Expensive fragrances stand on the dressing table and wait

In costly crystal containers, to the side of a brush and comb,

Until the lady, draped in a towel that silently slides to the floor,

Quietly emerges from her bath’s warm water and white foam.

When seated upon the bench created of hard, straight lines

The lady’s naked, soft curves reflect in the mirror’s shiny glare

While she smiles and hastily preens before the silvery framed glass,

Hurriedly pinning up the many stray, loose curls of her long, dark hair.

Powdering her oval face, blushing her round cheeks, shining her full lips

And lastly touching each and every pulse point with a delicate perfume,

At the dressing table the lady prepares for the sensual ritual of seduction,

The ancient passionate rite commencing when her gentleman enters the room.