It was almost three in the morning. Ghislaine looked tired.
«Good night my dear, go to bed; Myriam will see me downstairs…»
Myriam was tired too, but her lover's eyes were explicit… and she sighed.
«Yes, I'll.»
Ghislaine went into her room, while Kozincko breathed in Myriam's ear:
«God I want you!»
Myriam motioned him to be silent. Ghislaine might still hear him. They talked of the Chateau Vert next ball. After a while, Myriam said:
«I'm going to change and I'll see you to your place.»
Nicolas agreed absent mindedly.
Myriam's room was next to Ghislaine's. She could see Ghislaine was lying on her bed, she seemed to have fallen asleep, without bothering to take off her clothes.
«I'll undress her later on, and she closed the door.»
Then she saw Kozincko's stocky frame at her door.
«Aren't you mad! What if Ghislaine happened to wake up?»
Kozincko was past listening, bending her almost double, kissing her distractedly.
«Now go! go away! I'll come down…»
Nicolas was breathing hard. His eyes gloated over her.
He reached towards her decollete.
«No please not here. For Heaven's sake don't be crazy!
«Let me touch you, just touch you. You're so tempting; so… so desirable in that dress.»
His hands clung to her bare shoulders, slid along the frail arms, sneaked into her bosom, caught a breast.
Myriam dared not protest. She let him caress her, bitterly enjoying it, not knowing whether it was Ghislaine's presence that excited her, or her own conquered resistance.
Kozincko fastened greedily on her, seeking her body under the flimsy muslins. She felt his beefy hand running down her loins, pinching her ass obscenely.
«I want you… I want you now… I want to fuck you… let me… let me…»
The words crowded thickly on his lips. She read a brutish appetite in his blood-shot eyes. She felt his pecker throbbing against her thighs, knotty and stiff.
She freed herself.
«No! not here, not in that room… Any where else!»
He heard nothing, he only saw her lips moving close to his, trying to evade his kiss. His one thought was fuck, fuck her quick… He wanted to throw her on the bed. But she struggled away to the middle of the room.
An armchair was there, right in front of Ghislaine's door: Myriam under a vigorous shove fell in it. He was already panting on top of her. A silent laughter distorted his face. He caught her ankles, tumbled her back. Myriam had vision of the girl the Argentine had forced at the Chateau Vert.
She pleaded once more:
«No! No! not here, Ghislaine may…»
He had thrust his tongue down her throat. Her dress had slid back like a precious blossom, leaving her silky thighs exposed in their struggles. Her cunt was hardly hidden by a triangle of thin lawn pointing the way in… That was what Kozincko wanted. Myriam was there as on the first night he had forced his end in.
It was almost the same dress, the same undies. A rape was what he loved best and there it was. He would once more crush her under the rule of the male, his one truth. To bring her to volupty in spite of herself… What an ecstasy to ram a pecker home into a cunt that is squirming with indignant pride, wounded modesty and incipient delight… Kozincko was back to this exhilarating seconds when sometimes ago he had got that cunt.
Feverishly, in spite of her wails for she was stuck into a most uncomfortable corner, he aimed a purple pecker at her crack and without bothering to push aside her last rampart of lawn and laces he lunged it in up to the hilt with a powerful twist of his loins.
Myriam shook with the blaze of pleasure that pervaded her whole flesh. Clinging to his shoulders she wriggled under him, slinging her legs round his neck; arching her loins to let him jam it up as far as possible, almost sucking him in in a fiendish surge of her whole being.
She almost cried aloud with pleasure and bit her lips.
As the first time, she lost consciousness for a few seconds. Then Kozincko harrowed with volupty at the height of his pleasure crushed on her with the last furious impact of possession, nailing her to her armchair crucified as a victim…
— Through the key-hole Ghislaine was watching the scene with horrified yet much interested eyes… Was this what they called love..?
CHAPTER XIII
The Chateau Vert had never known such crowds before. Kozincko hadn't been chary of his money or of his invitations… As a matter of fact it was Myriam who had organized the whole thing.
This was an official entertainment and none of his usual friends were there; at least so he thought. His numerous guests were people of the immediate neighbourhood, all the youths within a few miles; and many acquaintances from Paris or else where who thought Kozincko a rich business man and his daughter the loveliest young lady.
Myriam had invited her cousins Katy and Helen, and her aunt.
She had asked too, though nobody knew it, her young lover Jerom Lazart, telling him there would be a surprise for him on that night. Jerome who still wished to meet Ghislaine thought a fancy dress ball a fine opportunity.
She had asked Freddy ant the Argentine to come well disguised enough so that nobody could know them.
Every one had come and Myriam was going to wreck her revenge… With Nicolas permission she had as usual put under lock and key the wing that had been Ghislaine's and she had kept the keys. She had made him promise he'd let her act as she wanted, and in return she had promised him a good surprise. Nicolas relied blindly on what he called Myriam's love. Now, wholly engaged in making the feast worthy of her daughter's beauty, he was greeting his guests.
The ball was a great success!
Ghislaine was, as well as her father, the cynosure of all eyes. She was the loveliest fairy one might imagine. Her immaculate dress, as fine as a cobweb, and spangled with gold stars, made her usneal so graceful was she in every one of her movements. She held her magic wand, but her smile alone was enough to warrant a supernatural manifestation.
Kozincko was exceedingly proud of Ghislaine's success and thought it was due to Myriam's skill who had launched and realized this grand idea.
He would look for Myriam in the assembly, but how could he see her among a good hundred guests, his dear little Cinderella…
— She was there all the same, surroundered by an admiring crowd…
She seemed to come right out of a fairy tale in her long light blue dress gathered at the waist by a gold belt. Her shoulders were bare, the material clung to her breasts, and her fair hair waved down on her shoulders. She had a dazzling diadem on her head. Her tiny Cinderella feet were encased in golden shoes, her wrists were dazzling with precious bracelets. A small mask hid her face, yet her eyes seemed to burn with a strange fire.
She had as much success as Ghislaine, and nothing apparently lacked to make her thoroughly, radiantly, happy.
Yet Myriam felt wretched. Everything she had, her dress, her gems, her blossoming beauty she owed Kozincko who had bought her from her aunt…
She'd never know what love was. She felt she might have known it, now she was but an instrument to the pleasures of others. Nobody asked for anything but her fresh youthful flesh. Even Jerome… He had thought her a virgin, and now he treated as a woman of no importance. He didn't respect her, he just used her to soothe down any of his cravings… She was his slave as she was Kozincko's slave. Nobody had ever wondered if she had a heart as long as they could screw her. She was deeply disgusted with the whole show. She reproached them with having broken and wrecked her purity, and made her a slave of that law she felt unable to evade now. If she had launched into debauch it was to vanquish them all the better on their own ground. They were but heated males and they would be dealt with as such.