The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

CHAPTER THREE

“Close the door, Your Reverence, do. When I am with you, I feel almost as I did when I was a trembling bride.” The Widow Bernard seemed to be in the grip of a powerful emotion once inside the portals of her bedchamber.

There was a sound of the closing of the door, and with it I was jiggled once again in my metal prison, now encased within the pocket of his cassock. I realized that now I should have to use my keenly developed sense of hearing in lieu of sight, since even a flea as gifted as I has not yet devised the power of peering through metal and, after that, a thickness of black cloth. So, dear reader, you, just as I did then, will have to supply your own fanciful imagery and join it to the accompanying dialogue which I faithfully remembered while Father Lawrence took his fond leave of the delectable matron.

“There, now, my daughter, it is done. Does it allay your trepidations?”

To this there was a stifled little giggle as the Widow Bernard retorted, “But not entirely, Your Reverence. My feelings are mixed at this very moment, for you see, I behold you now in the black cassock of your holy order, which reminds me of my frailties as a sinner. Yet at the same time, when I gaze upon your handsome features, dear Father Lawrence, I tremble inwardly with those forbidden sensations which are proper only to a dutifully married woman.”

I heard him cluck his tongue in a gentle reproof: “This is understandable, my daughter. And it is good that, as a true believer of the Faith, you stand in awe of the most sacrosanct mysteries which are handed down to us from the very top of Mount Sinai, when Moses received those tenets which were to guide the lives of all of us in the centuries to come. Truly, my black cassock is the symbol of Mother Church, who gathers into her arms all the penitents who seek her consolation and her forgiveness for their temporal as well as their spiritual sins. Yet, to continue the analogy, under this cassock beats the heart of a virile man who is all too well aware of these frailties of which you speak so self-consciously. In my ecclesiastical robes, I stand before you as the representative of Mother Church, to give you her blessing and to pray that you will be comforted in your sorrows and your affliction of being bereft of a suitable husband, who will know how within the scope of our righteous laws to ease your carnal pangs as a descendant of the Eve who must atone throughout the ages for having eaten the forbidden fruit in Eden.”

“Your words are so helpful, my dear Father Lawrence,” the Widow Bernard cooed, and then uttered a heartfelt sigh.

“I do my humble best, my daughter,” he responded. “And now it is as that representative that I stand before you, to take heed of your confessional, which shall always be private between us, since no confidence to a priest may ever be passed on to the laity. Tell me, daughter, have you sinned in aught since our last meeting?”

“Oh, no, Your Reverence! It is true that I scolded Madame Tilueil for having sent her little boy over to me with a basket of eggs which I needed to make this very cake you found so delicious just now, Your Reverence. I found three bad eggs, for which she had charged me the full price, and I am afraid that knowing these eggs were for your august palate, I lost my temper.”

“I will easily forgive you that, my daughter. You will say one Hail Mary before you close your eyes this night. Is there aught else?”

There was a moment's silence while the handsome widow pondered, and then a soft: “If it is a sin, Your Reverence, I missed you very much the other night. And last night, too. And – and it was as a man, not as a priest, that I longed for you. I know I have sinned grievously.”

“No, my daughter, only if you sought to console your disappointment with some man to whom you were not wed, would you then be in mortal sin.”

“Oh, no, Your Reverence. But I did dream that you were beside me in bed, fucking me with your becque.” (At this point, let me remind you, dear reader, the good Father and his beauteous landlady were speaking in French, and to facilitate matters I will merely furnish to you the English translation to ease your understanding of what took place. Now, the word becque is French, and a colloquialism which roughly corresponds to the English 'prick.')

“Did you manifest any other action than passively during this dream, my daughter?”

“No, Your Reverence, except that when I wakened, I found I had my finger in my con.” (Here again Madame Bernard used the French vulgarism for what in English is called 'cunny.')

“After due reflection, my daughter, I do not think you were really guilty of mortal sin. Your mind, like your body, was dormant while you were asleep, and your finger cannot be said to have committed a mortal sin simply by wandering at random over your fair person while your mind was in repose. I therefore absolve you. Now, is that the last?”

“I – I think so, Your Reverence. Are – are you really leaving Languecuisse tomorrow?”

“It is my destiny, my daughter. I have been assigned to the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, and he who takes the bread of Mother Church must do her bidding. However, joyfully I may tell you that I bring to my new post a lovely and innocent candidate for righteousness, since the charming damsel Marisia, who as you will remember was the ward of the late Monsieur Villiers, will accompany me to take up her duties as a novice in our holy order.”

