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"The Autobiography of a Flea" is narrated by a flea who tells the tale of a beautiful young girl named Bella, her sexual curiosity, and the people who take advantage of her ignorance.The novel serves as both erotica and also as a piece of anti-church propaganda by portraying members of the priesthood as immoral, manipulative and hypocritical."The Autobiography of a Flea" is a classic Victorian erotic novel, published in 1901. It contains graphic sexual descriptions and themes.
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The Autobiography of a Flea 1901AnonymousThis ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy.First edition 2012
I left England, wafted by a favorable wind blowing to the south, and found refuge in a little village in Provence, aptly named Languecuisse--which, for those astute readers who are not fluent in the French language, is translated to mean “Tongue Thigh.” An interesting name although I must say that I did not choose the site purposely; I simply was opportunist enough to let the wind carry me where it would. Autumn was not far off, and the chilly climate of England did not appeal to me since I would have been forced to go into hiding or hibernation, limiting my chances of nourishment and also of diversified contact with interesting people. For even a lowly Flea may have aspirations to culture, mark that well. The village of Languecuisse was dominated by vineyards where noble wines were pressed from the rich grapes. In all, I should say there were perhaps two hundred people residing in that charming region, for nature had endowed Languecuisse with beauty that delighted the eye of the beholder. Once I landed, I found myself in a little valley surrounded almost entirely by rolling hills and protected from the gusty winds that can wreak havoc not only on tender grapes but also on my own kind. The soil was wonderfully fertile, as it must be to produce the lush white and purple grapes whose nearly bursting skins yield the Burgundies and Sauternes and Chablis which I am told those of means are wont to imbibe. Besides the vineyards, there were carefully tended gardens and hedges, and many plots of vegetables. All this told me at once that the inhabitants of Languecuisse were not starving, and that in turn meant that I should not grow meager and pine away for lack of nourishment. For, if the human race is one of opportunists, then assuredly we Fleas, being part of the divine scheme of things, are equally so; from this you may draw the logical inference that a Flea would rather attach himself to a person goodly in flesh than to one who is lean and jaundiced.
I had arrived, it appeared, just in time for the September harvesting of the grapes, judging from the comments of the beldames whom I heard as I broke away from the friendly breeze that had borne me over the Channel to this exquisite little valley in the heart of France. I found temporary lodging on the beam of a door to a pleasant little cottage not far from the largest vineyard, and there, a plump red haired woman in cap and apron was gossiping with her neighbor, a black-haired, olive-skinned wench with bold eyes and breasts that strained against the low-cut bodice of her muslin dress.
“Tomorrow, Dame Margot,” the plumper one was saying, “we shall see how well the good grapes can be pressed. I myself intend to take part in the contest.”
“I trust, then, Dame Lucille, that your wind and stamina will hold out. Your intentions are good, but to stand in a wine vat in the hot sun and tread the grapes even for half an hour would tax a maiden many summers less your own age,” was the brunette’s taunting retort.
“Bah,” sneered the red haired matron, “you know not of what you speak. If I am still capable of making my good man Jacques beg for mercy after a few jousts in bed with me, have no fear that I shall tire when I press the grapes. I have pressed the juice out of his wine-maker on many a night when he was boasting of his prowess, and I could have fucked even your own handsome husband, to say nothing of half a dozen more.”
I have always been amused at the boastfulness of mortals, who always seem to be trying to prove their own superiority. This is, of course, a matter of relative significance, since time has a way of effacing all the achievements of a generation. Now we Fleas are short-lived indeed, and most of us seek to prove nothing except our own right to existence. When you consider that we have more enemies than ever opposed the race of human beings, I modestly say it is little short of a miracle that we survive at all. Not only are the elements arrayed against us, but also birds and alien insects and the animal kingdom from the mongrel dog to the veritable King of Beasts, the lion himself. But we too have ambitions like Man, and that is why we are attracted to his species for our nourishment. For a Flea to sustain himself as I have done on the body of a male or a female requires wit, ingenuity, courage and not a little heroism.
