Fine Dining with Mr. Senator
BDSM Mentor Series #1
A Sensual and Erotic Short Story
Copyright 2013 by McKenna James
Smashwords Edition
LICENSE
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DISCLAIMER
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
MATURE CONTENT
This story contains sexually explicit material, and is intended only for persons over the age of 18. By downloading and opening this document, you are stating that you are of legal age to access and view this work of fiction. All of the characters involved in the sexual situations in this story are intended to be 18 years of age or older, whether or not they are explicitly described as such.
Watch or perform. Dream or take action. Fight or flee. Kill or be killed.
There are two sides to every story, just like there are two choices for every opportunity. I’m going to tell you about a certain opportunity that altered my life. My name is Taylor Sterling. I am twenty two years old. No matter how much I wish I spoke with elegant and flowery prose – and sometimes I really wish I did – I don’t.
I work in retail, at a distinguished designer boutique called Cutting Edge. And as the name suggests, in my line of work one must cut straight to the chase. Stephanie, my coworker, tells me I got the job because of my face. I’d like to think it had more to do with my people skills. I’ve been deep into high fashion ever since I was a little girl. Never for myself though. Honestly, dressing Barbie dolls is not so different from dressing people. It’s just about selecting the right sizes.
As a woman, I know a thing or two about shopping. The last thing I want when I waltz into a fitting room, totting along a blouse picked out by an attendant, is to find out my dream top is too small. When dealing with women, I usually size up. Being informed that something is too large is immensely more pleasant than the crushed “It’s too small.” I inevitably spend the rest of their stay assuring them that nothing makes them look fat.
Brilliant.
Men are the opposite. Men, especially here in North America, always want to be bigger. Luckily, in retail this pricey, that also means that the men shopping around are wealthy enough to spend as much time at the gym as they do at the office. When I say bigger, I mean bigger in a good way. We get some real lookers, that’s for sure.
Now, don’t hate me for this next part. It may be hypocritical of me, but I never shop where I work. I don’t make enough money for that.
Not yet.
Presently, I buy bargain brands. The funny thing is that no one can tell the difference. Try not to leak that to my customers though. I get paid on commission.
I have been working at this place for two months. During those two months, I have worked Wednesday through Sunday: the busy days, the slammed days. Today is Tuesday – the first Tuesday I’ve been in the store. I took Stephanie’s shift as a favor to her. Last night was her birthday. That was about all the excitement there has been for us this past week. Nothing special happens on Tuesdays to my knowledge: no big sales or promotions. I assume it will be a regular day until 2:00PM.
Stephanie conveniently left out the fact that Tuesday is the day a certain modern marvel comes in for fittings.
There I am, folding, sizing, and colorizing a stack of cashmere sweaters when in strolls the most delectable man I have ever seen. He is older than I am: tall and trim with thick arms, muscular thighs, and an attractively slopped chest. His shoulders are enormous. He stands like a chapel spire – peerless and daunting above a world that we can look at, but not touch. Never has a suit looked so incredibly sexy on a person. His butter blonde hair, slicked back in a loose sophisticated wave, practically haloes his head. In the middle of it all are two Caribbean blue eyes that pan the expanse, searching for someone familiar. They pass over me, a mere peasant in the presence of a god-king.
I stand there gawking unceremoniously (enduring a sensation that feels frightfully like to being smacked across the face by a two my four) with my jaw dangling from the hinges and my heart in my throat. In the same moment, I unconditionally sign over my soul to him, this devil or angel in front of me.
I suddenly find my fashion-passion inverted. There is absolutely nothing in this store that could do him justice.
All I want to do is undress him… preferably with my teeth.
I watch as the man’s eyes find Cheryl Hart, the store manager. His face lights up. I am astonished by how suddenly and fully I am consumed with the desire to have him look at me that way. Cheryl greets him more solicitously than usual. I imagine this man is more promising than the typical customer. Then again, any man or woman whom can afford to shop here must be promising in some manner or another. His looks probably don’t hurt his chances either.
Cheryl’s voice is a splash of cold water to my face. “Taylor!” She beckons me to her by curling her fingers hastily. There is a pressing look on her face while the customer’s eyes linger on a table of merchandise to the left. I practically fling the shirt aside and stride towards her. I soon realize my mistake. I pivot just as quickly and return to fix the shirt and lay it neatly on the stack of sweaters. Cheryl’s face sinks into her hand as she smacks her forehead. I pray my hair is acceptable. I pray my lipstick isn’t on my teeth. Is my liner smudged?
“Taylor, this is David Charleston,” Cheryl says. I know the name immediately. Charleston’s name is a hot topic on talk radio, which I listen to in the mornings on the way to Cutting Edge. He plans to run for senator. He was top of his class at Yale and ran a series of successful businesses after Harvard Business School. Now, here in New York City, he owns one of the most expensive brownstones in the Upper East Side. The living marvel fixes me in a dashing grin and I can basically feel my knees knocking. I assume my best smile and take his outstretched hand for a shake.
“Hello,” I say politely.
