CHAPTER THREE
All this while, I had reposed in the warm little grotto of Lucille's bellybutton, basking in that soft, intimate niche and enjoying my repose while my senses were titillated by the ribald discussion between this worthy married couple. I must confess that I was intrigued by the prospect of discovering how the French method of copulation differed from the English version with which, as you well know, I was quite familiar.
The connubial bedchamber was spacious, and most of the room was taken up by an enormous bed with four posters and canopy. I confess it was more elegant than I would have expected in the abode of a humble worker in the vineyard, but Dame Lucille managed to satisfy my curiosity almost the moment she entered, her arm around her husband's waist and her cheek pressed tightly to his: “I never cease to give thanks, m'amour, to my dear Aunt Therese for this magnificent wedding present. Your employer, old Monsieur Villiers, is surely the richest man in all the province, I have no doubt of it, but I do not think that even he possesses so fine a bed, for fucking. His poor young bride will, I fear, not lie half so comfortably as we when her wifely time is come.”
“You speak wisdom as always, dear Lucille,” he chuckled as he turned to face her and squeezed her buttocks with avid lubricity, the while his lips traversed her cheeks and nose and eyelids. Already I could discern a noticeable bulge against his nightshirt at the very juncture of his thighs, and I declare that its formidable size struck me with admiration and at the same time no little compassion for its red haired recipient, who would be obliged to accept its girth and length within her delicious cunt. “But it is not the bed that will matter to her, but the size of her husband's deplorably useless prick. Now, were she fortunate enough to be bedded with a man of parts like myself, Lucille, she would know nothing but bliss, as you shall at once!”
With this, stooping, he grasped the hem of her nightshift and lofted the frail garment to her waist where he pinned it with one grasping hand, while with the other he raised his nightshirt. I could then look upon the magnitude of his weapon. The head of it was remarkably elongated, like a plum that has been squeezed a moment too long in the process of plucking from its stem. The shaft itself bulged, and dark, angry blue veins writhed under the tightly drawn, thin skin. His balls were heavy, gnarled and prodigiously hairy, and indeed this massive weapon sprang from a hiding place of thick, shaggy, graying fleece. But there was nothing aged about the weapon itself, as Lucille instantly observed by means of her sparkling eyes and stifled gasp of “Ohh! It is true that you still desire me, my husband. And in my gratitude, I will take all you have and leave you nothing for such hoydens as young Laurette or that wagging-tongued shrew of a Margot. Observe how eagerly my little slit awaits your bludgeon!”
With this, she took both forefingers and applied them to the fleshy, plump lips of her orifice. It, too, was thickly downed with dark reddish curls which nearly hid the aperture. But once the lips came into view, they were exquisitely pink and soft and entreating, and also I perceived a suspicious moistness which presupposed that Jacques' worthy spouse was already anticipating her connubial blessings. Moreover, the way she wriggled her bottom slowly back and forth said eloquently that she longed to be fucked by that huge prick, to feel it filling her to the utmost as he drove it in her up to the hilt.
“Hurry, then, for I ache to feel myself within the clutch of your sweet cunt,” he panted. Lucille needed no further encouragement. She kept one forefinger to pry open her eager slit whilst she used the other hand to fondle the enormous weapon which he tendered her. Her fingers were small and dainty, and I can imagine how soft their touch must have felt upon Jacques' admirably distended weapon, for he at once groaned, “For the first time, ma belle, do not hold me off or tease me too long. You know well that one has more staying power on the second course.”
“Oui, c'est bien vrai,” Lucille purred with a fatuous smile on her full rosy lips as she stepped forward, retaining hold of his ramrod and guided it against the moist, pink cleft which her forefinger had readied for his entry. He uttered another groan and grasped hold of her voluptuous bottom as he drove himself forward to the hilt in a single mighty stroke. Lucille uttered a sob of delight and flung her arms around him. There they stood, their nightclothes rolled up about their waists, glued together by what the learned Greek philosopher Plato once described as “the polarity between the sexes.”
