“Yes, that is true, Pierre dearest. Very well! I would much rather have you fuck me than M'sieu Villiers. For I love you so dearly that it grieves me to think that it will be the patron who will take off my drawers henceforth and not you.”
With a cry of joy the youth ripped off Laurette's drawers, and exposed the soft, sweet mound of her cunt. The lovely little golden ringlets curled over the soft thick lips so protectively and lovingly that he was enchanted by them and let his fingertips play with those silken hairs. Meanwhile, Laurette had twisted her face to one side and covered it up with her hands, as if thus she was not party to what was being done and hence in no way a mortal sin.
“Oh, Laurette, my beloved sweetheart,” he gasped as he bent his head and applied a lingering kiss on the tangle of soft golden curls which shielded her virgin cunt. Laurette squealed and arched herself up instinctively, while at the same time she put up her knees and parted them to grant him access to her bower. Thus encouraged, Pierre Larrieu clasped the naked thighs with his ardent fingers and, deftly disengaging her drawers, cast the final veil aside. He then hoisted himself into her saddle, and at once brought the tip of his cock to bear against the furry nest of her love mound. Laurette uttered a gasp, “Oh, gently, darling! I don't think it can get into me, it is so big!” She lifted up her arms to him, and the youth put his arms under her shoulders to support her as his hips fused with hers. She shivered exquisitely as she felt his cock tip nuzzle against the soft pink lips of her sweet maiden's cunt. I was nearby on a blade of grass, with full view of what was taking place, and I could not find it in my heart to disturb these young lovers, meeting thus upon so sorrowful an occasion.
Pierre crept forward a little, just engaging the tip of his weapon in the pouting lips of her crack, and Laurette again uttered a little squeal of mingled delight and fear. “Oh, Pierre, do it gently, I beg you. It tickles so nicely. Do not hurt me.”
“Oh my darling, I would never hurt you. Oh, how wonderful it is to fuck you, Laurette! Your thighs are so round and firm and white, you do not know how I have dreamed of doing this for so many years!” he declared.
Carefully he pushed forward a little more until the head of his prick was by now swallowed up just inside the lobbyway of Laurette's virgin orifice. She clung to him desperately and tenaciously at the same time, her eyes closed, her face scarlet with delicious blushes, awaiting the act which would make them one inseparably, no matter what should be the outcome.
“Now I must push it in a little harder, darling, and it may hurt just a little bit,” he gallantly warned, as he steeled himself for the fray. “But once the pain is gone, I promise you only joy unsurpassed. Oh, darling Laurette how the lips of your cunt fairly kiss my cock, as if bidding it to go in all the way!”
“Oh yes, I can feel them trembling about your thing,” Laurette whispered shyly, convulsively digging her fingers into his shoulders. “Then fuck me, darling dear. Please fuck me now!”
He drew a deep breath and then surged forward. At the same time Laurette, plagued by the vestigial fears which every virgin knows, even in moments of rapture, squirmed and tightened her thighs. The effect was to make him fall somewhat short of the mark of her hymen, although he undoubtedly must have banged against it, for she cried out, “Ai-i-i! I did feel a twinge then, darling. Oh, darling, I know it will hurt me, but I will be brave for your sake. Take me, fuck your little Laurette!”
“Who talks of fucking under the sky and the moon and the stars when the Creator Himself can look down and behold such wickedness?” there suddenly boomed a choleric voice.
Pierre Larrieu and Laurette Boischamp uttered a simultaneous cry of terror as the youth rolled off the half- naked, palpitating virgin. There, towering over them, stood the priest of the village, Pere Mourier.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was a tragi-comic scene, to say the least.
There was the blond youth standing just away from Laurette, his tattered trousers about his heels and his hands clutched over his turgid cock, his eyes bulging with mingled stupefaction and lust. There was golden haired Laurette, sprawled on the greensward, her drawers lying near her straddled naked thighs, her skirt and petticoat rolled up to her waist, her head raised up and her sweet blue eyes enormously dilated whilst her soft, trembling hands shielded her golden-ringleted cunt. And there, burly arms on his hips, in his black cassock and ecclesiastical hat, stood the glowering priest of the village, his mouth agape at the iniquitous spectacle upon which he had come.
