The Autobiography of a Flea E-Book

anonymous

• Herausgeber: Erotic eBooks
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

"The Autobiography of a Flea" is narrated by a flea who tells the tale of a beautiful young girl named Bella, her sexual curiosity, and the people who take advantage of her ignorance.
The novel serves as both erotica and also as a piece of anti-church propaganda by portraying members of the priesthood as immoral, manipulative and hypocritical.

"The Autobiography of a Flea" is a classic Victorian erotic novel, published in 1901. It contains graphic sexual descriptions and themes.

Leseprobe

The Autobiography of a Flea

Anonymous

The Autobiography of a Flea 1901AnonymousThis ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy.First edition 2012

Chapter I

I left England, wafted by a favorable wind blowing to the south, and found refuge in a little village in Provence, aptly named Languecuisse--which, for those astute readers who are not fluent in the French language, is translated to mean “Tongue Thigh.” An interesting name although I must say that I did not choose the site purposely; I simply was opportunist enough to let the wind carry me where it would. Autumn was not far off, and the chilly climate of England did not appeal to me since I would have been forced to go into hiding or hibernation, limiting my chances of nourishment and also of diversified contact with interesting people. For even a lowly Flea may have aspirations to culture, mark that well. The village of Languecuisse was dominated by vineyards where noble wines were pressed from the rich grapes. In all, I should say there were perhaps two hundred people residing in that charming region, for nature had endowed Languecuisse with beauty that delighted the eye of the beholder. Once I landed, I found myself in a little valley surrounded almost entirely by rolling hills and protected from the gusty winds that can wreak havoc not only on tender grapes but also on my own kind. The soil was wonderfully fertile, as it must be to produce the lush white and purple grapes whose nearly bursting skins yield the Burgundies and Sauternes and Chablis which I am told those of means are wont to imbibe. Besides the vineyards, there were carefully tended gardens and hedges, and many plots of vegetables. All this told me at once that the inhabitants of Languecuisse were not starving, and that in turn meant that I should not grow meager and pine away for lack of nourishment. For, if the human race is one of opportunists, then assuredly we Fleas, being part of the divine scheme of things, are equally so; from this you may draw the logical inference that a Flea would rather attach himself to a person goodly in flesh than to one who is lean and jaundiced.

I had arrived, it appeared, just in time for the September harvesting of the grapes, judging from the comments of the beldames whom I heard as I broke away from the friendly breeze that had borne me over the Channel to this exquisite little valley in the heart of France. I found temporary lodging on the beam of a door to a pleasant little cottage not far from the largest vineyard, and there, a plump red haired woman in cap and apron was gossiping with her neighbor, a black-haired, olive-skinned wench with bold eyes and breasts that strained against the low-cut bodice of her muslin dress.

“Tomorrow, Dame Margot,” the plumper one was saying, “we shall see how well the good grapes can be pressed. I myself intend to take part in the contest.”

“I trust, then, Dame Lucille, that your wind and stamina will hold out. Your intentions are good, but to stand in a wine vat in the hot sun and tread the grapes even for half an hour would tax a maiden many summers less your own age,” was the brunette’s taunting retort.

“Bah,” sneered the red haired matron, “you know not of what you speak. If I am still capable of making my good man Jacques beg for mercy after a few jousts in bed with me, have no fear that I shall tire when I press the grapes. I have pressed the juice out of his wine-maker on many a night when he was boasting of his prowess, and I could have fucked even your own handsome husband, to say nothing of half a dozen more.”

I have always been amused at the boastfulness of mortals, who always seem to be trying to prove their own superiority. This is, of course, a matter of relative significance, since time has a way of effacing all the achievements of a generation. Now we Fleas are short-lived indeed, and most of us seek to prove nothing except our own right to existence. When you consider that we have more enemies than ever opposed the race of human beings, I modestly say it is little short of a miracle that we survive at all. Not only are the elements arrayed against us, but also birds and alien insects and the animal kingdom from the mongrel dog to the veritable King of Beasts, the lion himself. But we too have ambitions like Man, and that is why we are attracted to his species for our nourishment. For a Flea to sustain himself as I have done on the body of a male or a female requires wit, ingenuity, courage and not a little heroism.

