crimson with sensual titillation.
“There is nothing wicked in words, my child, only in deeds. Well, then, be of good cheer, for I promise you I shall reason and remonstrate with this unfortunate woman who has not enjoyed your ascent to grace by being engaged as the housekeeper of a goodly man of the Church. I shall leave now to make the acquaintance of this misguided creature, my child. Do you recount your blessings to yourself after I am gone.”
“Yes, surely. Alas, Your Reverence!” Desiree let a languorous sigh escape her.
“What troubles you?” he rose and drew her to him, his hands squeezing the firm, jutting globes of her sumptuous backside through her skirt. “You need keep no secrets from me, my daughter, as I think you know already.”
“I—I shall be I—lonely without Your Reverence here to console me,” Desiree whimpered, her face downcast.
“Courage, my beautiful daughter! Tilt up that lovely face and give me a parting kiss of peace. I promise that you shall not be forgotten in my orisons, nor my thoughts either. If ever you are stricken with despair or aught else that troubles you greatly which your worthy employer cannot alleviate for you, I give you leave to call upon me at Madame Bernard's abode.” So saying, the English ecclesiast cupped her trembling chin with one hand and fused his lips to hers, while she wriggled lasciviously against him. Her tongue crept out and furled into his mouth as her arms wrapped around him, loath to release him. “Ohh, please, Your R—Reverence,” she breathed tremulously, “will you not appease my loneliness a last time before you depart? I am sure that once you go to reside with that lewd trollop Hortense Bernard you will be so preoccupied with trying to cast the demon out of her that you will have no time for your humble servant Desiree.”
“You must learn patience and discipline, my child,” he murmured. “There is not time for me to allay your grief completely, but I will grant you a momentary respite from your sufferings. Do you then hoist your skirt and petticoat and keep them at your waist, while you continue kissing me in farewell.”
“I—I have no petticoat on, Y—Your Reverence,” Desiree quavered.
“So much the better, then less time will be lost,” he retorted.
The chestnut haired Amazon swiftly tucked up her skirt, under which she was voluptuously naked, and kept it wadded up in a roll above her belly with one trembling hand, while her other foraged at once to his cassock just at the point where his sexual weapon flourished. But the English ecclesiast halted her and shook his head. “No, my daughter,” he said kindly but firmly. “You must learn the lesson of forbearance. I alone will ease your anguish, but you must withhold yourself in all other ways. Use that soft hand to clamp against my back to support you, and now give me your soft red lips.”
She reluctantly obeyed. Once his lips crushed against hers, he clamped his left arm round her pliant waist and approached his right forefinger to the thick dark chestnut bush which hid her pink-lipped cunny. Delicately, very lingeringly, he began to frig the beautiful Amazon, the tip of his wiry finger just grazing the quivering, coral petals of her cunt hole, till the voluptuous young widow began to gasp and sigh and to squirm herself this way and that. “Do not let your skirt fall, my daughter, or I shall stop at once,” he warned her, “and continue to kiss me lovingly to signify your sorrow in our parting.”
Her burning lips fervently mashed to his, and her tongue voraciously dug between his lips, scraping his teeth and gums, while her fingers, like talons, clawed at his sinewy back. His forefinger resumed its fractional caresses over the labia of her Venus, which at once grew moist and began to twitch and to grow a darker pink and inflamed from the access of lustful desires which his titillations evoked. Her eyes dilated enormously and were misty with her swiftly rising passions as she breathed, “Ohh—ahhhh—ohhh, ahh, Y—Your R—Reverence—oh, I implore Your Reverence not to torture me like this, but to plough my furrow with that hard rod of yours, it is what I so dearly need, if I am to be denied it for the future!”
“Think upon your remembrance of the communion I granted you last night, my daughter, for its exemplary vigor should not be so soon forgotten,” was his bantering response, “and remember this invaluable precept, that anticipation is sometimes even more rewarding than realization. Better still, summon your inventive mind to pretend that what you feel between your sturdy thighs is that which you enjoyed last night to such overweening measure, since what I now deign to accord you is also a member and part of me.”
“Aii—ohh—ahh—y—yes—Y—Your Reverence,” moaned the passionate Amazon, whose loins had begun to writhe and jerk convulsively as his clever frigging drove her apace towards gushing climax, “but the other m- member was ever so much longer and thicker—ahhh!”