“Ah, Father Lawrence, what I would not give to be in her place and to be, indeed, of her tender years.”

“Let us remember that one of the commandments, my daughter, reproves you for coveting that which is not yours. It is Marisia's destiny, as it is mine to take her there, and undoubtedly for you there will be a place in heaven when your time is come. Yet since you are yet young and strong and spirited, my daughter, I shall be greatly surprised if, before another year is out, you do not exchange your widow's weeds for the costume of a joyous bride. And it is this benediction towards that ultimate happiness which I am come to give you now, both as a priest and as a man who appreciates your hospitality.”

Once again I could hear the Widow Bernard's stifled giggle, and I knew how greatly she had been impressed by the English ecclesiastic's sententious declamation. I was certain that she was impatient now, having received his absolution in his role of priest, to be the recipient of his massive cock's farewell joust within her burning cuntsheath.

“I am grateful for Your Reverence's good wishes. But alas, in a tiny village like this, it is not easy to find a worthy man who will mate with a widow no longer in the springtime of her youth. And you know that Laurette has captured that handsome devil of a Pierre Larrieu, whose ilk is none too common. Oh, Your Reverence, I shall pine in my bed alone at night and dream not only of you, but of a vigorous youth like Pierre. I know that I shall commit sin, because you will be away in London, perhaps never to return, and yet Pierre Larrieu will be only a little distance away from my humble cottage and my lonely bed.'*

“Then you must remember the counsel of good St. Paul, who said that it was far better to marry than to burn,” Father Lawrence immediately riposted. “You must make a diligent effort to suppress your urge to sin until you have found a suitable spouse who will accommodate your yearnings within the holy estate of matrimony. Yet, because, as a man, I know how you are suffering now – as a woman and not as a parishioner – I take pity on you my last night in Languecuisse. See, I am removing my cassock. Now there is no longer the priest – only the man.”

“Oh, Your Reverence – and what a man you are! I can see your prick fairly bursting through your drawers.”

“Why, then, since it is wrong and against nature to suppress all natural instincts, and so that by the good grace of harmonious relationships between our sexes as man and woman, liberate my prick and at the same time liberate your delicious pussy, so that we may unite the two organs in a felicitous gesture of comradeship and parting at the same exquisite time.”

Father Lawrence, as you see, dear reader, was something of a romantic. Had he stayed in Languecuisse and replaced fat Pere Mourier (whose habits as a trencherman at table and as a cocksmith in bed were very likely to bring on fluxes, cholers and increasing fleshly girth) I verily believe that the little hamlet would have become a veritable paradise for thwarted lovers and suppressed widows, to say nothing of disappointed Amazonian housekeepers, like the beautiful Desiree.

“And now you make me blush, Your Reverence, as I gaze upon so mighty a prick and think that in a few moments it will do my poor little cunny the honor of stretching it apart until I nearly swoon with pleasure,” the Widow Bernard exhaled in the most langorous of tones. I heard a rustling now, and knew it to be of garments being removed. Sure enough, for a moment later Father Lawrence, his voice hoarse with the unmistakable note of sexual zeal, pronounced: “As a man and not as a priest, my dear Hortense, the sight of your carnation-tinted naked skin assures me that you will not lack for proper suitors. Now do not misunderstand me, my daughter. I would not have you go about exposing your fine limbs or those luscious bubbies of yours to vulgar eyes. But surely, it cannot be great wrongdoing to allow a deferential and serious-minded suitor the opportunity to inspect, however briefly, a portion of your treasures, particularly at the time when he is amorous of you and of a type of impressionable mind which can be led down the aisle to the holy altar of matrimony. Remember, this, my daughter.”

“Oh, I will, I will, Your Reverence. And now I am blushing just as I did on my wedding night. I have only my drawers on, as you do, Your Reverence. My knees are beginning to tremble, seeing that big, hard, stiff prick of yours standing out in the air, menacing my poor little cunny. I want it so much, and yet the way it stares and points at my cunny fills me with fear, truly, Your Reverence!”

Now the Widow Bernard's voice was trembling with overwrought emotions. I could picture the scene: both of them naked to the waist, clad only in their drawers, he with his cock sticking out through the vent of that last garment, she with clenched, sweaty little hands and dilated eyes and flaring nostrils, as her gaze fixed irrevocably on the plumhead of this mighty, throbbing cock.

