months hence those love-fruits would most likely be giving suck in the little village of Languecuisse.
But all that had been said about Laurette Boischamp scarcely did her justice. She had a soft white skin which was entrancing to the sight; and where the sun had justly kissed her bare arms and shoulders, a golden tan was satiny soft and enticing. Smooth and gleaming flesh, in the full bloom of her nineteen summers. Her hair fell in two thick plaits almost to her waist, golden and thick and lustrous. She too wore the short white muslin skirt and low- cut blouse, and like the others, her feet were bare. They were chiselled, dainty little feet, seemingly much too fragile for such vigorous work as needs must be done. One could better conjecture them stepping daintily towards the nuptial couch in preparation for a good fucking rather than crushing the juice-laden grapes.
Once all of the contestants were ensconced inside their casks, Hercule took hold of the cowbell and shook it as a signal. Whereupon all the damsels and matrons promptly hoisted their skirts to their waists and pinned them up out of harm's way. A roar of admiration went up from the male spectators on the benches at the rapturous vision thus granted them. For at least six of the contestants wore no undergarments, so that the furry thatch between their supple, flexing thighs boldly appeared. Laurette, however, as befitted a maiden of her tender years, wore dainty pink cotton drawers. Yet they fitted her so snugly as to be virtually a second skin, molding out the beautifully plump, closely set of cheeks of her behind, and evincing an exquisitely tasty, plump mount of Venus in front. The patron himself deigned to stare longingly at Laurette, who promptly flushed and hid her charming heart-shaped face in the crook of one beautiful bare arm. Her eyes were wide, well spaced apart, of a sky blue hue into which a man could lose himself by staring. She had the most exquisite little nose, with just a hint of an upturned tilt to it. Add to this a pair of full, ripe red lips meant for kissing or for engaging the head of a vigorous prick, and I trow that no lusty male in all the world could ask for more beauteous or winsome a sweetheart. Indeed, I, a humble Flea, could understand the desire that a man could feel for such a wench. I could understand also that a scrawny and senile person like the patron did not deserve to bring her to his bed, no matter how wealthy he was.
Now that everything was in readiness, I could see also that the charming contestants stood in the cask up to about their lower thighs, since grapes filled the casks and rendered the height at which they were presented to the spectators. There was an hourglass at the edge of the platform, which Monsieur Villiers now took up in his bony hand, and Hercule promptly announced that the competition would last precisely for one hour. At the end of that time, she whose vat below her was most filled with the liquid squeezing which her naked feet had trodden out would be declared triumphant and would bear off the prize.
Now, of course, as the contest would proceed, and the level of the grapes would be lowered, the luscious bodies of the females competing for this supposed honor would be more and more revealed. Perhaps this is why from the outset the bolder ones decided to present themselves without undergarments for the occasion. I caught sight of many a man winking and making gestures to this or that female in her cask, evidently with the idea of arranging some sort of copulatory assignation with her when the evening shadows fell.
The hourglass was reversed, Hercule rang the bell thunderously again, and amid the cries and exhortations of the spectators, the contest began. Now I observed that there was some truth to the rumor I had heard that the elderly vintner had contrived to give Laurette a more facile task by putting fewer grapes into her cask, since at the very outset I could see her body exposed only to about her hips, whereas in all the other casks the loins—whether bare or bedrawered—were plainly visible. It was an amusing spectacle, nonetheless. Margot and Lucille faced each other, their eyes sparkling, their fine bosoms heaving passionately, as they put their hands on their hips and began to tread, their naked legs splashing up and down like pistons, trampling the soft pulp beneath, the liquid began to run down into the vats below. They started at a merry clip, so that their bosoms jiggled lasciviously, as did their bottoms and their fine thighs. Such a sight naturally encouraged the eager male spectators to call out encouragement, many of which, I fear, were too salacious to permit inscription here. The consensus of these, however, was that every male who watched would have given a month's pay gladly to be mounted between the thighs of either Lucille or Margot, and promised each of them in turn so vigorous a fucking as to leave them bedridden for a week at least and of no use to their natural husbands.
Jacques and Guillaume, sitting side by side on a bench which faced that side of the platform where their wives toiled, exchanged quips and ribald advice to their lovely spouses, so I concluded that even without my aid or without the victory of either of those handsome trollops, it would not be long before the two husbands would be sampling the forbidden delights of the other's wife, and without the least acrimony.
