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All this while, I had reposed in the warm little grotto of Lucille's bellybutton, basked 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.
The connubial bedchamber was spacious, and most of the room was taken up by an enormous bed with four posters and a 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 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 find 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 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 being plucked from its stem. The shaft itself bulged; 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, 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 that nearly hid the aperture. But once the lips came into view, I could see that they were exquisitely pink and soft and entreating, and also I perceived a suspicious moistness which presupposed that the worthy woman was already anticipating her connubial blessing. 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 while she used the other hand to fondle the enormous weapon, which he presented to 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 our first bout of the evening, 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."
"Oui, c'est bien vrai," Lucille purred with a smile on her full rosy lips. Retaining hold of his ramrod, she 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 recesses 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 his hairs. Her gasp at this action was raucous with pleasure, and her glazed eyes rolled up into her head. 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 devastating lunges, each of which drew a cry of rapture from his 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 flow answered his, merging as do two rivers in their abundant reunion. 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 undress us both so that we can be skin to skin and take our joy of each other through the night."
He countered banteringly, "Right willingly will I accept your offer, my dear wife, but are you not afraid that all this will 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 your failure."
"I will still be trampling grapes when Laurette's thighs give way as she yearns for the soft repose of her virginal 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 that 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 chilly fog 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, an opportunity to view 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. Or maybe their upstanding state bespoke her ardor for the 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 his limp penis begin 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 an ewer on a table beside the bed and sponged both his cock and his wife's bushy orifice, a procedure that excited them both considerably, as could be seen from the wriggling undulations of Dame Lucille's spacious hips and his own muscular limbs. 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. He bode 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 those ivory globes till at last he boldly applied a forefinger down the shadowy groove which parted those Callipygian 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, all the while covering 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 rapture, as was told also by her cooing little cries and whimpering gasps which made enchanting music in this humble bedchamber.
At last, she could bear this Tantalus no longer. Swinging wide her knees, she entreated him dulcetly to enter her forthwith. Her husband did not need a second invitation. As he knelt up, I saw that his cock was formidably taut and bulging with renewed zeal to put her to the test. He looked down on the heaving turrets of her bosom, and his other hand cupped one of those luscious globes and kneaded lingeringly while he continued the gentle in and out movement of his delving forefinger. Next, this worthy wine-maker crawled forward on his knees and, crouching adroitly, engaged just the tip of his swollen tool against the moist and palpitating lips of Dame Lucille's ardent slit. Thereupon he began to rub in circular fashion all around the mount of Venus, tantalizing his passionate wife almost to the point of frenzy. Her head began to roll back and forth on the pillow, her eyes were enormously dilated and glazed, and her nostrils flared and shrank like those of a mare in heat awaiting the pronging of the stallion.
I could not but applaud his preparations for so harmonious a copulatory encounter. And his entire preparation recalled to me that excellent maxim which should be part of the credo of every aspiring lover; when the beloved is passionately lusted for, the male should at once relieve his pent-up longings by a swift act, since, once this is done, nature endows him with great staying powers for the second and enchantingly prolonged bout. There are those men of little faith who, having ejaculated prematurely because they are undone by the beauties of their feminine partner, deplore their own failing and give up the battle, the more fools they! Let the true lover take heart from what I relate of what took place between Dame Lucille and her worthy lord and master, Jacques, in this obscure village of Provence. Let him remember that, just as faint heart ne'er won fair lady, just so meek cock ne'er was granted true opportunity to show its prowess.
But these two did not need my somewhat sententious Flea's philosophy; it seemed already to have been inborn within their natures. Dame Lucille at last extended a soft white hand to take amorous hold of her husband's swollen shaft, which to my impartial gaze appeared to be fully as huge as at their first coition. For a moment or two, she tantalized herself by guiding its angrily reddened tip all over the soft crannies of her mount, so that every iota of those greedy, pink, plump love-lips might have their fulsome share. Then, with an eager gasp, as she squirmed her buttocks forward, she guided him in between the palpitating petals of her grotto, half raising her head from the pillow and staring at him with loving gaze as she entreated, "Oh, baise-moi le plus fort que tu peux!" I am certain that no spouse in all of Christendom ever heard more inflammatory appeal, for the luscious matron was, to translate for my readers once again, begging him to "fuck me as hard as you can." He sank down slowly, cushioned upon her fair white belly, his chest mashing down the proud rondures of her panting bosom, and her arms clasped him round the waist and locked him to her, while her naked legs instantly clamped over his backside so that she might be well mounted for the ride to paradise which lay ahead.
Grasping her nape with his left hand, Jacques foraged under her buttocks with his other hand so that he might restore his forefinger to that tighter, more mysterious channel which he had already exacerbated in the prelude to their amour. Dame Lucille welcomed this restoration with a moan of delirious joy and fused her mouth to his. Then he began a slow and deliberate penetration of her tender parts, so leisurely, indeed, that one might think he was astride a slow mare ambling off on a long winding road that had no end. She matched his gait with a delicious cohesion, not hastening any more than he, but it was evident from the flexing of her muscles that she savored each long slow dig within her groove of pleasure. His finger probing between her buttocks matched this rhythm also, thus rousing the auburn-haired matron to even greater bliss than she had tasted on their initial sally into the realm of Cythera. She began to babble incoherent words, her eyes shining with lust and her fingers clawing at his lean, sinewy back. Her plump ivory thighs incessantly shifted over his backside so that every nook and cranny of her inner labyrinth might feel the goading, rasping gouge of his weapon.
I knew that both of them were in superb fettle for their dalliance, and I was certain also now that Dame Lucille would acquit herself as honorably in the wine vat trampling out the grapes before the spectators as she now squeezed her husband's potent wine-maker between her ivory thighs. So wishing to broaden my comprehension of the amorous proclivities of her rival, Dame Margot, I reluctantly took my leave of this worthy couple and flew out through a crack in the windowpane to visit the cottage next door where Margot