Dom Diaries: Serving The Senator, page 1
Serving the Senator
Dom Diaries #4
L.M. Mountford
Copyright © 2019 by L.M. Mountford
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
L.M. Mountford
United Kingdom
Dom Diaries #4
Serving The Senator
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
L.M. Mountford -- 1st Ed.
ISBN: 9780463498286
A self-confessed Tiger fanatic, L.M. Mountford was born and raised in England, first in the town of Bridgewater, Somerset, before later moving to the city of Gloucester where he currently resides. A fully qualified and experienced Scuba Diver, he has travelled across Europe and Africa diving wrecks and seeing the wonders of the world.
He started writing when he was 14. Under the pseudonym Dark Inferno, he has written more than thirty Fanfiction stories.
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I stand before them, bare and unadorned, a sacrificial lamb for their lusts.
My world is black, the blindfold ensuring I can’t see a thing, but I can feel them. Feel them arrayed around me, their eyes raking over me, devouring me from head to toe. Making my skin shiver with gooseflesh as the heat of their eyes burns across my breasts before licking down the flat of my belly to my…
I can hear them too. Their murmurs and bawdy jokes. I know I should feel insulted. They’re acting like I’m some prize stud mare they’re preparing to bid on. But the game is just too exhilarating.
I’m standing before them, naked and blindfolded, waiting for their command, and I love it.
I feel him coming up behind me.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a sound, but the sensation he always sends through me when he’s near ripples up my spine, sending the pit of my belly into cartwheels. Then he’s right behind me. So close, I can feel it nestling between my buttocks. I have to force myself to stay still, my heart fluttering like a robin redbreast in a cage.
“Don’t move,” he orders, his voice low so only I can hear, his breath curling over the skin of my neck, making my whole-body tingle. It is a very sexy voice, as deep and cultured as a lush red wine, and authoritative. The voice of a man who gives orders all day and expects them to be obeyed.
It sends tiny shocks of ecstasy rushing straight down to the hot slickness at my centre and makes my clit greedily throb for more.
I nod my understanding, then hiss a soft gasp, more from surprise than pain, as he slaps my ass.
“Don’t move,” he repeats, louder this time, emphasising every word so our audience can hear. The stinging handprint he leaves on my poor butt seems to burn deliciously in answer. A part of me wants to nod again, to push him and see how far he will go, but I don’t. I remain still and obedient, compliant. Submissive.
His hands come up slowly, enveloping me from behind, the tips of his fingers sliding up my belly and over my ribs to cup my breasts. I whimper at the contact. Robbed of sight, my other senses seem heightened, making my already sensitive tits deliciously tender as he rolls and tweaks my stiff nipples.
I heard him chuckle as my back curls, offering up more of my not inconsiderable cleavage. Secretly, that mischievous part of me hopes he might punish me again. Perhaps bend me over and spank me in front of all these men.
He is subtler than that. Instead, he takes his time, plumping and kneading with just the right amount of attention and neglect to work my body into a heated frenzy that has me all but chewing my lower lip.
“Such a horny girl.”
His tone is hot and hungry, much like the way his cock is pushing against my butt and smearing slickness along my thighs, and I know he is enjoying this as much as I am. He enjoys teasing, being in control while pushing his paramour to the brink and watching her writhe in delirious ecstasy.
So I writhe. Mewing soft kittenish sounds, I push back with a roll of my hips, grinding my butt along his length, the thick mushroom head sliding closer and closer to my burning cun-
“Kora… Kora! Are you listening?”
Startled out of my thoughts, I looked up to see my supervisor standing over me, hands on her hips and watching me pointedly from behind her pearl mask.
Oh crap…
My belly did a triple summersault under that look. Though by no means unkind, in the few weeks I’d been working under her, Demeter had quickly set about ensuring I knew she was a woman not to be pissed about. Who would enjoy punishing any girl that forgot it.
And had, frequently.
Heat blossomed across my cheeks. I quickly nodded before looking down at my feet. “Yes Ma’am.”
I always had difficulty meeting her eyes. She was just one of those women who could totally disarm you with a look and carried herself with the confidence of a woman who owned her sexuality. I was totally overwhelmed by her and couldn’t help feeling totally inadequate whenever she was close. Against her cascade of lush chestnut-red curls, sharp angular features, intense blue-grey eyes and gorgeous 4"11' build that seemed made for her leather corset styled bustier, I was a plain Jane.
“Sure.”
I could feel her gaze scorching my skin as she eyed me, clearly not believing my less-than convincing lie, and I could just imagine her long and immaculate eyebrow arching beneath the mother of pearl likeness of her namesake. God only knows how long she might have been watching me just standing here, lost in my own little world.
My stomach flipped again, winding itself into a tight little knot. This wasn’t the first time she’d caught me daydreaming. I’d been warned before, but I couldn’t help myself. It was this place, it practically oozed sex appeal- as did the clientele.
