"The apartment is a stage for other things to take place." -- Architect Bernard Tschumi,
New York Times Magazine
Lydia's office suite was located on the top floor at the top end of town. It was richly furnished, with velvet pile carpet and expensive artwork. Standing in front of the reception counter was a tall, very pretty young woman with emerald-green eyes and pixie-cut, honey-blonde hair. She wore a short beige skirt and a cream-coloured, sleeveless blouse. Encircling her throat was a black satin ribbon choker. She introduced herself as Gabrielle and the man coming down a short curving corridor as Stephen. He was thin and stiff-backed, wearing razor-pleated trousers, a starched shirt and a blue silk tie. Gabrielle asked him to inform Lydia that I had arrived. She then turned and nodded at someone behind me, whom I hadn't noticed until now.
In the adjacent waiting room a young man rose from his seat.
"Jonathan," Gabrielle said, "this is Sarah." It was a one-way introduction, which seemed strange, but not something worth being troubled by.
We shook hands and exchanged helloes. Jonathan had a light grip, a charming smile and a slightly quavery voice. He seemed nervous. He was slim and good-looking, aged in his early twenties, with a pale complexion, ginger hair and a sprinkling of freckles. He was dressed in spick-and-span slacks and a crisp white shirt. He appeared vaguely familiar, but I couldn't recall when, where or how we'd met. It may have been at the Wooden Pony Club.
Before we could say or do anything else, Lydia came out of her private office. Aged in her late thirties, she was petite, delicate and strikingly attractive, with luminous blue eyes and dark brown hair cropped short like Gabrielle's. She was elegantly attired in a white silk blouse and black skirt with sheer silk stockings. Also like Gabrielle she wore a choker, hers of black lace. She looked at us with a penetrating, almost predatory gaze.
She was accompanied by two gentlemen whom I won't bother to describe because they were leaving. She motioned for Jonathan and me to join her as Gabrielle escorted the visitors to the elevator. Lydia's office was spacious with a stately desk of oak at one end, and at the other three burgundy leather armchairs arranged facing each other. It was a typical, high-class lawyer's den, with a row of filing cabinets along one wall and a plethora of law books arrayed on shelves. Lydia gestured for Jonathan to take one of the seats. She remained standing so I waited. Then, in a smooth action, as she lowered herself on another of the chairs she unzipped the side of her skirt and flipped it backwards. I could see that she was not wearing panties, and her stockings were of the stay-up kind which ended with lace tops on the upper thigh. Though she had obviously done this many times, as her bare skin touched the upholstery her lips wrinkled into a subtle smile of pleasure.
Jonathan nearly missed this little ritual as he had been staring out the big window behind the desk, at the city panorama. He turned just in time, and while his face remained blank his hands gripped the arms of his chair. Then he turned expectantly towards me. I also tried to show no emotion as, unbidden, I reached under my dress to draw my knickers down to my knees, then swept back the hem. I could not hold in a gasp as my flesh came into contact with the leather. It was sublimely soft but cool and slick, and it quickly became warm and sticky. I must have blushed because Lydia grinned. The stimulating effect made my labia extra-sensitive, and this enhanced my arousal even more. I started to worry that more than my sweaty emissions might leave a damp spot when I arose. But Lydia didn't seem concerned.
And to be honest it was a delectable sensation, and profoundly feminine as Jonathan remained fully insulated from the clammy, clinging leather by his trousers.
On the coffee table was a manilla folder. Lydia opened it up and handed to Jonathan and me a number of documents. She told us we should take the paperwork away, peruse it at our leisure and bring it back for signing and witnessing in seven days... or not.
"It's your decision alone to make," she said to both of us while looking squarely at me.
I don't need to go into the details of the week that followed, the debates with myself, the talks with Richard who gallantly played the role of Devil's Advocate, though without much conviction. Naturally I harboured doubts, but I emerged from those days of indecision with determination and a sense of pride. Indeed, the dread of what I was letting myself in for, rather than deterring me, helped to steel and steady my resolve.
When Jonathan and I returned to Lydia's office, bringing with us our papers, it was early evening. The door opened automatically for us and closed once we'd crossed the threshold. Lydia and her two assistants were seated in the three armchairs in the waiting area across from the reception desk. They had been sipping coffee but rose to greet us. Stephen was still dressed in his prim ensemble, but the women had changed out of their day clothes. Gabrielle was in skimpy, lilac-coloured bra and panties. Her exquisite legs were sheathed in stockings held up with a lace-and-ribbon garter belt. Around her slender neck was a thin black metal collar with a tiny lock on the front. Lydia had on a short, diaphanous black negligée. It was flimsy enough that I could see there was nothing underneath it but skin. Both shoulder straps had slipped or been drawn down her arms. Her legs were bare. She wore a collar identical to Gabrielle's.
Lydia beckoned for us to join her in the adjoining office. Stephen followed while Gabrielle cleared the coffee table. Jonathan and I took the two chairs at the desk. Without prompting I repeated the ritual of drawing my knickers down and my skirt back as I sat. Lydia nodded her approval. Instead of retreating behind her desk, she stood between us as we signed the paperwork. I sniffed the subtle floral-musk fragrance of a very expensive perfume.
Stephen came forward and attached his signature as witness to each page. I was dubious about the legal proprieties of Lydia's own secretary acting in this capacity. But it was less a contract than a personal affirmation. With this done, Lydia picked up a small black signet ring from the desk top and showed me the tiny emblem engraved with silver inlay. I quickly recalled where I'd seen the design before, on Desirée's derrière in the Wooden Pony Club. It was the silcrow
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