Again he took her lips… desirously. now, asserting his will and she sighed plaintively, trembled and her agitated fingers moved against his, plying caresses against her own bosom and thus affirming her unconscious acceptance of this carnal tribute he bore for her beauty in its exciting dishabille.

Gently, he drew down the chemise, till it flowered, white and fragile fetter of love’s awakening, around her hips… baring her waist… her silken-soft, satiny white belly, her tender, rounded sides… and his hands clasped her waist and he drew her toward him, her head sinking back, her lips parted, her eyes closed, her chiseled nostrils palpitating in her reverie of emotion, in her ecstatic trouble of surging response which all the teachings and warnings of her mind could no longer deny.

His lips set their burning caresses on her chin… her throat, her shoulders, her forearms… his hands laved her sides with stroking, assuaging caresses … and now rose toward her bosom, coming together to cup those sheathed globes of love with eager palms… and then, with a prolongation of attainment that made Marie tremble and sigh in her confusion, applied his fingers in curving, amorous arcs over the salient, rounded turrets of those heaving globes.

“Oh… Georges… I beg of you… je t’en prie… no… no…“ murmured the young girl, half swooning in this ardent lover’s sage embrace.

“I adore you, little Marie,” he replied and took her lips, this time hotly, crushing her to him in a spasm of desire that swept the twain, she partaking and learning of his mounting ardor for the perfection of her young, ripe body.

“I… I… must not… oh… I cannot… help… myself… Be kind… to me.*. Georges,” she moaned and, in a wave of shame and delicious girlish trouble, buried her scarlet face on his chest, her arms linking round his neck like two lianas of white, serpentine beauty.

His hands slowly moved around her back… gently… gently… and suddenly she trembled and her eyes opened, humid, dilating, her lips forming a moue of the most amorous submission conceivable.