“Ingratitude is the curse of the world, my daughter,” he said sententiously as he kept frigging her pouting cunt lips, while now his left hand gripped the scruff of her neck to force her to kiss him without ceasing, “that I attend your needs at all when I have errands to perform this day must show you that I hold you in some little esteem, so be content. Am I not quieting your fervor somewhat?”
“Ahh—oouuuuu—ahrrr—y—yes—ohh, Y—Your R—Reverence,” Desiree fairly sobbed, “but it takes so long with your finger—ohh, if only your great rod were stuffed inside me to the very roots, my fondest memories of Your Reverence would be magnified a thousand-fold—ahrrr—ohh, quickly, in mercy, for I am burning up inside my slit!”
“Kiss me gratefully then, my child, and I will see to your assuagement,” he whispered. When again her feverish, hot and moist lips crushed on his and once more her nimble tongue flicked and serpentined between his lips, Father Lawrence deftly sought with his questing forefinger-tip the little nodule of her clitoris, sweetly hidden in its fold of soft pink love-flesh, wherein was contained all the potency of her sexual fever. No sooner had he grazed this simulacrum of a male cock than it throbbed and stiffened, and a moaning, inchoate cry escaped the writhing housekeeper. Her thighs shook with tremors, and she was hard put to it to retain her uptrussed skirt against her belly, but his left hand supported her by tightening its grip against her neck.
Tantalizingly, he rubbed the little button of her erotic grotto till she was beside herself and the most uncontrollable spasms shook her as she pressed and arched against him, employing all her wiles—even those of her fiercely cajoling tongue that sloshed about so avidly on his mouth- to seduce him into fucking her. But with heroic self-control Father Lawrence resisted her temptation (for a reason that will soon be made manifest to my readers), simply contenting himself with prodding her clitoris this way and that till at last Desiree announced her flooding climax with a raucous cry of rapture, and flung both arms round his neck as her body jerked and writhed its frenzied responses. He wiped off his copiously bedewed forefinger on her rumpled skirt, then kissed her chastely on the forehead and told her he would remember her in his meditations. And then, while she retired, weeping disconsolately, to the kitchen to see to Pere Mourier's afternoon nourishment, Father Lawrence left the rectory.
The cottage of the widow whom the good Pere Mourier had recommended as a possible housekeeper was not far from the rectory, a pleasant stroll through verdant fields and hedges, not unlike that which Laurette Boischamp had taken the night before with such dismal consequences as my readers readily recollect. Father Lawrence walked slowly, enjoying the landscape, the blue sky and warm sun, serenely at his ease. At length he came to the little cottage and rapped upon the door for admittance, whereupon it was opened by a stunningly buxom female the sight of whom at once brightened the worthy ecclesiast's eye.
“Oh, mon pere,” the woman exclaimed, putting a hand to her mouth, “has something happened to Pere Mourier that you are here to replace him?”
“Be of good cheer, my daughter,” Father Lawrence at once responded in quite passable French, “your concern for my confrere tells me in what high esteem you hold him. He, on the other hand, spoke warmly to me only last night, praising your zeal and devotion as one of his parishioners.”
“The dear man,” the widow cooed, raising her eyes to heaven, “may he be forever blessed! But then is it that Languecuisse is to have two priests, Your Reverence?”
“No, Madame Bernard, for you see I am just here on my vacation before I return to the seminary in England where I shall take up my duties,” he smilingly informed her. “But as I am a stranger here, Pere Mourier was good enough to suggest that you might be willing to give me board and lodging, for which I will pay well. I seek privacy and quiet for my meditations, and I would not intrude upon you in the slightest.”
During this little speech, the buxom female openly eyed the virile, mature English churchman, while he, to be sure, discreetly surveyed her charms, recalling what Desiree had mentioned of her carnal foibles. Hortense Bernard was not much older than Desiree, by perhaps two years at most, with light brown hair that fell in a lustrous sheaf to her shoulder blades, a winsome, round face with widely spaced large soft brown eyes, a Grecian nose whose broadly flaring wings indicated a sensual temperament, as did the small but overripe lips of her red mouth.
