“There is perhaps a way, my daughter,” he said hoarsely, with an imperceptible little glance at the smiling Father Lawrence who stood behind the kneeling girl, “whereby you can make your penance and yet save your marriage, without committing this deadly sin with the young scoundrel.”
“Tell me how, mon pere! I will do anything you ask,” Laurette avowed.
“Having made much study of the ebullient nature of male and female,” the fat French priest sententiously began, “I think I can evaluate your case astutely, my poor benighted daughter. The holy estate of matrimony is surely to be sought for one of your lowly status, true enough. But in your particular instance, since I have seen with mine own eyes how lasciviously inclined your secret nature is—do not try to deny it, my child, for you recall that I beheld you and this Pierre Larrieu about to commit adultery—my belief is that once you have overcome your vapours and timidities natural to your physical condition of virginity, you will no longer dread the legal contact with your illustrious husband. Therefore, once we remove these vapours and these timidities, my dear child, you will be amazed at how little inclination you have to seeking out this young wretch for your illicit pleasures, because you will be edified sufficiently to partake of them naturally and honorably with your own husband. Tell me this quickly—has he yet taken your virginity?”
“Oh, no, no,” Laurette gasped and hid her blushing tear-stained face in the folds of the fat priest's cassock.
“Then this verifies my supposition and my theory, my dear child,” Pere Mourier resumed. “Inwardly, your lascivious desires make you yearn for coition, while at the same moment your virginal hymen imposes upon you an abhorrence and a frigidity which defeat your nature. Once removed the latter, and the former may be then fully channeled towards the greater pleasure of a lawful consort. And thereby lies the penance which I shall set you here and now, my sweet Laurette.”
She looked up at him wide-eyed, not quite understanding his sly and cunning aim. “Wh—what must I do, then, mon pere?”
“Prepare to yield your maidenhead to me, your father confessor, who has known you since you were a tender child. I will thus be your devout initiator, my charming child, and educate you towards your proper conjugal duties.”
“Oh! you—you cannot mean -” Laurette stammered as she rose to her feet and shrank back, eyes huge with stupefaction.
“You misunderstand me, my daughter,” Pere Mourier suavely interposed. “I do not mean to take you in lust as would this unworthy Pierre. No, my daughter, it will be an act of edification, simply that and nothing more. And I absolve you from any sin, since I have prevented you from your commission of adultery this night. Is that not so, Father Lawrence?”
“He speaks the truth, Laurette,” the English ecclesiast collaborated his French colleague.
The lovely Laurette did not know what face to put upon this situation, as she could not still believe her ears. But the fat priest lost no time in acquainting her with his intention, since he at once doffed his hat and cassock and stood in all his hairy nakedness, his massive cock already savagely distended. “Nature has better endowed me, my child, than even your forbidden lover,” he declared. “Now to begin your penance, remove the camisole and drawers and place yourself in repose upon your bed. I will attend you, and zealously seek to instruct you in these duties in which you have been so remiss with your loyal loving husband.”
“Oh, mon pere, you aren't going to—oh, surely, you don't mean to do this to me?” Laurette gasped incredulously.
“It is up to you, my child. If you persist in shirking your obligations, if you are still drawn towards this adulterous rogue, then your Pierre is excommunicate, and your husband shall be told why. Moreover, because of your wicked obstinacy, I shall regrettably be compelled to scourge you to chasten your wicked spirit and suppress your heinous nature. You have your choice, Laurette.”
“Oh, I would die before I let you hurt my poor Pierre, and I could not bear to have the patron know my loathing of him,” Laurette wrung her hands in her dilemma. “But at least, to spare me greater shame, do ask Father Lawrence not witness what you intend to do.”
“But he is here, my daughter, exactly to insure to you that mine is not an act of lust, but only that of simple instruction,” was the fat priest's sly response.
Seeing that she was well trapped, judging that the sacrifice of her maidenhead to her own father confessor would be less onerous for her and Pierre than the alternative, Laurette, softly weeping, hesitantly removed her camisole and then at last tugged down her drawers and stepped out of them. Both priests uttered gasps of admiration at the gleaming white, naked statuary of her supple young body. Her instinctive maidenly modesty still strong, Laurette clapped both hands to her cunny and bowed her head.
“You have done well, my daughter,” Pere Mourier declared, his voice thick with impatient passion, “and this shows good faith. Now accede to my other order, which is to lay yourself down upon your bed and make ready for me, your sanctified initiator.”
Laurette reluctantly obeyed. Upon her back, a hand over her eyes, her other little hand clutched into a tight fist at one naked luscious haunch, she awaited her perilous moment. His eyes gleaming with avaricious concupiscence, the fat, hairy churchman clambered on to the bed and knelt beside the shivering, naked penitent. His fat, hairy hands roamed leisurely over her smooth belly, her panting teaties, the valley between them, her tender sides, the slopes of her delicious hips. I knew I could not save Laurette from both these lusty suitors, and I confess I was impelled by curiosity to witness precisely how the tender maiden would react when the destructive breach was made against her cherished virgin's seal. Perching on the other side of the pillow on which her golden head now reposed, I watched the procedure of the French clergyman.
For all his greedy desire, he did not hasten, for which I gave him credit. His hands caressed the shivering thighs and flanks and belly and breasts of the naked virgin, till he was shivering too. She kept her arm tightly thrust over her lovely blue eyes to hide the sight, and I will grant that if Claude Villiers was unappetizing, Pere Mourier could not be considered a tastier bridegroom save only in one respect: his throbbing, swollen cock. And yet, since it was by this sole part of his anatomy that Laurette was to be “edified,” it did not really matter that he was hairy, fat and ugly of visage.
Gently he made Laurette part her thighs, and while his fat right hand smoothed and stroked her inner thigh, his left forefinger very delicately tangled amid the golden lovecurls of her slit and tickled the plump corals of her cunny. Her body was tense and quivering in an attitude of defense, yet when his fingertip at last brushed the soft hidden labia of her virgin cunt, she uttered a tremulous little gasp, and unconsciously arched up her loins and belly as if eager to taste more of this exquisite friction which was attuning her. Pere Mourier shot a triumphant glance at Father Lawrence, as much as to say, “Did I not tell you she was of lascivious nature?” and accelerated his tickling. The pad of his forefinger now began to rub in a slow circular movement round and round the dainty little cleft. Presently, the golden lovecurls seemed to become ruffled, and there peeped through the sweet pink petals of that flower which Monsieur Claude Villiers had longed to pluck and was still far from plucking. Laurette's naked breasts began to rise and fall with a spasmodic rhythm now, and her head turned restlessly from side to side, though she still hid her eyes from the florid, passion-contracted visage of her father confessor.
“Do I hurt you thus far, my daughter?” he unctuously queried.
“N—no, mon—mon pere,” Laurette quavered. Long rippling tremors now beset her rounded white thighs, traversing from the knees on along into her gaping crotch and I perceived that the rosy buds of her nipples had stiffened, and now projected out in taut, crispened firmness, a symbol of her wakening to the first true carnal evocation of all her womanly senses.