From my perch nestling inside her bellybutton, I could observe everything. The pink, plump lips of her orifice seemed to be drawn back as he burrowed himself to his very balls within her womb. Their bellies touched as did their thighs, and a shivering paroxysm seized them both as their mouths fused in hot communion. Then slowly he drew himself out almost to the very tip, and there was a sucking sound as the moist volutes of her matrix grudgingly released his weapon, straining every wily inner muscle with which the female is so lovingly endowed in the aspiration of bringing him back swiftly to her bower.
For all his furious eagerness, I had to commend him for his powers of self-control. He prolonged the moment of return until Lucille began to wriggle like a fish on a hook, for in truth such she was, so ably harpooned by his vigorous lance. While his fingers dug into the plump cheeks of her bottom, she squirmed and groaned and arched and writhed in the most persuasively lascivious way until, in his own time, Jacques surged himself forward and buried himself to their hairs. Her exuded gasp was raucous with pleasure, and her eyes rolled and glazed. Her fingernails drove into his back, tearing through the stuff of his nightshirt, and her tongue voraciously entered the play between his lips and rubbed and probed with furious abandon.
Once again he drew back to the very tip of his sword, but this time Lucille was too impatient to let him dally with her enjoyment. With an impatient, exacerbated gasp, she ground herself against him in an agony of desire and thus impaled herself upon his blade until she had taken all of it within her hot, moist channel. He set his teeth against the maddening caress of her mobile sheath, for I am certain that her vaginal scabbard was convulsively clenching along his weapon as if she meant never to let it go. He proved this a moment later by suddenly quickening his pace and ramming her with four or five swiftly devastating lunges, each of which drew a cry of rapture from his mature partner in the lists of love. And then, with a final cry of ecstasy, he drew himself back a last time, then thrust home and bubbled out all his essence deep within Lucille's welcoming canal of love. Her body jerked and twisted as her own effluvium answered his, merging as do two rivers in their abundant reunion, and their first foray was at an end.
Good Dame Lucille emitted a long sigh of contentment. When it was over, she bussed her husband on the mouth, saying, “That was a good beginning, my adored husband. But it will take much more to satisfy my passions, so do you undress us both so that we can be skin to skin and take our joy of each other through the night.”
He banteringly countered, “Right willingly will I accept your offer, my dear wife, but are you not afraid that all this may not exhaust you for the morrow? I should not wish to stand by and see some chit of a girl, like perhaps that Laurette, win the contest and have the spectators jeer at you for failure.”
“I will still be trampling grapes when Laurette's thighs give way as she yearns for the soft repose of her virgin bed,” the auburn haired matron laughed. She then unbuttoned his nightshirt and drew it off his lanky body, and I perceived that he had a good deal of matted hair over his chest, an ideal resting place for me should I require it during the ensuing fray. For, judging from the gleam which shone from their eyes, I had no doubt that they meant to enjoy their marital life to the fullest extent this night. It would be a heated duel, a warm welcome to me indeed after the fogginess of London!
The worthy Jacques returned the compliment, and in a trice Lucille was as naked as the day she emerged into this amusing world. I had for the first time opportunity to denote her beauties, and they were considerable. Her breasts were really magnificent, boldly jutting cantaloupes with lovely aureoles and firm, stiffened paps. Undoubtedly their just-concluded ritual had teased those love-buds into a saucy turgidity that bespoke her ardor for a continuation of this age-old sport. Her skin was magnificently ivory, except where the sun had lightly bronzed her calves and her beautifully contoured upper arms and shoulders. The whiteness of what remained was of course intensified by that contrast. And as her husband stood there looking at her naked charms, I could see that his limp penis began at once to rise in salutation to such glorious enticement.
I had already learned one thing during my journey from one continent to another: while the English might depend on tactual stimulation to be roused to erotic readiness, it sufficed this French peasant to behold his naked wife, which sight at once restored him to full plenitude of animal spirits. He dipped a cloth into a ewer on a table beside the bed and sponged both his cock and his wife's bushy orifice, a procedure which excited them both considerably, as could be seen from the wriggling undulations of Dame Lucille's spacious hips and his own muscular flexions. Then, as gallantly as any courtier, his arm about her satiny waist, he escorted his mature and beautiful