But to return to the scene at hand. This handsome matron of goodly girth and luxuriant auburn tresses who bore the name of Dame Lucille had quickened my interest by declaring to her neighbor that she was extraordinarily competent between the sheets. Her boasts of prowess roused in me nostalgic memories of impassioned embraces in which I had participated both as impartial observer and even as catalyst. I had recently been the cause of an amorous man falling short of his incestuous desires for his niece when, by digging my proboscis into the sensitive covering of his scrotum, I caused him to ejaculate before his weapon could reach the targeted love-chalice of his adorable young niece. I told myself that it might be amusing to stay awhile with Dame Lucille to discover whether her opinion of her own amatory powers was truly deserved. I was also thinking of the descriptions I could collect for the edification and amusement of my readers. I would make good use of my unique ability to slip into supposedly private places unnoticed. To be sure, since I found myself in a strange new clime and surroundings, the guiding and primal principle of survival was uppermost in my mind: it was essential that I find a source of nourishment, for I was already somewhat faint with hunger as a result of my long wind-borne journey. And the fulsomeness of her fine white flesh seemed to promise a magnificent source.
As I prepared to fly down from my vantage point on the door, Dame Margot, the bold-eyed black haired wench, put her hands on her svelte hips and jeered: “Why, as to that, it’s easy enough to wag one’s tongue where there is nothing to be gained. You know very well that you have as little chance of enticing my Guillaume to your bed as I have of proving to your Jacques that I could exhaust him in half the time you take. So save your energies, good Lucille, for the contest tomorrow.”
“Pooh!” The auburn haired matron put out her tongue in derision. “I was always one to suit action to words. I would willingly exchange husbands with you to prove my boast, but I know that you Guillaume is so afraid of his own shadow and of your nagging that he would not dare come to my bedchamber for a good fucking. Nay, a better fucking than ever he had in his life.”
This taunt evidently pricked Dame Margot’s wifely pride in a sensitive spot, for her face reddened with anger and she promptly exclaimed, “I will call your bluff and show you up to be a lying shrew! If you succeed in winning tomorrow afternoon, I give you my word that my Guillaume will come to your bedchamber ready to do you service whenever you propose. But I do not think that your Jacques would willingly stand by and watch himself being cuckolded.” “I will take that wager,” declared my red haired hostess (for I had already decided to attach myself to her until such time as I could determine my destiny), “and I will be equally generous. If I win, I will send Jacques to your bed and bid him account to me strictly of your capabilities once his winemaker is pressed well within your matrix. I warrant you that your Guillaume will be limp and useless in my bed a long hour before my Jacques is used up between your long, lean thighs.”
“Done!” The brunette stamped her foot, her eyes sparkling with angry determination. “But suppose you are not the winner in the grape-treading contest, Lucille? What forfeit will you then pay, you boastful jade?”
While Dame Lucille was pondering her reply, I took advantage of the respite to hop down to her shoulder whence I made my way to her soft white neck, hiding under the luxuriant cascade of auburn tresses which fell nearly to her waist. Her skin was dazzlingly white and her neck was round and delightfully succulent. Having some expert knowledge on the subject, I adjudged her to be approximately thirty years of age, in the full bloom of her wifehood. She evidently felt me, for she put her hand back to her neck and rubbed. But as I had anticipated this maneuver, I had already adroitly crawled over her neck down to her bosom. Between those juicy, round, solid globes, I nestled motionless so that she could not feel my presence. The warmth and the sweet aroma of her naked skin delighted me. Although a peasant woman, she was much cleaner than I would have supposed. I have always been a discriminating Flea, and what interests me most is the challenge, which my brethren and I must meet in our quest for survival. Now it is easy enough to attach oneself to the body of a man or a woman who has no great liking for hygiene. But when a Flea succeeds in remaining with someone who is not afraid of soap and water, then I say he has truly demonstrated acute perception. I now awaited Lucille’s answer, and it was not long in coming: “If I lose, Dame Margot, why, then I promise you that you shall fuck with my Jacques whenever it please you and without the least bit of anger on my part--against you or him.”
