deliverance from virginity, gainsay the ravening hunger of these seminary monks whose penchant for tasty, fresh, unsullied cunt surpassed even their appetite for good food and drink?
“Oh, admirable, my daughter,” he delightedly exclaimed, “and if your new friends learn only that supplicatory phrase, they too may hope to save their cherries from being devoured by those who would think only of their own selfish gustatory pleasures and not one whit about the immortal souls of the maidens from whom they plunder such sweet tidbits!”
As if to answer my own unspoken – and, even if spoken, surely impossible of hearing by human ears – Father Lawrence expatiated on this theme: “For, look you, Marisia my daughter, there is a virtue in what might be called passive resistance to adversity. When danger threatens and the odds are seemingly insuperable, the meek answer turneth away wrath. Now, who could fault you on your precocious devoutness if, when it seemed inevitable that the possessor of some angrily throbbing, violently swollen cock would not be satisfied till he had plunged that fearsome tool into the floss-veiled niche of your virgin pussy, you were to lower your modesty as befits a gentle, inexperienced maiden, and say, 'Oh, I must not, Your Reverence, because I have taken a vow the breaking of which would imperil my hope of redemption!' Oh, no, my daughter, in the face of such humility and piety, only the most unprincipled of villains not fit to wear the black of the holy order could dare to spurn your petitioning and force himself, huffing and puffing and his face crimson from immodest congestion, into the sanctorum!”
“I perceive your drift, mon Pere,” Marisia answered thoughtfully, “but I am only a frail girl, hardly out of puberty. How could I refuse a goodly man, the more so if he waxed fearfully irate with me for my disobedience?”
Could it be that this untutored peasant girl had already anticipated the wisdom of a newer adage that holds that when rape is inevitable, 'tis well to submit and enjoy it out of sheer discretion? Oh, clever, guileful, virginal Marisia, prize among maidens, who would fain eat her cake and have it too!
“In my own turn, sweet child, I discern your meaning,” Father Lawrence responded. “But remember the stripling David bested mighty Goliath, champion of the Philistines, by employing both prayer and stratagem. And even then, if all else fails, consider that when one is overpowered in spite of every ruse and supplication, the sin is lifted to repose squarely on the shoulders of the brutal seducer who is too callous to be moved by prayerful entreaty or tearful timidity.”
“Oh, mon Pere,” Marisia's fertile young mind was not yet done with this theoretical embroidering, “I am comforted by your words, and yet it greatly troubles me to think that even if I am overpowered against my will and, as you say, am not capable of mortal sin, my frail body may experience improper yearnings roused by the very force that overtakes me. What then, mon Pere?”
“Why, then, my daughter,” he said after a moment's pondering, “you are still blameless, for without the brutal usage of force against your tender cunt, you would not experience these naughty emotions of your own virginal accord. But one last question, my dear child – have you yet come to the curse visited upon Eve, by which I mean your monthly time when nature compels you to reject even the most desirable of suitors?”
Marisia giggled. “Oh, oui, oui, mon Pere, mon temps de la lune, oui, only a month before I came to stay with Tante Laurette, it came upon me.”
“Ah,” he joyously exclaimed, “then here is your stratagem to oppose brute force. Only the least fastidious of rogerers would wreak his heinous will upon a virgin cunt, for then he would find two separate Sowings of bright red blood to staunch. So, Marisia, tell your impassioned lecher that the curse is upon you.”
“Oh, I will mon Pere! But you must contrive to fuck me before that time,” Marisia cooed. Again she did seem to sway against him, and he coughed, doubtless to hide his emotion in the face of so sweetly gracious a plea.
After a solemn pause, he ended this tremendously weighty discourse by murmuring to his raven-haired ward, “You must manage to indoctrinate your companions Denise and Louisette as to all these manifestations of chastity, my child. And tonight you must aid them in completing their tally of pussyhairs, for a reason that I have devised as you well can guess and which will keep all three of you from what I believe to be immediate risk of being sullied too early in your estate as novices. Now let us close our eyes and drowse a bit so that the tedious journey will not overtax our energies, my dear Marisia.”
