Postcards From THE ESTATE: The Womanizers - Guy Hughes free porn video

Author's note: When we hear the term "womanizer" we think of a Bill Clinton, a Ted Kennedy (or any Kennedy), a Donald Trump--some straight man who can't resist chasing women even if he has a wife or girlfriend. The term is both glorifying and preoperative, but only mildly so. Not exactly the male equivalent of "slut." At THE ESTATE--that extensive rural retreat that once was the private residence of a late nineteenth century robber baron--the term has a nearly opposite meaning. And THE ESTATE's use would never be pejorative--THE ESTATE does not pass moral judgment on its members, their guests or its staff. THE ESTATE recognizes that among its transvestite/transgendered clients and guests are many who desire and experience the lost of their anal virginity on its grounds. It is the final act of being a woman--to arouse the lust of a man to want them as women, to accept into their bodies the manhood of another, to draw from that manhood the seed of life. For that purpose THE ESTATE maintains on its staff a group informally known as the womanizers--men who specialize in the anal defloration of the transgendered. The readers of Fictionmania have met two such staffers: William in "Postcards from THE ESTATE: Deidre's First Day" and Jeff in "Postcards from THE ESTATE: Mrs. Townsend." As different in technique, approach, attitude and results as night and day. One smug, self-assured, arrogant, cruel just short of sadistic. The other the Phil Donahue of womanizers. The author now introduces the readers to another womanizer- -this one a member of THE ESTATE. Postcards from THE ESTATE: The Womanizers - Guy Hughes By Eugene Webber The bus driver recognized Nathaniel as a guest of THE ESTATE the minute Nathaniel left the airport terminal. That deer-in-the-headlights what- am-I-doing look of many who arrive at this small regional airport in the middle of nowhere. Most first-time guests had never heard of THE ESTATE before being invited; none knew of the extensive nature and variety of services it offers. The bus driver watched as Nathaniel approached the bus, recognizing the brochure and voucher in the young man's hand as he reached the doorway. "THE ESTATE, sir?" the driver asked. It was really a silly question. The bus was a fifty foot long scenicruiser with THE ESTATE in foot-high Roman letters on the sides and back, and also on the destination windows on the right side and the front. It was also the only bus, scenicruiser or otherwise, at the airport--on in the county. But the driver knew better than to assume anything. His job was to deliver members and guests from the airport to THE ESTATE--and heaven help him if he leaves anyone stranded. Nathaniel hesitated, looking at the bus, then the brochure then at the driver. "THE ESTATE, sir?" the driver repeated. Nathaniel nodded and ascended the steps. The interior was much more spacious than he anticipated. It had less than half the seats a regular tour bus had. Behind the driver was a bar complete with bartender; between the bar and the end of the bus were two horseshoe alcoves each of which could accommodate four people. On the right side of the bus there were three such alcoves, the first one opposite the bar. "You may sit anywhere, sir," the driver informed him. Nathaniel took a seat in the alcove across from the bar, facing front. "Drink, sir?" This time it was the bartender who spoke. Nathaniel nodded negatively. He would have liked a drink--needed a drink. But he wasn't sure of himself and wanted to retain his wits. He looked at the brochure and the vouchers in his hand, thinking about the events that led him here. *** Five weeks earlier, Nathaniel was surfing the internet, dismayed again at the websites about crossdressers. One after another they were about submissive sissies dominated by a bitch wife or girlfriend, forced to do housework when not being orally or anally raped by the wife/girlfriend's macho lover or/and equally bitchy girlfriends. Nathaniel had no desire to be raped. He had no desire to be dominated. While not aggressive, or even assertive, he was not submissive. But he was a crossdresser. Sitting at his computer in a slip, panties, pantyhose, and three-inch wedges was ample proof of that. He'd been able to dress this way for the entire Memorial Day weekend, giving himself an extra day to indulge himself. But that letter from Guy he had received on Saturday had unnerved him, and he was looking for reassurance and support. He wasn't finding any. Nathaniel began chatting with Guy over the internet about a year ago. It had been two years since he'd began wearing women's clothes, progressing from panties and stockings to full ensembles. Thank God for the internet! As he got deeper and deeper into transvestism, he began to question his sexuality. Was he gay? Bisexual? Something else? All the books on the subject said crossdressing was quite common and most crossdressers where straight. Not on the web! Sissies, T-girls, gurls, T-gurls, trannies, special