The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 3

CHAPTER FOUR

I was able to get sufficient sleep after Father Lawrence had bade Desiree a last amorous goodbye, and when I wakened, I found that I had not been dreaming. Alas, I was still securely imprisoned within the locket, and my proboscis was being tickled by one of the strands of Laurette's pussyhairs. I heard rather suddenly the resonant voice of the ecclesiastic in whose cassock pocket I remained unwillingly housed: “Well, Pere Mourier, like all things, our brief acquaintanceship comes to an end this day. God willing, I may be back to visit you in Languecuisse one day.”

Whereupon came the unctuous and oily tones of the fat French cure: “Ah, my worthy and eminent colleague, we could have done great things together. Though I have known you but a few short weeks, Father Lawrence, you are a man in whose company I feel completely at my ease.”

“You do me too much honor, Pere Mourier,” responded my unknowing jailer, “but if I mistake not, you would much prefer the company of the fair sex to mine. Besides, what should it profit either of us to waste our sermons and our wisdom on each other, when it is our duty to bring redemption and humility to the laity? No, my dear friend, you will fulfill an exemplary function here in this tiny village by overseeing the frolics of the young men and the young girls and dragging them toward the blessed altar of Our Lady. Even in far-off London when I am most nostalgically reminiscent over my sojourn in this little corner of beautiful Provence, I shall sense, somehow, a spiritual rapport – those moments when you are reading the banns from your pulpit in the village church. And my heart will be gladdened at the thought that you are bringing righteousness to the hot-blooded youth of this part of France, with whose moral vigor I am in such hearty sympathy.”

“Rest assured that I shall do my very best, good Father Lawrence,” the fat priest returned. “But all the same, I shall remember how it was with your help that we brought the dear Laurette to the bridal bed and ultimately to such great fortune as she now enjoys. I was the one who first heard her timid, juvenile confession – the dear child! – and now to think she is mistress of a rich estate and about to wed such a handsome and worthy man as young Pierre!”

I tell you frankly, dear reader, that if I had been out of that wretched locket, I would have bitten the old hypocrite in his fleshiest parts to punish him for his double-faced prevarications. I could well remember how he had condemned that handsome youth when he had come upon him and Laurette out in the fields, and how he had characterized young Pierre as a good-for-nothing, a wretched scoundrel who sought to steal the previous jewel that was already spoken for on behalf of the senile old patron of the hamlet. But now the tables had been turned and the patron was no more upon this mortal coil, and besides, Laurette had shrewdly anticipated his greed by bestowing a bounteous largesse upon his rectory – now he was singing the praises of the very youth he had damned so recently.

However, Father Lawrence did not seem disposed to pursue the obsequious conversation and now remarked, “I trust that my ward is ready for the journey?”

“Oh, to be sure. I will have my housekeeper see to her bath and her dressing for the voyage back to London, dear sir. What a charming creature she is! How I envy you the task of converting her to the true faith and developing all those tender sensibilities which she has already given exquisite proof.”

“I trust,” said the English ecclesiastic dryly, “that she did not offer any such proof to you last night.”

I heard a gasp of injured indignation as the French prelate proclaimed his honesty as one who had been granted a holy trust. “What a thought, Your Reverence! I assure you that I lay on my bed, before sleep overtook me, saying my rosary for the soul of the little darling, that no evil might befall her in a foreign land.”

“You must not impugn England because it is not France,” good Father Lawrence instantly countered, with an ironic chuckle. “From what I have heard, the Seminary of St. Thaddeus shelters some of the most able priests of our doctrine. I had heard of Father Clement and Father Ambrose long before I was assigned to the Seminary. They are famous for their good works among the impious, the uninformed and particularly the young, most impressionable sinners whom they seek to turn toward the way of propriety and humility.”

“Most excellent virtues, those,” the fat French priest replied. “But here is Desiree herself, and look you, she brings Marisia ready to depart with you. Come, my darling child, and give an old priest a loving kiss. I will say prayers for you this evening, and I shall brush away the tears to think that your sweet face and soft voice and lovely form will no longer grace our little village.”

