“Pour me yet another glass of strong brandy, ma 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, mort dieu! 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 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 an 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 close my eyes and imagine that it is the tender Laurette who groans beneath my weight as I fuck you.”
“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, that 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 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 you down to your night-shift, then, and join me in the jousts of love, where I will prove that I am as devoted to you as ever I was on our wedding night!”
CHAPTER THREE
All this while, I had reposed in the warm little grotto of Lucille's bellybutton, basking 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 with which, as you well know, I was quite familiar.
The connubial bedchamber was spacious, and most of the room was taken up by an enormous bed with four posters and 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, m'amour, 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 fine 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, the 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 plucking from its stem. The shaft itself bulged, and 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 of a 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 which nearly hid the aperture. But once the lips came into view, they were exquisitely pink and soft and entreating, and also I perceived a suspicious moistness which presupposed that Jacques' worthy spouse was already anticipating her connubial blessings. 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 whilst she used the other hand to fondle the enormous weapon which he tendered 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 the first time, 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.”