I had let that favorable wind carry me past the equator and perchance to some such colorful metropolis as Rio de Janeiro or Buenos-Aires. There, I am told, the sun is always warm, the women plump and beautiful and the men amply fed on nourishing joints of beef, which would provide me for long years to come with succulent nourishment.

But it was too late to ruminate about what might have happened. I have always been a pragmatist and hence am unique among my fellow-fleas; I am also an opportunist, with an incorrigible optimism at the same time. In a word, dear reader, hopeless though the situation seemed for me in my rigorous imprisonment, I none-the-less began to devise plans for my eventual escape. It was essential that I think positively. For if I gloomily accepted my incarceration in this locket to be permanent, the overweening dread of ending up so uselessly would assuredly paralyze my mental faculties, dull my wits and ingenuity, and inexorably condemn me to extinction. Hence I must fight off any such morbid thoughts with all the power of my will, if I hoped to survive the seeming catastrophe.

Even as all these possibilities whirled through my brain, I heard Father Lawrence speaking again to his new protegee, Marisia. He spoke in French, since the charming young brunette had not yet acquired a knowledge of English. Now, dear reader, you may ask how it was that I came about my own fluency in this Romance language, and I will truthfully tell you. Have you not heard of the ancient legend of the Nibelungen, which tells how the great hero Siegfried, having killed the monstrous dragon Fafner, unwittingly touched his lips with his fingers which had been stained with the dragon's blood? So doing, he at once could comprehend the language of the birds tittering in the trees above him and divine their speech sufficiently to lead him to his destined bride, Brunnhilde. Well, during my sojourn in Languecuisse, I had had nourishment of one or two of the inhabitants of that charming hamlet. Having imbibed their blood, which was French, I was, like Siegfried, similarly endowed.

The good Father was using his most persuasive eloquence with the charming child, and I could detect the throbbing note of carnal anticipation in his tone as he declaimed: “My child, we shall set forth upon our journey on the morrow. I will leave you to spend the night at the rectory of good Pere Mourier, and I enjoin you, my gentle Marisia, to say your litanies and to compose your spirit for the new life which awaits you, while I take leave of those dear friends I have encountered during my visit.”

“Oui mon Pere,” Marisia breathed. Her tone was one not only of reverence for his station as a man of the cloth, but also tinged with the same kind of expectation, albeit that of an ingenuous fledgling for whom life's mysteries had hardly been really old. Yet already at her tender age of thirteen and a half, Marisia had come upon an almost mature eagerness as a result of her mastering the complex and divergent methods whereby the male cock makes exquisite conjuncture with the female cunny – yet she was still virgin!

The English ecclesiastic now took Pere Mourier aside, and the two of them struck up a conversation. Since I was still imprisoned in the locket clinging about the neck of the sweet child, I could hear only vague murmurs, but I did manage to catch a word or two. Just as with a blind man whose other senses are increased by compensation, so I found that though I could not see, I could hear more sharply than I ever had before. And the gist of what Father Lawrence was telling the fat village priest was that the latter was morally bound to refrain from subjecting tender Marisia to any carnal trials. There was no doubt about it: Father Lawrence had already cleverly stamped the sweet brunette adolescent as his very own. From the tremolo in his resonant voice when he had spoken to his new ward, I had rightly guessed his avid anticipation of those moments when he would have her to himself and to the appeasement of his massive prick.

His voice grew louder, so I knew that he was returning to the side of his charming novice-to-be: “Now you must go with the good Pere Mourier, and you will sleep with a good conscience and a happy heart until tomorrow, Marisia. When you say your prayers this night, my child, I beg you to say one for me also, that my farewell to Languecuisse may acquit me of a proper show of gratitude for the hospitality which these good people have given me, a foreigner on their soil.”

