farther away from her but yet retaining his left palm on her naked lower back, applied two or three quick strokes straight across the lower curves of her milky backside. These drew sobs and tears and new wriggling maneuvers which made his eyes blaze with sexual ferocity.
Yet actually the scourging was not overly severe. True, there were faint pink streaks fro the tops of her hips to her uppermost thighs imparted by the leather discipline, but there were no really cruel strokes to torture her. I thereupon concluded that this was a voluptuous flagellation, altogether ideal for bringing the blood to the surface of the pure soft skin as well as inflaming the penitent's subconscious ardors for what purpose my readers and I can well guess.
“Oh, I implore you, mon pere,” Laurette tearfully petitioned as she shifted her beautiful bare knees on the hard wooden seat of her punishment chair, “I am not very brave and I cannot endure this much longer. Please do finish it and pardon me, I beg of you!”
“Courage, my child, you have yet a good deal to suffer before your sins are purged,” he retorted: “Would you bargain with the devil, then, for a lesser chastisement simply because your mortal flesh is weak and thereby lose your hope for heaven? Steel yourself and grit your teeth, Laurette. I am going to whip you very smartly now, my girl.”
He was as good as his word, too. Now the leather scourge flew through the air with more authority, applying horizontal stripes all over Laurette's naked seat, while the unfortunate beauty sobbed and wailed and incessantly jerked her hips this way and that to evade the burning kisses of the lash. At one point, a particularly stinging cut across the base of her wriggling backside made her drop her clothes which promptly covered up the condemned area. But so enthusiastically engrossed was he in his good work of saving her soul that he did not chide her for this neglect, but instead with his own left hand hoisted up her garments once again. But, not satisfied, he then dropped the scourge to the floor and sternly told her that he meant to lift her clothing so that it would not fall back again to terminate her punishment before he meant it to end. Thereupon, coming very close to her, he put his hands caressingly about her thighs and hips, fondling them a good deal, till at last he raised skirt and petticoat and dragged them up over her head and shoulders, letting them fall over her face to blindfold her and thus exposing her naked save for her camisole, which was a kind of vest that descended only to about the middle of her milky back.
Then, telling her she might clutch the rungs of the chair in front of her to sustain herself, he retrieved the scourge and set about whipping her in earnest. Moving from side to side so as to command her entire bottom, he applied first a horizontal stroke, then a diagonal one, while poor Laurette, beside herself with pain and shame, cried out and twisted and jerked and wriggled in the most exciting manner.
“There,” he said soothingly as he laid on a final stroke which wrapped the two split ends of the thong against her naked belly and drew a piercing cry from the unfortunate penitent, “you have paid the price for your licentiousness, my girl, now kneel there in penitence and make your silent prayers to him who will be your lawful husband, that he will accept you to his bosom as a pure, untainted virgin. Meanwhile, I will soothe your hurts.”
Casting aside the scourge, he approached the chair on which the half-naked, golden haired virgin knelt weeping and still squirming about. His pudgy hands, the backs of which were covered with thick black hairs, greedily but very lightly stroked and palpitated her naked bottom. Laurette gasped at the very instant she first felt his profaning fingers take such audacious liberties, but she did not dare protest, fearing another application of the wicked scourge. Besides, her face covered by her petticoat and gown which he had pulled up over her, she could not see that he had rolled up his cassock to the waist and secured it with a couple of pins which he procured from the top of his dresser, thereby denuding himself in all his obese, hairy and massive maleness. For the cock of Pere Mourier was really enormous; it surpassed in girth that of Guillaume Noirceau, and it was fully as long as that of Jacques Tremoulier. The head was a huge, obscene plum in size, with thick lips twitching as if impatient to disgorge their spew.
A fit of trembling overtook Laurette as she crouched on her whipping chair, compelled to tender her streaked naked bottomcheeks to the holy father. But after a bit, as she discovered that his fingers did not hurt her stripes but rather benevolently caressed and fondled the quaking globes of her behind, she relaxed her vigilance and terror. Sobs still shook her lovely body, but they were muted now, delicious music to a flagellant's ears.
