The Ottoman Inheritance

This is my first story on Literotica and, despite being an accredited writer in other fields, this is the first erotic story I have ever completed, as well as my first attempt at the hard-boiled noir style, which I absolutely adore.

Although I am more influenced by Dashiell Hammett and Rex Stout, the The "Hammered: an Ode to Mickey Spillane" Author Challenge event seemed like the perfect time to try my hand at adult fiction.

I truly hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

If there's enough positive response, I have a follow-up story in mind, so please be vocal if you crave a return of Jacob Stacy, Solicitor.

This story is a lighthearted suspense that contains one-sided nudity, exotic dancing, female masturbation and all the sensually humiliating feelings that come along with it. These events are entirely fictional and all characters are over the age of consent.

The Ottoman Inheritance

You know it's officially summer because even standing up in your shirt sleeves with the window open and two fans blowing, the room feels like an oven set to broil.

You stare over the fire escape wondering how much it would cost to get into an air-conditioned commercial building across the street.

There's a loud rap on the laminated glass of your office door and it swings open before you have a chance to check your appointment book to see who you weren't expecting this time.

A feminine voice that might have been alluring, if it hadn't gone flat, says "you Jake? The lawyer?"

Before you can answer the voice, now attached to a face coming in through the door, continues "you didn't hear me knock? You got cotton in your ears or something?"

The face could have belonged to a film star if it hadn't carried so much self-inflicted tension. The body was covered in a conservative gray herringbone jacket with a matching skirt that shows enough thigh to know she was once everybody's type.

"Jacob" you correct her. "Jacob Stacy. Yes, solicitor."

"What's the difference?" She asks through squinting eyes.

"I do the paperwork, represent your interests and handle negotiations. I rarely appear in court."

"I'm not going to court."

"Then I'm your man" you respond as you tuck in your shirt and do up as many buttons as you can manage in the right order.

"You know me?"

"Should I?"

"Ever hear of Del Wakefield?"

"I've heard. He got his start by hawking dry oil wells on shaky land titles, then made the rest of his money the hard way--betting on hundred-to-one long-shots at Ridgemont Downs."

"I'm Mrs. Wakefield."

"Congratulations" you say, half meaning it, remembering a picture of Del Wakefield in the paper, showing a man with a jovial gleam, thin on the top, heavy on the bottom. What he lacks in looks he made up for in money.

"Widow Wakefield."

"Condolences." You say, slipping on your vest and reaching for a red and yellow striped necktie hanging off the emerald desk lamp.

"You're coming with me."

"Where and why?"

"Because there's a lawyer sitting at Del's place on the hill with something they need to read for me, now that he's gone. They said to bring a witness, if I should want. I want. So, I'm taking you."

"Why me?"

"Because you're affordable and I'm low on funds. You can have ten now and I'll make up the rest of your fee out of whatever they give me."

You rub your forehead. Before you can piece enough of the puzzle together to ask the ex-Mrs. Wakefield any logical questions, she slaps a ten dollar bill on your desk and screeches "what are you waiting for--the motor's running!"

On the way to Del Wakefield's spatial home outside of town, you learn a few facts from Mrs. Wakefield.

One, her name is Julia. She didn't have much growing up, but had ambitions to be on the stage. Turns out she had the legs, but not the pipes.

Two, Del Wakefield plucked her out of the chorus-line at a not-too-disreputable nightclub and a short time later she married the guy.

Three, their four-year marriage came with the typical high highs and low lows that are standard issue in every rich-big-shot/ambitious-starlet romance.

Apparently, the good times were dynamite, but the shouting matches and late night sob sessions didn't do anything to improve her chance of making it on the theatrical circuit. She hadn't seen her husband in several weeks. Two days ago she was notified that he was no longer with us and two hours ago she was summoned to the house.

Finally, Julia had never heard of the lawyer who was supposedly waiting for her, and, frankly, you hadn't either.

After reaching the top of the hill, she parks and you get out of the car. The house, as she calls it, is a salmon-pink stucco affair with multiple turrets, floor-to-ceiling windows and a swimming pool. With a little luck, Julia Wakefield would come out of Del's demise with a wad of cash in her pocket and so would you.