“You are very sweet, dear Pere Mourier,” I heard the fluted voice of young Marisia intone. Then I heard a noisy, wet smack and knew that she had complied with the fat old fool's request. I divined also that his pudgy hands must have slyly roamed over the more tempting parts of her as yet immature though certainly nubile anatomy. Besides, Father Lawrence now gruffly bade his French colleague a last adieu, and only then did his voice take on a softer tone as he bade farewell to the housekeeper Desiree.

“And you, Madame, I am in your debt forever for your gracious hospitality. I shall remember the delectable dishes which you prepared for me with your own lovely hands, and the tender attention with which you watched over my endeavors in this village which is native to you, but which, in so short a time, already engraved its landmark in my very heart. Give me your hand to kiss, Madame; in your own prayers this evening, before you enter your solitary bed, think kindly of me, if you will.”

“That will not be in the least difficult, Your Reverence,” the bold Amazon softly laughed. I heard the sound of a kiss, and then an excited little giggle. Undoubtedly my jailer must have retaliated by pinching the housekeeper just as her employer had already done to Father Lawrence's virginal ward.

A little later, we were rattling along in the cart which the amiable farmer had brought around to take Father Lawrence and Marisia on the first leg of their journey. Father Lawrence was laconic during the long ride in the cart, though from time to time he made some banal comment or other upon the beauty of the landscape. He did, however, ask Marisia if she felt the least bit homesick at leaving Provence, at which she retorted saucily, “Oh, no, my Father, because I feel so safe and happy with you. Is it true that you are to be my sponsor when I become a novice in the seminary to which you are taking me?”

“That is true, my daughter.”

“And will there be a kind of initiation before I am admitted?”

“Undoubtedly, my daughter.”

“Then, my Father,” Marisia cooed as she snuggled closer to him, judging by the nearer sound of her voice to my sharply keened sense of hearing in that locket which he had appropriated, “I shall do my very best to please you. Are you going to fuck me?”

“Hush, my child, or our driver may overhear and condemn us both for such licentiousness!” Father Lawrence warned. Then, his voice very low, he added more gently, “If you wish it, my daughter.”

“I do. I want you to be the one who takes my maidenhead, my Father. I am so envious of Laurette, you know. And even if I am much younger than she is, my Father, it does not mean that I cannot endure the same tortures and desires that she does between her lovely legs.”

“Of that I am quite aware, my daughter. However, I would caution you in advance of your entry to the seminary. For all that I shall be your sponsor, for all that I shall show you by way of preference – you are very adorable and very desirable as well as a candidate for salvation – there are still priests at the seminary who have the right to test your compliance and your docility. And it would be injurious to my own status as a novice myself, for such I am, my dear child, having just been assigned to this seminary – if you were to express aloud your sentiments preferring me to the other priests who have been there far longer and who therefore have rights of seniority over your charming person.”

“I shall be very good and do everything you tell me to. But, Father Lawrence…”

“What, my child?”

Marisia now must have leaned very close to him to whisper, and I could make out only the words – in French, of course, which I continue to translate for you- 'fuck' and 'take my maidenhead.' Then I heard Father Lawrence aloud, “You must not tempt me, my child. Get thee behind me, Satan. In all honor, I must not enjoy what you so graciously offer until the night of your initiation.”

“But at least,” Marisia spoke more lightly now, “you will let me suck it, won't you, my father? It is so big and hard, and I am dying to do it. After all, didn't I help Laurette with her old husband so he could fuck her?”

“Be still, you naughty little vixen! You must not speak aloud of such things, for ignorant passers-by might neither believe that you are a novice nor I a priest. Let us save such discussions for more private and intimate moments. Tonight at the inn at Calais we shall talk more of what is and what shall be expected of you, my child.”

The carriage took Marisia and Father Lawrence along the broad highway on to the port from which they would take the vessel bringing them to London, where Dick Whittington heard the bells telling him he would one day be Lord Mayor.

When they alighted from the carriage, the hostelboy from the inn where they were to put up for the night informed them that the good ship Bonaventura on which they were to have passage would probably not set sail until the next evening at high tide, since there had been reports of strong gales all along the Channel. Hence, sailing at dawn, as they originally intended, would be impossible.

