The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 2

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pere Mourier, now fully regained in his composure, entered the reception salon of the rectory to meet his announced guest. Meanwhile the beauteous Amazonian housekeeper, the widow Desiree, hastened to procure a tray of cakes and two glasses and a bottle of excellent Burgundy, which she set down on a table between the two priests. She did not at once withdraw, but stood at the doorway, making languishing eyes at the newcomer. He had evidently taken her fancy, for he was indeed a handsome and mature man in the full prime of his faculties. I suspected that it was he who had disarranged the widow's blouse.

Father Lawrence was a man just under six feet in stature, in his late forties, I should judge, with an abundant shock of brown hair only partly streaked with gray. He had vigorous, rugged features, with intense blue eyes, very thick brows, a strong roman nose and a firm, decisive mouth and chin. He was so much more prepossessing that Pere Mourier that I had no doubt the handsome widow was regretting she had made the impulsive offer to become the latter's housekeeper when a man of Father Lawrence's vitality and robustness appeared upon the scene.

“I bid you welcome to the village of Languecuisse, Father,” the obese holy man obsequiously greeted his confrere, extending his pudgy hand—the very one which had just dealt poor little Laurette such a thrashing on her naked behind. “May I ask to what order you belong?”

“Why, to tell the truth, Pere Mourier, it happens that I have a third cousin of my family residing in a town some fifty miles from your charming little village. As I was on vacation, after my visit to my cousin, I decided to see the rest of the countryside, particularly this area which is so famous for its excellent wines.”

“Indeed, Father, you have come to the right place for wines. This very day just past, we held a grape-trampling contest to celebrate the harvest of the good grapes that make such delicious wine as this. Dear Madame Desiree, will you not do the honors?”

The handsome widow was only too happy to be called back to service in the presence of so virile and splendidly vital a visitor. As she opened the bottle and poured out the mellow red wine, her eyes fixed on Father Lawrence with an intense admiration, the while her superb and columinous bosom swelled with ardor. He lifted his glass to toast the health of Pere Mourier and laughingly declared: “To your health, my worthy colleague of France, and to the health of this attractive housekeeper. Now then, you asked me to what order I belong. I was about to say that after my vacation, I shall go to a new parish, having served faithfully my little flock in the Soho district of London. I have been assigned to the seminary of St. Thaddeus, and I am to return there in about a month. I look forward to my new duties, Pere Mourier, but until that time I should much prefer to be treated like a visitor and to enjoy my leisure in this beautiful country of Provence.”

With which gallant speech, he lifted his glass first to the obese holy man, and then towards Desiree herself, who modestly lowered her eyes and blushed properly, as a chaste widow should. Yet I remember how boldly she had exhibited her charms only that afternoon, when in the cask she had lofted skirt and petticoat to expose herself without drawers.

Yet what was most important to me was the memory that Father Lawrence's information about his new assignment wakened. For, dear reader, the same seminary to which he would be delegated to begin his ecclesiastical duties was none other than the one to which Julia and Bella had gone to find a spiritual refuge after their orphanage and, as you recall, had found instead that they would serve as the handmaidens and concubines of many virile, lecherous men of the cloth.

Pere Mourier fairly beamed at this news. “Why, then, Father Lawrence,” he unctuously replied (he spoke English passably well), “since that is your disposition, I should like nothing better than to invite you in my capacity as spiritual leader of this pleasant little community, to spend the rest of your vacation here. It is true that we do not have the excitement of the large cities, but we have many interesting sights and quite a few philosophical problems to occupy your alert mind, I am sure. As a matter of fact, just as I came to receive you, I was wrestling with the Devil himself in seeking to drive him forth from a charming damsel who is without a doubt the most beautiful in our village.

The bushy eyebrows of the English ecclesiast arched with interested surprise. “I should be most happy to accept your invitation. You know that the country where I come from is but an island subject to fog and rain and cloudy weather so much of the time. But here in beautiful Provence, I have already fallen in love with the sun and the green fields and the simple people of the earth. Of course, I should have to find accommodations somewhere.” As he said this, he glanced artfully at the Amazonian housekeeper who stood beside him, ready to fill his glass once again. Her red full lips curved in a comprehending smile, as she favored him with a sultry glance from under lowered lashes.