I did not need my vision to recall the features and the form of this vigorous ecclesiastic. He was a man just under six feet in stature and in his late forties. His abundant shock of brown hair was only partly streaked with gray. He had intensely compelling blue eyes – I suspect that the very intensity of their gaze had much to do with his prowess – surmounted by very thick, bushy brows. His nose was Roman, his mouth and chin firm and decisive. There was, perhaps, in the corners of that mouth, just the slightest hint of sensuality, the faintest suspicion of self-esteem at the moment of conquering a tasty cunt such as the Widow Bernard undeniably possessed. I began to wish, indeed, that when I had taken my nap it had been in the luxuriant bush between her carnation-sheened, plump thighs, for she was not likely to indulge in such nonsensical sentimentality as to cut off her pussycurls and put them in a locket to give to another girl, of all things! She was the type of woman who gave of herself fully and wholly – if my readers will forgive so atrocious a pun! – and without counting those silky tendrils which fleeced that plump and appetizing mound of Venus.

“I must also give you one final piece of advice, dear Hortense,” he resumed, his voice husky now and resounding after a slight pause which was marked out for me by the sound of kisses and the slithering of hands over naked flesh. “It is that you must not disparage yourself, but rather – and yet this must be done without excessive vanity or bragging, lest it be a mortal sin, mind you, my daughter – extol your virtues and your charms to the right ears and before the proper eyes, so that you will become the more desirable to both these sets of organs and so, in final turn, to the most primitive and yet the most discriminating organ of all that a man holds, his cock. And there again you must show care in not giving way to your surging passions which rival those – and I am sincere in telling you this, my dear Hortense – of a young virgin who yearns to explore the holy mysteries with an adoring male companion. In a word, Hortense, you must whet desire without seeming to lead it on; you must cajole without appearing to become covetous; and you must stimulate without yourself succumbing, until the ring, the book, and the candle are before you. If you will remember but this precept, I promise you that you will be wed within a year. For what man who still possesses the spark of life within his loins and sinews would fail to get a hard on at the sight of your panting titties, my beautiful Hortense, of the soft, thick fur which covers the ripe pink lips of that greedy little cunny of yours? Not I, for one, could ever be impervious to such delicious temptations – as a man, hark you, not as a priest.”

“Of course, Your Reverence!” The Widow Bernard's voice was choking with emotion. I heard now the creaking of her bed as the two of them sat down upon it. I heard then the sound of sucking of titties and the slapping of hands against naked flesh, and the flurried little moans a woman makes when a man with a massive prick, such as Father Lawrence, begins to fondle her nipples and the soft moist insides of her quivering thighs. I knew, too, that those moans and sighs of hers were conceived not only out of the furious lust which now invaded her naked body, but also her rueful awareness that tonight would be the last time she could enjoy the vigorous cramming of which his prick was capable. As you will recall, dear reader, in a previous volume of my memoirs, I described this fearsome weapon as measuring at least seven and a half inches in length, with a superb thickness in proper proportion, and a head that was oval-shaped and slightly elongated, having the appearance of a deadly arrowhead. When I saw it again in my mind's eye, I confess that I shuddered for Marisia's dainty cunthole, for it could not compare with the Widow Bernard's capacity to absorb so rigorous and massive a penetrator.

“Oh, I am dying for you, Your Reverence,” the Widow Bernard panted, and I heard the bed creak even more furiously. The Widow Bernard furnished me – and you, my readers, in turn – with a lucid and graphic recital of the proceedings, thereby permitting me to see what was going on: “Aah, oh – it's so good, Your Reverence! Dig farther into me, it seems like years since I last enjoyed so wonderful a fuck – Aiii, I am on fire for you, I burn and die for you. Oh, do not spare me tonight, your prick will have to make up for those nights when you will not be in my bed, Your Reverence!”

“Be of good cheer, my daughter,” he panted, and I heard the bed creak again, doubtless with the driving advance of his mighty ramrod deep into the confines of her seething pussy, “I am but the embodiment of your desires. Have I not told you that before the year is out, another man, as worthy as myself, will replace me atop you, riding between your satiny warm thighs, and will fuck you till you have no more juice left in that greedy pussy of yours, my beautiful and passionate Hortense.”

There followed more creakings than ever, and now sobs and groans and unintelligible phrases emanated from the shuddering naked widow, so masterfully ridden by Father Lawrence. Then I heard him gasp, “Do put your little finger into my bunghole, dear Hortense, for it will make me harder than ever and thus bring about your redemption from lust through fulfillment.”