He crouched a little so that he might better examine the inflammation which the scourge had left on those lovely hindquarters. Towards the end of the flogging, the tips of the lash had bitten against the inner edges of both bottom cheeks, and there were dark red little blotches visible. His fingers first lightly stroked these marks; then very slyly and very slowly, he took hold of the lower curves of her behind and pried them asunder, disclosing the crinkly little rosebud of her virgin anus.
“Ohhh! Oh, what are you doing to me, mon pere?” Laurette gasped, and the muscles of her bottom furiously tightened to hide this most intimate spot of all.
“My child, I am going to lave your hurts with some soothing oil. Do not be afraid. Surrender yourself, for this is a part of your penitence,” he replied in a trembling, harsh voice, burdened by his overweening lust.
“I—I will submit,” Laurette breathed, nearly swooning with shame, “But do please hurry and end my punishment, mon pere. My bottom hurts so terribly and I am dying of shame to be like this before you.”
“That very humiliation is part of the punishment,” he sagely observed. “Now stick your bottom out a little more, my child. Ah, that is excellent! Now do not be alarmed and do not move until I tell you to.”
With this, tightening the dig of his stubby fingers into those tender inner bottom curves, he distended them to the maximum. Before Laurette could cry out at the sharp twinge which this caused her sensitive anus, he had advanced the huge plumhead of his cock against the dainty crinkly ambery-pink rosette. The heat and firmness of that spear point made Laurette utter another cry and again contract her muscles, whereupon he angrily rebuked her: “If you do not stop this wriggling about until I bid you do so, my daughter, I shall be regretfully compelled to give you another scourging. This will be on the fronts of your thighs, and will also properly chastise the most sinful part of all, which you have merited by lying in the field with that miserable apprentice!”
With a heartrending sob, Laurette resigned herself. Once again, the obese priest prodded the tip of his savagely swollen cock against her nether orifice and was just about to engage it within the shrinking, tender virgin lips when there was a hammering at the door.
His face turned nearly purple with frustrated rage; for a moment he hesitated, but the hammering resumed. Muttering something under his breath, he unpinned his cassock quickly and, frantically looking about, at last seized a hymnal which he held over the juncture of his thighs to conceal the impious swelling. Laurette uttered a cry of distress: “Oh, do not let anyone see me thus, mon pere!”
He had gone halfway towards the door when her cry reminded him of the impropriety that might be exposed to alien eyes. Muttering something again, he hurried back to her, dragged down petticoat and skirt to conceal her striped naked bottom, and then whispered, “Remain just as you are and do not say a word!”
Then, composing his florid, contorted features into a semblance of benign serenity, Pere Mourier at last went to the door and opened it.
It was his Amazonian housekeeper Desiree, breathless, her face flushed, her eyes shining. He noted that the bodice of her blouse had been disarranged and exposed rather more of the valley of her sumptuous bosom than was proper in the rectory. But before he could remonstrate with her over this immodesty, she burst out: “Oh, mon pere, I just came back from the house of the patron, and I told him about little Laurette. He was grief stricken, but he bids you attend so that she will be well and in good spirits for the announcement of the banns. But just as I entered, mon pere, I was in time to admit a visitor who asks for you. He is Father Lawrence from London, mon pere. Shall I admit him?”
“I will go to him in the little salon, Madame Desiree,” Pere Mourier said in a composed voice. “Will you do me the sweet favor of bringing wine and some of those little cakes which you said you had baked to celebrate your first day as my housekeeper? My guest will no doubt be thirsty and hungry, if he has come so far.” And he gave the Amazonian beauty a fatherly pat on her opulent hip. His hand lingered a little more than was absolutely necessary. I could see it all now. This patriarch of the little village of Languecuisse, having attended the grape-trampling contest, had doubtless seen Desiree's lewd exposure and her most intimate person while in the cask. And having been inflamed by the sight of her magnificent bottom and furry slit, he had decided to assuage the loneliness of his bare and sparsely furnished little rectory with her beauteous charms.