women/girls/gurls--whatever they called themselves, they were the same: pantied, skirted, pussy-whipped cocksuckers! Nathaniel was most confused by the stories of guys who had been straight for the first quarter to third of a century of their lives being turned into these sissies simply by wearing their first pair of panties, or dressing as a woman for Halloween or an office party or for some other reason. His own journey into transvestism was long and complicated. A couple of pairs of panties left over from overnight dates; no clean underwear but the panties, so panties under his work clothes. If the panties feel so good, what about stockings? Slips? Hey, women have been keeping this a secret, all this smooth and silky feeling against one's skin all day long! It took a month of wearing stockings--and having them ruined--before he began shaving his legs. The slips didn't arrive until seven months after the panties. A skirt was nine months, and a dress a full year. Thinking about actually going out in public as a woman brought on the crisis of make-up and wigs. While no ladies' man, Nathaniel did date regularly. And having women spend the night--or longer--at your place meant that you eventually you accumulate not only panties, stockings, bras and slips, but lipsticks, bottles of nail polish, compacts. He wondered how the sissies in the stories are able to use these things perfectly their first time and to be perfectly presentable as women immediately. His first time trying this made him look like a badly made-up clown. Worse, it was hard as hell to get the stuff off! He soon found out that he couldn't wear make-up later than Saturday night if he wanted to look male by Monday morning. And that was with a lot of face washing on Sunday! So he never went out en femme. And he didn't receive much reassurance on the web. Sissies wanting to meet him, sissy lovers wanting to fuck him. Everyone assuming he was gay or he wouldn't be a crossdresser. Especially Guy Hughes. Nathaniel thought the name was made up, a play on huge guy, like his own en femme internet name of Ellen. Guy had responded to a chat room posting Ellen had placed seeking responses from straight transvestites. Mostly what he got were responses from their wives or girlfriends assuring him that his habit was perfectly normal and that there was a woman out there somewhere for him. But Nathaniel noticed it was always the wives/girlfriends, not the crossdresser themselves, who responded. And these wives were never as many as the sissies who castigated Ellen for not accepting that she was gay. And the sissy fuckers. They all wanted Ellen's virgin ass. Guy was the least crude of them. In fact, he was quite smooth. He was up front about his bisexuality. He had sex with women and sex with men who were passable as women. He was always the male in the relationship, and he currently saw about three trans at any given time. Not together, but he thought anyone involved with him should realize that monogamy was not his thing. He didn't consider himself promiscuous, just active. He lived on a ranch in Alberta, Canada, so his relationships with his special women--his preferred term--was limited to weekends every two or three months. Gays weren't exactly welcome in the world of Canadian cattle ranching. He didn't believe in the straight crossdresser. If you want to dress like a woman, then you want to be a woman. If you want to be a woman, then you want to be fucked by a man. And if you want to be fucked by a man, you're gay. It took about four months of internet chatting before this was revealed fully. Ellen--for Nathaniel never chatted--then cut off Guy. But Guy was persistent, sending e-mail at least once a week. Ellen read them all, even archived a few, but did not respond for nearly two months. But Ellen needed help on two fronts. First, where to obtain make-up that was completely removable, and second, someone to evaluate her as a woman. The first she asked Guy to ask his "special women" about. This he was glad to do, respecting Ellen's wish not to be contacted by every flaming drag queen in North America. The second she did not actually express, but Guy guessed. In their earlier e-mails and chats, Ellen had described herself and her clothing, asking Guy what he thought worked. Guy had developed a pretty good idea of her from all this, but imagination is not reality. He asked Ellen to send him pictures of herself en femme. Ellen hesitated for several weeks, but began sending photographs about five months ago. Guy's first comments were harsh: Ellen dressed rather dowdy, and the headshots were of a man in a wig badly wearing make-up. This was followed with a gift membership to an internet clothing store serving special women, and one for a photofax machine. The photofax was so that Ellen could send photographs of herself to Guy rather than by mail, and Guy could comment immediately. Then Ellen could make the changes Guy suggested and send more photos. The camera was quickly replaced by a videocam. Within a week they were conversing face