During this while, Pere Mourier and Father Lawrence heatedly expatiated on the voluptuous beauties of Laurette's naked body. The French ecclesiast held for her bubbies, whose impudent, jouncy globes entranced him most of all her fair person, whereas the virile English churchman fancied the plump rounders of her backside and the appetizing golden-fleeced mound of her Venus.
“But, my dear confrere,” Pere Mourier concluded, “there is really no need to apportion out all these delicacies, since the two of us shall share and share alike once the sweet and timid maiden comes under our sway.”
“But how can you be certain that she will?” Father Lawrence demanded.
“You are forgetting Victorine owes me many favors. And in return, she has promised not only to secrete us in this fine closet and to bring us wine and food to enliven our long wait, but also, after the worthy patron starts to snore, to bring his gentle bride a message from her rascally lover. She will flee to him, and it is then that we shall apprehend her in the very act of wishing to go forth to an adulterous tryst. Then we shall have her, I warrant you. But, watch now, the brandy has given him false courage and he will try again!”
It was quite true. As Laurette lay submissively on her back, her face still hidden by her covering arm, the scrawny patron had returned to bed. Now he was fiddling with his own diminished tool, panting and cackling like a madman loose in Bedlam as he sought to rigidify himself to adequacy for the delicious task. But for him, alas, it was to prove more arduous than any of the labors of Hercules—and I do not refer to the thus-named overseer who, I do not doubt in the least, could have broken through Laurette's maidenhead with a single stab of his sexual weapon.
Finally, confessing himself defeated, he piteously begged her to grant him once again the touch of her little hand upon his private parts. She did so resignedly, uttering a desolate little sigh. He knelt beside her, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, surrendering himself entirely to the longed-for voluptuousness. Her soft white little fingers enlaced themselves around his drooping shaft, then fondled and tickled his balls, then returned to stroking and daintily pinching the head of his useless protuberance. Finally, with a groan, he crawled between her thighs and flung himself down atop her. His hands clutched her white, swelling bubbies with a desperate urgency as he began to grind his loins against her sweet mount. But try as he would, even the sight and the feel of her naked body against his did not have the needful effect. Finally, with a long, heart-rending groan that almost made the two hiding priests chuckle, so dolorous was its lamentation and renunciation, Monsieur Claude Villiers kissed Laurette chastely on the brow and stretched out on his back beside her. In a moment or two he was fast asleep. His fatigue as well as the brandy, on top of all the rest he had imbibed, had withdrawn him from the tourney this night.
“Now it will be but a few moments till Victorine brings in the spurious message,” Pere Mourier whispered excitedly.
It was in all a quarter of an hour before the door gently opened and Victorine stuck her head inside. Hearing the snores of her master, she took heart, opened the door a little more and tiptoed towards the great bed. She put her hand out to touch Laurette's naked breast. The young virgin, not yet fallen asleep, was about to start up with a cry when Victorine bent a finger to her lips, murmuring “Shhhh! Do not wake the master, my little one. I have a message for you from Pierre Larrieu.”
“Oh, Victorine, what is it? Oh, how I've longed to hear from my sweetheart. I thought he had forsaken me and left the village.”
“No, my gentle lamb, not so. He has told me to come to you and bid you meet him out on that same grassy knoll where you last had rendezvous with him. Come, I will take you to your chamber, and there you can dress and hasten to your lover.”
Laurette carefully crept out of bed, a naked young goddess, and followed Victorine back to her own chamber. The two priests rose, stretching their limbs and suppressing their gasps as the circulation was restored to their bodies. In a trice, they were once alert and eager for what would follow. “We shall give the naughty little wench a moment or two to clothe herself, and then we shall go into her chamber and sermonize her,” Pere Mourier decreed.
They gave her all of three minutes, I should judge, before they left the patron's bedroom and went to Laurette's door. Pere Mourier knocked twice, very softly. Laurette, doubtless supposing it was Victorine, hastened to open the door, and then recoiled with a stifled little cry of terror. What a bewitching picture she made, for she was clad only in her drawers and camisole. She had doused her lovely face with cold water to efface the tears of repugnance which this interlude with her distasteful husband had caused her. And she was ravishingly desirable, those two long golden braids hanging down to her waist, her round bubbies tumultuously heaving in her apprehension at beholding her father confessor and his English colleague.
“What—what are you doing here, mon pere?” she gasped as Father Lawrence deftly closed the door behind him and drew the bolt…
Pere Mourier shook a fat, admonishing finger at her. “Oh, my poor child, I have come in the nick of time to dissuade you from committing the most adulterous wickedness.”
“I—I do not understand what you are saying, mon pere,” Laurette stammered, turning scarlet with sweet confusion.
“And now you commit another sin, that of lying to your good father-confessor,” the obese holy man rebuked her in a pompous voice. “I had asked good Father Lawrence to come with me on making my rounds of the parish this evening, and when we called here, the good Victorine had just received a message from a little boy whom this vaurien Pierre Larrieu had sent with this infamous summons to a sinful rendezvous. Thank heaven she had the presence of mind and the loyalty to her dear master to inform me of this message, or even now you might be in that wretch's arms. Oh, my daughter, you have put your feet upon the pathway to perdition. And look—you bedeck yourself in your flimsiest undergarments to entice this forbidden lover to the body which belongs solely to the worthy Claude Villiers.”
“Oh, mon pere, I cannot help it,” Laurette sobbed. “If you only knew how horrible it is for me to have to lie abed with that vile old man! It is true that my Pierre is a bastard and so cannot wed me, yet I would rather be his harlot and lie with him in the fields than suffer the indignities which M'sieu Villiers subjects me to in the guise of wedlock. What am I to do, mon pere?”
And with this, the lovely girl flung herself down on her knees and clasped her hands and held them up to the obese French holy man, as the tears rivuleted down her flushed soft cheeks.
“I will tell you this, my daughter,” thundered Pere Mourier, “if you take one step further out of this room to visit that rogue, I will excommunicate you from Mother Church. Not only now, but at any other time hereafter. Besides which, I intend to tell the patron how you are ready to cuckold him only a few moments after he had sought with all his devotion and gentleness to possess you.”
“Oh, oh, no, you would not tell him that! Oh, I would die of shame! And you must not curse my darling Pierre, he is honest and good and kind, and his only sin is in loving me. Please, Pere Mourier, forgive him, and forgive me too.”
She looked up at him, her eyes blinded with tears, and she clasped his fat thighs with her beautiful arms in the most exquisite attitude of supplication. The voluptuous effect of such beauty at bay was instantly visible as Pere Mourier's massive cock jabbed out the thin stuff of his cassock.