“That would be no problem,” Pere Mourier at once responded, “for I know a number of families who would be privileged to take you in as their guest.”

“I should not like to discommode anyone, really. The ideal thing would be to find some little place and to engage a housekeeper, such as yours, for example, good Pere Mourier.”

The fat priest pursed his fleshy lips and furrowed his brow in concentration. “I know of one such place. It is a little cottage to the other side of the village, rather humble, and in it dwells an estimable widow by the name of Madame Hortense Bernard. I am certain that if I spoke to her, she would be happy to put you up as a guest.”

“Naturally I should pay for my food and lodging,” Father Lawrence smiled. “But tell me of this good soul. She is doubtless one of your parishioners?”

“Oh, to be sure,” Pere Mourier smiled with a knowing wink, for it was obvious that he felt already a certain bond of kinship between himself and the virile-looking English churchman. “She is the soul of devotion herself. She was bereaved two years ago when her husband lamentably fell into a vat of wine and was drowned. It was a dark night without stars or moon to guide the unfortunate man's footsteps, and it appeared that he had stumbled from a window, lost his balance and toppled down into the vat. Since then, Madame Bernard has grieved unceasingly for him. Indeed, had it not been for my good fortune in finding that Madame Desiree wished a situation and was in urgent need of it, I should doubtless have engaged Madame Bernard. She has, you see, tenancy of a few acres of grapevines, and the past two summers her neighbor's husband, the industrious Jules Dulac, has done a charitable work under heaven's eye by looking after them for her. Yet unfortunately her soil was not blessed and thus the harvest has not been prosperous for her either time. She could very well use the francs you could pay her for your keep, good Father Lawrence.”

“Then I should be indebted to you, Pere Mourier, if you would, as is convenient, speak to this soul on my behalf.”

“It is already done. But meanwhile you will do me the honor of staying here for the night. In the morning, I shall go to Madame Benard and make the arrangements, Madame Desiree?”

“Yes, Your Reverence,” the beautiful Amazon cooed.

“I am certain that we can find a place for Father Lawrence to sleep tonight. Will you see to it, my dear.”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Reverence,” Desiree purred, and with a glance she gave Father Lawrence to understand that the remark was really meant for him.

“So that is settled,” the fat priest chuckled. “Now, Father Lawrence perhaps you will lend me your spiritual aid in conversing with the fair penitent of whom I was speaking but a moment ago. Hers is a most distressing case, and I fear that because of her youth and innocence she is not yet resigned to her duty.”

“I shall be most happy to collaborate with you, Pere Mourier, in any way that you deem advisable,” said the vigorous English ecclesiastic. Since Pere Mourier was not looking at him at the moment he hazarded a glance at the chestnut-haired housekeeper, and it was such a look as gave her to understand that he found her comely. She flushed hotly beneath that gaze, and then volunteered, “If Your Reverence has no further need of me at the moment, I will go to prepare a bed for Father Lawrence.”

“Do so indeed, my dear,” Pere Mourier beamed and gave a lordly flourish of his hand. “Come, Father Lawrence, and let us attend this charming penitent. I have only just finished giving her the discipline so that she may see the error of her ways.”

Father Lawrence rose from the table and moved to follow his French colleague. But as Desiree had not yet left the room, he took stealthy advantage of her presence to pass his left hand quickly over her magnificent backside and to give it a most familiar little squeeze. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprised delight, and then, flashing him an enamoured look from those magnificent eyes of hers, promptly left the room.

En route to the room in which he had left poor Laurette still kneeling on the straight-backed chair, Pere swiftly explained the circumstances of her presence. Father Lawrence nursed his chin with a well-groomed hand and sighed: “Yes, I can see your problem, Pere Mourier. This young person has already the devil's influence manifested by the young wretch whom you so rightly halted from his vile intent, and it is best to do all in one's power to restore her to the path of righteousness. She must certainly be wed, and as soon as possible.”

