Opening Confession

Lulu Lust kept her office on the quiet side of Georgetown, tucked behind a nondescript brownstone where the brass plaque simply read "Consultations." The waiting room smelled of leather and faint citrus, and the inner door was always unlocked at precisely three o'clock on Tuesdays. Otis Dalton arrived five minutes early, as he always did, crisp campaign suit still carrying the faint chill of the March wind outside. He paused in the doorway, shoulders tight, eyes flicking once to the closed blinds before he stepped inside.

"Otis," Lulu said, rising from behind her desk. Her auburn hair was pulled into a sleek twist that caught the lamplight, and her green eyes held the same measured warmth she offered every client. "Come in. You look like the day has already asked too much of you."

He managed a short nod and closed the door behind him. The lock clicked softly. "It has. Thank you for fitting me in again."

She gestured to the deep chair across from hers rather than the couch. Otis preferred the chair; it let him sit upright, hands resting on his knees as though he were still managing a briefing. Lulu settled opposite him, crossing her legs with quiet precision. For a moment neither spoke. She simply watched the way his fingers flexed against the fabric of his trousers, the way his breath came a shade too shallow.

"High stakes today," she observed, voice low and even. "I can feel it the moment you walk in."

Otis gave a humorless laugh. "You always say that like you can read the polls on my face."

"I read the tension in your shoulders," she replied. "Iris's poll numbers are climbing again. That usually means something else is shifting underneath."

He looked down at his hands, then back up. "She's brilliant at it. The way she moves through a room now, it's different. Sharper. People don't just listen; they lean in. Donors, staff, rivals. Everyone wants a piece of her time."

Lulu tilted her head, encouraging without pushing. "And you see all of it."

"I schedule all of it," he corrected. "Every handshake, every late-night strategy session. That's my job. Campaign manager, husband, whatever label fits the hour." His voice stayed factual, but the corner of his mouth tightened. "Last week she had a forty-minute private meeting with a lobbyist from the energy sector. I watched the door. When she came out her lipstick was perfect, but her eyes were brighter than they should have been after a policy discussion."

Lulu's pen rested against her notebook, unmoving. "Did you ask her about it?"

"Not at first." Otis exhaled through his nose. "I waited until we were home. She poured herself a scotch, kicked off her heels, and told me the meeting went well. Very well. Then she smiled at me in that way she has, the one that says she's already three steps ahead, and she said, 'Otis, you know how these things work. Sometimes a little personal rapport opens doors faster than any white paper.'"

The words hung between them. Lulu let the silence stretch just long enough for Otis to feel the weight of his own recounting. "How did that land with you?" she asked gently.

He shifted in the chair. "I told myself it was strategy. Pure politics. Iris has always been willing to use every advantage. That's why she's rising so fast." His fingers drummed once against his knee. "But when she said it, her voice was lower than usual. Almost pleased with herself. And I felt something shift in my chest. Not anger exactly. Something hotter and more uncomfortable."

Lulu's expression remained composed, though her eyes held a flicker of interest she did not voice. "Tell me about the first time you noticed that shift. The very first lobbyist encounter that felt different."

Otis closed his eyes for a moment, pulling the memory forward. "It was six months ago. A mid-level defense contractor named Preston. Iris needed his support on an appropriations amendment. She invited him to the house for drinks after a long day on the Hill. I was there, of course. Pouring the drinks, keeping the conversation on track. Preston was charming in that polished Washington way, but he kept finding reasons to touch her wrist when he laughed. Light, quick touches. Iris didn't pull away. She let it happen, and every time she glanced at me her expression was calm, almost instructional."

"Instructional," Lulu repeated softly. "What did that look tell you?"

"That she wanted me to see it," Otis said. The admission came out quieter than the rest. "She wanted me to watch how easily she could turn a handshake into something more. Preston left around midnight. Iris walked him to the door, and when she came back she was flushed. Not from the wine. From the power of it. She kissed me hard, right there in the hallway, and I could taste the adrenaline on her."

Lulu leaned forward a fraction. "And how did your body respond to that kiss?"

Otis's throat worked. He looked past her shoulder at the bookshelves, then forced his gaze back. "I was hard before she even touched me. The whole time she was with him at the door I kept imagining what they might have said if I'd stepped out of the room. What she might have let him do. It was wrong. It should have been wrong. But the thought of her using that power, of her coming back to me still buzzing with it, it made me ache."

He stopped, breathing carefully. Lulu gave him the space, her own posture relaxed, professional. Inside, however, a low pulse of heat had begun to build behind her composed expression. She recognized the first threads of his arousal and let her next question land softly.

"When you realized you were aroused by it," she said, "what did you do?"

"I didn't hide it," he answered. "Iris noticed. She pressed against me in the hallway and whispered that she could feel how much I approved of her evening. Then she took my hand and led me upstairs. We didn't talk about Preston again that night. We didn't need to. The silence itself was part of it."

Lulu nodded once, the movement small and deliberate. "That was the first strategic flirtation she let you witness," she said. "And the first time you felt yourself responding to it."

Otis met her eyes. The tension in his shoulders had eased by a fraction, replaced by something more complicated. "Yes," he said. "That was the beginning."

Lulu allowed a small, measured smile. "Then let's stay with that beginning a little longer. Tell me what she wore that night."