Roissy Entrance

“Don't move,” René says. “Sit perfectly still.”

His hand reaches for the collar of your blouse, unties the bow, then unbuttons the blouse. You lean forward slightly, thinking he wants to fondle your breasts. No. He is merely groping for the shoulder straps of your brassiere, which he snips with a small penknife. Then he takes it off. Now, beneath your blouse, which he has buttoned back up, your breasts are naked and free, as is the rest of your body, from waist to knee.

“Listen,” he says. “Now you're ready. This is where I leave you. You're to get out and go ring the doorbell. Follow whoever opens the door for you, and do whatever you're told. If you hesitate about going in, they'll come and take you in. If you don't obey immediately, they'll **** you to. Your bag? No, you have no further need for your bag. You're merely the girl I'm furnishing. Yes, of course I'll be there. Now run along.”

And you find yourself standing in the rain, in front of a small wooden door, as the taxi pulls away.

You stand at the front door of a private home

A small green painted wooden door, on large cast iron hinges, with a doorbell on one side. The house itself is unassuming, and the door is flanked by high hedges, so you're mostly screened from the avenue to the north as you stand here. You don't draw too much comfort from that.

It's raining lightly.