But to return to the scene at hand. This handsome matron of goodly girth and luxuriant auburn tresses who bore the name of Dame Lucille had quickened my interest by declaring to her neighbor that she was extraordinarily competent between the sheets. Her boasts of prowess roused in me nostalgic memories of impassioned embraces in which I had participated both as impartial observer and even as catalyst. I had recently been the cause of an amorous man falling short of his incestuous desires for his niece when, by digging my proboscis into the sensitive covering of his scrotum, I caused him to ejaculate before his weapon could reach the targeted love-chalice of his adorable young niece. I told myself that it might be amusing to stay awhile with Dame Lucille to discover whether her opinion of her own amatory powers was truly deserved. I was also thinking of the descriptions I could collect for the edification and amusement of my readers. I would make good use of my unique ability to slip into supposedly private places unnoticed. To be sure, since I found myself in a strange new clime and surroundings, the guiding and primal principle of survival was uppermost in my mind: it was essential that I find a source of nourishment, for I was already somewhat faint with hunger as a result of my long wind-borne journey. And the fulsomeness of her fine white flesh seemed to promise a magnificent source.

As I prepared to fly down from my vantage point on the door, Dame Margot, the bold-eyed black haired wench, put her hands on her svelte hips and jeered: “Why, as to that, it’s easy enough to wag one’s tongue where there is nothing to be gained. You know very well that you have as little chance of enticing my Guillaume to your bed as I have of proving to your Jacques that I could exhaust him in half the time you take. So save your energies, good Lucille, for the contest tomorrow.”

“Pooh!” The auburn haired matron put out her tongue in derision. “I was always one to suit action to words. I would willingly exchange husbands with you to prove my boast, but I know that you Guillaume is so afraid of his own shadow and of your nagging that he would not dare come to my bedchamber for a good fucking. Nay, a better fucking than ever he had in his life.”

This taunt evidently pricked Dame Margot’s wifely pride in a sensitive spot, for her face reddened with anger and she promptly exclaimed, “I will call your bluff and show you up to be a lying shrew! If you succeed in winning tomorrow afternoon, I give you my word that my Guillaume will come to your bedchamber ready to do you service whenever you propose. But I do not think that your Jacques would willingly stand by and watch himself being cuckolded.” “I will take that wager,” declared my red haired hostess (for I had already decided to attach myself to her until such time as I could determine my destiny), “and I will be equally generous. If I win, I will send Jacques to your bed and bid him account to me strictly of your capabilities once his winemaker is pressed well within your matrix. I warrant you that your Guillaume will be limp and useless in my bed a long hour before my Jacques is used up between your long, lean thighs.”

“Done!” The brunette stamped her foot, her eyes sparkling with angry determination. “But suppose you are not the winner in the grape-treading contest, Lucille? What forfeit will you then pay, you boastful jade?”

Chapter II

Before I proceed to the description of the connubial scenes I was destined to witness on this my first evening in France, I think it well that my readers understand something of the nature of my species. We Fleas have been much maligned throughout the centuries, principally because we are said to be conveyors of the great outbreaks of bubonic plague. I shall not attempt to contradict the learned men of science and medicine who thus denounce us; I say only that we have conveyed these germs unknowingly, since they are not fatal to us. And I submit that if these same learned men were to examine our annals, they would find that there has never been in all of the Flea history a civil, much less an international, war. I submit that our morality is far less suspect than that of the species that condemns us. But so much for that...

But you may ask, how is it that a Flea can survive on the human body without detection and without the constant peril of extermination? Well, let us consider the Flea. In an era when there are complaints of expanding human population and decreasing food supplies for their nourishment, I and my brothers in no way deplete the world’s supply of food. Consider that an unfed adult Flea may remain alive a year or more without the slightest nourishment. In some way, indeed, we may be said to resemble the camel in being able to sustain ourselves on a very minimum of nourishment. We adult Fleas have a flat hard-skinned body, very thin from side to side, which permits us to slip between the hairs or the feathers of the animal on which we feed. And our large hind legs permit us to jump as much as thirteen inches horizontally and almost eight inches high. Moreover, we Fleas have instincts that enable us to anticipate the slightest threat to our safety so that we invariably alter our hiding places when danger is imminent. We need not always remain attached to the lovely bodies of young girls and women whom we have come to admire for their energy and amatory zeal. For example, I myself could have well remained all the night long atop that beam. It was only my innate curiosity--and that is...