A. Verse - The Violation of Marcia Thomaston

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…

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.

And as she raised her head and swayed, leaning forward as she had been, the filmy wisp of silk and lace descended from its protective salient and fluttered to her lap.

And to his gleaming eyes, there appeared the reality… the magnificent fulfillment… of the secrets of her breasts!

Naked, all their promise of rounded globes and satiny flesh and delicate, pert coral buds capping those exquisite, girlish, fresh turrets fulfilled and more than this in their effulgence!

At once, crying out in alarm, Marie covered her breasts with her hands and turned away her head and her body shook as~ with weeping.

His hands set on her naked shoulders, he turned her slowly, insistently, to meet his gaze. And it was true: glistening, slow tears descended from her widened eyes, so blue, so soft, so piteous… his lips drank those tears, those girlish tears, allaying their bitter salt of woe and shame with the counterattack of ardor and male desire and sensual worship of her body’s pristine, milky, enchanting beauty.

“Oh… oh… what have you done… oh, Georges… I… I… am so ashamed please… do not… force me… oh no… I could not bear it…“ sobbed the sweet young blond and she bowed her head, helpless, a prisoner of love in his arms.

“Darling, as if I could hurt you, sweet as you are… do not be ashamed. You are lovely… desirable… your body was made for poets to praise and lovers to worship, Marie… gentle Marie… so unlike your selfish mistress…”

Marcia, choking against the gag of silk, sought to protest vehemently against this insult; the cord around her neck menacingly denied her effort at freedom.

Nor was her gesture of furious humiliation and arrogant wrath noticed in the slightest… no more than if it had been the pipes of Pan, playing from afar, while lovers took their joy of one another in the summer night.

He took her hands away, bared those heaving, rounded, resilient young globes, those rounded, adorable globes of milky loveliness and, bowing his head, holding her hands captive, doves of fluttering confusion in his own, he began to kiss the summits of those twin sisters of Venus-bliss.

“Oh… oh… please… Georges… dear… sweet Georges… no… oh…

I feel so ashamed… no more… Georges, ooooh…“ sighed the lovely blond, her head turning from side to side. And now, overcome by the titillation of his burning lips, by the excitement engendered by his savoring, lingering kisses-which now descended to attack her pretty swelling buds of bliss-ecstasy-she bent her head over his and her parted, palpitating, moist red lips brushed his hair.

Marcia flushed, feeling herself cheapened by being forced to behold this wantonly… oh, Marie should be flogged till her blood ran to the floor!

She groaned… the sound was stifled… and, indeed, it was echoed far more amorously by Marie’s sighing plaint, for now he began to mouth and suck her nipples, gently pressing his teeth against their sensitive buds and her winsome face was contorted by an emotion that was not shame… surely.

The unveiled loveliness of Marie’s torso was intensely appealing: her undulating, palpitating sides, flexing with soft and subtle tremors, her heaving breasts, now delectable captives in the amorous mouth of Georges, her quivering rounded shoulders-all were endowed with a perfection of esthetic molding that was stimulating to the sight and to the touch. She swayed against him, her lips still brushing his hair, allowing herself to be thus adored with humid, half-closed eyes, her nostrils palpitating deliciously and sensually.

His hands stroked her forearms, then the sides of these globes whose fragrant, intimate firm buds his lips savoringly paid homage to and her soft plaints were exquisite to hear-save to Marcia, whose flaming face, breathless anguish and revulsion and tensing limbs betrayed the price ~t cost her pride to witness this prelude to the chalorous nuptial bed of feverish ecstasy.

“I want you, Marie,” he murmured and Marie closed her eyes, overcome by her puritanical distress, feeling herself reviled by association with the scene of amorous posturing.

“Oh… mon amour… mon trйsor,” sighed Marie, “I… want you… to… I cannot help myself… you are… ‘too’ sweet oh… mon cher amour, mon Georges puisissant… prends-moi… oh… je me cиdeаtoi…

And she blushed, swooning in her paroxysm of maiden yielding.

He rose and held her in his arms, drawing her to his chest to crush her parted, moistened lips with his hot, eager mouth… she let her arms fall to her sides, her head tilted back, her eyes closed and the chemise fluttered to her ankles and she was naked, save for her sandals and the molding stockings of diaphanous flesh-toned mesh… and the sheath that shielded her girlish treasure of libidinous acceptance from his eager gaze.