through her divine nakedness. Now her thumb and forefinger took hold of the half-roused gnarled shaft and gave it a tender little pinch. “Oh, my beloved wife,” he groaned, “how you entrance me! But come, let us take our pleasure on the soft broad bed, rather than tire ourselves by standing thus!”
In the closet, where the two priests had long kept their patient vigil for just such a sight as they now beheld, Pere Mourier nudged his English confrere and whispered, “Mordieu, does not the vision of such white, radiant naked flesh send flames of inspiration through your being?”
“Of a certainty, Pere Mourier. It is, alas, risible to see that meager old man essay to give so voluptuous and young a wench the pleasuring which only a robust and virile lover can afford her. And she is well made to accept such devotion, mark you. Ah, what finely rounded thighs, what delicious, haunches! And that soft, sweetly dimpled belly, made to cushion a man's weight as he lies upon it, his firm member thrust to its very ell-length deep within that sweet little golden downed nest of hers!” rhapsodized the English ecclesiast.
“You are a man with spiritual kinship to me,” quote the fat French churchman. “I too share your desire for the charming Laurette. Ventre-Dieu, the two of us might contrive a way to educate her in her conjugal duties, yet without robbing the worthy patron of this humble village. Yet perhaps I offend your moral scruples by intimating such a devious act?”
“Not so, not so in the least,” declared the bluff English holy man, “my blood boils at the way her little white hand timidly acquaints itself with his dwarfed old garden tool. I would right willingly spade her garden and harvest all the sweet bounty therein!”
“Methinks that if what we are watching now does not produce the consummation which will sanctify this union, we may achieve our communal desire,” Pere Mourier declared. “For she is young and impressionable and most devout. To thunder forth our wrath against her shirking her marital obligations will bring the naughty child to terms, mark my words upon it, Father Lawrence! But watch how she does her sweet maidenly best to bring M'sieu Villiers to point!”
Laurette had released her old husband's prick and relinquished hold of her soft arm about her waist, permitting him to grasp her by the wrist and draw her, feverishly and pantingly towards the connubial bed. The sweet girl stretched out upon it, hiding her face in the crook of one beautifully rounded white arm, while the patron, gasping and groaning like a fish out of water, scrambled onto the bed and knelt beside his adorable young bride. “Oh, I am implore you, my little pigeon, to go on with what you were just doing,” he supplicated in his cackling voice. “I must possess you or die of frustration! Take hold of my prick again, my sweetling, and nestle it in the soft warm cove of your little hand, that it may grow to requisite vigor!”
Laurette dutifully lifted her other hand and groped for his still dormant weapon. Her fingertips tickled and glided over it from head to balls, while the two stealthily eavesdropping clergymen held their breath and stared through the crack in the closet door at what was taking place.
Gradually, under her delicious ministrations, his cock hardened to commendable size and length, though it could in no way compare with the potency of Pierre Larrieu, and still less with the mighty ramrods possessed by those two who espied this intimate scene from their closet hiding place. Meanwhile, the patron, his face screwed up in a rictus of tortured bliss, scrambled with his bony fingers over Laurette's upper thighs, her dimpled belly, and her golden ringlets which throve over her soft, pink lipped cunny.
“Oh, enough, my beauty,” he at last groaned, “you will make me lose it all, and I must put it deep into your little slit! Open your legs, my pigeon, and prepare yourself for my charge! I will make you beg for mercy, as I promised!”
He crouched now between her obediently spread open thighs, and with his trembling fingers sought to gape apart the sweet warm corals of her quim so that he might engage his tool within that amorous antechamber. But no sooner had he at last fitted the nozzle of his organ between those soft pouting prisms, then his body stiffened and his eyes bulged glassily and he uttered a raucous cry: “Ohhh, I cannot hold it back, oh, you have undone me with your sorcery, you little vixen!”