“I am of the same opinion, Father Lawrence. I shall read the banns next Sunday. Tomorrow morning, when I confer with Monsieur Villiers, I shall see to it that is in agreement to hold the wedding ceremony not later than two weeks from then. I shall not be able to rest at night until Laurette Boischamp is legally wedded and bedded by this worthy patron, who has made so many charitable contributions to the village and to my own humble church.”

“I shall try to reason with the girl,” said Father Lawrence. “I have some little experience in these matters, you see.”

“Of course, Father Lawrence,” Pere Mourier said somewhat dolefully, “in one sense it is a pity that this charming maiden cannot be linked to a husband nearer her own age. But who would you have? Our village is humble and poor, and all the vineyards are owned by the patron. The people here are tenant farmers, dependent upon his good charity for their wages and their little cottages. Without his efforts and benign humanitarianism, they would be all penniless and out of work, and hence liable to mischievous employment. The devil finds work for idle hands, you know.”

“I am acquainted with the proverb,” Father Lawrence dryly retorted. “Yes, nature and the call of the senses—which is so often that of the devil himself—urges a liaison of youth to youth. But domestic bliss with so worthy and affluent a man as you tell me this Monsieur Villiers is—and we must not forget that he is a contributor to the greater glory of Mother Church—has great virtues to commend it.”

“Exactly my opinion,” beamed the obese holy man. “Well, I shall open the door and then you shall see this delicious young sinner.”

So saying, he turned the knob of the door and the two priests entered. Laurette turned her head and uttered a startled cry of shame and fright, her face turning scarlet to behold a stranger seeing her thus humbled, kneeling on the chair where she had received her scourging.

“Do not be distressed, my daughter,” Father Lawrence spoke to her in excellent French, “I am of the same faith as your good father confessor, Pere Mourier, and he has told me much about you. I feel already a warm sympathy for you, my daughter. We have come to help you make good resolutions for the future.”

“Aye, that we have,” seconded the fat French priest.

I need not recount to my readers the tedious and pompous sermon which both men preached to the unhappy, golden haired Laurette. Suffice it to say that they threatened her with a fall from grace and even excommunication if she did not swear to be chaste and true until the marriage ceremony to her intended husband, and that both strictly forbade her to even so much as a whispered conversation with that scoundrel Pierre Larrieu. Father Lawrence ended by warning her that if she sinned again, Pere Mourier would doubtless let her taste the scourge and even more severely than she had already felt it this night. Then Pere Mourier volunteered to see Laurette safely back to her parents' abode, and departed from the rectory with her clinging to his arm.

Father Lawrence rubbed his hands gleefully and went back to the salon, where, as he had anticipated, he found the chestnut haired Amazon awaiting him. “Let me show you to your room, Your Reverence,” Desiree invited. Her glowing eyes promised even more than safe conduct to the bed prepared in his honor; I could already then have predicted that she meant to share it with him. “It is, alas, only a humble cot, and it is in a room just off the kitchen. It is not at all worthy of Your Reverence, but it is all that we have.”

“Do not apologize, my daughter,” Father Lawrence said smilingly. “It is the spirit and the intention which count favorably under heaven. Lead me, then, to this gracious shelter where I may seek repose after my long journey.”

She lead him at once to the little room, which had no window, was cramped and narrow and, just as she told him, provided only an old cot with a rather worn mattress.

No sooner were they in the room together (once again, out of my Fleaish curiosity, I had decided to follow them rather than Laurette and Pere Mourier), than Father Lawrence inspected the cot by seating himself upon it. “It will bear my weight and that is good enough, my sister,” he approved. “We are taught humility and poverty throughout this material life, so that I am not one for fine trappings. But tell me now, my daughter, I am told you are a widow like this Madame Bernard. How is it that no one in this village has asked for your hand in marriage, for it seems to me that you are sturdy and comely and well capable of bringing joy to the household of a worthy man.”

“The fact is, Your Reverence,” the chestnut haired Amazon chattily retorted, not without another roguish glance at him, “there is no man in Languecuisse who feels himself endowed enough by nature to satisfy my fleshly longings. And I would not be a burden on any man unless he wished me as his loyal loving consort.”