God, please don’t let me get the sack…
I needed this job. Student loans, along with my parents’ debts, had left me broke. I couldn’t afford getting my ass thrown back onto the job market after only a couple of weeks.
To my surprise, she just sighed and shrugged, like I was a naughty child that just wouldn’t learn a simple lesson. “Go attend to the gentleman at table 12.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Ta-table…12?” Just saying that had the heat licking out from my centre, making my knees shake and my already slick pussy purr.
Oh God, no! Not 12, I’m not ready for that.
“12,” she reiterated, in a tone that could cow the God of thunder. “He’s waiting.”
It was the epic clash of ice and fire. The cool edge to her tone crashed over the warmth in my centre.
Nodding again, I darted around her, so desperate to be out of my alcove and her sight, before she changed her mind, that I only just caught myself as I stepped out into the main smoking room. The close call earned me a hissed tisk from Demeter. Graceful, I hastily remind myself.
A maiden of the Olympus club is always graceful, and ready to serve.
Set amongst the heights of Midtown’s numerous high-rise buildings, the Olympus Club was New York City’s best kept secret. The exclusive Gentleman’s club of the city’s elite. The den of vice and skulduggery. A house that catered to any and every pleasure. There was just one rule. Discretion.
The patron’s valued their privacy and the secrecy the Olympus Club assured. Any member or maiden, regardless of wealth or position, status or connections, discovered discussing Olympus, would immediately be branded ‘excommunicado’.
The smoking room rang to the song of chinking of crystal, and soft girlish giggles.
It was a masculine place. The furnishings were all deep, rich, hard wood and leather. Leather so supple and deeply padded that the management liked to joke they should arrange a contest to test it against a baby’s bottom and a Labrador pup’s fur, just to see which was softer. Original Picasso’s and Monet’s, Van Gogh’s, and one that looked suspiciously like a ‘liberated’ Da Vinci, adorned the timber panelling. However, the greatest hidden treasure was the ‘trillion dollar’ view overlooking the cityscape, commanding views across Times Square and all the way downtown.
It took every last ounce of my self restraint not to succumb to the lure of the floor to ceiling window that made up the smoking room’s outer wall as I slid around the frolicking patrons. One little look and it was as if all of New York knelt at my feet. I dare say that was the idea. Nothing stroked the egos of the mighty more than being made to feel like gods.
If nothing else, it was a long way up from my parent’s place in Washington Heights.
Dionysus, the barman, looked up at me as I approached the bar and presented me with a serving tray decorated with sterling silver filigree.
“N-number 12,” I said, my voice still a little shaky at the prospect.
God, get a grip girl, he’s just a man.
By the way he moved so expertly towards a specific bottle, I had no doubt he knew exactly what to serve each patron. Though a most impressive number of decanters and bottles stood at the ready, they were just a fraction of what the Olympus’s cellar had to offer, and he filled a tumbler with scotch, adding just a single cube of ice.
If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn there was just a hint of a smirk to his lips as he placed the glass on my tray. Then he returned to his station, so I put it out of my mind.
There was no point dwelling on such things. Dionysus was practically an institution at the Club, he knew all the stories, all the skeletons hidden away, and not just those figurative ones. He wouldn’t say a thing, even if I called him out and asked what was so funny.
As if I didn’t already know.
All around the smoking room, patrons of all ages and shapes sat in the high-backed armchairs like they had been poured into them. Outside these walls, these were the cream of the crop, the living embodiment of Mrs Caroline Astor’s four hundred. Businessmen and actors, politicians and bankers, lawyers, financiers, landowners…old money and new. Within the Olympus Club however, and away from the prying eagled-eyed paparazzi, they could be true to themselves and embrace their more dark and primitive impulses.
Some drank. Some smoked. Some gambled, either with cards, or the lives of their employees, moving them as they would pawns on a chessboard. And some enjoyed the benefits of their personal attendants.
I only half saw them as I pass by, the clash of white on black amongst the crowd, a tangle of limbs, bodies writhing upon a bulging chair. Hair ruffled and cheeks flushed. The tailored garments they’d ensured were immaculate in front of the cameras, like peacocks presenting their tail-feathers, and that no doubt cost more than anything I could earn in a decade, carelessly dishevelled, with buttons undone, ties loosened, and other articles cast away while the culprit wiggled her fine derrière in his lap.
None of it was full-on sex. Even here, few members would be so brazened out in the open. Regardless, they made no effort to hide their activities as I passed by, the tray raised over my head and the silks of my uniform fluttering with every step.
Then again, why should they, I was only a maiden.
As the ancient gods would disguise themselves as men and women to walk among their subjects, to see but be unseen, so the maidens of the Olympus Club would dress as such. Our faces were hidden at all times by a half-mask of our namesakes and our bodies dressed in a uniform of half transparent silks that showed off as much skin as possible, while keeping the necessary parts covered. On the premises, we left our names behind. Here we were servants, the gods of old, who made the world and now live upon it solely to serve.
