"Please girls!" Greta said. "Run along now and get dressed. The snow is coming down outside and the weather's getting worse by the minute. They're forecasting a blizzard. The sooner you all get showered and get home, the better."

As Greta was ushering the dallying girls to their dressing room, Morgan Smith – Greta's husband and the business manager of Greta's School of Ballet and Modern Dance – was viewing them from his locked office, which warn situated between the dance studio and the girls' dressing room. By swiveling in his chair, he could turn from the wall in front of him to the wall behind him. Through the two-way mirrors he had secretly installed in both walls years ago, Morgan could view what was going on in the studio or in the girls' dressing room. By closing sliding doors, which blended perfectly with the wall paneling, he could hide his secret windows whenever he wasn't using them.

Lucky bastard, he thought of his son Patrick. Those nubile young bitches had all but pulled Patrick to the floor on top of their overheated young bodies. The boy had it made. Every fucking girl in the class wanted to lay Patrick, and he was sure the youth took advantage of it – at least he hoped to God the boy took advantage of it.

If he himself had had the opportunity to vent his sexual desires at Patrick's age, he would never have married the first and only girlfriend he'd ever had, Greta. He would have known that a guy didn't have to marry a girl to get into her panties, that there were a lot of unmarried girls out there hot for cock. He'd married Greta because she was the best-looking girl at his college – a Swedish blonde with big tits and an ass curvaceous enough to make a fellow drool all over himself. Greta had been a damned lucky catch – at least, back then. Today, he'd trade her in for a sexually active woman with only half Greta's looks and body.