In the living room, the furniture is pushed against the wall to make way for a heavy wooden table at the opposite end. You observe an overstuffed club chair on its arm, an antique armoire on its crown and an extra-large ottoman rolled on its side.

The beige lambskin of the circular ottoman is marred by a monotone Picasso of criss-cross stains that you brush with your fingers as you walk by.

"That's the love seat." Mrs. Wakefield says as she jostles around you.

"I thought it was an ottoman" you reply, trailing her to the table at the back of the room, behind which a middle-aged man with wavy orange hair and a lampshade mustache stands up with an outstretched hand.

"I'm Stolk" he says emphatically "L. M. Stolk. I represent Mr. Wakefield as he is currently unable to join us" his teeth beaming. Either Julia was coming into a fortune and L. M. Stolk was trying to get in her good books or he takes a very morbid satisfaction in his work.

"Jacob Stacy" you say clutching mitts with Stolk. "I'm here in the interest of Mrs. Wakefield."

"Aren't we all?" Stolk says, chuckling. "And this is Miss Dunne, she's taking notes for me."

He motions to an attractive blonde girl in a clean cream-colored blouse and a little too much make-up, which gives her away as someone trying to hide her lack of experience by looking older.

"Pleasure" you say along with the others, nodding at each other appropriately.

Julia's voice pierces the brief silence. "Can we get a move on? I'm anxious to get down to it."

"So I'm told" Mr. Stolk smiles and motions for us to sit. "As you have been informed, your husband, Delano Wakefield, departed on Saturday night. As such, I have papers for you to sign, should you agree to do so in accordance with the provisions left behind."

"Hand it over" Julia interjects. "Give me a pen and let's get this show on the road."

"I'm afraid it's not that straight forward" Mr. Stolk smiles. "First, I have to read you this letter and then proceed with the instructions there in."

Stolk nods at you, you nod back, wincing when Julia whines again "then let's get on with it!"

"Very well" Stolk unseals the envelope without much snap and begins to read:

My dearest Julia,

May I say how deeply saddened I have been without your company for the last several weeks. I am sorry about the way we left things and hope there is some room in your heart for forgiveness. I, personally, choose to remember the good times we shared and the way you looked during our many passionate moments.

Of course I wish for you to keep the various gifts I gave you, the jewelry, furs and dresses, however, if you are able to absolve me of the words and deeds you find so objectionable, I would like to bestow on you the house, which you are now sitting in, hearing this letter.

If you find this suitable, the conditions for the legal transfer are laid out in the instructions left with Mr. Stolk and it would give me great pleasure to see you accept the terms.

I would like to close by saying that today is Tuesday.

Your loving husband,

Del.

"The dirty pig. He wouldn't dare!" Julia says with venom.

Her response takes you by surprise. On paper things couldn't be much better for your client. She's getting a mansion on the hill and you'll be able to scrape up a nice little bonus.

Julia springs from her chair and throws her handbag across the room. "It's just like him to treat me this way, especially after he's gone, the spineless lug."

You jump in before her vitriol rises any higher. "I don't get it, Julia. Accept the terms and you get the house, that sounds like a bargain."

"It would to you, all men are the same. Didn't you hear what it says at the end of the letter?"

You pluck the letter from Stolk, who seems unfazed by Julia's reaction, and scan it line-by-line, but not fast enough for Julia.

"There!" She jabs at the bottom of the page. "The swine, I know what he means by that. Today is Tuesday!"

"Today is Tuesday" you say "so what?"

Julia Wakefield looks sideways at the wall, arms folded as she huffs.

"We usually had the weekends together, me and Del, and especially Tuesday. Tuesday is the day we first met and we had our little ritual, just the two of us. It's the only day of the week he wasn't too busy drinking with Lou."

"Who's Lou?"

"How should I know, I never seen him!"

You squeeze your forehead again. "Then what's so special about Tuesday?"

Julia snorts and looks at Stolk. "You already know the terms?"

Stolk nods, vacantly.

