“Come,” he said.
The Eurasian led him from the room, across the hall and to another door which she unlocked silently. Once inside, she turned the lock again and laid the key upon a table.
Breathing without restraint, she slipped her blouse over her head and snapped the buttons from her skirt. As she looked at Martin, her breast filled, then fell, then rose again until Martin, impatient, lifted her and tossed her on the bed, laughing.
“I love you,” cried the native girl as she felt his pointed tongue.
“You are so hot,” replied Martin. “This is not love.”
“It is, it is!” the woman insisted. “Touch me again!”
“Siedred,” said Martin.
“What?”
“Siedred.” He pulled the long cord of the lamp which hung above them. There was a frantic sound of broken clothes, of sighs too distressing, of a single, smothered scream.
“Oh, oh!” Siedred cried.