So adept were his suave hands as they gently forced hers that now she unknowingly cupped her own bosom-globes and thus proffered their taut, silk and lace-kissed glories to his lips- which, having tasted the regalia of the satiny and intimately woman-perfumed flesh of her breast valley, now sought to gauge the resilience and elasticity and ardent firmness of the globes themselves… brushing the silken sheath with questing, fleeting lips, while he murmured soft words of enchantment: “Marie… my beautiful adorable Marie… pigeonne enchantante mignonne adore’e… laissez-moi t’adorer. Je te veux avec tout mon dйsir… tout mon amour…”

And Marcia, wide-eyed, trembling and writhing against her fetters, found her apprehension and anxiety increasing with every instant of this titillating scene. Who was this man, surely no brutal frequenter of a marketplace for women’s flesh? His manner, his knowledge of Marie’s own tongue, his science art of wooing-all these signs bespoke an identity she must know. For surely so intrepid an amorist would not be ungallant enough to leave her to her doom in this terrible house of evil!

But that burning insult still rankled her-that she, Marcia Thomaston, rich, beautiful-more beautiful than a host of insipid blonds such as Marie-should be callously ignored and that so suave a gentleman should prefer the tasteless charms of a domestic to her own perfumed and desirable body-ah, she knew she was desirable. Had not the eyes of a thousand men, in all walks of life, in every place where the elite gathered to be seen, told her so?

Marie’s golden head sank to rest on George’s chest… Mutely, submissively, trustingly, she yielded…

He bent his head and applied his mouth hungrily to her parted, quivering lips, drinking in the sweet moisture of her petaled mouth…