“The attitude that you have is praiseworthy, my daughter. But you may speak freely to me of such things, for I know much about that which takes place between husband and wife, having traveled a great deal and observed the foibles of man and womankind. Do you mean that the men of this village are frightened off by your tall and magnificent beauty?”

Desiree blushed like a modest virgin at this, and clasped her hands before her and lowered her eyes. “It is not entirely that, Your Reverence. It is true that I am tall as a man, but I think they are afraid that I will tire them out between the sheets at night. I ask your pardon for speaking so grossly.”

“Oh, there is no need to ask for pardon, my child,” smiled Father Lawrence. “For heaven looks down with happy gaze upon truly united souls in wedlock who enjoy each other and keep unto themselves once their troth is plighted. But I am still somewhat dense, my dear daughter, as to the precise meaning you imply. Do you mean to tell me there is no man in all this village who can satisfy your physical cravings?”

“None thus far since my poor husband's passing, Your Reverence,” Desiree mournfully replied, shaking her beautiful head so her thick chestnut mane danced in the air about her shoulderblades. “And, once again, begging your pardon, even my husband was not sufficient unto me, though of course I knew it would be a sin to seek out the beds of others while I was still his wife.”

“Rightly so, my daughter. But now that you are unattached, as it were, you are free to look for such a man. Now tell me, has this good Pere Mourier shown any designs upon your person?”

Desiree blushed at this forthright question from a holy man, then giggled at the irreverent thoughts it provoked. “I think he may have, Your Reverence. He saw me this afternoon trampling the grapes in the cask, and he stared very boldly at my naked legs and belly. And it was directly after staring, when I had stepped out of the cask, that he proposed that I should come to be his housekeeper. He asked nothing about my culinary talents nor any others. But of course, he has known me for several years as a faithful spouse and one of his parishioners.”

“That then explains his interest in you.” Father Lawrence had approached the beautiful, tall Amazon. Now he put his hands on her hips and boldly appraised her swelling breasts with knowledgeable eyes. “You seem very young, my daughter.”

“Alas, Father, I am twenty-eight. In Languecuisse, this is almost old age for a woman. The young men have eyes only for the damsels like that little Laurette you just met. She is nineteen, and that too is much older than is customary for the time of marriage in this region.”

“All the more reason for her being wed as soon as possible, and she will be,” Father Lawrence avowed. His hands slipped back now over Desiree's jutting, boldly ripe bottom cheeks, which he squeezed through her thin skirt. “Of a truth, my daughter, you do not feel to be much older than Laurette yourself. And you tell me that there is no man hereabouts whom you deem sufficient to give you physical joy?”

“I said not so far, Your Reverence,” Desiree murmured. She stared into his eyes, her red lips curving in a comprehending smile. And she moved closer to him, letting his hands wander as they would. Then she uttered a little gasp and looked down. Between their bodies, there was already a polarity: the cassock of the good father bulged out tremendously from his loins. Furtively, the beautiful chestnut haired Amazon slipped her hand down to discover what this could signify, and her fingers tentatively closed over the protuberance. “Oh Your Reverence, I cannot believe it!” she ejaculated in a tremulous voice.

“What cannot you believe, my daughter?” His voice had hoarsened noticeably by this time, as might well be imagined. And his fingers grew bolder still kneading and squeezing the luscious contours of Desiree's bottom through the thin stuff of her skirt.

“That—that you are such a man as heaven should have sent me long ago,” the Amazon brazenly murmured, looking deeply into his eyes, and her red lips moist and parted with obvious invitation.

“But things are not what they seem at all times, my daughter,” he banteringly replied. Perhaps it would be well to judge by actuality rather than by appearance.”

“But I would not dare offend Your Reverence,” Desiree apologetically murmured.

“That which is done sincerely is not offensive, my dear child,” he smilingly retorted.

At this, the forward young widow stooped, caught up the hems of his cassock and furled the silken garment to his waist, holding it there with one hand while she rummaged rather expertly at his drawers. In a trice she had liberated the anatomy of his sexual weapon, and her eyes widened with amazement at the sight.

