“Oh, no, Your Reverence! It is true that I scolded Madame Tilueil for having sent her little boy over to me with a basket of eggs which I needed to make this very cake you found so delicious just now, Your Reverence. I found three bad eggs, for which she had charged me the full price, and I am afraid that knowing these eggs were for your august palate, I lost my temper.”
“I will easily forgive you that, my daughter. You will say one Hail Mary before you close your eyes this night. Is there aught else?”
There was a moment's silence while the handsome widow pondered, and then a soft: “If it is a sin, Your Reverence, I missed you very much the other night. And last night, too. And – and it was as a man, not as a priest, that I longed for you. I know I have sinned grievously.”
“No, my daughter, only if you sought to console your disappointment with some man to whom you were not wed, would you then be in mortal sin.”
“Oh, no, Your Reverence. But I did dream that you were beside me in bed, fucking me with your becque.” (At this point, let me remind you, dear reader, the good Father and his beauteous landlady were speaking in French, and to facilitate matters I will merely furnish to you the English translation to ease your understanding of what took place. Now, the word becque is French, and a colloquialism which roughly corresponds to the English 'prick.')
“Did you manifest any other action than passively during this dream, my daughter?”
“No, Your Reverence, except that when I wakened, I found I had my finger in my con.” (Here again Madame Bernard used the French vulgarism for what in English is called 'cunny.')
“After due reflection, my daughter, I do not think you were really guilty of mortal sin. Your mind, like your body, was dormant while you were asleep, and your finger cannot be said to have committed a mortal sin simply by wandering at random over your fair person while your mind was in repose. I therefore absolve you. Now, is that the last?”
“I – I think so, Your Reverence. Are – are you really leaving Languecuisse tomorrow?”
“It is my destiny, my daughter. I have been assigned to the Seminary of St. Thaddeus, and he who takes the bread of Mother Church must do her bidding. However, joyfully I may tell you that I bring to my new post a lovely and innocent candidate for righteousness, since the charming damsel Marisia, who as you will remember was the ward of the late Monsieur Villiers, will accompany me to take up her duties as a novice in our holy order.”
“Ah, Father Lawrence, what I would not give to be in her place and to be, indeed, of her tender years.”
“Let us remember that one of the commandments, my daughter, reproves you for coveting that which is not yours. It is Marisia's destiny, as it is mine to take her there, and undoubtedly for you there will be a place in heaven when your time is come. Yet since you are yet young and strong and spirited, my daughter, I shall be greatly surprised if, before another year is out, you do not exchange your widow's weeds for the costume of a joyous bride. And it is this benediction towards that ultimate happiness which I am come to give you now, both as a priest and as a man who appreciates your hospitality.”
Once again I could hear the Widow Bernard's stifled giggle, and I knew how greatly she had been impressed by the English ecclesiastic's sententious declamation. I was certain that she was impatient now, having received his absolution in his role of priest, to be the recipient of his massive cock's farewell joust within her burning cuntsheath.
“I am grateful for Your Reverence's good wishes. But alas, in a tiny village like this, it is not easy to find a worthy man who will mate with a widow no longer in the springtime of her youth. And you know that Laurette has captured that handsome devil of a Pierre Larrieu, whose ilk is none too common. Oh, Your Reverence, I shall pine in my bed alone at night and dream not only of you, but of a vigorous youth like Pierre. I know that I shall commit sin, because you will be away in London, perhaps never to return, and yet Pierre Larrieu will be only a little distance away from my humble cottage and my lonely bed.'*
“Then you must remember the counsel of good St. Paul, who said that it was far better to marry than to burn,” Father Lawrence immediately riposted. “You must make a diligent effort to suppress your urge to sin until you have found a suitable spouse who will accommodate your yearnings within the holy estate of matrimony. Yet, because, as a man, I know how you are suffering now – as a woman and not as a parishioner – I take pity on you my last night in Languecuisse. See, I am removing my cassock. Now there is no longer the priest – only the man.”
“Oh, Your Reverence – and what a man you are! I can see your prick fairly bursting through your drawers.”
“Why, then, since it is wrong and against nature to suppress all natural instincts, and so that by the good grace of harmonious relationships between our sexes as man and woman, liberate my prick and at the same time liberate your delicious pussy, so that we may unite the two organs in a felicitous gesture of comradeship and parting at the same exquisite time.”
Father Lawrence, as you see, dear reader, was something of a romantic. Had he stayed in Languecuisse and replaced fat Pere Mourier (whose habits as a trencherman at table and as a cocksmith in bed were very likely to bring on fluxes, cholers and increasing fleshly girth) I verily believe that the little hamlet would have become a veritable paradise for thwarted lovers and suppressed widows, to say nothing of disappointed Amazonian housekeepers, like the beautiful Desiree.
“And now you make me blush, Your Reverence, as I gaze upon so mighty a prick and think that in a few moments it will do my poor little cunny the honor of stretching it apart until I nearly swoon with pleasure,” the Widow Bernard exhaled in the most langorous of tones. I heard a rustling now, and knew it to be of garments being removed. Sure enough, for a moment later Father Lawrence, his voice hoarse with the unmistakable note of sexual zeal, pronounced: “As a man and not as a priest, my dear Hortense, the sight of your carnation-tinted naked skin assures me that you will not lack for proper suitors. Now do not misunderstand me, my daughter. I would not have you go about exposing your fine limbs or those luscious bubbies of yours to vulgar eyes. But surely, it cannot be great wrongdoing to allow a deferential and serious-minded suitor the opportunity to inspect, however briefly, a portion of your treasures, particularly at the time when he is amorous of you and of a type of impressionable mind which can be led down the aisle to the holy altar of matrimony. Remember, this, my daughter.”
“Oh, I will, I will, Your Reverence. And now I am blushing just as I did on my wedding night. I have only my drawers on, as you do, Your Reverence. My knees are beginning to tremble, seeing that big, hard, stiff prick of yours standing out in the air, menacing my poor little cunny. I want it so much, and yet the way it stares and points at my cunny fills me with fear, truly, Your Reverence!”
Now the Widow Bernard's voice was trembling with overwrought emotions. I could picture the scene: both of them naked to the waist, clad only in their drawers, he with his cock sticking out through the vent of that last garment, she with clenched, sweaty little hands and dilated eyes and flaring nostrils, as her gaze fixed irrevocably on the plumhead of this mighty, throbbing cock.
I did not need my vision to recall the features and the form of this vigorous ecclesiastic. He was a man just under six feet in stature and in his late forties. His abundant shock of brown hair was only partly streaked with gray. He had intensely compelling blue eyes – I suspect that the very intensity of their gaze had much to do with his prowess – surmounted by very thick, bushy brows. His nose was Roman, his mouth and chin firm and decisive. There was, perhaps, in the corners of that mouth, just the slightest hint of sensuality, the faintest suspicion of self-esteem at the moment of conquering a tasty cunt such as the Widow Bernard undeniably possessed. I began to wish, indeed, that when I had taken my nap it had been in the luxuriant bush between her carnation-sheened, plump thighs, for she was not likely to indulge in such nonsensical sentimentality as to cut off her pussycurls and put them in a locket to give to another girl, of all things! She was the type of woman who gave of herself fully and wholly – if my readers will forgive so atrocious a pun! – and without counting those silky tendrils which fleeced that plump and appetizing mound of Venus.