Julia's cheeks redden as she turns to you. "Tuesday is the day we were... well, intimate. But, not just intimate. We would... dance. I would dance... for him. In a certain way."

"Like the rumba?"

"Like the rumba, the mambo, the hula and the bunny hop, all wrapped up in a burlesque special."

You get the picture now.

"I did it for him one night, after we were married. Just a short routine I learned for an audition. I thought it would be cute. He loved it. And I loved him. Since he couldn't get enough, I kept adding to it. After a dozen weeks, I put together a series of the most lurid positions any man could dream of and I performed them in the most intimate costume I had in my wardrobe--the one nature gave me."

The whole room goes dry as everyone in it imagines Mrs. Wakefield performing for her husband in her birthday suit.

The sound of another envelope opening breaks the tension and Stolk timidly clears his throat.

"The bequest of Mr. Wakefield lays out in precise detail the steps that are required of Mrs. Wakefield. I have it all written down in this letter, however, I am not to inform her what to do, she must perform in the manner which she recalls doing for her husband on the nearly two-hundred previous Tuesdays during their union. I am allowed to prompt her, should she need reminding."

"I remember every detail, the lousy cad." Julia bites.

"Fair enough" says Stolk, "then we will let you proceed whenever you're ready. Mr. Stacy, perhaps you would care to sit on this side of the table with us?"

"Just one question" you say, standing up, "why am I here?"

"I am to witness on behalf of Mr. Wakefield's estate, you are to witness on behalf of Mrs. Wakefield, as she is allowed to bring an advocate to verify completion of the tasks outlined by Mr. Wakefield. Should there be any dispute, she has your testimony in her favor." Stolk says.

With that, you nod your head and move to their side of the table, sitting next to Miss Dunne, who tries her best to look at her notepad.

Julia, meanwhile, stands in the middle of the room, looking down at the hardwood floors, taking deep lungfuls of air in and out. Strangely, she looks younger. Fresher. As if knowing what's expected allows her to stop tormenting herself.

With a brief glance at the spectators behind the table, she turns and walks halfway down the room to a well-polished hatstand. The petite pillbox on her head is set in the center and her herringbone blazer is hung up beside it. You feel Miss Dunne draw sharply inward as Julia unzips the back of her skit and effortlessly loops it over the peg next to her jacket.

Turning her head to Stolk she says "Sometimes..." the harshness of her voice seems diluted, "sometimes, I would do it in stockings and garters. Does it say in there?"

"I'm sorry Mrs. Wakefield, I'm not allowed to instruct. I can only say that you should perform in the manner to which you think Mr. Wakefield would most enjoy."

"I know exactly how he liked it, the dog." Julia glowers, but her tone is less abrasive than you expect.

Her white blouse comes off over her dark wavy hair, her silk stockings roll down in one fluid motion and before her bare feet hit the floorboards, she releases the clasp of her bra and slides it off into the shadows.

Without glancing toward the table, she walks away, brushing her black panties to the ground, flicking them out of sight with her toes as she saunters to the phonograph and turns around.

And there is your client, posed by the record player, stark naked.

As you engrave her figure into your mind, you try to remember what your legal obligations are in these circumstances.

Although the demands of Del Wakefield's estate are unorthodox, you can't pinpoint a specific violation of law, and Julia seems far from apprehensive at this stage. Plus, you're only here as a witness. So... witness.

You do witness, as Julia picks a record from a nearby shelf, removes the 7-inch vinyl disc from the sleeve, bends slightly at the waist to place it on the turntable and gently drops the needle.

Standing upright, in her full glory, wearing nothing but her wedding ring and a few bobby pins, Mrs. Wakefield looks demure, almost proud. Taking a step forward and setting her feet, she whips around and yanks the needle off the spinning record, causing a scratch that echos across the room.

No wonder she never made it on the stage.

"I usually pour him a drink before I start the music." Julia says, a touch of the shrill back in her tone.

"By all means" Stolk gestures to the liquor cabinet on the westward wall with a familiar gleam.

Julia takes a half-dozen buoyant steps to the mahogany sideboard covered in bottles. You notice she moves differently without her clothes on. Her confidence is genuine, not simulated like it is in her suit and stockings.