“Hello to you, my dear,” he banters back. His grip is strong and yet I hope it is only a fraction of his real power. His cordial Hello might as well have been a You’re coming with me.
Because yes sir, yes I am.
“Mr. Charleston needs a suit for a dinner party,” she continues. “You will be assisting him this afternoon.” I blink. Cheryl flashes me an austere, wide eyed look. It all comes racing back to me.
“Of course,” I remark. “Right this way, sir.” I gesture down the aisle. I escort Charleston to our men’s dress section. I dare not chance a glance back at Cheryl. I can only imagine the seething expression of blatant irritation and If you screw this up, you’re gone gone gone! on her stern face. “What style are you looking for?” I question him.
Charleston briefly describes his preferences in terms of color, cut, fit, and brand. When I ask for his measurements, as many customers are uncomfortable with those being taken in the store, he asks me to take them. I am screaming and swooning and squealing inside. Fireworks are happening. To top it off, he tells me that his personal trainer has him on a different workout regimen and that many of his shirts are growing snug across the chest and shoulders. (As if he needs a reason to explain himself…) If his personal trainer ever wants a day off, I would be happy to give him a workout.
If it were up to me, I would fit him i
nto the tightest, thinnest fabric I could.
I wrap the measuring tape around his shoulders, his waist, and his hips. I kneel, tack the end of the tape to the floor beside the inner arch of his shoe, and measure his pants to the seam of the crotch. My hand inadvertently brushes against the very thing the pants are meant to conceal. Surely, my cheeks are a putrid shade of purple. I apologize, calling humor to my voice and a playful cringe to my face. He merely chuckles and assures me it’s alright. If I am not mistaken, there is a spirited gleam in his eyes that suggests he is the opposite of offended. Is he into me?
Because that would be fantastic!
I stand, ask him to please wait here one moment, and stride out of the fitting room. I make little effort to mask the spring in my step. I collect several dress suits from the racks: a black, and navy blue, and a tan. Granted, Charleston did not mention this lighter color. But I can picture it on him. And if I can picture a color on someone, it usually works very well.
He undresses and dresses in the privacy of a fitting room while I wait outside. It is torture knowing the only thing separating us is one inch of plastic. I help him into the jackets and straighten and smooth the fabric out. We stand before a multi-angled mirror so he may inspect the suit. He spends a few moments critiquing in silence while I worship in like manner. He finally shakes his head. He declares that he is growing bored of black – that it feels too stark and serious, solemn like a funeral. I do not like black either, so I can only grin. He loves the blue.
When I offer him the tan suit, he eyes me incredulously. I quirk an eyebrow and smirk back.
“You’re trouble, is what you are,” he says, shaking a finger. But am I his type of trouble? After a little cajoling, he agrees to try it on. He emerges from the fitting room with a look of amazement. I help him into the jacket. I can tell he is impressed with my impromptu selection. It makes my chest swell with pride, which can only help my chances, I tell myself as I adjust my posture to push my breasts out.
David collects his things. “You’re a very charming young lady, Taylor.” I chuckle flirtatiously, carefully hanging the suits back up and folding his two selections over my arm to take to the counter.
Coyly, “Thank you. You’re quite the charmer yourself, Mr. Charleston.”
“David,” he corrects.
“David,” I echo. There is an air of danger and dominance about him – something acutely belied by his classic charm. He is incredibly sexy and so intensely seductive. I would let him take me here and now, right here on the floor in front of everyone. I smile over my shoulder at him as I lead him towards the register. “I wonder,” he says aloud. He pauses. So do I. I watch him inquisitively. As he adjusts his cufflinks, “Would you be available to attend this silly little party of mine this weekend? With me?” he adds.
My heart leaps into my throat. This cannot be happening! It is just too good to be true. I gawk at him for a moment too long, convinced I heard him wrong. I battle the urge to shriek out a YES. “As in a date?” I stammer, hardly able to contain myself as I brush my hair over my shoulder.
David grins handsomely. “A date. A favor. My life is sorely lacking in beauty. You compensate.”
I laugh bashfully. What a catch! “You’re so sweet.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I’d love to.” I lay his suits on the counter and ring up his purchase. I slip in a ten percent discount, which is open to employee discretion. Cheryl will understand. We exchange numbers. He does not say goodbye, but rather “See you soon”. I lean over the counter, popping up a foot behind me, to make sure David is well out of sight… before I commence my victory dance.
The first thing I do on break is call Stephanie. I fill her in hurriedly, emphasizing every dirty little detail. She is excited for me, as she has seen him before. She tells me that all of the floor attendants swoon over him whenever he visits. I can totally empathize. When she asks me what I am going to wear to the party, my stomach knots up. I realize I have nothing even remotely sexy enough. Luckily, Stephanie does.
I spend what remains of the week pining after David and trying to keep from touching myself at the thought of him, or looking him up on the internet, or watching interviews on YouTube. I can hardly eat, my nerves are so frazzled. On Wednesday night, Stephanie lets me borrow a short black dress with a plunging neckline along with her matching pumps.