“Oh, I shall, I shall, Your Reverence,” Marisia's sweet voice instantly responded. The inflection which she gave to the French words equating this answer had, unless I was mistaken, an even more fervent tone than before. I gather that the dear child was impatiently awaiting the night when she would be alone in the little bed which Pere Mourier would furnish her. And there, it amused me to speculate, she would seek to ease the erotic tensions which Father Lawrence had evoked in her dainty cunny. Ah, sweet maidenly innocence that could procure, at such a tender age, all heaven and all bliss by the simple expedient of applying a gentle finger to pink, delicate lips between girlish, quivering thighs! For novice though she was to be, Marisia was the wisest of young virgins, as I well knew. Doubtless this very night alone in her trundle bed, closing her eyes tightly and summoning up all kinds of amorous images, she would wriggle upon her sheets and titillate her dainty cunny as she pretended that the good Father Lawrence himself was laboring with her to bring them both towards an earthly paradise. In that blissful dream which she had hoped would soon be reality, her finger took on the aspect of that giant prong with which her spiritual mentor was so robustly equipped. Ah, how many maidens elsewhere throughout this entire world would unknowingly envy the gentle Marisia this night, for she would remain an untainted virgin even though experiencing the exquisite and naughty titillations of fucking – and yet without actually committing that mortal sin!

“A sensible, a charming child,” I heard Pere Mourier sigh, and in his intonation I knew the old fool was hastily searching his roguish brain to conjure up some way whereby he himself may be enabled to hear Marisia's prayers as she knelt before her bed this night. And since I had visualized her nubile young charms while she and Laurette had frigged and frenched the latter's impotent old husband Monsieur Claude Villiers, I did not need much imagination to guess that Pere Mourier's prick was veritably aching from just thinking of what the raven-haired minx would look like in her thin shift or, better still, when it had been doffed to expose the young beauty's titties and pussy. But really it was too greedy of him; after all, he had access to every female of Languecuisse, which would include such mature jades as Dame Lucille and Dame Margot, to say nothing of his impetuously ardent housekeeper, and he would rule this hamlet once Father Lawrence had departed for London. So why, then, should he covet Marisia's tender maiden cunny when there was such an availability of female orifices better crafted to accept the rigors of his turgid, rapacious prick? Perhaps, however, the frailties of man are such to induce even a village priest to long for what he does not have and to forget what he is already enjoying. We fleas, I may add, have no such insatiable greed; metaphorically, our eyes are never bigger than our stomachs (or our sex organs, either!).

“Ah, such she is, and will be more so once she is safely behind the walls of the seminary,” Father Lawrence now replied. “But, my child, what is this I see about your neck?”

I quivered with delighted surprise: Would I now escape my prison?

“Oh, Your Reverence, it's a memento which dear Tante Laurette gave me at parting. I beg you to let me retain it in memory of her and the happy times we had together, short though they were,” the sly little minx pleaded.

“Tut, tut, my child,” the English ecclesiastic countered benignly, “one must never mistake idolatry for veneration of the true faith. You shall soon wear the cross about your lovely neck. Indeed, let me give you one of mine as a pledge of my spiritual guardianship of you, Marisia. There, you see how well it becomes your soft skin? I felt him remove the locket, and once again I was jiggled about inside it as he continued: “So, for the night at least, do you give me the locket for safekeeping. I will guard it as your property, never fear. Moreover, your sentiment for your Tante Laurette does you much credit, my dear child. As for you, Pere Mourier, I need not remind you that this young virgin is under my special protection and that her innocence is already dedicated in advance to the religious order of the seminary and within her walls her beauty will soon make exquisite ornament.”

Morose though I was from having been trapped so stupidly within this 'momento,' I none-the-less almost laughed – for a flea may laugh by rubbing his legs together at a certain angle, though it is a sound which the human ear has not yet been able to detect – the shrewd English ecclesiastic had, in so many words, warned the fat French priest not to attempt any libidinous games with his charming ward.

“Your wish will be respected, Father Lawrence,” the latter unctuously responded. “Come, my child, and I will take you to your abode for the night. Good night to you, Father Lawrence.”

Marisia's guardian had slipped the locket into a pocket of his religious gown, and of course that was to be my dwelling-place until he made disposition of the locket back to Marisia. There was some hope for me in this transfer of ownership, however temporary, since the good Father might decide to inspect the contents of the locket. I told myself that I must therefore take care not to drowse again and to be ready for the opening of my prison. For it was obvious that Father Lawrence did not intend to accompany his French colleague back to the rectory.

