I seek my husband, and feminine yelps scatter the birds from the secret garden. Peering through the clematis, she clings to the tree trunk, ploughed hard by Pierre.

Tut, tut, only eighteen, with grass-stained knees as rampant loins slap her pert ass, and the crisis of her impending fate etched on her features. My beau looms forward, and her hungry mouth sucks on my possession. Kneading her breasts, Camille laps at her clit to seal her fate.

Shuddering with stifled squeals, our eyes meet, and mine are filled with pride.

“Lisette, bad girl," I purr, "you started without me.”