thighs. His hands this time lasciviously roved over her defenseless body, pinching her breasts and belly and hips and thighs till she squealed and squirmed. At least he managed a kind of half-potency and made haste to fling himself down upon her, his scrawny chest flattening her shuddering, milky bubbies and his thin dry lips stifling the cry that rose from her sweet, rosy mouth.
I believed then that Laurette was in the most terrible danger of all, but again I had reckoned without the intervention of demanding nature. So keen had been his anticipation of pillaging her treasure in this fettered and helpless condition that he again ejaculated his seed before it could reach inside her matrix. Just as the tip of his cock prodded between the tender lips of Laurette's virgin cunny, his eyes rolled in his head and his face turned a fiery red and this time his premature burst stickied her inner thighs and lower belly.
She was once again constrained to service him with her mouth, but the effort was again useless so far as rendering him potent again was concerned. Grumpily he flung himself down beside her without even bothering to release her bonds, and so fell asleep, ignoble and selfish wretch that he was.
During the interim between those two occasions when Monsieur Villiers sought to have sexual congress with his tender young bride, I made my way back to the little cottage of the Widow Bernard on one evening and to the rectory of Pere Mourier on another occasion. As it chanced, the fat French priest had been summoned to the parish of Jardineannot, about a dozen kilometers to the west, to perform the funeral service for a dear old friend. As a consequence Father Lawrence, telling his buxom landlady that he had been requested to substitute for Pere Mourier in the event that the villagers of Languecuisse might need spiritual consolation during the latter's absence, made a nocturnal visit to the little rectory. There he found the beautiful Amazonian housekeeper Desiree alone and ecstatically eager to give him another proof of her burning devotion. She prepared a tasty collation for him, even to a bottle of Pere Mourier's best wine, and the two of them ate and drank with gusto. When they had finished, he sighed with repletion and avowed that he would not be able to move for hours after so filling a repast.
The beautiful chestnut haired widow roguishly told him that she would not disturb him for all the world, yet his indolence need not impair their enjoying the pleasures of Cythera. As he leaned back in the straight-backed chair, Desiree divested herself of her skirt and this time of her drawers also, for she had not anticipated the delightful visit of the virile English ecclesiast. Next, lofting his cassock and lowering his drawers, she seated herself with her back to him, her legs straddling over his, and reaching between her boldly yawning thighs, took hold of his already prodigiously excited spear and drew it towards her furry niche. Her sighs and gasps of delight pronounced, to express her words, the unusually stimulating angle of incidence with which his cock rasped against the volutes of her inner channel, granting her indescribable pleasure. By dint of squirming about and arching gently and then lowering herself, she was able to bring them both to a simultaneous fruition of erotic rapture.
And when they had both rested from this delightful pursuit of carnal gratification, she led him into the bedroom of Pere Mourier, and there, Eve-naked as he was Adam-unclothed, did renew with fiery vigor and enthusiasm their fleshly union. I witnessed two exciting bouts, the first of which took place with Father Lawrence firmly mounted over his beautiful and passionate steed, whereas the second foray was accomplished with Desiree kneeling on all fours and the apparently tireless English holy man behind her and foraging his sturdy weapon deep within her cunny.
On the other occasion, Father Lawrence showed that he was not at all unmindful of the debt he owed the Widow Bernard for her tender hospitality. He crept into her bedchamber after she had gone to sleep, only to find her tossing and turning restlessly and murmuring incoherent words. Drawing off the thin sheets, for it was another warm night, he tickled the lips of her cunny and her clitoris as well till he wakened her. Thus exquisitely attended, she uttered a cry of joy and held out her arms to him. He possessed her lingeringly. Midway through their juncture, he obliged her to draw her knees up against her sumptuous bosom, and then, taking hold of the backs of her knees, directed himself deeply into her moist and quaking love-channel.