"Bourbon, Mr. Stolk?" Asks the naked Julia, smoothly snatching up a long-neck bottle from Kentucky.

"Why yes, thank you." Replies Stolk. "With a splash of soda, if there is any."

Julia pours a large jigger of bourbon into a small glass and hits it with a precision shot of seltzer, all while looking at you. "Bourbon, Mr. Stacy?"

"Rye, if you have it."

"Neat?" She stares.

"Neat." You stare back.

Julia hardly breaks eye contact as she strides toward the table, a drink in each hand, presenting an open view of her supple skin, punctuated by two rose-tinted buttons and a crop of thick curls.

She leans across the table to set the drinks down, which is when you notice her scent for the first time. Clean, like fresh cut flowers, with a dab of something dense and primal.

"How about you, darling?" Julia's voice is more sultry as she turns to young Miss Dunne sitting tight between the two tumblers.

The timid file clerk has kept her cool so far, but direct confrontation with the unclothed Mrs. Wakefield stymies her.

"How about gin?" Julia suggests smoothly.

"C-coffee?" Miss Dunne stammers.

"You trying to make trouble?" Julia slips into her old form, hands on her hips. "Coffee takes twenty minutes, at least. You want me to stand here in the buff all day for you to have coffee?"

Miss Dunne's eyes go wide and Mr. Stolk raises a calming hand "I believe gin would be fine for Miss Dunne." Then whispers "you don't have to drink it."

Having made her little power play, a thin smile appears on Julia's lips as she walks back to the liquor stand. The light bounces off her bare backside as she compiles gin, soda and even a twist of lime into a tall glass for Mr. Stolk's innocent apprentice.

Another pleasing view of your client from the front and another whiff of her aroma as she delivers the gin rickey to the perplexed secretary. Your eyes meet hers as she turns away and strolls to the other side of the room.

Sure, she had plenty of sting in her tail teasing the stenographer, but you see a hint of nerves in her gaze. Or is it shame? Or arousal? Maybe all three. Why not? After all, she's about to embark on what she herself described as the most lurid and intimate Lindy Hop imaginable.

The needle drops and the record spins.

Taking two steps forward, Julia stands in ready.

Every eyeball on the property hones in on the sculpted form of Mrs. Wakefield.

The tune is "April In Portugal" you think, but without the words.

Standing straight and tall, Julia gently starts swaying her hips from one side to the other.

Her pelvis rotates like a gyroscope, slowly gathering momentum until her movements become simultaneously more effortless and less restrained.

Her slender arms flick from wrist to elbow, deflecting delicately off the little box she creates out of thin air.

This little samba would have swung her breasts dramatically, if they weren't so firmly set against gravity.

Her side-to-side shuffle exaggerates her magnificent hips even more.

As the pace of the music slows, she crosses her legs one over the other, again and again, like tides from opposing beaches, a splash becoming visible on the surface of her inner thighs.

As the tempo picks up, her overlapping legs evolve into an elongated rumba walk, with pointed toes that glide toward you and angular shoulder movements that showcase each vivid nipple as their own separate feature.

She spins on her heel and echos this step in the other direction, which is even more enchanting as you notice the backward bow of her legs accentuate the curve in her haunches.

Her footwork is exquisite, not that anyone is paying any attention to her feet.

Facing away, in the middle of the room, Julia stretches out her arms, her wrists bent slightly upwards, her palms and fingers perfectly flat, her knees closed and her ankles touching. She lifts one hip, then the other, back and forth, putting her tender flanks on a seesaw.

The rest of her body static, she steadily increases the speed of her waist with the music, prompting the lower muscles of her voluptuous rump to bounce uninhabited, both halves demonstrating Newton's laws of motion as they rise and fall.

And just as you think her undulating hindquarters couldn't go any faster, they don't. With a quick gear change, Julia throws every tendon attached to her tailbone into slow motion, forcing each cheek to rotate independently on its own axis.

It was an effect that would send Sir Isaac back to the drawing board.