Moreover, he said as much in his farewell to Pere Mourier: “Do you then have the maiden ready to depart at ten tomorrow morning. I have arranged with the worthy Monsieur Debouchet to take us both in his horse-drawn cart to the village of Grand Ventre, where tomorrow afternoon we shall both, God willing, board the carriage that will take us to Calais and our boat to cross the Channel.”

I had, of course, forgotten that Father Lawrence had sojourned with the comely widow Madame Hortense Bernard during his vacation in this admirable little village of Provence. I now deduced that it was his intention to bid her farewell, and that this leave-taking would not be one of short duration. And I remembered well how the good Father had not only given the Widow Bernard ten francs for the first week of his lodging but had granted her that carnal boon which not even her own husband had deigned to bestow upon her – namely, the taking of the virginity of her bottomhole. Hence as a man of honor and of the cloth as well, Father Lawrence doubtless intended to settle his score with the Widow Bernard before his departure, a score to be paid in more intimate means than francs alone.

He walked in a leisurely manner towards the little cottage of his landlady, and I in the locket was bumped about at regular cadence as his strong thighs moved back and forth in their measured rhythm en route to his hospitable abode. Too, he might have put up at the rectory for the night; Pere Mourier's housekeeper, the beautiful Amazonian, Desiree, would surely be desirous to bid him Godspeed on his journey in the amorous way she had already shown so passionately.

But then, since my mind was sharply at work in the continuance of finding distraction against my doleful incarceration, I perceived that Pere Mourier would inevitably summon Desiree to his own bed to console himself for leaving Marisia's virgin cunny immaculate. And I had to commend Father Lawrence on his admirable tact; the fat French priest's chagrin, in being denied access to Marisia's virginal couch, might well have made him the enemy of Father Lawrence, but if he could instead requite his blazing lusts with his sculptural housekeeper, he could forget the other frustration.

Father Lawrence at last arrived at the cottage of the Widow Bernard and knocked sonorously three times. The door was almost immediately opened, and I heard again the sweetly mellow contralto voice of his handsome and mature landlady; “Oh Your Reverence, I was already thinking of you! I have prepared a particularly appetizing supper which I hope will please your discriminating palate. Alas, it may well be the last repast that I set before Your Reverence.”

“Thank you, my daughter. Yes, you are quite right; in the morning I leave for London. Hence I am happy to have these last hours with you, my daughter, so that I may settle my reckoning with you and leave your charming cottage without being materially in you debt.”

“Ah, how I shall miss Your Reverence. But do come in, for it is not proper to keep a man of your eminence standing outside my humble door!”

Yes, I told myself, the good Father would be well occupied this his last night in Languecuisse! I could almost see the benign smile upon his manly visage at these flattering words of the Widow Bernard's and her own fatuous smile in her delight at seeing his gratification. She would presently see that gratification take the shape of his vigorous bludgeon of a prick, not too long after the repast she intended for him. I have found in my wanderings that human beings have an axiom all their own: A full belly leadeth always to a full cock. And also: The more tempting the viands consumed, the more furious the urge to fuck. So this would be a memorable last night indeed for Father Lawrence, as well as for his beautiful widowed landlady, if I was any judge.

He sat down at the table, jiggling me again in my metal prison, and the Widow Bernard served him a meal over which he exclaimed many times. There was a bottle of good red Beaujolais, extremely young, since the cork had been put to it at this last harvest, the harvest which had brought Laurette such unforeseen rapture and exalted status in the village.

I will not bore you, my appreciative reader, in recounting the homilies and platitudinous flattery which the two of them exchanged during that meal. Suffice it to say that each sought to wheedle the other into a radiant mood of well being, a kind of spiritual attunement for their night ahead. But when I felt myself jiggled again, it was because Father Lawrence had risen from the table, pushing back his chair, and then I heard him say in a firm voice (which nevertheless trembled with greedy anticipation): “Truly, a feast for the gourmet, my daughter! And now, before I say farewell to you, let me hear your confession so that I may shrive you of any sins that you have either committed or considered. Your bedroom, I believe, would be a fitting chapel for your orisons. Come, my daughter, let us retire.”