“What devil's work is this?” he thundered irately. Mordieu! Is it truly the gentle virgin Laurette Boischamp whom I thus behold in the very act of surrendering herself carnally to this detestable young fornicator?”
At this denunciation, Laurette began to sob pitifully.
“What dreadful sin have you two committed?” Pere Mourier continued. He was short of stature and somewhat obese. He was possibly forty-five years of age, and his face was florid and his jowls were loose and flabby. His mouth was small but excessively fleshy, and his nose was bulbous. He was nearly bald, except for a sparse thatch of short gray hair which covered the rear of his skull and left his enormously broad forehead extending forward, thus giving him an aspect of a feared inquisitor. His eyes were closely set together, and surprisingly soft and brown as a woman's, under gray, shaggy brows.
“Clothe yourselves quickly and let me see no more of this abomination,” he went on. “You, Pierre Larrieu, would you dare defile this virgin out of wedlock? She is the betrothed of good Monsieur Claude Villiers. On the next Sunday, I am to pronounce their banns from my pulpit. And yet you would steal from that worthy humanitarian who befriends all the villagers that which is his sacred right!”
“Forgive me, Pere Mourier,” Laurette petitioned in a trembling little voice as she groped for her drawers and, modestly turning herself so that her back faced the angry priest, swiftly pulled them up over her thighs and loins and once more veiled her maiden crotch. “It was my fault, mine was the sin. Punish me, but do not harm my darling Pierre! If I could, I would wed him a thousand times rather, poor though he be, than the patron!”
“Child, child,” the priest interposed almost cajolingly. “You are too young and innocent to know whereof you speak. Monsieur Villiers is an honorable man, and he has given much to the Holy Church. He has given work and good wages and lodging to all the inhabitants of Languecuisse. To wed with him sanctifies you. You cannot think of marrying this boy whose lineage is spurious. He does not even work as a tenant farmer under the patron, so how then could he support a family? It is unthinkable that the two of you should commit such licentious wickedness.”
By this time Laurette had rolled down her petticoat and skirt and slowly rose, steadying her back against the huge oak tree, her face scarlet with sweet confusion. Her young lover, who had just failed of obtaining his objective between her snowy thighs, had tugged his trousers back on and sheepishly hung his head as the good father excoriated them.
“Were you not sent for this night, my little one?” the priest gently questioned now, “to go to the house of the patron to receive your deserved reward for your triumph in the festival this afternoon?”
“Oui, mon pere,” quavered Laurette.
“And yet you tarried that, you might have a sinful rendezvous with this vaurien, this good-for-nothing,” Pere Mourier went on, his jowls quivering with indignation.
“No, mon pere,” the youth valiantly interposed. “It was I who waited in the fields here for her and waylaid her. I told her that once she wed the patron, our joy was done forever, and I implored her to yield to me. Just once, and that is heaven's own truth, mon pere!”
“Well, well, well, I do not know whom to believe. What I saw with my own eyes told me only that both of you were about to commit mortal sin. But answer me on your hope of salvation in the next world, Pierre Larrieu—did you take her maidenhead just now?”
“Oh no, mon pere,” the youth blurted, his own face reddening with shame at the reminder of his failure.
“Well, at least that is something,” the priest conceded. “But both of you must be punished nonetheless. Pierre Larrieu, you will get you to your hovel at once, and before you seek repose, you will say a hundred Pater Nosters. And you will pray for divine forgiveness. You will not dare to lift your eyes to another virgin in this village or I shall tell the patron and have him banish you from Languecuisse. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, mon pere,” the youth groaned.
“Then go!” the priest commanded, shaking his fist in the direction of the sky.
Pierre Larrieu hesitated a moment, reluctant to leave his sweetheart to the mercy of this fat ogre, for such he
