Belle de Jour

He insists on Belle de Jour
A whore resplendent in the afternoon
She adores the hiss of the whip
And cums with the final strike

Her skin was a perfect white
Her back now lined with reddened trails
She doesn't seem to mind the pain
And murmurs her encouragement

Her husband passes in a coach
Sees his wife strapped to a tree
If that's her pleasure, oh mon Dieu
There's a tongue lashing yet to come

She defies his prudish ways
Says it's to make beaucoup d'argent
If he can't handle all the stripes
He can head out the portail.