She trembled, but her eyes remained, widened, blazing, on the couple seated before her very gaze, intent on the rites of burgeoning desire on that lush, enticing divan… the divan of a brothel!

George’s lips descended slowly, without haste, for he was savoring the delight of feeling Marie’s cool, satiny skin against his questing lips and stealthily his mouth crept down her white, shivering flesh of throat, until it reached the top of the chemise, desirous of attaining that tempting declension which announced the valley of her breasts, shielded beneath the silk.

“Oh… Georges… mon amour,” breathed Marie, “il ne faut pas… you must not… I I… am ashamed… to let you do what you have done… cesses, je t’en prie my mistress… will see…“

Her plaintive, soft, sweet voice was intensified in sensual provocation by the commingling of her native tongue with those classically familiar but ah, how evocative plaints which every young girl before the threshold of mysterious desire employs to show her hesitancy to the inculcated rites of the great god Pan!

He replied, his hands tightening on her milky, rounded forearms, “Here, nothing matters except us… your mistress-bah-as for her, she is just another temptress for the customers!”

Marcia went white with mingled shame and fury and stamped her feet in a petulant flaring up of temper.

“But, Georges, she will discharge me when we… get out of here…“ faltered Marie.

He smiled and kissed her soft, enchanting lips, replying, “In that case, mignonne, I’ll employ you as my mistress!”

Marie turned away her head, blushing furiously and her soft hands crept to his chest, gently pushing against him as if to entreat kindness and cessation of the emotional confusion he was so overwhelmingly effecting on her maiden sensibilities.

And when at last she could speak, she murmured, her eyes downcast, her crimsoning face averted shyly, “But… but… I do not even know who you are, or your real name, monsieur Oh, no, it would be impossible! Tout a fait impossible!”