“Why now, that is a fair wager and I will accept it gladly,” the black-haired wench smilingly nodded. “And now that we have both spoken so frankly, I do not mind telling you that I have long coveted your husband and wondered how well he could conduct himself atop me. For I think that since I am younger than you, good Dame Lucille, I needs must possess more abundant juices in my slit than you in yours. And as you well must know, it is not enough to be a trough for a man’s spunk, one must also contribute one’s own loving flow. A good day to you, but I will not wish you luck on the morrow.” And with this, tossing her head, she retired to the cottage next door and banged the door shut.
My red-haired hostess let out a gasp of indignation and remained staring after her neighbor, her hands still on her ample hips, her eyes smoldering with jealous rage: “I will spite that forward hussy if it is the last thing I do! If I win the wager, as I shall, I shall fuck not only her Guillaume to my utter satisfaction, but I shall so contrive that when my Jacques beds down with that sallow jade, he will have no spunk left for her enjoyment because I shall take it all for myself. Younger than I am, indeed! Why, despite my thirty-one summers, I am still warmer and juicier between the thighs than she with her twenty-seven!”
At this point, I decided to sample her and took a very tiny bite of the white flesh between her big full breasts. It was true, she was most appetizing, and the flesh was as soft as a girl’s. The squeal she gave was properly youthful, too. I told myself that for a few days, at any rate, it would be amusing to learn how a Frenchwoman lived and loved. I had always heard that the French were more passionate than the English, so my emigration might well prove to be educational. When Dame Lucille slapped at herself to alleviate the tiny burning pangs of my quick nibble, I had already escaped to the deep, narrow hiding place of her belly button. And when she closed the door of her cottage, she did not know it, but she had given me her hospitality at least for the night.
Before I proceed to the description of the connubial scenes I was destined to witness on this my first evening in France, I think it well that my readers understand something of the nature of my species. We Fleas have been much maligned throughout the centuries, principally because we are said to be conveyors of the great outbreaks of bubonic plague. I shall not attempt to contradict the learned men of science and medicine who thus denounce us; I say only that we have conveyed these germs unknowingly, since they are not fatal to us. And I submit that if these same learned men were to examine our annals, they would find that there has never been in all of the Flea history a civil, much less an international, war. I submit that our morality is far less suspect than that of the species that condemns us. But so much for that...
But you may ask, how is it that a Flea can survive on the human body without detection and without the constant peril of extermination? Well, let us consider the Flea. In an era when there are complaints of expanding human population and decreasing food supplies for their nourishment, I and my brothers in no way deplete the world’s supply of food. Consider that an unfed adult Flea may remain alive a year or more without the slightest nourishment. In some way, indeed, we may be said to resemble the camel in being able to sustain ourselves on a very minimum of nourishment. We adult Fleas have a flat hard-skinned body, very thin from side to side, which permits us to slip between the hairs or the feathers of the animal on which we feed. And our large hind legs permit us to jump as much as thirteen inches horizontally and almost eight inches high. Moreover, we Fleas have instincts that enable us to anticipate the slightest threat to our safety so that we invariably alter our hiding places when danger is imminent. We need not always remain attached to the lovely bodies of young girls and women whom we have come to admire for their energy and amatory zeal. For example, I myself could have well remained all the night long atop that beam. It was only my innate curiosity--and that is...
About an hour later, my hostess’ spouse came in from his work in the vineyard. He was about forty years of age, lean, bronzed from the sun, with a strong jaw, a long nose, and a high forehead. His brown hair was liberally streaked with gray and his expression was dour. Yet you would have thought him the most handsome Casanova in all the world from the way his good wife welcomed him. With much cooing and giggling, like that of a schoolgirl, Dame Lucille hastened to him, flung her arms exuberantly around his neck and bussed him resoundingly on the mouth and cheeks and eyes and nose. one of the most powerful of all Flea instincts--which made me decide to follow the comely Dame Lucille into her cottage.
