Put on a dress

Xabar considers going quickly for the chute, but there’s no way he can climb over those hampers and baskets and get far enough up the chute before whoever it is gets there.

Thinking quickly, he grabs one of the dresses that is hanging up and throws it on over his own clothes. Xabar isn’t exactly ripped in terms of musculature, but even so, it is a tight fit, and he hears more than one stitch break under the strain.

The steps tell him he has just moments left, so he hastily grabs a nearby scarf and drapes it over his head. Before he can even look around for a mirror to check his costume, his time is up.

“Who’s there? What are you doing? Do you know what time it is?”

Xabar’s heart sinks. His worst fears are confirmed with the voice of Mrs. Letcher. He turns to face her, bracing himself for the visual punishment, which will surely be followed by a very physical one.

Mrs. Letcher is holding a single candle. Its soft light does little to compliment her features. If anything, it adds a certain Faustian horror to the experience, emphasizing every crevice on her wrinkled face, and causing the shadows between her many chins to take on a more sinister shade — as if they opened into the very bowels of hell, itself.

Xabar kept his head downward, hoping the low light would work to his advantage.

“Do you hear me, girl? What are you doing at this time of night?” Mrs. Letcher ended her question with a soft hiccup. The sound reaches Xabar’s ears at roughly the same time that an aroma reached his nose — the telltale smell of whiskey, with, perhaps, a splash of prune juice. He dared a glance at Mrs. Letcher’s face. Her unfocused eyes confirmed that her earlier “medicinal” use of the whiskey in her office was likely not the only “medicine” she had been imbibing.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Letcher,” said Xabar, in a falsetto voice. “I do hope I didn’t wake you up!”

Mrs. Letcher’s eyes narrow, and she studies Xabar for a few moments. “Who is that? Esmeralda? Is that you?”

Xabar has no idea who Esmeralda was, but if that would buy him some time, he’d go with it. “Yes, Mrs. Letcher. I’m sorry to disturb you; please go back to bed. I was just looking for my —“ Xabar’s eyes darted quickly around the room, and the grabbed the first article of clothing he could find. “I was looking for my tent. I found it. Goodnight.”

Mrs. Letcher reaches out and took the item from Xabar’s hand. “Tent? Why, this is my girdle!”

“Oh, silly me!” said Xabar, attempting a girlish laugh, which wouldn’t have fooled anyone who wasn’t already half tanked.

“Why on earth are you looking for a tent at this hour of the night,” she asked.

“Well, you see...”

Xabar’s explanation is cut short by another voice.

“Oh, there you are, Mrs. Letcher.”

Xabar and Letcher look to the doorway and see Gwendolyn standing there.

“Miss Patagonia! Why are you out of bed? Is everyone disregarding curfew this evening?” exclaimed Mrs. Letcher, as she suppressed an ****-infused belch.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Letcher, but I’m sure I heard voices in the back yard. I went to report it to you, but you weren’t in your room.”

“Again with the voices in the back yard!” said Mrs. Letcher, pushing up the sleeves of her nightgown. Xabar was almost certain he saw Navy tattoos on her forearms, but in the dim light, they might have been nothing more than gravy stains.

“The two of you get to bed. I’ll address your wandering about in the morning, Esmeralda. In the meantime, let me get to the bottom of this....”

Hurling her girdle over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, Mrs. Letcher departed the laundry room and ascended the stairs like a lion in search of its prey. Actually, thought Xabar, more like a hippopotamus in search of a massive mud bath.

Once she was safely out of earshot, Gwendolyn turned to Xabar, wide-eyed. “Come with me at once. If we can get to my room without running into her again, she’ll probably think she dreamt the whole thing. And if she sees you in better light, there’s no way she’ll mistake you for Esmeralda again — no matter what she has been drinking!”

Gwendolyn takes Xabar by the hand and leads him upstairs. They pause at the first floor just long enough to hear Mrs. Letcher opening the back door to investigate. Wasting no more time, Gwendolyn urges Xabar to hurry, and they quickly — and quietly — climb the stairs.

As they pass the second floor, they hear a door open. Gwendolyn whispers, “Hurry! Don’t stop!” and pulls his arm as she rushes upward to her floor.

At last they arrive at the door to Room 305. Gwendolyn opens the door, pulls Xabar inside, and closes it, leaning with her back against the door, as she breathed heavily.

“That was so close!” she said, through deep breaths.

For all the danger, Xabar was not nearly as stressed as Gwendolyn. For one thing, Mrs. Letcher’s whiskey had a remarkably-calming effect on his nerves. For another, running for his life to avoid getting in trouble was his primary source of cardio-vascular exercise. On top of all of that, hearing a girl gasping, “That was so close!” was generally the way most of his dates ended when he forgot to bring a condom and had to rely on his timing for pulling out.

Xabar turned to look at his surroundings and suddenly jumped in alarm. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and only then realized just how drunk Mrs. Letcher must have been to think he was a girl.

“Good heavens!” he said, peeling off the scarf and dress. “What kind of dog is this Esmaralda chick, anyway? Does she really look like that?”

Gwendolyn giggles, releasing her tension from the narrow escape. “Don’t say such things! Esmaralda has a very sweet personality.” She steps forward to help Xabar with the clothing.

“Sweet personality, indeed,” thinks Xabar to himself. He learned long ago that “sweet personality” was a code phrase for “coyote ugly.” He remembered the time Hager set him up with a gal with a “sweet personality.” Hager wanted to hook up with a new transfer student, and she would only go out with him if it was a double date, so Xabar agreed to go out with the roommate with a “sweet personality.” That was an absolutely miserable night. While Hager was getting lucky with his girl, Xabar had to sit under the street lamp, holding hands with the Bride of Tarantula. The only positive out of the night was that her face kept the mosquitoes away.

Xabar brought his attention back to the present. Now that the danger had passed, and he was safely in Gwendolyn’s room, he could forget about the unpleasantness of the past and focus, instead, on making some happy memories out of the present.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” he said, in his most charming voice, taking Gwendolyn by the arms. “You have already saved my life once; how can I possibly repay you for all you have done for me?”

“Oh, my dear Viscount!” she responded, breathlessly. “We have a lifetime ahead of us to express ourselves to one another! I long for our wedding night when I can again feel your body against mine again — but this time in the blessings of wedded bliss!”

“Our wedding night... Yes, of course. It will be grand,” said Xabar, looking into her eyes and allowing his hands to wander up to her shoulders. “And as quickly as we will make that happen, it is far too long — I daresay it is not possible for a love as strong and enduring as ours to be suppressed for so long!”

Xabar leans into Gwendolyn and kisses her, feeling her melt into his arms. He embraces her tightly, pushing his hips against hers. His penis began to come to life before they even touched, and now it presses hard against its restraints, grinding against her.

Gwendolyn kisses him back for a moment and then stops, placing a hand on his chest.

“Oh, my dear Xabar! I do so want that, but we must not! We must be strong and resist! Before, it was for a noble cause — to cure you of that deadly affliction, but now ... it would be wrong!”

Xabar pulls her back and places a hand on her breast. “Does this feel wrong to you?” They kiss, and Xabar feels Gwendolyn’s resistence giving way. Her hands begin to explore his arms, shoulders, and back.

With a massive **** of will, she places both hands on his chest and pushes back. “I’m sorry, My Lord, but we cannot. We must wait until we are married!”

Xabar groans inwardly. Was anything about tonight going to be easy?