proclivities a talent of fusion and stimulation certain to demand the very best out of me, only to find myself imprisoned within a little round locket offering me not even a chance to make a half-hearted hop from corner to corner.
Oh, perfidy, to allow myself to be thus entrapped by the very maiden whose destiny I had profoundly and compassionately guided. And this was my reward, this dungeon, without air or food, locked inside a receptacle chained about the neck of an unsuspecting young orphan who herself, I knew now, was totally unprepared for what awaited her when she would arrive at the notorious seminary of St. Thaddeus.
At first, I had felt that my eyes were blurred with sleep, but such was not the case. Even as I realized my unforeseen captivity, I heard the resonant, mellow voice of Father Lawrence, only two feet away, informing the charming Marisia that the two of them would be in London a few days hence.
“There, my daughter,” he told her unctuously, “you will have the great joy of being initiated as a novice in this holy seminary, and I shall be privileged to be your sponsor in this worthy entry into Mother Church.”
And then I heard the not-so-naive Marisia whisper, “Oh, Your Reverence, I ask only one boon. It is that before I am made novice, you, all by yourself, will initiate me with your great, wonderful prick and show me truly what fucking is.”
No, it was no nightmare, and it was not the veiling of my eyes with unaccustomed sleep. I moved cautiously in my prison, discovering what leeway was left to me of what had once been limitless freedom. My legs encountered only the hard metal through which not even I could bite. Yet my proboscis, ever sensitive to change and to nuance, detected the delicious tang of Laurette's cuntcurls which had been the eiderdown of my fatal nap. Philosophically, I told myself that I was only getting my just desserts; I, who had witnessed so much fucking and, the better to observe its complex and varied details, had taken my vantage point usually in the most intimate portion of the male or female anatomy, had been trapped by this habitual choice of site. And as I had napped in the golden cuntcurls of Laurette's golden fleece, it had been a kind of accolade which I had shown the charming girl, because my joy in witnessing her good fortune that she had achieved after the toils of her unhappy wedlock to the old patron.
I knew that the situation was not immediately desperate. Like camels, we fleas can live for a long time without nourishment. Surely, I told myself, Marisia would one day open this locket and gaze tenderly upon those precious tendrils which her aunt had placed in this little memento to symbolize the conspiratorial tricks they had played on old Monsieur Villiers, tricks which had brought about the relatively happy death of the old fool, paving the road to romantic raptures for Laurette.
But as the charming girl made ready for her voyage to London in the company of good Father Lawrence, I began to have some slight misgivings. Thirteen and a half years is a tender age, an impressionable age, at which a girl passes out of puberty into nascent girl and womanhood. Now, Marisia had already learned enough of the male cock to desire a more lengthy and thorough acquaintanceship with it. The dear child, for all her fondness for her Tante Laurette and her joy in having her only living and charming young relative grant her leave to go along with Father Lawrence, might forget the locket entirely in her absorption with cock. For at the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, there were a goodly number of virile priests – such as Father Clement, Father Ambrose, and those other holy men whom I saw carnally enjoying Bella and Julia – who would give her all the cock and more which her sweet little cunny might desire. She might, indeed, get so much that she would have no time for nostalgic reflections upon the golden hours of the past, and still less, therefore, upon the golden tendrils which reposed in this locket, I in their scented midst. What then? On this gloomy thought, then, dear reader, as I drowsed there in my dreary prison, nestling on those love-perfumed curls, my anxiety grew more imponderable with each passing hour as Marisia and Father Lawrence prepared to return to that sanctuary of sexual satiety which I had thought never to see again in all my flea-ish life!