Finally, in my own defense, let me add that while there are at least five hundred species of Fleas, almost half of which are found in North America and the West Indies, only a very few are really troublesome or dangerous to man. I am not one of these, happily.
And now that you perhaps understand me better, let me tell you what took place in the bedchamber of the auburn haired matron whose hospitality I had chosen for my first night in France.
“Mon amour, how did it go today?” she inquired as she continued to hold onto him and to arch her loins against his in a most suggestive manner.
“Well enough, ma belle,” he remarked in a gruff voice while his hands roamed over her back and down to her plump, spaciously rounded buttocks, which he began to squeeze with lingering enjoyment. “It will be quite an event tomorrow afternoon. Master Villiers has promised that the winner of a contest, she who treads out the most wine from her vat, shall have a month’s rent free as well as a dozen bottles of the finest wine.”
“Never fear, dear Jacques,” his wife purred as she wriggled about in his embrace, “I shall win the prize for you, my dear husband.”
“Now that I do not expect of you, Lucille,” he chuckled, as he at last disengaged himself from her embrace. “Go get my supper, that’s a sweetling. With all due respect, I do not much suppose you can best the maidens who will compete against you. They are naturally younger and stronger in the limb, for all your good intentions. But I am well satisfied with you, nonetheless.”
With this, he gave her a lusty clap on the behind which made her squeal, and in great good spirits he strode off to his own chamber to remove his working clothes, which were soiled and stained from his work with the grapes.
When he returned, I saw somewhat to my surprise that he was clad only in his nightshirt. At first blush, this seemed singular, since the sun was only just setting and it certainly was not time to retire for the night. But I quickly divined that the worthy vintner was suffering from the pangs of two different hungers, and wished merely to be in a state of readiness for the satisfaction of both. His auburn-haired spouse hovered about him like a cooing dove as he seated himself at the table, nor did she think it amiss that his attire for the evening repast was so informal. She brought him first a bowl of lentil soup, together with a crusty loaf of freshly baked bread and a bottle of red wine. Graciously he deigned to pour out two glasses, one of which he took and clinked to hers.
“May you have luck tomorrow, ma mie,” he chuckled as he circled his right arm around her graceful waist and hugged her to him. After he had taken a sip of the wine, he put his lips to the bodice of her thin dress and nuzzled the luscious side-curve of one of those magnificent breasts of hers. “Yet on the other hand,” he added, giving her a jocular wink, “mayhap I should not wish you such, for you know it is the custom of the patron who owns the vineyard in which we all toil, to fuck each harvest time with her who is declared the most puissant squeezer of grapes. Hence, Lucille, if you should win on the morrow, I should be compelled to accept cuckoldry from him who pays me my wages. Do you still tell me that you wish to come off victorious in a matter that concerns my own husbandly honor?”
At this, the buxom Lucille promptly left her place on the other side of the table, went around to him, clasped her fair white arms about his chest and lovingly rubbed her cheek against his as she purred, “Dear Jacques, do you think me a faithless trollop, then? I warrant you, even should I win as I mean to--if only to spite that harpy Margot next door Monsieur Villiers shall not pluck my flower nor rob me of my wifely virtue. Do you not know that a woman has ways of denying a man that which he seeks between her thighs? There are manners and methods of exciting the good patron so that he will lose all his juices before he manages to pour them out into that funnel which nature gave all women to have as the receptacle of man’s passion.”
This salacious retort pleased Jacques mightily, for he roared with laughter and clapped his good wife resoundingly upon her ample buttocks. Breaking the crusty loaf in twain, he tore off a chunk and took an enormous bite, washing it down with the red wine. His eyes sparkled as he watched his handsome spouse return to her seat.