“Very well,” said Father Lawrence cheerfully. “Man proposes, but God always disposes. Tell your master that my ward and I will therefore enjoy his hospitality until the ship is ready to set sail.”

Upon entering the inn, the landlord welcomed Father Lawrence with many a “Vocre Reverence” and Father Lawrence graciously thanked him in his native tongue. Discovering that this tall, ascetic-looking Englishman who wore the cloth of the Faith spoke excellent French, the landlord waxed more and more genial, promising to outdo himself with the supper sent up to Father Lawrence and his lovely ward. He had his own daughter, a comely baggage named Georgette, take Father Lawrence's valise and escort him to the best room on the second floor of their little establishment. I did not see her, to be sure, but I say that she was a comely baggage because these were exactly the words Father Lawrence used to whisper in her ear when she had deposited the valise, his ward and himself in their chamber. To this term of admiration he added, “Georgette, you are quite fetching, and this is still my vacation from my spiritual duties. If you have no suitor or fiance, I should relish the opportunity to walk with you in the moonlight here tonight and tell you how charming I find you.”

At this the landlord's daughter giggled and whispered back, “Oh, mon Dieu, you make me shiver all over, Votre Grace!”

“But you give me too grandiose a title, Georgette. What you have just called me is suitable for a duke or count or marquis. I am but a humble man of the Church, and I am bound for London on the morrow.”

“Still and all,” the sly jade riposted, “Your Eminence looks to me to be a man who knows his way about with a poor, helpless girl like myself. Your Eminence is so different from the kind of men who frequent my father's inn and are always trying to pinch my bottom.”

“And now you endow me with the title one gives a Cardinal of the Church,” he chuckled. Then he did something which made her squeal, for Georgette instantly gasped, “You are the very devil himself! You have pinched my bottom in a way that no man ever has before. I will certainly go walking with you in the moonlight – or anywhere else you choose.”

“Where shall I find you?” he murmured.

“In the winecellar at midnight,” Georgette whispered back. “But now I must go, because Papa needs me in the kitchen to prepare your supper.”

“Till midnight, then, my beautiful Georgette.” I heard Father Lawrence clap his hands and begin to hum a bawdy ditty which he had learned in the village of Languecuisse. It had to do with the fickleness of womankind, and the words went something like this:

In the fields of Languecuisse, tra-la-la,

I go hunting for Bernice, tra-la-la.

For my cock demands surcease, tra-la-la,

From the cunny of Bernice, tra-la-la.

She is blonde, with plump thighs, tra-la-la,

Which are just the ideal size, tra-la-la,

And her cunnylips are soft and pink, tra-la-la,

And she fucks me like a mink, tra-la-la.

Now, alas, I've found Bernice, tra-la-la,

Getting herself another piece, tra-la-la,

Between her thighs my friend Tom lies, tra-la-la,

Stealing from me her pussy's paradise, tra-la-la.

But I bethink myself of Jane, tra-la-la,

Tom's little wife who walks the lane, tra-la-la.

So I strolling with her go, tra-la-la,

To a trysting-place I know, tra-la-la.

Soon her creamy flesh is bare, tra-la-la,

And I see her cunt's thick black hair, tra-la-la,

Now my prick has found surcease, tra-la-la,

And I do not miss Bernice, tra-la-la.

I could foretell that Marisia's virginity would be safe this night at the inn at Calais. Father Lawrence intended to say farewell to La Belle France by way of fucking his landlord's daughter.

The supper was rich indeed, judging from the priest's loud praises and Marisia's enthusiastic avowals. There was a bottle of the finest Burgundy, which he doled out to her in only a few sips, saying to her, “You see, my daughter, when one is a novice, one must progress slowly in all things. Just so with good food and wine, one must not overdo at the outset till one knows one's capabilities. And that is true also in fucking, my dear child. You must but let me be your Father Confessor as well as your guardian in all matters of the flesh, and you cannot possibly go astray. And now it is time for you to go to sleep, my dear child, for perhaps on the morrow we may take a stroll about Calais until there are signs that our ship will sail. Go put on your nightshift and we will kneel down and say our prayers together.”