CHAPTER TWO
While I dwelt in my little metal prison, I had ample time to ponder what was likely to befall me, quite apart from my compassionate fears for the charming Marisia who naively believed that Father Lawrence was taking her to a kind of terrestrial paradise. When I had first arrived at the hamlet of Languecuisse, it had been in September when the sun was still gentle and the harvest time was warm and benevolent. But now it was October and, although Provence would still retain its benediction from the golden sun whose rays caressed the bursting grapes, London would be, by contrast, cold and dreary. I had thrived on the warmth of that little French community, and I had grown fat I must confess, with the nourishment derived in my inimitable fashion. Alas, London would recall to me the coming winter, the dense fog, the cold and penetrating wind and rain. Many of my brethren perish in the fall and winter unless, to be sure, they have journeyed to the safety of warmer climes. Yes, now, as I reclined on those soft golden tendrils of Laurette's pussy-hairs, I wished that I had let that favorable wind carry me past the equator and perchance to some such colorful metropolis as Rio de Janeiro or Buenos-Aires. There, I am told, the sun is always warm, the women plump and beautiful and the men amply fed on nourishing joints of beef, which would provide me for long years to come with succulent nourishment.
But it was too late to ruminate about what might have happened. I have always been a pragmatist and hence am unique among my fellow-fleas; I am also an opportunist, with an incorrigible optimism at the same time. In a word, dear reader, hopeless though the situation seemed for me in my rigorous imprisonment, I none-the- less began to devise plans for my eventual escape. It was essential that I think positively. For if I gloomily accepted my incarceration in this locket to be permanent, the overweening dread of ending up so uselessly would assuredly paralyze my mental faculties, dull my wits and ingenuity, and inexorably condemn me to extinction. Hence I must fight off any such morbid thoughts with all the power of my will, if I hoped to survive the seeming catastrophe.
Even as all these possibilities whirled through my brain, I heard Father Lawrence speaking again to his new protegee, Marisia. He spoke in French, since the charming young brunette had not yet acquired a knowledge of English. Now, dear reader, you may ask how it was that I came about my own fluency in this Romance language, and I will truthfully tell you. Have you not heard of the ancient legend of the Nibelungen, which tells how the great hero Siegfried, having killed the monstrous dragon Fafner, unwittingly touched his lips with his fingers which had been stained with the dragon's blood? So doing, he at once could comprehend the language of the birds tittering in the trees above him and divine their speech sufficiently to lead him to his destined bride, Brunnhilde. Well, during my sojourn in Languecuisse, I had had nourishment of one or two of the inhabitants of that charming hamlet. Having imbibed their blood, which was French, I was, like Siegfried, similarly endowed.
The good Father was using his most persuasive eloquence with the charming child, and I could detect the throbbing note of carnal anticipation in his tone as he declaimed: “My child, we shall set forth upon our journey on the morrow. I will leave you to spend the night at the rectory of good Pere Mourier, and I enjoin you, my gentle Marisia, to say your litanies and to compose your spirit for the new life which awaits you, while I take leave of those dear friends I have encountered during my visit.”
“Oui mon Pere,” Marisia breathed. Her tone was one not only of reverence for his station as a man of the cloth, but also tinged with the same kind of expectation, albeit that of an ingenuous fledgling for whom life's mysteries had hardly been really old. Yet already at her tender age of thirteen and a half, Marisia had come upon an almost mature eagerness as a result of her mastering the complex and divergent methods whereby the male cock makes exquisite conjuncture with the female cunny – yet she was still virgin!
The English ecclesiastic now took Pere Mourier aside, and the two of them struck up a conversation. Since I was still imprisoned in the locket clinging about the neck of the sweet child, I could hear only vague murmurs, but I did manage to catch a word or two. Just as with a blind man whose other senses are increased by compensation, so I found that though I could not see, I could hear more sharply than I ever had before. And the gist of what Father Lawrence was telling the fat village priest was that the latter was morally bound to refrain from subjecting tender Marisia to any carnal trials. There was no doubt about it: Father Lawrence had already cleverly stamped the sweet brunette adolescent as his very own. From the tremolo in his resonant voice when he had spoken to his new ward, I had rightly guessed his avid anticipation of those moments when he would have her to himself and to the appeasement of his massive prick.
His voice grew louder, so I knew that he was returning to the side of his charming novice-to-be: “Now you
