The lavish lace drape billowed and rose as a gust of baking desert air
     barged through the open window. Mounted in it's place over the 
     sprawling emperor size bed, a massive ceiling fan projected the only
     void of comfort amid the throttling heat, and Charlotte, absorbing
     the obscene opulence of her surroundings, fully expected its blades to
     be cast from solid gold.
          In the en-suite bathroom - a space larger than her fathers billiard 
     den back  in Cresswell, which, she reflected, seemed a thousand light
     years from this time and place, Charlotte had changed into the gown
     as bidden by her host. The silk felt almost weightless, impossibly 
     smooth and appeared to emit a mesmerising  metallic violet hue. 
          Closing the material around her front she took a breath as her 
     aureoles tightened in unison.

          Shortly after she had settled onto the bed, trying to use the 
     splendour of the setting to quell her simmering concern, a servant 
     entered the quarters bearing a tray of 'refreshments'.  The slight old 
     man moved to the bedside table in a motion that could only be 
     described as gliding. He said nothing, but after setting
     down the tray and turning to leave, Charlotte wondered if she'd caught
     a glint in his eye. Or maybe not. Her emotions were all over the shop; 
     bouncing from eager intrigue to nervous unease. She had to stabilise, 
     and the best available way to do that, she reasoned, was to reach   
     out for the sparkling jug and pour herself a glass.
           The wine was heavenly and slipped down with freedom. The next
      helping being meted out just a couple of gulps later.
           Soon her head was swimming and she relaxed into the bounty of
      scatter cushions. Laying propped up on an elbow she ran her palm
      down her thigh, marvelling again at the gown's seductive allure.
                                                                                                                                                                                      Charlotte had never bothered much with seafood - battered
       cod or festive salmon was about it - but she now found herself
       peeling spiced gelatinous molluscs from their rocky shells to let
       them slither toward a burning, naked death
             Just what would they be saying now,if they could see her?
        Those snooty cows back in Surrey. Girls who were, by all official 
        social accounts, her friends.
               ~Slut~ no doubt, Charlotte snorted, ~I would be deemed by 
           poison  tongue and twisted mouth a wanton harlot of selfish and 
          reckless abandon