In an opulent sitting room, six middle-aged businessmen stand around, chatting. They are dressed in their best suits and look ready to go out, to dinner perhaps, some sort of charity function. They are drinking scotch, or port, or bourbon; all liquor, all on the rocks. They seem to know each other well and inquire after each others' wives, children, cars.
At a knock on the door, one exclaims, "That time already, eh?" The rest of them chuckle. Another opens the door and a young woman walks in. "Tara!" says the man holding the door. "How are you, sweetheart?"
"Okay," she says, giving him a sweet little peck on the cheek. The other men all treat her in avuncular fashion. One squeezes her shoulders, one musses her hair, a few of them call her "kiddo." She is quiet and demure. She answers their questions about school, and whether she is dating any boys, and whether those boys are "any good." Tara looks about nineteen or twenty, very petite with soft curves. She's wearing an evening dress, but a very conservative one. It's royal blue, sleeveless, shows no cleavage, and falls to the floor. There's a slit in the back that goes up to her knees. Her skin is creamy white and her hair a glowing nut-brown. It's swept up into a girlish updo, and her makeup is minimal; this does nothing to ruin the effect. Tara is very pretty.
After a few more minutes of chit-chat, and after Tara turns down the offer of a drink, one of the men, who has his arm around Tara, says, "Well, boys, we should be going soon, I guess." The rest of the men murmur in agreement. One of them grabs a big, soft throw pillow from the couch and tosses it playfully to Tara, who catches it. "There you go, honey," he says in a fatherly way.
Tara places the pillow on the floor and kneels on it.