Father Lawrence was prodigiously equipped. In full erection at her touch—for Desiree lost no time in clasping the middle of the shaft with her strong fingers to determine that it was in truth actuality and not appearance—his penis must have measured at least seven and a half inches in length. It was admirably thick to go with this; and the head, which rose out of a narrow groove of circumcision, was oval-shaped and slightly elongated. Its lips were thin and tightly shut together, but they were already twitching with carnal irritation from the bold enclaspment of that beautiful hand.

“I cannot believe my eyes, Your Reverence,” she exclaimed, her voice slightly trembling. “I truly would not have believed it!”

“Are you of a mind to test its measure, my daughter?” he softly inquired.

“Oh, yes, if Your Reverence would so honor a poor humble widow,” she breathed.

“Then you had best make the door sure lest your new master come in upon us.”

“I will do that at once, Your Reverence. But do not worry about Pere Mourier. He and the maiden Laurette will take a long and devious stroll before he reaches her abode, for he wishes to impress upon her the need for chastity. Besides, after he has gone to sleep, I will come to you again and we can have more time—that is, if I do not anger you by my sinfulness.”

“But you have committed no sin, my daughter. Yours is a curious inquisitiveness which both delights and inflames me.”

She hurried to the door and threw the bolt. Then swiftly she divested herself of her thin skirt and blouse, under which she was naked as she had been in the cask that afternoon. She stood before him, hands on her side, and tilted back, blushing deliciously, proud in the knowledge that his eyes roved over her sumptuous breasts, her suave, well dimpled belly, the thick luxuriant garden of dark chestnut curls which covered her mound and disappeared between her thighs, and those robust yet beautifully proportioned thighs themselves, seemingly so capable of crushing a man's ribs between their fiery embrace.

With a gasp of admiration, Father Lawrence drew off his cassock and neatly hung it from a peg on the door of the little room which would shelter him this night. Taking off his shoes and divesting himself of his drawers, he stood before her equally naked, his body wiry yet vigorous, nowhere showing emaciation or meagerness or age. And least of all did the fulminating structures of his swollen cock evince the least flaccidity of the flesh which is so common to men who attain their two score of years and more. Desiree let a sigh of admiration escape her as she moved towards him, her big breasts jiggling with each step. Her nipples were already turgid coral points of erotic anticipation, and voluptuous shivers ran along her thighs and calves at the thought of what awaited her.

She put out one soft hand to cup his heavy, hairy balls, overcharged with amorous essence, and she exalted another sigh. Meanwhile, Father Lawrence, rather than let this judging be one-sided, circled her waist with his left arm and extended his right forefinger toward the thick bush of her pubis, and began to feel for the soft pink lips of Venus themselves. Her slow little giggle and a lascivious squirming of her juicily rounded, sumptuous bottom cheeks told him that he had attained his objective. He began to rim the fleshy, soft and already moistening lips of her cunt with a lingering deliberation which at once told me, expert as I have become in such matters, that he was by no means a novice in the sweet games of Cythera.

Now she used both hands to cup and rub and massage the broad, hot, thickly veined shaft of his organ, and her breasts rose and fell with an erratic tumult as she conjectured just how that weapon would feel within her cunt.

“It is, so big, so thick and hard and hot, Your Reverence!” she whispered, “voulez-vous bien me baiser?” (which, translated, means “Do you really want to fuck me?”).

“Once a sword is drawn, it must either draw blood or be sheathed satisfyingly,” he quipped. “And since you tell me you are a widow, it follows that you are no virgin, and therefore my blade will not bleed you, my daughter. Let us proceed to sheath it, then, to your complete satisfaction.”

“Oh, yes, Your Reverence,” Desiree exclaimed.

Now it was his turn to use both hands as his lingers found the plump, palpitating lips of Desiree's cunt and drew them apart. Meanwhile, the beautiful chestnut haired Amazon daintily put both forefingers on the sides of his cock and thus steered him towards her orifice. The elongated, naked pink lip of his sword forced its way through the thick, curly ringlets which still shielded her secret bower, and then he gave himself a little forward jerk and engaged a good half of his shaft within her channel. Desiree uttered a cry of bliss: “Ohh Your Reverence! It stretches me, it pierces me! Oh, do not stop now, put all of it into me quickly!”

