“Oui, c'est bien vrai,” Lucille purred with a fatuous smile on her full rosy lips as she stepped forward, retaining hold of his ramrod and guided it against the moist, pink cleft which her forefinger had readied for his entry. He uttered another groan and grasped hold of her voluptuous bottom as he drove himself forward to the hilt in a single mighty stroke. Lucille uttered a sob of delight and flung her arms around him. There they stood, their nightclothes rolled up about their waists, glued together by what the learned Greek philosopher Plato once described as “the polarity between the sexes.”
From my perch nestling inside her bellybutton, I could observe everything. The pink, plump lips of her orifice seemed to be drawn back as he burrowed himself to his very balls within her womb. Their bellies touched as did their thighs, and a shivering paroxysm seized them both as their mouths fused in hot communion. Then slowly he drew himself out almost to the very tip, and there was a sucking sound as the moist volutes of her matrix grudgingly released his weapon, straining every wily inner muscle with which the female is so lovingly endowed in the aspiration of bringing him back swiftly to her bower.
For all his furious eagerness, I had to commend him for his powers of self-control. He prolonged the moment of return until Lucille began to wriggle like a fish on a hook, for in truth such she was, so ably harpooned by his vigorous lance. While his fingers dug into the plump cheeks of her bottom, she squirmed and groaned and arched and writhed in the most persuasively lascivious way until, in his own time, Jacques surged himself forward and buried himself to their hairs. Her exuded gasp was raucous with pleasure, and her eyes rolled and glazed. Her fingernails drove into his back, tearing through the stuff of his nightshirt, and her tongue voraciously entered the play between his lips and rubbed and probed with furious abandon.
Once again he drew back to the very tip of his sword, but this time Lucille was too impatient to let him dally with her enjoyment. With an impatient, exacerbated gasp, she ground herself against him in an agony of desire and thus impaled herself upon his blade until she had taken all of it within her hot, moist channel. He set his teeth against the maddening caress of her mobile sheath, for I am certain that her vaginal scabbard was convulsively clenching along his weapon as if she meant never to let it go. He proved this a moment later by suddenly quickening his pace and ramming her with four or five swiftly devastating lunges, each of which drew a cry of rapture from his mature partner in the lists of love. And then, with a final cry of ecstasy, he drew himself back a last time, then thrust home and bubbled out all his essence deep within Lucille's welcoming canal of love. Her body jerked and twisted as her own effluvium answered his, merging as do two rivers in their abundant reunion, and their first foray was at an end.
Good Dame Lucille emitted a long sigh of contentment. When it was over, she bussed her husband on the mouth, saying, “That was a good beginning, my adored husband. But it will take much more to satisfy my passions, so do you undress us both so that we can be skin to skin and take our joy of each other through the night.”
He banteringly countered, “Right willingly will I accept your offer, my dear wife, but are you not afraid that all this may not exhaust you for the morrow? I should not wish to stand by and see some chit of a girl, like perhaps that Laurette, win the contest and have the spectators jeer at you for failure.”
“I will still be trampling grapes when Laurette's thighs give way as she yearns for the soft repose of her virgin bed,” the auburn haired matron laughed. She then unbuttoned his nightshirt and drew it off his lanky body, and I perceived that he had a good deal of matted hair over his chest, an ideal resting place for me should I require it during the ensuing fray. For, judging from the gleam which shone from their eyes, I had no doubt that they meant to enjoy their marital life to the fullest extent this night. It would be a heated duel, a warm welcome to me indeed after the fogginess of London!
The worthy Jacques returned the compliment, and in a trice Lucille was as naked as the day she emerged into this amusing world. I had for the first time opportunity to denote her beauties, and they were considerable. Her breasts were really magnificent, boldly jutting cantaloupes with lovely aureoles and firm, stiffened paps. Undoubtedly their just-concluded ritual had teased those love-buds into a saucy turgidity that bespoke her ardor for a continuation of this age-old sport. Her skin was magnificently ivory, except where the sun had lightly bronzed her calves and her beautifully contoured upper arms and shoulders. The whiteness of what remained was of course intensified by that contrast. And as her husband stood there looking at her naked charms, I could see that his limp penis began at once to rise in salutation to such glorious enticement.
I had already learned one thing during my journey from one continent to another: while the English might depend on tactual stimulation to be roused to erotic readiness, it sufficed this French peasant to behold his naked wife, which sight at once restored him to full plenitude of animal spirits. He dipped a cloth into a ewer on a table beside the bed and sponged both his cock and his wife's bushy orifice, a procedure which excited them both considerably, as could be seen from the wriggling undulations of Dame Lucille's spacious hips and his own muscular flexions. Then, as gallantly as any courtier, his arm about her satiny waist, he escorted his mature and beautiful spouse to the connubial bed and made her lie down upon it and bade her raise her knees and spread them well apart. He then stood feasting his eyes on the delicious spectacle of the thick, dark reddish curls through which peeped the love-swollen pink petals of her cunt. Then he knelt down on the bed, bowed his head between those robust, wonderfully curved snowy thighs, and applied a sucking, noisy kiss to her slit.
Dame Lucille uttered a groan of bliss and clenched her thighs convulsively together to clamp him there as a sweet prisoner of love to her secret bower. He was nothing loath to have this done, and his hands roamed over the upturned cheeks of her voluptuous bottom, pinching and patting and stroking over those ivory globes till at last he boldly applied a forefinger down the shadowy groove which parted those Callyphygian beauties and arrived at the crevice which was the rear entry to paradise and which I have observed that many a man seems to prefer to that which Venus blesses for rites of love. Jacques deftly inserted his finger to the knuckle, the while he covered her mount with impassioned kisses.
I could see at once that the Gallic manner of copulation had inventiveness to commend it; even this humble winemaker was aware of the basic tenet of fornicatory pleasure: to give is more blessed than to receive, and in turn greater blessings are bestowed upon the giver thereby.
For if indeed all there were to connection between the sexes were the thrusting in of a penis within the boundaries of a vagina, a narrative such as mine would be dreadfully redundant. But it was precisely by such nuances as Jacques now proceeded to the second tourney that made me give thanks that I had indeed caught that fair wind to Provence.
I deemed it best at this point to transfer my hiding place to Dame Lucille's tresses, whence I could espy the entire procedure with a panoramic view. At once I could perceive from the twitchings of the auburn haired matron's belly that she was responding to the sweet kisses which her husband pressed upon her furry groove. Her knees were still arched up, and her fair white thighs clamped tenaciously about his cheeks to hold him sweet captive to her bidding. Yet the muscles of those round full thighs shivered and spasmed in the most voluptuous manner, as did her buttocks—for of course he still plied his forefinger to and fro within the dainty rosette of her nether channel. Thus dually stimulated, she was in a veritable seventh heaven of anticipatory rapture, as was told also by her cooing little cries and whimpering gasps which made enchanting music in this humble bedchamber.