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While Bob is fucking Glora, Rose is busy making snacks.

Lacey was at a loss. She had all this makeup she'd collected over the years, and suddenly all of it looked fabulous on her and she didn't know what to do. Even her perfume smelled better on her than it had before.

She finished her face and turned around to inspect the pile of clothes on the bed as she brushed out her thick black hair.

She was tempted to wear slacks to show off her ass and her long legs, and the pants she tried on fit her like second skin. But it was Valentine's Day, and she knew she needed something more romantic. She found a black crepe dress with tiny red flowers that brought out the blue in her eyes. The Colonel fetched her underwear to her specifications, underwear that she'd always dreamed of wearing, mere whispery things: rumors of underwear. She fastened a garter belt around her slim waist and then sat down and for the first time in her life indulged in the terribly erotic pleasure of unrolling nylon stockings over her hard and curvy legs, pointing her toes and admiring her lean musculature.

She was terrible when it came to her shoes, and the poor pink Colonel kept on carrying out boxes of Jimmy Choo and Manalo Blahnik till her bedroom looked like the back room at Footlocker. She finally chose a wicked pair of slingbacks with three-inch heels. Of course, they matched her dress perfectly.

The Colonel looked at his watch ostentatiously, reminding her to hurry, and it was a good thing he did too, because Lacy had a strong urge to engage in a prolonged session of self-love. Her new body intoxicated her. It was full of surprises and exquisitely sensitive, and she excited herself shamefully just from the mere act of dressing. At last she understood all those jokes about women taking forever to get ready.

It was only when the Colonel said, "He's waiting," that she could tear herself away from herself enough to think of a man's touch on her skin, and when she did, it inflamed her. It had been months since she'd had a lover, if you could even call him that, and the thought a man's hands on her ass, his mouth on her breasts, his fingers reaching between her legs hit her with an almost physical force, so that she gave a little whimper just from imagining it.

She wanted all that, but more than the sensation itself she wanted to see the look in his eyes when he gazed at her, the expression on his face when she stretched herself out naked on his bed, his look of helpless surrender when he entered her. She'd heard about those looks. She knew they existed. She wanted to see them for herself.

She quickly threw on a coat the Colonel held for her and took the bag he held out for her (it matched her shoes too, of course), and then she stopped.

"Wait a minute! Where am I going? I don't know where he is!"

"Remember the scene you saw when the card opened? He's there."

"But where's that? I've never been in any restaurants! I don't know one from another."

Then she remembered the little red M's she'd seen on the menus.

"The Mercedes Room!" she exclaimed. "That's where he is, isn't it?"

The colonel smiled and bowed.

"But you're coming with, aren't you? I can't go in there alone!"

"Never fear, sweetie. Just take your magic Valentine with you."

So saying, the colonel took a step back and Lacy watched dumbfounded as he suddenly became flat, then folded in half, and in half again, and so on until he accordioned up on himself into a little square of paper no bigger than a business card. She stooped and picked him up and dropped him into her bag.

"Are you in there? Are you all right?"

"Perfectly fine. Now let's get going!"

There were advantages to being beautiful, Lacy realized.

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