I am just a servant of the house. I fetch and serve drinks, but at least the money’s good. And there are the fringe benefits…
Table 12 was called a table only out of courtesy. In fact, it was nothing more than a little square side table to one of the better armchairs. The occupant sat half-cloaked in shadow, eased back and reading a small leather-bound book with one hand. Unlike all the other members, he was dressed smart casual, forgoing his usual contemporary suits for a pair of khaki chinos and a crisp pale blue polo-shirt. The buttons were undone, just hinting at the chiselled muscles beneath in a way that made me long to explore that rugged physique.
Amongst this den of predators and alpha dogs, he was at ease and in his element. The top male, the only one with no need to prove himself.
“S-Senator…” My voice trembled around the word. Just being in his presence affected me, put me on edge.
My breath caught in my throat as his eyes darted up to fix on me, scrutinising me.
The look immediately sent a hot shiver through my centre. At the same time, I quelled under his gaze, shrinking until I felt only an inch tall.
His penitent stare.
I’d seen that look before, dozens of times in fact.
His instakill. The devastating look he reserved for journalists that asked him ridiculous questions. It always made for damn good television, but I never thought I’d find that look directed at me. It was ridiculously hot.
Forcing a dry swallow that rasped my throat all the way down, I presented my tray to him. “Y-your drink, Sir…Scotch on the ro-”
“You’re new.” It wasn’t a question, merely a statement of an obvious fact.
I nearly jumped out of my skin as his low growl thrummed through me. “Yes! I mean…Yes, Sir.” I looked away, heat burning my cheeks- and other places further south.
Jeez, his voice couldn’t sound any more made for fuckin’ if it came with a side of strawberries and cream for dippin’.
He had the sexiest voice. Low and gravely but with a flowing command that had been forged on the playing fields of Eton or Oxford. The sort of voice that could inspire fear, demand respect, or reduce a poor, sex-starved girl to a puddle of wanton horniness with just a word. It was the voice in all my fantasies, the one I heard ordering me to cum for him.
Yet here he was silent.
Fighting to control the hot pulsing turning my knees to jelly, I slowly raised my eyes back up. He was still watching me, his eyes a hard icy blue, baleful and intense against the surrounding shadow. He was watching me, raking me from head to toe, studying me the way the wolf studied its prey, judging whether the meal would be worth the effort, before exploding into a run after the bunny.
He held my gaze for a moment, and I felt like he was looking into me, through me. Then he shifted, leaning forward so slowly I felt my breath catch as the shadow was peeled back.
Oh…My…God…
It wasn’t a kind face. Nothing about Senator Richard Sharpe could ever be called kind. No, it was as hard and jagged as obsidian, a broad chunk of rock that a master mason had chiselled into a work of art. With that square jaw rough with stubble, sharp nose, wicked twist of a mouth, and raven black hair just that bit too long, he looked more like a soldier of fortune than a paper-pushing bureaucrat. And all the sexier for it.
I struggled to keep my nerve as his eyes raked over me with more interest than could ever be considered appropriate in the outside world.
But here, anything goes.
“Has anyone claimed you yet?” He asked it as calmly as he would enquire about the weather.
“What, no!” I exclaimed quickly, too quickly. “I mean, no Sir they haven’t.” Feeling the heat returning to my face, I placed the Senator’s whisky on his table. “I’m not-”
“Such a waste.” The Senator rose to his feet like a cobra rearing from the grass to loom over me.
So big…he never looked this impressive on TV.
Ignoring the drink I’d just laid down for him, he stepped around me, his eyes scorching lines of fire that seemed to burn through my already skimpy uniform as they took me in from head to toe again. Then he did the unthinkable, and gently touched his hand to the base of my back.
“Beautiful.”
“Senator…I…I…” I stammered, not sure what to say, barely even able to form words. Fire and electricity crackled at his touch, raising a rush of gooseflesh where our skins touched. Lush heat ignited and pooled in my centre.
No this wasn’t right. I couldn’t let this go on. I mustn’t. Club rules may be lax as far as the members were concerned, but for the staff, and in particular the maidens, they were very strict.
“You take good care of yourself.” Another statement. His fingers brushed gently up my spine, then slid just under my ribs as he continued walking around me. My legs quickly turned to jelly under his scrutiny. I knew I needed to put some distance between me and this man, but my body refused to move as he stroked that place just below my left breast.
“I-I try, Sir,” I forced out, my throat thick and uncooperative as I tried to restrain the moan that wanted to burst free as he drew closer and closer. “Please…Senator…I…”
To my surprise, and considerable disappointment, his hand suddenly dropped away and he slid back into his chair with all the panther-like grace with which he had arisen from it, before taking up his drink and holding it out to me. “Here. Drink with me.”