David phones me Thursday evening, which tickles me to no end being that I am used to guys texting me. Then again, David seems like the type to prefer talking on the phone to messaging. Maybe that is how all older men are. After all, David is not some guy. He is not some boy. He is a man. He informs me that the dinner party starts at 7:00PM tomorrow night. He asks if he can pick me up. I tell him his offer is sweet. However, given the fact that I do not get off of work until 5:00PM and it takes me roughly half an hour to get home on the subway, I tell him I will take a cab there.
I need all the time I can to get ready for this man… and I would hate to make him late to his own dinner party.
As I predicted, I spend every spare second the next evening getting ready. I plan, or at least hope, to get some tonight. If anything, I would be happy just to give some. David is well worth it. After a shower, a shave, and a manicure, I style my hair and apply my makeup. Finally, I slip into Stephanie’s sleek black dress. All smiles, I try a twirl as I admire myself in my bathroom mirror. I teeter and wobble precariously. I glance around to make sure no one saw me, which is absurd considering I am in my own bathroom in my own apartment and I live alone.
No more twirling.
Dinner is sensational. I arrive at David’s brownstone home mere moments before the festivities are scheduled to begin. His home is breathtaking, walled in by a spiked wrought iron gate and an elegant brick wall. David introduces me to all of his guests. He never leaves my side or makes me feel out of place. I try to contain my excitement when I notice that most of the gentlemen, no matter their age, are staring at me. It gives me the sense that I might be beautiful enough to be David’s date, like I look the part – like I made the cut. More importantly, I receive frequent jealous glares or spiteful smirks from their women, who are usually young.
The older women, ripe with self-confidence and poise, are far easier to talk to. When I mention my job Cutting Edge to Mrs. Flynn, a judge’s wife, is overjoyed. She raves about the store for a moment, which broadens the grin on my face. Soon enough, she has more of her lady friends promising to check it out. Cheryl would be proud.
We carry on until the meal is served in the dining room. David even pulls my chair out for me before we sit down to eat. He is so unlike any of the other guys I have dated. David seems like a real gentlemen – a dying breed in the contemporary age.
A three course dinner is served, beginning with a light soup and salad. Some of the guests use dipping bread and butter. The entree consists of cuts of tenderloin wrapped in bacon with baked potatoes. It all melts in my mouth. New York Cheesecake and lemon squares are offered for dessert. But there is nothing served that is as tempting and tantalizing as he is.
“Why don’t you tell us more about your platform, David,” Mrs. Flynn prompts.
David uses his napkin and puts it back in his lap. “Well, to begin with, I hope to raise awareness on injustices taking place in our very own city. We need to –”
“What an admirable cause,” Mrs. Flynn interrupting him with her warm, motherly smile.
Judge Flynn, an army veteran, sets his wine glass down. “What do you think about tax rates?”
Mrs. Flynn purses her lips. “Must you always bring that up, you grumpy old coot?”
“What?” he justifies. He gestures to David. “I want to hear what the boy has to say.”
David smiles at me, maintaining an air of decorum befitting a prince. “Firstly,” he tells Flynn with the upmost respect. “I believe all people living who live in this country are obligated to pay taxes, be they rich, poor, or immigrant. As such, I would push for tighter tax regulations and more frequent audits, but less t
axes as a whole. There should always be a balance. Too many get away with cheating the system. At the moment, the majority of the tax burden is falling on the middle class, which is certainly as ridiculous as it sounds.”
Eric Fairdale, who is David’s childhood friend, chuckles. Fairdale is a tax lawyer. He is tall and thin with piercing green eyes, jet black hair, chalk pale skin, and sharp features. And the two of them are just as starkly opposite with their looks as they are about politics. “Pretty big talk coming from someone like you, Davey.”
David grins and raises his wine glass in a toast across the table. “Yes, I acknowledge that I came from a privileged background. Old money, trust funds…” Playfully, “But, keep in mind I was not allowed access to any of that until after I graduated college, during which I held an array of jobs from loading UPS trucks to busing tables. I remember well what it is like to have a job and how much was pulled from my paycheck.” To Fairdale, “Vultures.” We all laugh.
After dinner, we all chat over drinks. The guests trickle out roughly an hour later. David bids them all goodbye and thanks them for coming. I start wringing my hands when I realize that we are alone. It is what I want, but is it what he wants? He offers to take me on a tour of the property. I eagerly oblige. Perhaps he will show me to the bedroom.
I walk arm in arm with David through his indoor garden to his indoor pool. Pools are rare in homes in New York City. David certainly is full of surprises. The pool, framed by polished slate stone, is crystal clear. So are my intentions, though his are dubious. I would give everything to this man – let him do to me whatever he so desires. I would gladly let him ruin me, if it meant but a night with him. And as the moments pass, I cannot help but think that he knows it. My lust for him is overwhelming.
We pause together. “Do you like what you’ve seen so far, Taylor?” he inquires.
“Definitively, Mr. Senator.” I smile slyly. “In fact,” I try to hint without sounding too desperate, “I would love to see more.”
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