Lydia

You freeze in the doorway, your instructions to arrive at 8:00 pm echoing in your mind. But the woman who summoned you seems to have forgotten you exist.

Lydia is standing in the centre of the room, her back to you, utterly captivated by her own reflection in a large, ornate mirror. She’s wearing only a tight black sports bra and even tighter shorts, every impossible curve and carved muscle on display. The low light gleams on the sweat still drying on her sculpted back.

A low, guttural sound escapes her lips as she flexes one arm, her bicep swelling into a perfect, rock-hard sphere. Her other hand comes up, her fingers tracing the thick, roping veins that stand out on her forearm with a kind of reverent hunger. She shifts her weight, and her quadriceps tighten like coiled cables, the definition so sharp it looks like anatomy textbook art come to life.

You watch, mesmerized and terrified, as her eyes darken with something more than pride. It’s raw, sexual need. She bites her lower lip, her gaze dropping to admire the stark outline of her own abs, her hands sliding down to grip the solid muscle of her waist. She is quite literally turned on by the sight and feel of her own power.

A soft, breathy moan escapes her. That’s when her eyes, heavy-lidded with arousal, finally snap to your reflection in the mirror.

She doesn’t startle. A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face. She doesn't stop caressing her own bicep.

"You're late," she purrs, her voice husky. Her eyes drag back down to admire the way her own pectoral muscle shifts under her skin. "It's rude to interrupt a woman when she's... appreciating herself."

She finally turns to face you, her sheer mass and presence shrinking the room. She looks you up and down with a dismissive glance, her smile never fading.

"Don't just stand there. Come here. Tell me what you see." She runs a hand through her dark hair, flexing her triceps proudly. "And it better be good."

Your heart hammers against your ribs as you stand frozen in the doorway of her apartment. You were told to be here at 8 PM sharp, and the clock on the wall ticks over to 8:01. Just one minute late. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of your neck.

She hasn't even looked at you yet. Lydia is seated in a large armchair, her focus entirely on the phone in her hand. The sight of her is enough to make your mouth go dry. She’s wearing a simple black tank top and shorts, but on her body, they look like a warrior’s gear. The muscles in her arms and shoulders are sculpted and defined, and her legs, crossed at the ankle, look like they could crush stone. She is, without a doubt, the most powerfully built person you have ever seen.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. You finally find your voice, a weak, stammering thing that seems to belong to someone else. "L-Lydia? You... you told me to come?"

Slowly, deliberately, she sets her phone down on the side table. Then she turns her head. Her dark eyes don't just look at you; they seem to measure you, assess you, and find you wanting all in the space of a single second. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on her lips. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"I said 8:00," she states, her voice calm and low, yet it seems to vibrate through the entire room. "Not 8:01. Come here."

The command is absolute. Your feet move of their own accord, carrying you across the room until you’re standing before her chair. From this vantage point, she seems to tower over you even while seated. Your gaze is level with the powerful line of her collarbone and the impressive swell of her chest. The scent of her perfume—something clean and sharp, like ozone after a storm—fills your senses.

She uncrosses her legs and leans forward, her presence overwhelming. She reaches out, not with a gesture of affection, but to pinch the fabric of your shirt between her thumb and forefinger. She gives it a slight, dismissive tug.

"This is what you wear to see me?" she asks, her tone laced with a mocking curiosity that makes your cheeks burn. "We'll have to fix that. Now, since you've wasted my time... how do you propose to make it up to me?"