Denise and Louisette in their corner of the coach had been chatting away in a low voice which I could scarcely hear, but I was not altogether certain their topic was the beauty of the English countryside. The coach jogged on, and I myself sought to drowse, for sleep knitteth up the raveled sleeve of care, as good Shakespeare once said it, and by sleep perchance I might manage to forget for the nonce the pussyhairs of dear Laurette which had begun to tickle and stab me each time I was buffeted about in my locket-prison.
Much later, when I did waken – finding that I had happily been able to forget my cares for a lengthy time – I heard the drone of Father Lawrence's voice, and discerned that he was once again engaged in teaching English to sweet Marisia. There were endless repetitions of phrases, echoed by her exquisitely timbered voice with that inimitable Gallic accent which made her the more provocative, such as, “Oh, no, I cannot, Your Reverence” and “Do not force me, Your Eminence, I am but a frail and humble maiden” and, finally, “My parents taught me obedience to my betters, Your Reverence, but, alas, this day I have the curse.”
“Oh, what a pair were the English ecclesiastic and the naive French nymphet! I began at last to lose the dismal gloom which had fallen over me in believing that I was brought back inexorably by the will of an unkind fate to the Seminary of St. Thaddeus. Indeed, when the driver of the coach bellowed, “All out for Somerset,” I confess I was almost anxious to hear the resumption of this English lesson, to say nothing of following closely the tallying of maiden love fronds! There is nothing quite so exciting, so thrilling, even to a flea, as the prospect of counting the cute, curly cunt hairs of a creature crying for congratulations upon carrying out the act of coming under the carnal influence of a cadaverous cock.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When finally the coach halted and I heard the scurrying of footboys and the hoarse shouts of the coachman himself, I knew that we had arrived at the inn at Somerset. I recalled also Father Lawrence's mouthwatering description of the Lucullan feast that was in store for his three tender wards and himself, and my jaws ground enviously at the notion of feeding. Still, I was not really famished yet, so I could await with relative imperturbability the moment of deliverance, when I promised myself a goodly feast on diverse anatomies.
That Father Lawrence had not been a braggart concerning his familiarity with the landlord of the inn at Somerset was demonstrated a few moments after our arrival, when a jovial, booming voice bade him welcome, “Zounds, good Father, step you down on terra firma and be welcome after your long journey. I have missed you greatly, and would, if your spiritual obligations do not take priority, sup with you this night, you to be my guest, and exchange confidences.”
“I should like nothing better, my brave Thomas,” said the English ecclesiastic, “but on the morrow we leave at once for St. Thaddeus, where I am now to be quartered in my priestly endeavors.”
“Not that seminary which boasts that ugly rogue by name, Father Clement, a veritable ogre to the luckless sinner and the entrapped wench who fall into his brawny clutches?”
“The very same. But, look you, Thomas, I will need two rooms in your comfortable inn this night, for my three wards. Come, my daughters, we are in England, and here is the worthiest of hosts to greet you and look to your creature comforts. Why, not even the King himself and all his court could find better lodging nor more palatable viands than at the sign of the Dawn of Somerset!”
“You do me too much honor, good Father,” chuckled the landlord. “Oh ho! Tonight my humble establishment will be graced with beauty such as never yet has set foot in it – not one, but three comely wenches, each more tempting than the other so that a poor devil of an unregenerate Protestant would not know with whom or where to begin!”
“Aye, but he would doubtless know how, my valiant Thomas,” chuckled the English ecclesiastic. “Now pay heed before we repair to your havening hostel – these damsels speak but little English, being all from the heart of warm Provence in that nation which is notable for so much courtly handkissing! Therefore seek not to startle or affright them with your bluff and direct manner, for they are not common wenches, mark you, but rather delicate virginal novices intended for deliverance up to the holy men of St. Thaddeus, and hence their maidenheads must not be impaired by such fearful brunt as I know you capable of giving!”