With an effortless twist, Julia faces you again. She slithers like a snake and waddles like a duck, but her bare skin hucklebuck is not the finalé.

She sweeps a shapely leg out to the side, twice on the right, twice on the left, each kick uncovering more of her fluffy burrow. Elbows tucked, paws slightly curled, Julia bunny hops round and round.

She performs the sequence three times, rotating clockwise, but instead of closing the loop, she drops one hand to the floor, raises the opposite foot and springs into the most dazzling cartwheel you've ever seen. Landing on her toes, she replays the move from the front, tossing her ankles through the air so slowly it gives you time to count every hair between her shimmering legs.

For the big finish, Julia gracefully pirouettes down to her knees in front of the table, eyes lowered, hands raised delicately in front of her unyielding bosom as if she were balancing an invisible platter.

The phonograph needle skips in the background.

"Every Tuesday?" you murmur.

"Every Tuesday." Stolk confirms.

Miss Dunne applauds for a split second then hides her nose in her notepad.

Not a word is said as your client gently pants on the varnished timber.

"Is this where I sign the papers?" Julia asks meekly, holding her final position.

Leaving her en statue, Stolk ruffles his documents, following his finger as he reads.

"No madam, this is where you ask the question you normally ask on Tuesday."

It takes several seconds for the steam to rise from her coiled toes to burning ears before the molten rage melts her cool exterior.

"The filthy snake!" Julia explodes.

Somewhere between frigid tears and breathing fire, your client stomps back and forth in front of you, red from head to toe and every square inch of flesh in between.

Although Stolk seems content to let Mrs. Wakefield run her course, you decide to douse the flames.

"Listen, Julia, whatever it is you're supposed to say, you don't have to go along with it."

She huffs through clenched teeth.

"Yes" Stolk concurs "if you are uncomfortable for any reason, we can end the whole ordeal right here and now. You will still walk away with your jewelry and other possessions and I will prepare the house for a charity auction."

Julia lets out a frustrated growl.

The choice is clearly torture for her, mentally.

Physically, however, she betrays herself.

As the soles of her feet slap against the parlor floor, the whole room can see that she is being led by two rosy tips that dart out in front of her.

You try the calming approach again, but she raises her hand, slowing to a canter as she makes up her mind.

You're not sure what concerns stick out in her head, but it's crystal clear what sticks out on her chest, as she walks back in front of the table with a set of nipples so sharp they could pierce steel.

Without making eye contact, Julia takes a series of deep breaths and kneels to the ground again, eyes facing down, palms facing up, resuming her role as the naked nymph at the end of her seductive dance.

As she composes herself and the spell breaks, the natural color of her skin returns and she mutters the magic words needed to continue.

"Did I please you, darling?"

Stolk whispers across to you and Miss Dunne "We at the table all have to agree or disagree if she has pleased us, as stated in the instructions."

"Oh yes, she was wonderful" declares Miss Dunne.

You nod at Stolk, who turns to Julia and pronounces "you have."

"I'm so glad." Julia responds stiffly, raising her head. "Then... may I please myself?" She says, her lips parted in surprise at her own syllables.

Miss Dunne's eyes shift between you and her employer, unsure of the implications.

You are, however, and say as much to Stolk. "Isn't this all going a bit too far?"

"It's all here in the instructions, to which all of us this room are guided by." Elucidates Stolk.

"Please." Cuts in the desperate voice of Mrs. Wakefield before you can make your next objection.

Her tone pulls at your heartstrings, not in pity, but in desire. Her eyes are wide and watery and her flesh is trembling. What you previously suspected to be trepidation and shame, you can clearly see is unbridled arousal.

She'd just done the dance of the seven veils without the veils and now she needs to turn the release valve on her tingling nervous system.

"Please" Julia says again, pitifully, "I want to pleasure myself."

She stuns the room into radio silence with her blatant confession.

All you can do is follow your client's oral directives and lift your hand to concede.

Stolk hastily combs through the lines on the page then proclaims "You may go and get the love seat."

Julia tilts her head modestly, rises eagerly and prances to a cluster of furniture near the entrance.

