Victorine, out of compassion for the tender young damsel, had gone to Laurette's room to urge her to hasten to the master's bedchamber so as to avoid his wrath, and Laurette was consequently awaiting her elderly husband, seated in a chair, hands folded and eyes downcast. Monsieur Claude Villiers cackled with anticipatory glee at the sight of this demure, golden haired virgin so docilely attendant on his bidding. With a loud belch, he ordered, “It is well for you, my pigeon, that you came to my summons. And now, without more ado, I bid you undress all naked, as I mean to consummate our marriage and rend that chaste barrier which turns you from innocent damsel to loving, obedient wife!”
Laurette by now had understood that any pleas to spare her modesty were little more than wasted breath, and so, rising from the chair, her milky cheeks turning red with shame, silently divested herself of her garments, till she was deliriously nude from head to toe. Godiva's hair was long and a true shield to the prying eyes as she rode through Coventry, but Laurette could hide none of her beauties, for her two long golden braids were at best decorative. Yet they gave her a look of exquisite girlishness and naivete which, understandably, inflamed the already furious passions of this niggardly old fool.
“Now you will undress me, wife,” the patron commanded. And when shy, tender Laurette hesitated, he snarled, “It will be a proof of your sweet docility as my wife, a sign that you accept your status. Otherwise, I shall thrash you to the blood, and do so daily till you are my willing slave! Now do it quickly!”
Once again, with that enchanting intuition which seems to come to the aid of the youngest female in moments of crisis, Laurette submitted. Eyes downcast, cheeks aflame, she applied her trembling fingers to his garments till at last he appeared wisened, emaciated, hairy and naked, before her, the obscene little dangler between his lean thighs flaunted to her chaste modesty. But to his delighted surprise, gentle Laurette, far from shrinking away at the manifestation of his maleness, hesitantly put out a little white hand and timidly took hold of the head of his cock.
“My little darling!” the overjoyed old patron cried in his reedy voice. “I have been too harsh with you, I see, menacing you with a beating. I should have understood that, pure and innocent as you are, it needed time for you to comprehend the pleasures of the bed. Ah, Laurette, you do not know how happy you have made me now, nor how happy you shall soon make me. That's it, hold and fondle my cock and make it strong and powerful for the sweet ordeal of fitting it into that plump, hairy little slit between your round white thighs!”
Laurette, though her blushes had spread nearly to her luscious white bubbies, continued to hold the head of her old husband's cock, and now put her left arm round his waist, her eyes closed, and voluptuous shivers stealing through her divine nakedness. Now her thumb and forefinger took hold of the half-roused gnarled shaft and gave it a tender little pinch. “Oh, my beloved wife,” he groaned, “how you entrance me! But come, let us take our pleasure on the soft broad bed, rather than tire ourselves by standing thus!”
In the closet, where the two priests had long kept their patient vigil for just such a sight as they now beheld, Pere Mourier nudged his English confrere and whispered, “Mordieu, does not the vision of such white, radiant naked flesh send flames of inspiration through your being?”
“Of a certainty, Pere Mourier. It is, alas, risible to see that meager old man essay to give so voluptuous and young a wench the pleasuring which only a robust and virile lover can afford her. And she is well made to accept such devotion, mark you. Ah, what finely rounded thighs, what delicious, haunches! And that soft, sweetly dimpled belly, made to cushion a man's weight as he lies upon it, his firm member thrust to its very ell-length deep within that sweet little golden downed nest of hers!” rhapsodized the English ecclesiast.
“You are a man with spiritual kinship to me,” quote the fat French churchman. “I too share your desire for the charming Laurette. Ventre-Dieu, the two of us might contrive a way to educate her in her conjugal duties, yet without robbing the worthy patron of this humble village. Yet perhaps I offend your moral scruples by intimating such a devious act?”
“Not so, not so in the least,” declared the bluff English holy man, “my blood boils at the way her little white hand timidly acquaints itself with his dwarfed old garden tool. I would right willingly spade her garden and harvest all the sweet bounty therein!”
“Methinks that if what we are watching now does not produce the consummation which will sanctify this union, we may achieve our communal desire,” Pere Mourier declared. “For she is young and impressionable and most devout. To thunder forth our wrath against her shirking her marital obligations will bring the naughty child to terms, mark my words upon it, Father Lawrence! But watch how she does her sweet maidenly best to bring M'sieu Villiers to point!”
Laurette had released her old husband's prick and relinquished hold of her soft arm about her waist, permitting him to grasp her by the wrist and draw her, feverishly and pantingly towards the connubial bed. The sweet girl stretched out upon it, hiding her face in the crook of one beautifully rounded white arm, while the patron, gasping and groaning like a fish out of water, scrambled onto the bed and knelt beside his adorable young bride. “Oh, I am implore you, my little pigeon, to go on with what you were just doing,” he supplicated in his cackling voice. “I must possess you or die of frustration! Take hold of my prick again, my sweetling, and nestle it in the soft warm cove of your little hand, that it may grow to requisite vigor!”
Laurette dutifully lifted her other hand and groped for his still dormant weapon. Her fingertips tickled and glided over it from head to balls, while the two stealthily eavesdropping clergymen held their breath and stared through the crack in the closet door at what was taking place.
Gradually, under her delicious ministrations, his cock hardened to commendable size and length, though it could in no way compare with the potency of Pierre Larrieu, and still less with the mighty ramrods possessed by those two who espied this intimate scene from their closet hiding place. Meanwhile, the patron, his face screwed up in a rictus of tortured bliss, scrambled with his bony fingers over Laurette's upper thighs, her dimpled belly, and her golden ringlets which throve over her soft, pink lipped cunny.
“Oh, enough, my beauty,” he at last groaned, “you will make me lose it all, and I must put it deep into your little slit! Open your legs, my pigeon, and prepare yourself for my charge! I will make you beg for mercy, as I promised!”
He crouched now between her obediently spread open thighs, and with his trembling fingers sought to gape apart the sweet warm corals of her quim so that he might engage his tool within that amorous antechamber. But no sooner had he at last fitted the nozzle of his organ between those soft pouting prisms, then his body stiffened and his eyes bulged glassily and he uttered a raucous cry: “Ohhh, I cannot hold it back, oh, you have undone me with your sorcery, you little vixen!”
And sure enough, there dribbled from him a few gouts of sticky essence, but they were not lodged within the matrix that he had so boastfully sworn to fill. Recovering at length from the seizure, he at last procured a cambric kerchief and mopped her thighs and belly and his own once again dwindled tool. Then, still resolute despite his failures, he had recourse to a bottle of brandy which he had caused Victorine to place on a little tabouret near the bed for just such an occasion. He gulped down half a glass and then sputtering, and with tears in his eyes, declared that he had hardly begun the battle for her maidenhead, which would fall like the very walls of Jericho before the moon set in the heavens.