Stephen took the clock and shut off the alarm, waited a moment for the second hand to move past the set time, then reset it. He always did this first thing, never setting the clock down till it had been reset. He had learned this from his father. "Never an excuse for oversleeping this way, son. None of that 'I forgot to set the alarm' nonsense." No, indeed. No nonsense.

That done, Stephen stretched, and sighed, considering whether or not he really did want to get up and go in to the office. He did not have to. His grandfather had astutely structured the company so that it could be run with a minimum of actual effort on behalf of the Baxters. They worked when they felt like it, and the money flowed in.

Grandfather must have been thinking of Stephen's father, Garth, when he set up the system. Grandfather had taken what his father had left him, and turned it into the empire that it now was. He had looked at his own son, growing up in an atmosphere of indulgence and privilege, and had known that the boy was not going to be much of a business man. Thus he had structured things so that committees and boards of trusted, intelligent, ruthlessly business minded people did the actual day to day running of the enterprise. The actual efforts of a Baxter were not strictly necessary.

That had been fortuitous thinking on Grandfather’s part. Garth spent most of his time amusing himself, making a token appearance now and then. Grandfather had accepted it philosophically. When Stephen showed both an interest, and an aptitude, for the business, he had been overjoyed. He died happy, knowing that at least one Baxter had some interest in the company.

Stephen was active in running his holdings, but he sometimes indulged himself by playing hooky, knowing that his interests were well looked after. Putting off the decision for the moment, Stephen got up and padded naked into the bathroom. Usually he slept in boxers, but last night he had felt strangled by the simple garment. Minutes after he had gone to bed, they had been skinned off and tossed toward the bathroom. He retrieved them on his way.

The first thing he did was go to the toilet, lift the seat, and have a long, satisfying pee. It lasted a good while. He had imbibed the fruit of the vine a good bit last night. In fact, he had consumed an amount of fine wine who’s cost would most likely have paid one of his employees a week's salary. The indulgence was just another symptom of The Need.

He finished, shaking the last pungent yellow drops off. Then he just stood there and stroked himself idly for a moment. The stiffness had not disappeared with the evacuation. He sighed. Cold water this morning.

His bathroom would have drawn swoons of ecstacy from most people. But all he noticed was that there was a slight film on the mirror that ran the length of one wall over the sink and counter. He made a mental note to have Miss Fulham have a talk with the upstairs maid. The woman was paid generously, there was no excuse for shirking.

The counter was black marble, the polished stone adorned with milky swirls. The floor was tiled in a retro checkerboard of black-and-white tiles, while the walls and ceiling were a silvery grey. The bathtub was of the same polished black marble. It was huge, over six feet long, four feet wide, and two feet deep. The fixtures were brushed nickel, rich and subdued, no flashy chrome or plate. It had cost a fortune when his mother had it specially designed in Italy, back in the sixties. There were pictures of it floating around in old decorator magazines. Of course, back then the walls and floor had been turquoise, not one of mother's better endeavors.

But, as was usual each morning, Stephen bypassed the tub in favor of the more modest shower in the corner. The shower was for every day no nonsense cleansing, the tub was for relaxation.

The clothes he had worn last night were just where he had left them, puddled on the floor in front of the clothes hamper. He had simply been too preoccupied to worry about them last night. Ordinarily he was meticulous in his habits. But, he thought, what was the point in being able to do as you pleased, including being a bit of a hog, if you did not actually do as you pleased occasionally?

But habits are hard to break. Instead of leaving the clothes for the already slacking maid, he deposited them in the hamper. As he did so, he noticed that the towel and washcloth from his previous morning's shower were still there. He frowned. Really, there was no excuse for this. He would have Fulham dismiss the woman today. There was sure to be a suitable replacement in her circle of friends, or perhaps Dominic's. It was better this way. If he was going to succumb to The Need again, he could not risk an outsider in the house.

Stephen stepped into the shower stall and turned on the spray, setting the water to a level just too cool to be comfortable. He shampooed and conditioned his hair, using the special concoctions that were mixed for him exclusively. They would never see the market, because they would be cost prohibitive. Only the snobbiest, most self aggrandizing would ever be willing to pay what it would cost them to turn a profit.

Next came a full body scrub with a rough loofa sponge, using an herbal shower gel that was even more costly than his hair care products. He was careful to clean every crevice and crease. By the time he rinsed off, and finished with a short burst of icy cold water, his tumescence had gone. Good. He did not care to start the day by beating off. He preferred to save his energy. There was always lunch break, if the mood took him.

He dried himself briskly with a towel that was more of a sheet. Again he paid careful attention to every nook and fold of his body. Dampness could lead to chaffing, or fungus. He toweled his hair, then stood in front of the sink and took up the blow dryer.

He set it to maximum force, minimum heat, and began to comb out his hair, playing the blast expertly to dry the locks. He was lucky with his hair, he mused. So far he had not lost more than a few strands a month. His father had a healthy, full crop of hair when he died in his sixties, and his grandfather had been the same in his eighties. Stephen probably would not have to worry about thinning hair, but he was not taking chances.

When it was dry, he took a comb and smoothed it into thick, shining gold waves. He turned his head this way and that, examining it. Not bad. Still no grey. When it did arrive, it was likely that he would simply go from golden blonde to ash blonde. That was acceptable.

He went back into the bedroom, humming, and got fresh socks and underwear out of his drawer. Miss Fulham occasionally tried to persuade him to hire a valet. "As suits your station." But Stephen preferred to do these small things himself. If he ever needed any real help dressing or caring for his things, there was always Dominic. Besides, the fewer staff, the better. Less holes to plug.

He pulled on the pearl grey executive socks, and the pristine white silk boxers, then added a plain cotton ribbed undershirt. His father had always worn an undershirt, and he did, too, when he went out in public.

Stephen switched on the light in his closet and stepped in. One side business suits, the other shirts and more casual wear. He ran his hands over the shoulders of the hanging garments, considering. It was autumn, and the weather he glimpsed through the window had looked fine. He bypassed the Armani and Lords and Tailors, settling on a conservative Brooks Brother's number in a shade of grey slightly darker than his socks, with an almost imperceptible pinstripe. To this he added a crisp ivory shirt (his monogram at the cuffs and collar almost invisible in the same shade thread), a narrow black belt, and s pair of eminently sensible oxford shoes. The shoes had been handmade in England. They were ten years old, looked brand new, and were so comfortable that it was almost like going barefoot. Comfortable shoes were a perk of wealth that Stephen felt too few people appreciated. These went back to the maker once a year for a 'tune up', and would last the rest of his life, if he cared for them.

Now the tie. They hung on the back wall, with their own light just above them. He considered. He collected ties, one of his hobbies. The unusual ones were in a separate closet. Those were the ones with exotic or whimsical designs. He smiled as he thought of the reaction he would get if he wore any of them in public. Like the one with the Three Stooges, or the polar bear, or Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion tripping down the yellow brick road... Wall Street would probably react.

Instead he chose a maroon silk with a subdued grey domino pattern. Image, image, image. How one presented oneself was so important. He equated most of life with his butterflies, and had decided that he was an odd combination of shower and hider. He stood out from the majority of the world due to his position and wealth, but he blended into that smaller world of his social strata perfectly.

Stephen took his selections back into the bedroom, laying them out carefully on the bed. A foot kicked, rumpling the jacket sleeve.

Stephen moved the garment and smoothed it. He looked at the woman occupying the other side of the bed and scolded, "Don't do that. I've already decided on these, and I really don’t want to have to steam any wrinkles out of them."

She grunted. Well, really, you couldn’t expect any more around that ball gag, could you?