And sure enough, there dribbled from him a few gouts of sticky essence, but they were not lodged within the matrix that he had so boastfully sworn to fill. Recovering at length from the seizure, he at last procured a cambric kerchief and mopped her thighs and belly and his own once again dwindled tool. Then, still resolute despite his failures, he had recourse to a bottle of brandy which he had caused Victorine to place on a little tabouret near the bed for just such an occasion. He gulped down half a glass and then sputtering, and with tears in his eyes, declared that he had hardly begun the battle for her maidenhead, which would fall like the very walls of Jericho before the moon set in the heavens.
During this while, Pere Mourier and Father Lawrence heatedly expatiated on the voluptuous beauties of Laurette's naked body. The French ecclesiast held for her bubbies, whose impudent, jouncy globes entranced him most of all her fair person, whereas the virile English churchman fancied the plump rounders of her backside and the appetizing golden-fleeced mound of her Venus.
“But, my dear confrere,” Pere Mourier concluded, “there is really no need to apportion out all these delicacies, since the two of us shall share and share alike once the sweet and timid maiden comes under our sway.”
“But how can you be certain that she will?” Father Lawrence demanded.
“You are forgetting Victorine owes me many favors. And in return, she has promised not only to secrete us in this fine closet and to bring us wine and food to enliven our long wait, but also, after the worthy patron starts to snore, to bring his gentle bride a message from her rascally lover. She will flee to him, and it is then that we shall apprehend her in the very act of wishing to go forth to an adulterous tryst. Then we shall have her, I warrant you. But, watch now, the brandy has given him false courage and he will try again!”
It was quite true. As Laurette lay submissively on her back, her face still hidden by her covering arm, the scrawny patron had returned to bed. Now he was fiddling with his own diminished tool, panting and cackling like a madman loose in Bedlam as he sought to rigidify himself to adequacy for the delicious task. But for him, alas, it was to prove more arduous than any of the labors of Hercules—and I do not refer to the thus-named overseer who, I do not doubt in the least, could have broken through Laurette's maidenhead with a single stab of his sexual weapon.
Finally, confessing himself defeated, he piteously begged her to grant him once again the touch of her little hand upon his private parts. She did so resignedly, uttering a desolate little sigh. He knelt beside her, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, surrendering himself entirely to the longed-for voluptuousness. Her soft white little fingers enlaced themselves around his drooping shaft, then fondled and tickled his balls, then returned to stroking and daintily pinching the head of his useless protuberance. Finally, with a groan, he crawled between her thighs and flung himself down atop her. His hands clutched her white, swelling bubbies with a desperate urgency as he began to grind his loins against her sweet mount. But try as he would, even the sight and the feel of her naked body against his did not have the needful effect. Finally, with a long, heart-rending groan that almost made the two hiding priests chuckle, so dolorous was its lamentation and renunciation, Monsieur Claude Villiers kissed Laurette chastely on the brow and stretched out on his back beside her. In a moment or two he was fast asleep. His fatigue as well as the brandy, on top of all the rest he had imbibed, had withdrawn him from the tourney this night.
“Now it will be but a few moments till Victorine brings in the spurious message,” Pere Mourier whispered excitedly.
It was in all a quarter of an hour before the door gently opened and Victorine stuck her head inside. Hearing the snores of her master, she took heart, opened the door a little more and tiptoed towards the great bed. She put her hand out to touch Laurette's naked breast. The young virgin, not yet fallen asleep, was about to start up with a cry when Victorine bent a finger to her lips, murmuring “Shhhh! Do not wake the master, my little one. I have a message for you from Pierre Larrieu.”
“Oh, Victorine, what is it? Oh, how I've longed to hear from my sweetheart. I thought he had forsaken me and left the village.”
“No, my gentle lamb, not so. He has told me to come to you and bid you meet him out on that same grassy knoll where you last had rendezvous with him. Come, I will take you to your chamber, and there you can dress and hasten to your lover.”
Laurette carefully crept out of bed, a naked young goddess, and followed Victorine back to her own chamber. The two priests rose, stretching their limbs and suppressing their gasps as the circulation was restored to their bodies. In a trice, they were once alert and eager for what would follow. “We shall give the naughty little wench a moment or two to clothe herself, and then we shall go into her chamber and sermonize her,” Pere Mourier