Although hostess and her husband spoke in French, and with that softly slurred dialect which is famous in Provence, I understood them well. The erudition of a Flea is assimilated much as his nourishment; herein is one advantage that my species possesses which man cannot attain save by assiduous study. It suffices for a Flea to bite the flesh of a human to acquire at that moment a comprehension of the language which that provider of nourishment ordinarily speaks. Besides, in England, some little time before I met the fair Bella and Julia, I had partaken of the flesh of a handsome Parisian actress who, during her sojourn in London, had become the mistress of an Earl to whose person I was then temporarily attached. I mention all this not out of boastfulness--for such is not the nature of a Flea, that being an attribute reserved only for mankind--but so that my readers will not doubt the veracity of my tale. I think also that my readers may envy my brothers and me, for surely it is far easier and more delightful to acquire the knowledge of a language by sinking one’s proboscis into the white flesh of a fair damsel’s thigh or breast or haunch than to ponder over a guttering candle and learn another tongue word by laborious word.
But I digress. There is little need to relate what went on during the rest of the evening meal, though there was much bawdy conversation and laughter as Jacques and Lucille Tremoulier discussed the forthcoming wine-pressing contest and the candidates against whom she would be opposed the next afternoon. I listened with great interest and amusement. It is said that women are catty by nature and that they rip to pieces even their best friends once within the intimacy of their own chambers. Yet, I tell you that men are equally verbose when it comes to denigrating their neighbors. The worthy Jacques went into rapturous and somewhat lascivious expatiations on the charms of the women of the village, and it was evident from this that he had already looked with lustful eye upon Dame Margot, that bold, black-haired wench who had made the wager with Lucille.
However, I could not deduce from all his remarks whether he’d had actual carnal knowledge of the beauties of whom he spoke so knowingly. Lucille even added her own evaluations, and I was reasonably certain that she was not perversely acquainted with these damsels and matrons. She and Margot, it appeared, had once bathed together naked in a little stream down by the mill, and she informed her worthy husband that Margot’s thighs were a bit lean, and that there was a dainty brown, oval-shaped birthmark just to the left of the wench’s bellybutton.
At the end of the repast, Lucille served her husband a glass of brandy with his coffee and took one for herself also. The good stew, the crusty bread, the red wine, had put them both into a convivial state, and their language was entirely uninhibited as the result. “Tell me, Cheri,” Lucille purred as she took a sip of her brandy, “if you had your choice of all the women in this village with my leave, with whom would you desire most to make love?” (Here I might observe that she used the vulgarism, “plonger ton vit,” which, roughly translated, means “plunge your cock into.”)
“Now of course, ma belle,” Jacques remonstrated with a cajoling smile, “it is understood that you will bear me no ill will if I speak my mind. For you know that I am as faithful as any husband to his wife here in Languecuisse.”
He was, in truth, a masterful diplomat because his remark implied that he was no better or worse than any other man in this little village, and I am certain that continence and chastity could not be uppermost in a land where the sun is warm and the wine is red and stirring to the senses and there is so much white flesh abundantly revealed. But Dame Lucille did not attempt to read any second meaning into his seemingly innocent statement, for she laughingly avowed, “I have told you that you may speak without fear of my wifely anger, dear Jacques. Pretend, therefore, that you are the ruler of a mighty suzerainty and that to your beck and call come the fairest maidens from every corner of the globe. Whom then would you select to baiser?” (This word, which means “to kiss,” also means “to fuck.” This is why we say that the French language is full of double entendres.)
He nursed his chin for a moment and frowned, lost in thought. Then he chuckled and declared, “Why, then, since I am the lord and master of all I survey, I should summon the fair Laurette Boischamp. Of a certainty, she is the loveliest in all this village, and her flower has not yet been plucked, if I am not mistaken. Yea, I would fuck her, and fuck her right well.”
“For your sake, Jacques, I hope you speak aright,” Lucille banteringly responded, “for though I have given you leave to express your mind, if I should ever discover that it was you who robbed that charming hoyden of her virtue, I should drub you soundly and deny you access to my bed for a good month. Hearken well my warning on that score. But since we are speaking of imaginary things, do tell me why your choice rests upon Laurette.”