The oversized ottoman must be lighter than it looks as she easily levies it right-side up and pushes it across the floor, her tail wagging behind her like a spaniel retrieving a particularly good stick.

The ottoman can seat five, but is clearly designed for one. The rich neutral shade of the leather slightly darker than the natural skin tone of Mrs. Wakefield. Scores of overlapping lines stain the grain in an erratic crosshatch, while a peculiar ten dot stamp seems to have been pressed again and again into the front facing edge. Dry puddles appear across the canvas, all within a few inches of the primary designs.

As she mounts her low-rise pedestal, the surrealist marks on the leather suddenly make sense as her femurs, thighs and toes fit into place like a jigsaw puzzle.

"What's happening?" Miss Dunne whispers in your direction.

"Mrs. Wakefield, like Amelia Earhart, is about to inspire us all by flying solo."

Perched on her knees, dorsals flush against the lambskin, Julia begins caressing her torso, sliding up and down in her own perspiration. Her fingers run from navel to bosom, pushing her pointed breasts upwards as she clasps her elastic nipples and stretches them skyward as high as possible before they snap out of her grip and bounce in midair like synchronized door stops.

"I hope you mashers appreciate the view because you're about to get an eyeful." Warns the worked up Mrs. Wakefield as she glides her hands along her lap then apologetically adds "If you're going to sit there and gawk, I might as well enjoy myself."

She raises up slightly, causing the prominent pink acorns above her ribs to rustle. plowing her fingertips inward from her open knees, she finds her flower bed, and, for the first time this Tuesday, Julia begins to tend her own garden.

"Of course Del's last request would be to dig at me this way. He always found a way to wind my spring. We really got under each other's skin." Julia confesses as she tickles the tulip.

When the words start to flow, you make a motion to stop your client from overexposing herself, but Stolk intercepts your play.

"No, no, Mr. Stacy, this is how it goes. According to the instructions, Mrs. Wakefield typically uses this follow-up performance to communicate her wants and needs to her husband. She is anticipated to get quite verbal." Stolk informs you.

Apparently, Mr. Wakefield didn't care for his wife's voice, but he certainly found it amusing when she became indiscreet.

Julia lets out a series of short high-pitched staccato bursts as she folds forward, presenting herself on all fours, arm reaching under her belly, while she serenades herself with thumb and forefinger.

"He'd always find a way to play with my base desires. Sometimes I would over-strum my little ditty and he would use his words to help me stay on rhythm. Oh, he was a swell guy!" Mrs. Wakefield sings the praises of her husband as she conducts the orchestra between her legs.

With a long vowel sound somewhere between E# and A♭, Julia pauses, then rearranges herself to sit forward, facing her audience. Knees apart, her toes curl around the rim of the ottoman, offering a front-row view as she continues to stir the honey pot.

"The truth is..." your client trails off into a series of simmering whistles, then sputters "I miss him! He always made me out to be a hot dish and I love serving myself up in front of him!"

Julia's tightly clamped toes release their grip from the ottoman's ledge and she raises both legs to really spice things up before calling her husband's name in a long guttural moan that feels like melted butter.

"O-oh, Del!"

She bursts like a soufflé, limbs outstretched, her deflated body drapes like a crêpe across the ottoman, as you sit in appreciative silence and allow Mrs. Wakefield to baste in her own juices, while the smell of her cooking hangs in the air.

In the afterglow of Julia's climax, Mr. Stolk sets the table with a short stack of off-white land titles, a well-worn rubber stamp and a thick property deed complete with embossed seal.

As Stolk finishes setting the table, Julia sits herself upright on the pedestal, stretches her arms and wiggles her toes. She ruffles the back of her hair, trying to hide the obvious smile on her puss, then gently rubs from her thighs to her cleavage, ending with a long farewell pinch on her perky nipples before raising both fists in the air.

"I feel like a million bucks."

Satiated in her own self-delight, she stands, leaving several new stains on the ottoman and stumbles gingerly toward the table. Her flesh bristles as she smiles, batting her eyes at the paperwork in front of her and says "hasn't anyone got a pen for me?"