“With the greatest of good will, my daughter,” he told her as he took hold of her naked bottom cheeks at the base, sinking his fingers eagerly into that succulent warm flesh, and thrust himself to the very hilt till their hairs mingled. Vigorous and strong though she was, the naked Amazon nonetheless had to clutch him with her arms locked round his shoulders, for she had begun to sway and to tremble at the very first dig of his prong into her quivering chasm. She closed her eyes, her nostrils opening and closing furiously as carnal desire swept through her every limb. “Oh, it fills me, it stretches and digs so deliciously,” she moaned in her rapture.

His lips set down at the pulse hollow of her throat as he now began to fuck her with long deep thrusts. She let her head fall back, and her fingernails dug into his bare shoulders, excoriating him in her delirium.

“You are very tight, my daughter, yet there is a moistness there which tells me that you are longing for satisfaction,” he declared, without once interrupting the slow, deliberate rhythm of his coitional endeavor.

“Ohh, it is true, Your Reverence, it has been many a month since I enjoyed so magnificent a cock inside me—oh, it is so good when you push it in slowly so that I can feel every inch of it invading me and stretching me there, Your Reverence!” she gasped.

Now she began to press forward to meet his charge, with an undulating twist to her ripe, full hips that showed how furiously she was being drawn towards the zenith of carnal ecstasy. Her nails dug into his flesh almost to the blood, but in retaliation his fingers squeezed and pinched the shuddering cheeks of her succulent backside. Indeed, by tactual means he was able to communicate a kind of signal to her when he meant to thrust home his blade; when his thumbs and median fingers squeezed the edges of both plump nether hemispheres, this was a sign to her that he was delving home to her hairs, whilst when he eased the grip of her behind, that meant she should be ready to expect his withdrawal.

I heard the moist, suctioning sounds which his prong and her certainly well lubricated channel produced in this in-and-out maneuvering. The louder grew Desiree's own gasps and sobs and sighs: “Aaah! Oh, Your Reverence, no one has ever fucked me so well—I entreat you not to stop, it is too heavenly—Ooohh, harder, push it in to me till you tear me apart, I am strong and can endure such penance! Eeeeaaaiiiiih!! I cannot hold on much longer, Your Reverence, please make me spend—now—now! Oh, now!!!”

At this final ejaculation, raucous and sobbing, she crushed herself against him so her magnificent naked breasts flattened against his heaving chest. Her teeth nipped at her satiny shoulder, as his hands forced open her buttocks and he delved a forefinger's tip into the tight, pink, twitching rosette of her bottomhole. At that very instant, he forced himself forward till his balls clashed against her thick dark chestnut pubis, and with a cry of delight, announced his own fulfillment: “Yes, now, my daughter, take it all!”

I saw her Amazonian body quake and shudder as the tempestuous burst of his essence must have lashed the volutes of her womb. Their cries coalesced, just as had their flesh, and thus the most ardent widow in Languecuisse welcomed the virile English ecclesiastic. I doubted not that this other widow, Madame Hortense Bernard, needs must be almost superhumanly endowed to be able to equal, much less surpass, the passionate fervor of this chestnut haired, bold, flaunting Amazon.

After it was over, Father Lawrence mopped his private parts and hers with a cambric handkerchief, which he put to his nostrils and inhaled, closing his eyes with rapture at the memento. Desiree, swiftly donning skirt and blouse again, hastened to smooth down the worn cot, so that at least by dutiful gesture and thought of, hers she would sleep better that night. Then, drawing the bolt of the door, she turned to him, her face radiant, and whispered, “I shall knock three times, Your Reverence, after Pere Mourier has begun to snore. Once he does that, I know he will not wake until the dawn.”

“Oh?” Father Lawrence chuckled, “so then you have indulged his passions already, my daughter?”

“Oh no, Your Reverence! But I was told this by his last housekeeper, Dame Clorinda, who left his service some few months ago to wed a rich widower in the village of Mirabellieu. But I am certain Your Reverence—and again I beg you to forgive me if my boldness offends you—that even if he does summon me to his bed, he cannot possibly be so competent as you in making me forget my widowhood. I bid you au revoir, Your Reverence.”