to face over the internet. Guy's appearance surprised Ellen. He was bigger than she had imagined. Not taller, just heavier without being fat. Guy read her surprise, and had to restate that he was a rancher. Ranching is not a job for skinny people. No rancher's wife is smaller than a 10, and many are 14s and 16s, with 18s and 20s not uncommon. Guy also had a full beard and mustache, more hair than Ellen had imagined. Guy pointed out that Ellen was seeing the real Guy Hughes, while he was only seeing Ellen, although he liked what he saw. That first conversation ended awkwardly, but Guy e-mailed Ellen the next day, sans videocam. He wouldn't put himself on camera again unless she wanted to see him, but he did want to see her. For the next two weekends they spent about two hours each day with Ellen trying different make-up, wigs, and clothing for Guy and Guy making suggestions. Guy then said he had exhausted his expertise on the subject of make-up, and sent Ellen a gift certificate to Chrysalis, the online store for the transgendered. The videocam was extremely useful as Ellen received make-up tips from Chrysalis' on-line make-up specialists. Of special importance was the advice on easily removable make-up and the return to a masculine appearance. Now Nathaniel could become Ellen every night rather than just on weekends. After one week, Ellen was so pleased with the result that she insisted that Guy turn his videocam on so that she could see his reaction. He was very, very pleased. Ellen was not aware of the cost of all this until an invoice was mistakenly e-mailed with one of her purchases. Nathaniel then realized that Guy had made a substantial investment in Ellen. When Ellen confronted Guy, he reiterated to Ellen their earlier conversations. Guy dated passable crossdressers, and, to Guy, all crossdressers were gay. He had seen the possibilities of Ellen in the first photographs, and was glad to have Ellen become not only passable, but desirable. And desirable Ellen now was. He wanted to fuck Ellen. More importantly, he wanted to be Ellen's first man. Ellen was shocked back into being Nathaniel. Guy had never been crude or obvious, though always frank and candid. He had thought of Guy as a man experienced with transvestites who was only interested in helping him become passable. He had not considered that Guy might have other motives. For his part, Guy was confused by Ellen/Nathaniel's reaction. He had never hidden his sexuality or his views on Ellen's sexual orientation. If Nathaniel wanted to keep Ellen in the closet, that was Nathaniel's choice. The clothing, the cameras, the make-up assistance-- these were gifts. If their only relationship was by the internet, then so be it. Ellen did not appear for three weeks, nor did she answer Guy's e-mail. Then two weeks ago, Ellen e-mailed Guy to thank him for all he had done, but also to confess that she didn't know what to do next. What Guy wrote next nearly caused her to faint. He told her to contact him in two hours as Nathaniel--as a man! When Nathaniel contacted Guy, Guy gave him a very close scrutiny--or at least his image on Guy's computer screen. Then Guy propositioned him: there is this private club called THE ESTATE which indulges its members various preferences, sexual and otherwise. Guy was a long-standing member, and was inviting Nathaniel and Ellen to be his guest for the Fourth of July weekend. Guy would make all the arrangements. He would e-mail Nathaniel a plane ticket and further instructions on the weekend before the Fourth of July. The instructions were simple. Go directly to the airport after work, taking nothing with him. He was to go as Nathaniel, and return the evening of the Fourth as Nathaniel. For the rest of the time, Ellen would be the guest. And while the choice would be wholly Ellen's, Guy hoped that he would make Ellen a woman that weekend. For the next week, Nathaniel could barely concentrate on his work, earning him some stern words from his supervisor. He couldn't believe he was seriously considering Guy's offer! He was actually thinking about spending a weekend with a man as that man's girlfriend! He wasn't sure he could do it, but at 4:30 p. m. Friday, July 1st, he found himself in a cab headed for the airport. And now he was on a bus headed for THE ESTATE, unsure whether Nathaniel or Ellen would be returning on Monday. *** After Nathaniel sat down, six other people boarded the bus. The first was a woman, mid-thirties, dressed exactly like the driver, only a skirt replacing the pants, a different color necktie, and black pumps with three-inch heels instead of oxfords. Nathaniel then noticed that the bar tender also was dressed the same: shirt, tie, vest, pants. Only the color scheme and pattern of his shirt and tie differed, his shirt being taupe and theirs black. Nathaniel had been in the working world long enough to realize that these were uniforms, with the differences in shirt colors and tie patterns indicating different ranks and functions. The driver wore a black shirt, as did the woman. Very