"Why don't you use one of mine?"

A clear jovial voice booms across the room.

You prick up your ears as Miss Dunne jumps in her seat and Mr. Stolk lifts a hand to calm her.

Julia hunches her shoulders like a riled allay cat, her eyes wild in shock and shrieks "You stinking skunk!"

"I might be the skunk, honey, but you're the one with the stink. Why, I can smell your adorable musk from the across the street." Says the heavyset figure ambling closer to the table.

"Del!"

The face you remember from the newspaper comes into focus. Mr. Wakefield, back from the hereafter.

"Del, You heartless rat, you're alive!"

"Why, I sure am and feeling more full of life than ever after catching another of your intoxicating Tuesday night specials."

"How did you... you made me think... you, you..."

"Not me, me, honey, you, you." Del expounds. "See, a few weeks after you left me, I was gabbing with Lou over a couple of drinks, you know how it is. I said how I missed you, and he said 'how come?' And I sort of blabbed the details about your special ways. After drinking and hashing it out, I had Lou mail you a letter to tell you that I wasn't here anymore and contact you again so you'd be here on Tuesday. That's tonight."

"You lied to me! The letter said you were dead!"

"No, no, honey, the letter said I had departed. Which I had. I spent the weekend at Ridgemont Downs trying to win the money I need to give you this house and finish paying for the new one I decided to build further up the hill."

"Of all the underhanded, half-witted..."

"Figuring I would be back in town on Tuesday, everything seemed A-OK for the conditions Lou and I thought up for the transfer of the house. I must have arrived a few minutes after you did, because I was able to catch the whole act from outside the big window there."

"How dare you! Thanks to your reckless stupidity, I just performed a red-light floor-show in front of three total strangers, while you sat behind the window and watched! And who is Lou to have a say in any of this?!"

In the crossfire of this intense dialogue, Stolk gently stands up from his seat and holds out his hand "we've been introduced, Mrs. Wakefield, I'm L. M. Stolk."

Julia stares sideways at him in grotesque bemusement.

"Louis Maxwell Stolk" he clarifies. "Your husband asked me to represent him tonight while he was out of town."

"And I sure do appreciate it Lou, you've done a grade-A job here." Del Wakefield says.

"This is Lou?!"

"Why sure. It was mostly his idea. And since you wouldn't speak to me I had to find some way to give you the house." Del says.

"I've spent half the day exposing myself to Lou?!"

Stolk looks down at the floor then up to Mrs. Wakefield again, in a gesture that seems tactful, but actually only reminds everyone that Julia has yet to put a single stitch back on.

"Why, yes." Says Mr. Wakefield in a heartfelt tone, "but not just Lou, honey. Me, too! And Miss Dunne and Mr. Stacy, of course." His apology comes completely unstuck.

"You... insufferable louse! How could you have been so selfish? Deliberately toying with me, just to put me through my paces like a circus animal so you could get your jollies through the window!"

Mrs. Wakefield's unclad form jiggles as she stomps around the love seat and toward the open door of the living room, attracting more unwanted attention to her carnal misfortune.

"But I thought you missed our Tuesdays as much as I did!" Mr. Wakefield pleas with his wife following her naked footsteps "And look how happy you were after petting yourself on the love seat."

"If you think I can ever forgive you for letting me masturbate out in the open, with every eyeball in the joint on my... then you've got another thing coming, Delano Wakefield!" Julia's provocative post-coitus body ripples in fury.

"And that goes for you too, Lou." She shouts with a twist of spite as she turns her head one final time before marching her quivering tuchus up the stairs.

"Oh honey, please. Come down and let's talk things out." Del calls up the stairs to the refrain of a slamming door.

"She must be a little upset." Del Wakefield sums up, looking around awkwardly.

"Can I ask a question that I've asked three times tonight." You pipe in. "Why me?"

"We had to have a witness" Stolk responds. "Someone who is registered or at least bonded and capable of acting legally on behalf of Mrs. Wakefield to transfer the house. I'm sure that was made clear."

"So she really is getting this place?" You ask.

"Absolutely. In fact, if you would like to sign now, Mr. Wakefield and myself would be very grateful."

