Fine Dining With Mr. Senator

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
into 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.