Mousse

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Monique threw her cigarette in the crystal ash tray. She got up and displayed her shapely voluptuous body in the fragrant breeze of that June evening. She listened for a while to the rumor of the nearby sea and of the moving pine trees in the starlit night; then, leaving the terrace, she entered the living room where her aunt and some friends of hers were seriously playing bridge. By the table, Max Darcourt was quietly smoking. He looked at Monique, a splendid girl of nineteen, fair-haired, whose body, dressed in shiny black silk, represented a perfect materialization of desires and lust. At each step she took, her splendid buttocks were undulating, supported by her perfectly shaped legs. She had a very narrow waist that accentuated the size of her rear. Her two breasts were like succulent and juicy pineapples. The face was very sweet, with wide eyes that looked at you as in perpetual surprise.

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