A few moments later, Marisia having doubtless complied with her guardian's order, the two of them knelt side by side at the broad bed, a facet which Father Lawrence commented on as proof of the landlord's exquisite hospitality to his patrons. He made her say a prayer for her redemption and for her eternal happiness, and then one in gratitude for the spiritual home to which she was being taken. And finally one for his clear-headed wisdom in deciding always what would be the best course of action for her. Having done this, he murmured, “Now hurry into bed and pull the sheets up over you, my daughter, for the sight of your charming backside and the downy shadow of your pussyhairs through this thin shift almost makes me forget that I am your Father Confessor. I bid you goodnight, Marisia.”

Still wearing his cassock, and with me inside his pocket, he went downstairs to imbibe with the landlord a glass or two of that fiery apple brandy known as Calvados. The spirits loosened his tongue and made him still more jovial – doubtless in zestful anticipation of Georgette's appetizing charms later that night, when her father would be snoring away in his own bed – and he entertained his host with several ribald tales from the Decameron. It was evident that the good landlord, despite being French to the core, had heard none of these lewd tales, for he found each of them uproariously witty, and he clapped Father Lawrence on the back and wished the ecclesiastic might remain with him for more than one day and night.

“Why, so do I, my good friend. But now I must take my constitutional, and walk about under the stars and commune with nature before I sleep. I wish you a good night and pleasant dreams,” Father Lawrence explained. He took his constitutional indeed, and once again I found myself rudely jiggled up and down, back and forth, within the confines of my metal prison. The irony of it was that each time I moved this way or that, the tickling strands of Laurette's pussyhairs followed me and reminded me only too well that my unwitting jailer who was on his way to an encounter with a different shade of pussyhairs, shrouding no doubt quite as appetizing a pair of pussylips as Laurette's.

Georgette was waiting for him in the winecellar, and with a cry of joy she flung her arms about his neck and pressed herself tightly against him. His hands moved over her body, for I felt his cassock tighten and again launch me into interminable journeyings within that short metal scope which was now my home.

“Oh, hurry, hurry, Your Eminence,” Georgette panted, “take off your clothes and let me see your bee que!”

“With right good will, my daughter,” Father Lawrence laughed, “but do you do likewise, so we shall be as one, yet neither of us having any distinction over the other save only that in the divergence of our sex.”

“There, I am all naked now, Your Eminence. Do you like me?” Georgette naively purred.

“You are bewitching, my daughter; such big round titties so proudly standing out, offering their ripe strawberries at the centers for my lips and fingers and tongue,” he praised her. “Such a darling belly with its deep, wide oasis meant for the titillation of my tongue, or even the nuzzling of my prickhead. And that cunny, so mysteriously hidden from my eager eyes with those darkbrown lovecurls which I am longing to press asunder so that I may gaze upon the jewel of your being!”

“Oh, hurry then, push them asunder quickly then, for my cunny is burning for your great becque!” she implored.

I had been bounced about rudely when Father Lawrence had undressed, for he had hung his cassock over a wine cask, and the thud of the locket against the wood had nearly startled the wits out of me, as well as momentarily deafening me. However, I could not mistake the sounds that then ensued. The groans, the sighs, the tremolo of a young woman's voice in the seventh heaven of carnal rapture: “Ahhh, how good it is inside my con! Oh, harder, deeper, Your Eminence, fuck me harder! It has been so long since I have been fucked by any man. Oh, Your Eminence, though I must wait on all the men who come to this place, my wretch of a father watches over me like a hawk, and frowns on any man who so much as dares to pinch my bottom. Pinch it now, Your Eminence, put your fingers inside the little hole there, too. Aiiii – oh, yes, yes – that is heaven itself!”

“Why, you are easily satisfied, my daughter, since I have not even yet begun to fuck you properly. Now be silent and let me show you how we English differ from your French fornicators in our ability to prolong the delightful art,” the good Father soothed. Thereupon he must have begun an agile journey back and forth inside Georgette's burning cunthole, judging by her sighs and stifled shrieks, and then I heard a simultaneous groan of ecstasy which told me that each of them had found their own special paradise of prick and pussy united in rapture.

But at least Marisia's virginity was safe. She would leave France a virgin. I did not think she would remain such for long, once she had arrived at the seminary to which this intrepid and tireless English ecclesiastic had been assigned.