subtle, he thought, immediately followed by apprehension. Rules, brochures, uniforms, secrecy. THE ESTATE sounded more and more ominous the more he learned of it. More ominous still was the way the woman was addressed by the driver and the bartender. "Good evening, Mistress Sylvia," each had said, the driver first. Mistress Sylvia did not speak to them, barely acknowledging their greeting. She looked directly at Nathaniel, a brilliant smile breaking her otherwise stern visage. "Good evening," she beamed extending her hand. "You must be Mr. Spotswood." Nathaniel stood and nodded, shaking her hand. "Welcome to THE ESTATE. I hope you enjoy your stay with us." Nathaniel was trying to think of something to say when a middle-aged couple boarded the bus. "Welcome aboard, Mr. and Mrs. Harris," the bus driver said, alerting Sylvia to the couple behind her. She turned, the neon smile on. "Welcome back, Mr. and Mrs. Harris," she beamed. "It is always a pleasure to have you visit us." "Thank you, Sylvie," Mr. Harris said, easing his way past her. He turned to the bartender. "The usual Jeff," he said without breaking his ambling stride. "Yes, thank you, Sylvia," Mrs. Harris said wearily as she passed Sylvia, trailing her husband. She merely nodded to Jeff, indicating the usual for her also. The couple took the last alcove on the right of the bus. Nathaniel had silently watched all this, still standing, not knowing whether to continue his conversation with Sylvia. At least one thing was settled: he did not have to call her Mistress. Just as the Harrises settled into their alcove, two women clamored aboard the bus. They seemed to be about fifteen years apart in age, the younger one in a black leather skirt suit, the hem of the skirt barely below the hem of the jacket, knee-high boots with five inch heels. With her overly teased and spiked hair, all she needed was a large sign proclaiming "Butch Dyke." Whatever THE ESTATE was, Nathaniel concluded, it had a varied clientele. "Welcome to THE ESTATE, Ms. Trevor," Sylvia beamed, her smile now on automatic. "And your guest is..." Her guest looked at the floor. Like Ms. Trevor, she wore a skirt suit, but unlike Ms. Trevor, hers was raw silk, dark plum in color, matching the deep red pumps, handbag, and briefcase. Her hemline was below the knee. "Sylvie, this is my lawyer. I got a whole mess of legal problems I need to work out." Turning to the lawyer, Ms. Trevor placed her left forefinger under her chin, forcing her head up. "Georgina, honey, this is Sylvia. Mistress Sylvia to you. You be a good girl this weekend, or I'll give you to her." Ms. Trevor turned to Sylvia, "Sylvia, this is Georgina Mettrinos, terror of music producers on three continents, and most of the staff at..." Ms. Trevor stopped and smiled, first at Sylvia, then at Georgina. "Almost forgot about that privacy thing here." Turning back to Georgina. "See, Georgie honey, they got this thing about respecting everyone's privacy. Members too. Bad things happen if you break the rules. Nobody's gonna know that Ms. Hardass Bitch spends her weekends as a Stepford Wife to her No. 1 dyke client." Sylvia looked at the pair with a pained expression. Ms. Trevor was the birth name of one of the most successful female country singers in the nation. Her image of the wholesome, demure, well-mannered All-American Girl Next Door had been carefully crafted. Few knew that she was really a foul-mouthed, alcoholic butch lesbian with a mother fixation. Ms. Trevor visited THE ESTATE about three times a year, between tours and engagements, and always for extended stays of weeks. Sylvia only had to deal with her arrivals and departures, but her stays often tried the best of the other mistresses, and not a few of the masters. And always with some woman ten to twenty years older who looked like she was June Cleaver's clone. Sylvia wondered if Ms. Mettrinos' alter ego was really the submissive housewife type, or was a very savvy lawyer indulging a very rich client. "Jack Daniels and two glasses, Jeffy," Ms. Trevor yelled as she sashayed to the alcove at the left rear of the bus. The bus driver sat sideways in his seat, watching one of the finest pair of legs and ass in country music--hell, in America--weave down the aisle. Jeff also took a good look, pretending to fix the drinks. A quick look from Sylvia caused both men to assume their professional poses. They were here to serve, not to enjoy. Sylvia didn't object to their looking or enjoying, on a personal level. She'd had those fine legs draped over her shoulders before, and if it wasn't for Ms. Trevor's tendency to get maudlin and possessive a week or so into her stay, she wouldn't mind yodeling in that canyon again. Was Ms. Mettrinos to be there only for the weekend? And what could she do to make the lawyer a bad girl? Nathaniel was now seated, observing all. He wasn't aware of the lesbianism of the three younger women, or their history, but he did notice how Sylvia put the driver and the bartender in their place with nothing more than a look. There were a few