"Why the secretary?" You nod toward Miss Dunne, quietly gathering her things out of earshot. "You didn't need a note-taker for a charade like this."

"Why, I'll tell you" says Del Wakefield sheepishly, "I thought it would look better to have another woman. We didn't want poor Julia to think we were ganging up on her. Since all the lawyers in town are men, we needed a girl to balance the dance card. Plus, my wife becomes a real spitfire when you poke her with a touch of feminine jealousy. I've learned that over the years and you could see the result tonight, she was red-hot."

"Red-hot." You think out loud. "In every way possible."

You cast your eyes over the paperwork that Stolk hands you. It did, in fact, all seem on the up and up. A clear transfer of property from Mr. Wakefield to your client.

You may have qualms with Del Wakefield's methods, but not his offer. You scrawl your signature above the line that says "witness" and fill in the date.

"Your wife will have to endorse this before the night's done." You press the pages into the chest of Del Wakefield, collect your hat and step out the door, Stolk and Miss Dunne shuffling in line behind you.

"Oh, I think I can talk her into it." Mr. Wakefield glances up the stairs, longingly.

As you scuff your shoes along the gravel drive, Stolk clamps a hand on your shoulder.

"Del and I also planned ahead to cover your fees, knowing Mrs. Wakefield was operating on limited resources."

"That was a real sharp corner you two put her in. Tell me, how was Wakefield so sure that his wife would fall for any of this?"

"Despite his questionable past, Del is a very successful gambler. On the track, he can spot a winning colt or prize stallion from a mile away, but the only filly he really knows is Mrs. Wakefield." Stolk taps the side of his nose then continues to commentate.

"Since Julia didn't come trotting back like usual, he made a series of parlays to put the odds in his favor. She was told he was gone to create favorable conditions for her to return. When she didn't show, he lured her with a carrot. She steps onto familiar turf, a cue here, a nudge there, her instincts kick in and before you know it, she's galloping around the paddock, just like any other Tuesday."

"Blocked at the start." you take it all in.

"As you say, but, things have been like this between Del and Julia for years. Maybe this will finally put them on the right course." Lou Stolk says wistfully. "Anyway, it'll be my turn next."

"Does your wife do a striptease tango as well?" You jab.

"No, no, dancing's not her forté. Her cha-cha could never return the favor we got from Del's wife tonight."

"So, what's in it for him?"

"Oh, I've arranged for Del to come over and have mint juleps in the backyard next week. It will take my wife all day to harvest her vegetables in the garden."

"Who cares about that?"

"Let's just say, out-of-doors, my wife likes to wear a large straw hat. And only a large straw hat." Stolk gives a slow, hardy chuckle. "Yes, I've seen her get very dirty in the soil."

"What pals you two are."

"I'll send you an invitation, young Jake. Maybe you'd care to join us?"

"It's Jacob."

"I know you look down on us, but try to believe we're not all bad on this side of the hill." Stolk tries to appease you. You hear the jingling of metal as he continues "Here, take the car Mrs. Wakefield drove you up in. From what I gather, she'll quickly earn a new one."

Stolk ignores your puzzled expression and drops the keys without warning, walking straight past you as you stoop to catch them before they hit the ground.

"Tell Mrs. Wakefield to contact me if she plans to sue for coercion or false pretenses." You call after Stolk, who waves a stubby hand in farewell without looking back, before getting into his own car and driving off.

In the headlights, you catch sight of the uncertain secretary standing at the edge of the drive.

"Can I offer you a lift, Miss Dunne?"

With a faint smile, she nods over her shoulder and hoofs it up the gravel in the direction of Mrs. Wakefield's sedan.

Before you can ask where she lives, her eyes lock onto something behind you and you turn toward the house.

On the far side of the panoramic windows you see Del Wakefield sitting in an overstuffed chair, the corners of his mouth in a contented curl, while in the foreground, the completely naked figure of your client flickers from side to side as she starts her sultry routine all over again.

"I sure do have a lot to learn about a career in the law." Says Miss Dunne.

You get in the car and slam the door.