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 bony chin with an equally bony hand, passed slowly along the platform, not without casting many a covert glance upwards—especially at those wenches who had been shameless enough to bare their cunts. Finally he stopped at Laurette's vat, looked upwards and forced what passed for a beaming smile to his dry lips. Then he turned to the crowd and announced in his reedy, dry voice, “I declare M'amselle Laurette Boischamp the winner, since her vat contains more wine than any of the others. Hercule will lead her to my house this night to claim her prize.”
There were jeers and hisses, but those who uttered them took care not to let the patron catch them in the act, lest they pay dearly for such contempt of him who paid their wages and collected the rents on their humble cottages. As for Margot and Lucille, they angrily burst out into a tirade, each accusing the other of coming out second best, and both called upon their husbands to adjudge. Both those worthy men, after peering at the vats, came to the conclusion that it was Dame Margot whose vat contained more juice. And so Guillaume helped Lucille down, while Jacques, grinning from ear to ear, assisted Margot out of her cask and let his hands roam over her jouncy, oval bottom cheeks. Yes, I had no doubt that there would be a change of marital partners this very night—one accomplished in full harmony and with the accord of all concerned.
As for fair Laurette, it was the brawny overseer who, at the order of the patron, aided her to emerge from her cask. He was most circumspect in handling her luscious charms, for though he was probably a terror with the women when left to his own devices and making full use of his authority, he could not risk offending his master. Laurette blushed, her eyes downcast, sensing what prospect awaited her at the patron's house this night. Her parents came forward now to congratulate her. Her father was a thin man with spectacles, who looked like a cleric, and her mother was stout and something of a virago. No doubt it was the latter's insistence that had compelled poor Laurette to accept so meager a husband.
CHAPTER SIX
The roistering had died away and the sun had set on the little village of Languecuisse. I had made my way, at the conclusion of the grape-treading contest, to the humble cottage of the Boischamps, where I crept unnoticed into the bedchamber of the fair Laurette and reposed upon the thin pillow where she was wont to lay her golden head at night without male companionship. This night was to change such circumstances. Yet you would have thought, seeing her so mournful while her mother fretted about her, that she was being prepared for execution on the guillotine. There were tears in those cerulean blue eyes which crept down the soft round cheeks of that sweet, innocent face. The red full lips trembled with woe, as her mother chided her in a most officious contralto voice, “Do you stand still, Laurette! Ventre-Saint-Gris! M'sieu Villiers will grumble if he sees your eyes red from weeping. Why, girl, it is an honor which every maiden in Languecuisse envies you this night. Imagine! To be invited to the house of the patron himself, and just think that you have won a full month of rent on our home for your industrious work in the cask this afternoon. And just think of those bottles of wine! How your dear father and I will enjoy them!”