female supervisors at his job who could do that. Good thing he didn't work for them. Good thing he was a guest, and not a staffer here. Nathaniel was not the only audience for this last performance by Ms. Trevor. The sixth and last person to board the bus was a woman in her late thirties, wearing a dark green shirtdress with white polka dots, white pumps, hosiery, white shoulder bag, faux pearl necklace and earrings. She had stood in the stairwell as Ms. Trevor commanded center stage. Now that that show was moving to the back of the bus, the driver turned and suddenly saw her. "Welcome to THE ESTATE, ma'am," he said loudly, alerting Sylvia. Neither knew how long she had been waiting, but keeping a member or guest waiting was a major infraction of the rules. Both had been negligent, but it was Sylvia's head that would fall if the member complained. Lucky for both of them, the member was Ms. Bradley. "Welcome back, Ms. Bradley," Sylvia smiled. "You remember Jeff, our bartender?" Ms. Bradley broke in a wide smile as she leaned forward to see Jeff. "Hello, Jeffrey," she smiled, a certain lilt in her voice. "You know what I want, don't you?" "Teacher's on the rocks, and hold the rocks, right?" "Right, Jeffrey. I haven't had any Teacher's since my last visit, and I could use a lot tonight." Sylvia and the bus driver smiled. Jeffrey used to be a teacher. Sylvia knew there would be no complaints from Ms. Bradley. "You may proceed, Cleveland," Sylvia said to the bus driver. "Yes, Mistress Sylvia," Cleveland replied. He went outside and stowed the luggage on the sidewalk next to his bus in the luggage compartment, returned to his seat and pulled the huge vehicle into the street. The drive from the airport to THE ESTATE takes about half an hour, made mostly in silence. On this trip, the only sounds being Ms. Trevor's sobbing as she looked out the window into the darkness. Georgina made no attempts to console her. Ms. Bradley would have preferred to sit in the same alcove as Nathaniel so she could flash her crotch at Jeffrey. She had to settle for the middle alcove on the right side, her dress hiked up to her hips, her legs on the seats. Sylvia sat with Nathaniel. "I need to speak with you after you get settled," she whispered. "I'll be up to your room later." She then took out her briefcase, THE ESTATE's Roman lettering in gilt across the leather surface, and began doing paperwork. Nathaniel rode in silence, looking at Ms. Bradley's legs reflected in the window opposite them, then turning to watch the road unwind under the bus' headlights. *** Cleveland pulled the bus into the busport of Guest House II. This had been the servants' quarter a century earlier. Even by the standards of those times the place was sumptuous. There were twelve rooms, down from the twenty original ones since toilet facilities had to be added to each. The dining room and kitchen had been maintained; what could serve thirty servants and their families could also serve twenty guests. The kitchen was open 24 hours, seven days a week. Guest House II was only meant to receive late arriving members and guests who would be assigned other facilities in the morning, and meals were available on demand. The Harrises and Ms. Bradley, being members, only needed to sign in and receive their door cards. Ms. Trevor, being quite drunk by the time the bus reached THE ESTATE, needed to be carried in bodily. This also meant Sylvia had to sign her in and make sure she and Ms. Mettrinos were properly taken care of. By the time she returned to Nathaniel, it was close to 7:00 p.m. "Mr. Spotswood, would you mind if we had dinner in your room?" Nathaniel did not mind. In fact, he wanted to ask a million questions. What was this place? How was it run? Exactly where were they? What was going on? Where was Guy? What was expected of him? His room was on the third floor, reached by an elevator that had required extensive remodeling of the building to accommodate it and still make it look like part of the original building. The room itself was huge, having been three of the larger servants' rooms. Actually it was a suite, one room being the bedroom, another being a living room, and the third being a large spa. Unlike the other rooms, this suite could be used for a long stay, not just overnight. Sylvia gave him a tour, ending just as a knock on the door signaled the arrival of their meals. "Just leave everything," Sylvia said, dismissing the waiter. She then prepared two plates, setting the little cafe table in a corner of the living room. As they began eating, she anticipated most of his questions. "Mr. Spotswood, THE ESTATE is a very special and very exclusive resort, dedicated to the special desires of its members and their guests. You might call it a sex club. THE ESTATE really assures its members and their guests of their privacy, so I must make sure that you understand the absolute necessity of minding one's own business." She waited for Nathaniel to agree. Nate looked at her, then nodded. She continued. "There is no reason for you to talk