urged his wards to bed.
“Do you, Marisia,” he whispered into that young raven-haired siren's ear, “help Denise and Louisette be comfortable in their room, and ascertain they have the larger quarters and the wider bed. To this purpose, that you are to urge them to procure that accurate count which was essayed last sight, for it is vital that before they enter the doors of St. Thaddeus, they know to a follicle the exact number of pussyhairs which grace their virgin thighs. Go now, with my blessing, and do not let them – or yourself either, my dear child – tarry without sleep once they have completed this obligation.”
“I will see to it for you, mon Pere,” the delightful young brunette exclaimed, and then there was the sound of a fervent kiss, followed by a girlish sigh. It was plain that Marisia's infatuation with the virile English ecclesiastic was growing by leaps and bounds and that he would have ere long far more temptations than ever St. Anthony was credited with shunning.
After Marisia had left the room, Father Lawrence sighed contentedly and seated himself in a comfortable chair, to while away the time, I had no doubt, till the indentured servant girl should be free of occupation, whereupon he assuredly meant to furnish that to her. Presently he began to hum, and it was the bawdy tune he had picked up in Languecuisse and which he had so melodiously declaimed prior to his rendezvous with Georgette in the inn at Calais. But this time, after several false starts, he devised new verses pertaining to the moment soon to be at hand – or rather, to be more literal about the matter, at prick. These, to the best of my recollections, went somewhat as follows:
In the inn at Somerset, tra-la-la,
There's a bound girl who's a pet, tra-la-la.
Sweet and shy, she will not fret, tra-la-la,
Knowing my appetites she doth whet, tra-la-la.
Master Thomas, to whom she owes, tra-la-la,
Labor for her food and clothes, tra-la-la,
Tells me she's his English rose, tra-la-la,
And plucking buds is what he knows, tra-la-la.
In our boyhood long ago, tra-la-la,
Wenching ever we would go, tra-la-la.
He and I the fairest sought, tra-la-la,
Over many a cunt we fought, tra-la-la.
Twenty years and more have passed, tra-la-la,
Since we fucked the same girl last, tra-la-la.
But methinks my cock's still the stronger, tra-la-la.
Just as it is surely the longer, tra-la-la.
So to Emily's room I go, tra-la-la,
Seeking to prove that this is so, tra-la-la.
Convincing doubting Thomases is now my trade, tra-la-la,
And that's why I shall fuck his jade, tra-la-la.
I had once again to marvel at his versatility and imagination. Improvised on the spur of the moment as it was (and also, doubtless, by the spur of his aching and cunt-eager prick), it could stand critical comparison with many a ballad hawked on London streetcorners for a few pence, just as, metaphorically speaking, Father Lawrence himself could assuredly stand in comparison with any lusty man who ever proffered prodding, palpable prick to quivering, expectant female cunt.
Twice more, the life-loving English ecclesiastic repeated that witty ballad with all the suave persuasiveness of his mellow baritone, a voice with which he might have well made his fortune had he chosen that pursuit. And finally the time slipped by till the chiming of the old clock downstairs indicated that the hour had come for Emily's coming, at which time he slowly rose and silently made his way out of his room.
As he entered the hallway, I heard muffled voices coming from the top of the stairway, and Father Lawrence muttered some sort of impatient imprecation which had to do with consigning all doubting Thomases to the boiling cauldrons consigned to the nethermost recesses of the inferno to which all unregenerate sinners go, and concealed himself against a slight curving of the wall. Sharpening my auditory senses, I could just make out a dialogue which began with a man's querulous voice: “Come, Emily my saucy baggage, you will not deny your master?”
To which followed a plaintively murmured: “Oh, never would I do that, worthy sir, for you hold my indenture, yet I would beseech you to show compassion on my fatigue and weariness, for with the coming of your four new guests, I have sorely taxed my strength and want nothing so much now as benevolent sleep, that I may be fresh and eager for the tasks you set me on the morrow.”
I heard a wordless grumble, doubtless of disappointment, and then the grudging, gruff: “Ah, well, I am not one to force a wench though I hold her indenture to my bosom. Get you then to bed alone, Emily, and mind you wake before dawn, for we must provide a sumptuous breakfast to our travelers before they set out for wicked London.”
And then, “Oh, yes, that I will with right good heart, master. Thank you for your compassion, which a poor, honest girl is rarely to find this side of heaven.”
To this, in a suspicious tone: “Why, look you, Emily, I would not have you confuse my good nature with the sanctimonious platitudes spouted by men who wear black cloth and gloomy faces and tell their beads, or next you will be demanding that I give you Sunday mornings off to go hear sermons that will depress you. So bed you down and think only of your indulgent master, who has not taken cane or strap to your plump backside in longer than is rightly good for a bound servant. Good night!”
“And to you too, good master, a most good night!”
“Aye, that would it be if you would be less fatigued – but look you, Emily, you may rest at the same time, for I am not an importunate man and can fuck a wench while she reclines comfortably 'pon her back without so much as moving. An' if you would but let me try, I would not fault you if I should discover you had gone off fast to sleep while I was completing my pleasure.” This last, hopefully.
A giggle then ere this insinuating flattery which sent the ravening wolf from the door of this sweet fearful lamb: “Oh, master, would that it were so, and I would gladly bid you enter. But you know well, sir, that each time you have engaged my little slit with your monstrous big prick, I have been urged to forsake passive and docile submission to its inroads, for its thickness and length scrape and pierce me so vitally that I must respond or else faint dead away. And I fear me sorely that wearied as I am at this moment, I would do you great disservice by not responding.”
A longdrawn sigh of thwarted desire ensued, after which good Thomas glumly announced, “No, 'tis true, I would not fuck a wench who did not clamp legs and arms about me and bite and scratch like a vixen taken in a trap, since fucking is more than meat to meat, it is substance and sustenance and combat and sweet conclave all in one. Therefore get you to bed quickly ere I repent my good nature which holds me back from ripping off your shift and entering that timid little crevice of yours whether you will allow me or not. For it is in my nature once I fuck, that I demand my receptive partner to announce with all loud exclamations of joy and frantic movements of her bottom and loins that she is blessed among wenches to feel so mighty a cunt-chafer inside of her, for to receive me otherwise would be to insult my manhood.”
“And that I would never do, were it to cost me hope of your destroying my indenture, good master,” the pert Emily at once gracefully retorted.
“Well then – since it is thus and is unchangeable by the very nature of my good nature – good night to you, fair Emily.” Would he stand there all night long wanting to stand a somewhat more pressing way, saying his sorely disappointed good nights? “Again, good night, good master.” And this time Emily gently closed her door. “Odds bodkins! I know not why I am so indulgent to that teasing slut,” I heard the landlord grumble as he descended the
