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Anonymous

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A FLEA

Book 2

CHAPTER ONE

MY READERS MAY WELL think me inconsistent and fickle in coming upon this second volume of my memoirs, particularly after recalling my statement that I did not care to renew my familiarity with either Bella or Julia, those two succulent, white-skinned damsels whose acquaintance I managed in the course of my professional activities of blood-sucking. Therefore a word or two of explanation is in order.

At the conclusion of my memoirs, I said also that I emigrated, in order to put many miles between myself and these two fair young ladies and the seminary in which they finally took refuge—if yielding to the carnal ardors of fourteen virile men of the cloth can be said to furnish refuge. That much was certainly true. I left England, wafted by a favorable wind blowing to the south, and found my own refuge in a little village in Provence, aptly named Languecuisse—which, for those astute readers who are not fluent in the French language, is translated to mean, “Tongue Thigh.” I may say that I did not choose this site of my next adventure with any foreknowledge of the titillating cognomen of this village; I simply was opportunist enough to let the wind carry me where it would. Autumn was not far off, and the chilly climate of England did not appeal to me; I would have had to go into hiding or hibernation, limiting my chances of nourishment and also of diversified contact with interesting people. For even a lowly Flea may have aspirations to culture, mark that well.

The village of Languecuisse was given over to vineyards where noble wines were pressed from the rich grapes. In all, I should say there were perhaps two hundred residing in that charming region, for nature had endowed Languecuisse with beauty that delighted the eye of the beholder. It was in a little valley, surrounded almost entirely by rolling hills, and thus protected from the gusty winds that can wreak havoc not only on tender grapes but also my own kind. The soil was wonderfully fertile, as it must be to produce the lush white and purple grapes whose nearly bursting skins yield the Burgundies and Sauternes and Chablis which I am told those of means are wont to imbibe. Besides the vineyards, there were carefully tended gardens and hedges, and many plots of vegetables. All this told me at once that the inhabitants of Languecuisse were not starving, and that in turn meant that I should not grow meager and pine away for lack of nourishment. For if the human race is one of opportunists, then assuredly we Fleas, being part of the divine scheme of things, are equally so; from this you may draw the logical inference that a Flea would rather attach himself to a person goodly in flesh than to one who is lean and jaundiced.

I had arrived, it appeared, just at the time of September harvesting of the grapes, judging from the comments of the beldames whom I heard as I dropped from the friendly zephyr that had borne me over the Channel to this exquisite little valley in the heart of France. I found temporary lodging on the beam of a door to a pleasant little cottage not far from the largest vineyard, and there a plump red haired woman in cap and apron was gossiping with her neighbor, a black haired, olive-skinned wench with bold eyes and breasts that strained against the lowcut bodice of her muslin dress.

“Tomorrow, Dame Margot,” the plumper one was saying, “we shall see how well the good grapes can be pressed. I myself intend to take part in the contest.”

“I trust, then, Dame Lucille, that your wind and stamina will hold out. Your intentions are good, but to stand in a wine vat in the hot sun and tread the grapes even for half an hour would tax a maiden many summers less your own age,” was the brunette's taunting retort.

“Bah,” sneered the red haired matron, “you know not of what you speak. If I am still capable of making my good man Jacques beg for mercy after a few jousts in bed with me, have no fear that I shall tire when I press the grapes. I have pressed the juice out of his winemaker on many a night when he was boasting of his prowess, and I could have fucked even your own handsome husband, to say nothing of half a dozen more.”

I have always been amused at the boastfulness of mortals, who always seem to be trying to prove their own superiority. This is of course a matter of relative significance, since time has a way of effacing all the achievements of a generation. Now we Fleas are short-lived indeed, and most of us seek to prove nothing except our own right to existence. When you consider that we have more enemies than ever opposed the race of human beings, I modestly say it is little short of a miracle that we survive at all. Not only are the elements arrayed against us, but also birds and alien insects and the animal kingdom from the mongrel dog to the veritable King of Beasts, the lion himself. But we too have ambitions like Man, and that is why we are attracted to his species for our nourishment. For a Flea to sustain himself as I have done on the body of a male or a female presupposes wit, ingenuity, courage and not a little heroism. And having said this much, I leave my readers to ponder on the theoretical question of importance and significance.

But to return to the scene at hand. This handsome matron of goodly girth and luxuriant auburn tresses who bore the name of Dame Lucille had quickened my interest by declaring to her neighbor that she was extraordinarily competent between the sheets. Her boasts of prowess roused in me nostalgic memories of impassioned embraces in which I had participated both as impartial observer and, as you will recall, even as catalyst. You may recall how I caused Mr. Verbouc to fall short of his incestuous desires for his niece Bella when, by dint of the simple expedient of digging my proboscis into the sensitive covering of his scrotum, I caused him to ejaculate his vigor before it could reach the love-chalice of his adorable young niece. I told myself that it might be amusing to sojourn a while with this Dame Lucille to discover first whether she might not have a vainglorious opinion of her own amatory powers and then whether or not I might contribute my own Flea-like commentaries on her ability. To be sure, since I found myself in a strange new clime and surroundings, the guiding and primal principle of survival is uppermost in my mind: it is essential that I find a source of nourishment, for I was already somewhat faint with hunger as a result of my long wind-borne journey. And the fulsomeness of her fine white flesh seemed to promise a magnificent source.

As I prepared to fly down from my vantage point on the doorbeam, Dame Margot, the bold-eyed black haired wench put her hands on her svelte hips and jeered: “Why, as to that, it's easy enough to wag one's tongue where there is nothing to be gained. You know very well that you have as little chance of enticing my Guillaume to your bed as I have of proving to your Jacques that I could exhaust him in half the time you take. So save your energies, good Lucille, for the contest tomorrow.”

“Pooh!” the auburn haired matron put out her tongue in derision. “I was always one to suit action to words. I would willingly exchange husbands with you to prove my boast, did I not know that your Guillaume is so afraid of his own shadow and of your nagging that he would not dare come to my bedchamber for a good fucking. Nay, a better fucking than ever he had in his life.”

This taunt evidently pricked Dame Margot's wifely pride in a sensitive spot, for her face reddened with anger and she promptly exclaimed, “I will call your bluff and show you up to be a lying shrew! If you succeed in winning tomorrow afternoon, I give you my word that my Guillaume will come to your bedchamber ready to do you service whenever you propose. But I do not think that your Jacques would willingly stand by and watch himself being cuckolded.”

“I will take that wager,” declared my red haired hostess (for I had already decided to attach myself to her until such time as I could determine my destiny), “and I will be equally generous. If I win, I will send Jacques to your bed and bid him account to me strictly of your capabilities once his winemaker is pressed well within your matrix. I warrant you that your Guillaume will be limp and useless in my bed a long hour before my Jacques is used up between your long, lean thighs.”

“Done!” The brunette stamped her foot, her eyes sparkling with angry determination. “But suppose you are not the winner in the grape-treading contest, Lucille? What forfeit will you then pay, you boastful jade?”

While Dame Lucille was pondering her reply, I took advantage of the respite to hop down to her shoulder whence I made my way to her soft white neck, hiding under the luxuriant cascade of her auburn tresses which fell nearly to her waist. Her skin was dazzlingly white and her neck was round and delightfully succulent. Having some expert knowledge on the subject, I adjudged her to be approximately thirty years of age, in the full bloom of her wifehood. She evidently felt me, for she put her hand back to her neck and rubbed, whilst wriggling her voluptuous

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