No sooner had he spoken than she must have complied, for I heard him utter a hoarse cry of “Aaahhh! Now hold me tightly with your arms and legs, and put your tongue in my mouth, and let us to the fray with good heart and cheer.” Thereupon still more creakings, the noisiest of all, and finally a cry of communal ecstasy, followed by a long, contented sigh of ecstasy from the widow, who had doubtless tasted the elixir of hot ecclesiastical spunk in the deepest recesses of her avid cunthole, which had released her own creamy flow of lovedew.

It was a long moment before I heard another word from them, and it was the Widow Bernard who first broke the blissful silence by murmuring, just loud enough for me to hear: “Oh, I wish this night would never end!”

“But my daughter, all good things must come to an end. Just as good fucking must end in a come,” he chuckled. “You are mature enough to know about the joy of fucking which approaches its zenith when the first furious ardors are appeased, so that the return engagement between male and female may be more prolonged, more thoughtful and considerate of each other's intimate needs. Do not look at me with those wide, surprised eyes, my beautiful Hortense. Did you think I was going to leave your bed after fucking you once on this my last night in Languecuisse? It may be that in centuries to come, we shall be reincarnated in some other forms, and there we shall take up our tryst. Until that immortality is granted us, my daughter, you must hie to another husband lest the villagers one day stone you for whoring, and I must put back on my cassock and my hat and be the humble and guided servant of Mother Church to lead those who would stray from virtue back to the path of righteousness.”

“Oh, Your Reverence makes me weep, you speak so beautifully of fucking,” the Widow Bernard sighed. For the scholarly reader, let me add that she had achieved an ingenious play on words, speaking as she did in French. She had said, “Tu me fais mourir en parlant de baiser.” Yet the French word “baiser” means kissing as well as fucking. Thus, for those who are outwardly prudish and do not dare express their agitated desires to be a voyeur such as I am, their sensibilities would not be offended if the Widow Bernard could be said to have remarked poetically that the way he spoke of kissing made her swoon. And that, to be sure, equates a charmingly outmoded reaction of a fair maiden back in the days when knights were bold even inside their armor!

There was a pause now, while undoubtedly the good Father Lawrence performed such ablutions as are requisite to repair the vestiges of fornication. But it was not too long thereafter that I heard the bed creak once again and heard him murmur, “Now by way of farewell, I will salute the warm niche that has given me such pleasure.” I then heard him implant a sucking, moist kiss, and I was certain that it was applied to her cunthole, which, moreover, Hortense herself confirmed by squealing, “Ooohhh, Your Reverence, how lovely that is when you kiss me between my legs – Oh, it thrills me all over once more to feel your raspy tongue go inside!”

“I would not consider it amiss, dear Hortense,” he replied huskily, “if you would yourself salute my emblem of manhood by way of farewell.”

I heard her giggle, and then there was a soft slushing sound which could only represent the act of her mouth absorbing the elongated tip of his vigorous cock.

Thus they performed soixante-neuf on each other as a prelude to their second bout of fucking. It lasted a considerably longer time than the first, which I have already described, and the Widow Bernard was even more eloquent as she called out her ecstasies and sensations during its progress.

When they had at last given up their last spunk generously to each other, the bed creaked once more, and I heard Father Lawrence say, “And now I must bid you farewell with a heavy heart and, I fear, with a diminished cock. I shall take myself to my cot and sleep until it is time to begin the journey back to the Seminary. I will remember not only your salutation, but your hospitality during my stay in Languecuisse, my daughter. My blessings be upon you, both now and when I am absent from you.”

“But is Your Reverence not going to spend his last night here in my bed?” Hortense Bernard was almost sobbing.

“No, my daughter. I must walk through the vineyard of this village and bless the grapes for next year's harvest, that there may be prosperity and happiness in this little village where I have had such bucolic joys. So this is farewell, my daughter. A last kiss -”

“A last feel of your big cock, Your Reverence, please.” Now the Widow Bernard was really sobbing.

Again the sounds of exchanged moist kisses, the slithering of hands on naked flesh, and then with a raucous sigh, Father Lawrence announced his departure. In due course, I felt myself lifted up in my metal prison and jounced about as he put on his cassock. And then he left the cottage of the beautiful widow and strode with unimpaired, vigorous steps out into the night.