With this conclusion, I felt myself free to devote all my attentions to the beautiful Laurette, and by thus doing, although I could not of course know it at the time, I altered my own destiny. Laurette did not face the crowd, but turned to one side and kept her eyes on the heavens, as if to render herself impervious to the lewd catcalls of the ardent men of Languecuisse. Her beautiful bare thighs flexed and tremored as her legs moved up and down with a measured gait. So did the sweet rounds of her bosom, which I was sure were unconfined beneath the low-cut blouse of hers.
The wench who was in cask Number Nine was one of those who had not seen fit to cloak her loins in drawers. She was about twenty-eight, I should appraise, with thick chestnut hair that fell in a voluptuous cascade to her hips. She was Amazonian, at least five feet, nine inches in height, with a magnificent pair of big, muskmelon- like breasts set close together in the thin and widely dipping stuff of her blouse. Her waist was surprisingly slim, but her haunches flared and her bottom cheeks were spacious rondures which jiggled tantalizingly each time her legs moved up and down in the assiduous work of crushing the grapes beneath her naked feet. Her name was Desiree, which means “Desired,” and it fitted her like a glove. From the conversation which I overheard, I was informed that she was a widow, her spouse having died of a heart attack at the last harvest time. It was said also that his death was caused by an excess of carnal passion while riding between her thighs. It was said as well that it was a beautiful way to die. There were several men there who shouted out, “Eh, ma belle Desiree, I would gladly wed you tonight if you would but promise that I could survive the night!” To which this bold jade called back, without losing a step of her tread, “Pooh! You would not last long enough to take off your trousers, for the sight of my cunt would make you lose your juice before you could put your prick between my legs!”
I thought her most likely to emerge the victor, because of her magnificent build and powerful legs. She had full, firm, round calves browned by the sun, and her thighs were of the same sunset tinting, rippling with muscles. But most dazzling of all was the thick mane of dark chestnut curls which entirely hid the plump mouth of her slit, and even old withered Monsieur Villiers stared greedily at that superb lodging place for a virile cock.
The sands in the hourglass continued to trickle and the contestants began to tire, for they could not keep up the relentless pace at which they had started. Dame Margot, being goodly of girth, was first to tire, and beads of sweat ran down her cheeks. From moment to moment she would catch at the sides of her cask and hang her head and pant to regain her breath, then go back to her treading. Lucille, svelte and lithe, mocked her and declared, “You have pressed only half a liter! I will press more than that from Jacques' prick tonight if you can do no better when the hour is up!”
At the edge of the crowd of spectators, many of whom were standing up to get a better view—for by now the grapes were lowered in the casks and the bodies of the fair participants were less visible than at the start—I could see a forlorn-looking but very handsome blond youth wearing a shepherd's hat, a rough cloth coat and patched trousers which badly needed replacement rather than mending. A heavy set, bald man seated at the last bench at the back, raising his wineglass, turned to the young fellow and guffawed, “Look your last upon fair Laurette, poor Pierre! It will not be long before the banns are read in the church by Pere Mourier. So enjoy her with your eyes, for you will not enjoy her with your body, bastard that you are.”
The youth clenched his fist and half made to throw himself upon the fat gossip, but restrained himself with an effort. He stared longingly at beautiful, golden haired Laurette. So this was Pierre Larrieu, the same age as Laurette, the unfortunate apprentice to the patron who owned the village and who would soon own Laurette's delicious titties and virgin cunt, and all her other charms. I confess a sympathy, though I am not usually one to play Cupid. But contrasting him to the withered, juiceless vintner, I felt that somehow he should be permitted to have his fill of beautiful Laurette, even if he could not hope to wed her. Besides, it was in my Flea-ish nature to enjoy intrigue and complot and also to pay off this Monsieur Villiers in a way that would not cause his subjects, the villagers, to suffer. For if one of them had dared affront him, his reprisal would have been swift and merciless, whereas if I, an invisible, infinitesimal insect without thought or personality—for that is man's common concept of my species—were to pay him off, he could blame no one.
At last the hour had run out, and Hercule sounded the cowbell a last time. The spectators sat back on their benches while their women passed among them pouring out more wine to drink the health of all the contestants and then that of the noble patron himself—which last was a waste of good wine indeed. He, meanwhile, nursing a