to staff. Mr. Hughes has made all the arrangements, and unless there is a problem that cannot be resolved when he is not present, everything is taken care of. You are a guest of a member, which means you are to be treated by staff as if you were that member yourself. If you need to speak to staff, only those staffers wearing a white or black shirt or blouse are permitted to speak to members or guests to which they have not been assigned, and we strongly prefer that you only speak to someone wearing white. Of course this does not apply to your ordering meals, drinks, or asking directions. Do you have any questions?" Nathaniel had plenty, but he knew the question was rhetorical. "Certain staff are addressed as master or mistress by other staff, but never by members, and only by guests in certain categories. You are not in those categories. You will address staff by their first names, for we are your staff. You will always be addressed as Mr. Spotswood, or, after your make-over, as Ms. Spotswood." This was the first indication that Sylvia knew about Guy's proposition. Nathaniel wondered how many others knew. "You will address all members and other guests as Mr. or Ms. whatever unless they give you permission to be more familiar. They will accord you the same courtesy. Do you understand all of this?" Again Nathaniel nodded. He didn't really understand it all, but enough to get by. He'd just have to play the rest by ear. "Tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. the staff supervisor who is responsible for your transformation will arrive. She will have much of this same conversation with you and ask you again whether or not you want to go forward. You will be asked this several times during your transformation. Even if you're not asked, you can still stop this at any time." At this Sylvia stopped to judge Nathaniel's reaction. She read the consternation on his face. "Mr. Spotswood, you have no secrets at THE ESTATE. You're here to become a woman, and we're here to make that passage enjoyable and memorable. You only become a woman once!" For the first time, Nathaniel felt trapped. If he wanted to get out of this he couldn't. Panic played over his face. "Mr. Spotswood," Sylvia said, "You are not going to be raped. If you do not want to go through with this, all you have to do is say so, at any time. Now, tomorrow, any time. Mr. Hughes knows our rules about mutual consent very well. No means no. Now, do you want to go through with this?" Nathaniel was really conflicted at this point. He really wanted to experience this weekend as a woman. He wanted to try being out in public. He knew he would never get another opportunity like this. Would being fucked be so bad? Would he be expected to do anything else? He nodded again. Sylvia looked at him doubtfully. They had just about finished the meal. "Come with me, then." She led him into the bedroom and opened the drawers of the dresser. The drawers were full of lingerie: panties, stockings, pantyhose, bras, slips, half slips, camisoles, garter belts. Next she opened the drawers of the chest of drawers. Blouses, shells, women's shirts, nightgowns, loungers, pajamas. Next she went to the doors of the walk-in closet. Several dresses, skirt suits, skirts, and shoes, mostly heeled from 2" to 4". "This is all yours, no matter what your decision." Nathaniel was in a state of revelry. He ran his fingers through the panty drawer, then pulled out a shell and held it against himself as he modeled himself in the mirror. Only when he went to the closet did he realize what she had said. "No matter what my decision?" he asked. "I thought I just indicated I would go through with it?" Sylvia looked at him doubtfully again. "Like I said, you can say no any time. You will not be seeing me again this stay. So, whatever your decision, I wish you a happy life." She then shook his hand and left. It was difficult enough to build one elevator in the old building. To build one for members and guests and another for service staff would have been prohibitive. It would have been cheaper to tear down the old building and build a new one. At the second floor, Sylvia had to wait while two waiters loaded carts. Well, she didn't have to wait. She could have ridden to the lobby and let them summon the elevator after she had exited. Most mistresses would have done that. As she let them load their carts, she saw a naked Ms. Bradley open her door to Jeffrey, literally jump his bones, wrapping her legs and arms around him as he walked them both inside. Looks like Jeff was going to do some late night tutoring. Maybe pull an all-nighter. Sylvia wondered if she should inform Ms. Bradley that she, Sylvia, also was once a teacher. By the time Sylvia reached the lobby, Nathaniel had stripped off his clothing and slipped into a burgundy lounger. Good thing too, for the meal came with a bottle of Bordeaux which Nathaniel nearly finished before spilling a glass on himself. While it was Nathaniel who removed the soiled garment, it was Ellen who replaced it with a satin nightgown.