But to me she looks like a delicate bloom — an innocent who’s put her trust in something dishonest. She’s at the mouth of the private penthouse elevator, its doors now closed. I’ve taken a dozen steps into my place, but she’s barely taken a pair, and now as I look back she’s the picture of frailty. Legs together, knees locked, balanced unsurely on modest black heels. Arms hanging limp, clasped loosely together in front of her slight waist, fingers unsure exactly how to clasp, fidgeting. Her eyes flitting from place to place. And I don’t blame her. There’s so much to see. “It’s true,” she says in a soft voice. “What the rumors say.” I move to the wall beside us. Like my office below, the top two floors composing my penthouse are entirely white, with all white furniture. But my first fetish was black. As is everything in the field that’s fascinated me most. And so the wall beside us, lined with leather and tools, is ebony. She’s barely looking at it, nor is she backing away. “Every person has their fascinations.” “What do you do with all of this?”