“Pour me yet another glass of strong brandy, me belle, and I will tell you why,” he chuckled. And when Lucille had complied with his wish, he took a long sip of that potent cognac and exclaimed, “Ah! If ever I fail to answer the summons to your bed, dear Lucille, you have but to give me this cognac to rouse my torpid blood to action! Now as to Laurette Boischamp, this is why she would be the first lady of my harem, were I a pasha. She is but nineteen, she is innocent, her hair is golden and thick and soft and silky, and it falls over two of the sweetest, plumpest breasts in Christendom. You could span her waist with both your hands, and yet her hips are round and firm and sturdy, ample enough, I am certain, to support the thrusts of the boldest prick in all the world. These warm summer days, as she does not always wear hose, I have seen her down by the brook washing the laundry of her estimable old parents, and I will confess to you, Lucille, that her skin is as white and pure as fresh milk. Her ankles are delicate and gracefully shaped, and her calves are fine and slender but with a hint of ardent curves above.”
“I trust you have seen no more than that,” Lucille sharply interrupted, glowering at him with her cat-green eyes, “or else, even though I have given you leave to speak your mind, your prick will have no work tonight! Is her skin milkier than mine, then?”
He coughed, then sought refuge in his glass of brandy to distract himself before he could take time to weigh his answer. At last, wheedlingly, he placated her thus: “Why, as to that, ma mie, I speak only of conjecture. For I saw only the beginnings of her calves as she squatted down there by the brook to take the sheets from her chaste bed and to beat them with a rock. As she leaned forward, I could see only the faintest glimpse of that enticing valley between her two snowy globes, but I tell you that yours are full, luscious and ripe, solid to the grip of my fingers, and I would prefer them to those of any untried maiden’s. But it is man’s nature always to covet that which he does not possess, and though I am faithful to you and lust for you heartily, as you well know my beautiful Lucille, I will admit that there are moments when I am fucking you that I close my eyes and imagine that it is the tender Laurette who groans beneath my weight.” “Well, I will not be too irate with you, my worthy husband, for that is a truthful remark, and you would not be much of a man if you were not tempted by that charming hoyden. Besides, she is beyond your grasp, for her parents wish to wed her to your employer, the good Monsieur Claude Villiers.” “I know that well, and it is a great pity. Monsieur Villiers is nigh unto sixty if he is a day, and his way of wooing a maiden is to skulk about and try to pinch her bottom. I warrant you, when he finally brings her to the marriage bed, his prick will be shriveled up and worthless.”
“I have no doubt of that either, but look to you that you do not seek to furnish her that prick which she is denied,” Lucille tartly declared. “Moreover, though you may not know it, she already has a young swain, by the name Pierre Larrieu, who is her own age. He is an apprentice to the same Monsieur Villiers, and they say that he is a bastard. He would not be able to wed her in this village, you may be sure. But if Laurette were wise enough to taste the pleasures of the flesh before she is bedded to that sour, withered old bottom pincher, I would say that she would prefer young Pierre to you, competent though you are when fucking between a woman’s thighs.”
Jacques Tremoulier rose from the table and smacked his thigh with a guffaw. “Woman,” he bellowed, “with all this talk of pricks and thighs and white skin, you have bewitched me! It is time we were abed! Strip down to your nightshift, then, and join me in the jousts of love, where I will prove that I am as devoted to you as even I was on our wedding night!”
All this while, I had reposed in the warm little grotto of Lucille’s bellybutton, basked 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.
The connubial bedchamber was spacious, and most of the room was taken up by an enormous bed with four posters and a 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 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 find 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 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 being plucked from its stem. The shaft itself bulged; 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, 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 that nearly hid the aperture. But once the lips came into view, I could see that they were exquisitely pink and soft and entreating, and also I perceived a suspicious moistness which presupposed that the worthy woman was already anticipating her connubial blessing. 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 while she used the other hand to fondle the enormous weapon, which he presented to 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 our first bout of the evening, 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 smile on her full rosy lips. Retaining hold of his ramrod, she 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 recesses 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 his hairs. Her gasp at this action was raucous with pleasure, and her glazed eyes rolled up into her head. 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 devastating lunges, each of which drew a cry of rapture from his 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 flow answered his, merging as do two rivers in their abundant reunion. 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 undress us both so that we can be skin to skin and take our joy of each other through the night.”
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