On the Thursday afternoon which marked the start of the second week of Laurette's marriage to the elderly patron, both Pere Mourier and Father Lawrence conferred at the former's rectory on the subject of bringing this charming wench to her confessional. It was decided that Pere Mourier would pay a call this very evening on the golden haired young bride and gently remind her that it was high time she closet herself with her spiritual mentor and announce to him her new attitude on the subject of wifely obligations. Now Monsieur Villiers, angrily frustrated as we well know from not having perforated Laurette's coveted hymen, had decided to turn his attentions to his vineyards and to the bottling of the good wine from those grapes which had been harvested. Consequently, he spent the morning and afternoon out in the fields with his workers and with his overseer Hercule, and gave his bride to understand that he would be thus occupied at least through the following week.
Having returned at sundown, exhausted from his unwonted physical labors, the patron went straight to his bedchamber and to sleep. So when Pere Mourier was announced by the housekeeper Victorine, he found charming Laurette alone in her own room, fully clothed and deliciously provocative as ever to his expertly appraising eyes.
“My daughter,” he said unctuously, “it is high time that you make your confession. Will you not come to my rectory tomorrow afternoon so that this obligation may be fulfilled in complete privacy, as is befitting so grave a ceremony.”
Laurette cast down her beautiful blue eyes and averred that she would keep the appointment. And so on Friday afternoon, she made her way to the rectory, was smilingly received by the beautiful Desiree and ushered at once into the presence of the obese French priest.
But what was Laurette's surprise to find Father Lawrence there also, seated at his ease near the little curtained booth into which she was to go. Pere Mourier had had this second confession booth installed in his rectory, just off the salon, for special occasions, whereas most of his parishioners, naturally, avowed their sins in the church itself.
“Good day, Father,” Laurette stammered, rather nervous at discovering that she would have to bare her secret heart to not one but apparently two fathers confessor. “Do not be afraid, my child,” Father Lawrence smilingly responded, “it is only that the worthy Pere Mourier was gracious enough to invite me, a visitor from English shores to observe what close communication he keeps with his little flock here in this charming village of Provence. It may well be that I shall learn much from him to take back to England with me, and thereby spread more good. So go make a clean breast of your misdeeds and mis-thoughts, my daughter, and you will be heartened thereby.”
So the golden haired young beauty, mastering her embarrassment, entered the little confessional booth and knelt, down on the cloth-covered rail, whilst Pere Mourier made his way to the other side and began pompously: “I am ready now, my child, to take your confessional.”
Laurette's soul was a tender one and a sweet one, I am certain. In the main she had not really much to confess in that short time which had elapsed between her last confessional and her first week of marriage. Solely, she accused herself of deep regret that she had been forced to marry against her will, because she did not love her husband and was not sure that she ever could.
To this, Pere Mourier assumed a highly sententious line of reasoning, reminding her that the Israelites, after escaping Egypt, remembered their sorrows and their tribulations for centuries thereafter by means of ceremonials. “Just so,” he concluded, “must you realize that in return for blessings and good things, you must pay the price of some small annoyances, for life is never perfect, my dear child.”
“Alas, mon pere,” Laurette sighed, “I tell myself this daily, but it does not seem to ease the pangs in my grieving heart. I still mourn my Pierre.”
“That is scandalous, my daughter. Satan himself lurks in the darkness, waiting to seize your mortal soul the moment you entertain thoughts of adulterous consorting. For such it is, and do not doubt it; now that you are wed in lawful estate to the good patron whose name you bear, it behooves you to remain as irreproachable as Caesar's wife herself. Try to remember that, my child.”
“I—I will, mon pere,” Laurette quavered. She had doubtless thought herself finished with this painful interrogation when suddenly Pere Mourier interposed: “Now, before I give you your penance, my daughter, you must tell me whether you have made every possible effort to be a good and obedient wife to your husband.”
“Yes, mon pere, I—I am sure that I have done my best,” was the tremulous answer.
“Well, then, that is virtue indeed if it is so. But I would have a strict accounting from you, Laurette, as to this vital question: Have you humbly and truly granted your husband his conjugal rights? By this I mean, of course, have you permitted him access to your body that he may cleave unto you, as is prescribed by all the tenets of a good marriage?”