I marveled at his energy. He walked for fully half an hour and, I have no doubt, through the vineyards, as he had told the Widow Bernard he would. Then he turned his footsteps in another direction, as best I could decide in my dark confinement, and walked for what seemed even a longer time until finally I heard him climb the steps of the rectory of Pere Mourier.

He must have touched the nightbell very gently, for in a few moments I heard the door open and then I heard the gasping of a feminine voice, “Your Reverence! I hadn't thought you would be back till morning.”

“Shh, my daughter. Is your employer at his prayers or at his slumbers?”

“At the latter, Your Reverence.” I recognized the voice as that of Desiree, the Amazonian housekeeper of the French priest.

“And my charming ward – is she sleeping, too?”

“Oh, yes, Your Reverence!”

“Alone?”

“To be certain, Your Reverence. Pere Mourier gave me strict orders to see to it that Marisia was taken to a little room near mine, and he said that I was to look in on her and be sure that she did not leave her bed. Since I myself am a light sleeper, as you well know, Your Reverence, I listened for footsteps, but there were none. And only just before you rang, I peeped in on my employer. He snores like a swarm of bees.”

“Then all is well. Marisia's virtues are still unplucked. I had hoped that I might find you, my beautiful Desiree. I wished to say goodbye.”

“Oh, Your Reverence, I hoped and dreamed that you would do so, but I feared you would spend the night with the Widow Bernard.”

“That would be churlish, since I am in your debt for so much pleasure during my vacation here, my daughter.”

“Come, then, I am burning for you, Your Reverence!”

What a man, indeed, was this Father Lawrence! He had already paid at least two tributes to Venus between the straining thighs of the beauteous widow Bernard. Had he not walked like an athlete through the darkened vineyards before he returned to the rectory on the other side of town? And now he proposed to say farewell to the lovely Desiree, whose thighs were even more valiant and supple and taxing than Hortense Bernard's!

Verily, it might be said of him that he was not only a man of good faith, but of good works. Desiree led him directly to her room, and instantly flung her arms about him, pressing her body tightly to him, for I felt myself once again jostled to and fro inside the locket. The cunthairs of Laurette moved gently, cradling and cushioning my body against the buffets of my metal prison. Perhaps it was a symbol in its way that I was to be cushioned against the buffets of fate in the days ahead – I assuredly hoped as much.

Desiree wasted no time in getting to the point of her desires, which is to say, the arrowhead prick of the English ecclesiastic.

“Oh, I must feel it – I must hold it against my cunny, Your Reverence,” Desiree proclaimed once they were together with the door closed.” Quickly, take off your cassock, for it is sacrilege for me to touch a priest as intimately as I long to touch you. Once you are naked, Your Reverence, I forget everything except that you are such a man as I hoped might wed me!”

Once again the cassock was removed and draped over some article of furniture, altering again my comfort in that accursed locket. I heard the rustling of garments, and knew that the two of them were impatient to be skin to skin, prick to cunt, titties to chest, mouth upon mouth with tongues rapiering in emulation of what prick and cunt were doing down below. And this time it was Desiree who was the aggressor, entreating him to fuck her, not to spare her. She enclasped him with her body, judging by the sounds I heard, and her mouth glued to his in such sucking and draining kisses as I had never heard before, not even in mat Seminary to which it now seemed I was destined to return through no will of my own.

She also attained several climaxes before he gave down his spunk. As a connoisseur, I a lowly yet imaginative flea, could appreciate how much delicious pleasure Father Lawrence was experiencing with his prick embedded deep inside Desiree's cunthole, after having enjoyed Madame Bernard as an appetizer, so to speak. He was simply following his own judicious maxim: that the first excesses of carnal lust should be expended, leaving the male prick to take its leisurely gait within an eager cunthole, and thereby giving its owner what appeared to be an indefatigable and tireless power.

Certainly, Desiree herself acclaimed his incredible vigor, as she cried out, “Oh, mon Dieu, I have never had so wonderful a fuck! Ooooh, you have made me spend three times already, and yet you have not once lost your hot, sweet gism! You are like a rock, a machine, and yet how gloriously my cunt tells me that you are a man of flesh and blood!”

“This is the best farewell salutation you could give me, my daughter,” he panted as the bed continued to squeak and Desiree continued to groan and sigh as yet another climax shook her body.

And that was how Father Lawrence spent his final night in the little village in the heart of Provence to which a favorable wind had wafted me. Now he and I, though he could not at this time know it, were to return to bleak London and that odious seminary where fornication seemed to occur out of a quantitative rather than a qualitative instinct.