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Their submission deepends.

They were dark enough to make it obvious that you are wearing stockings, with some kind of a smoky-sparkly overtone. They looked so long and slim as I was pulling them up my legs at home that I had had to stop and dry my pussy off before finishing. Okay; well maybe I did rub my clitty just a little bit while I was there. Wish I could have spent more time with her, but I was late already. Shoes: Black patent leather, of course, with heels too high for this kind of carpeting.

The bellman knocked on a large walnut door. Moments later it opened, and I was looking at Andy Sr. at close range. Something about him was rather...overpowering. It wasn't that he was an extremely large man. His height and weight were about average. As were his features, nondescript shade of brown hair, and muddy hazel eyes. But he projected some sort of aura -- power? Authority? Danger? Or just plain evil?

He did know how to dress his body for maximum effect. Or his tailor did, at least. The irridescent black dinner jacket he was wearing did not come off the rack at Suits R Us. His white shirtfront was crisp, dazzling. Hand-knotted silk bow tie. Carefully polished Italian shoes. He smelled like...fresh hay? And maybe a just a tiny hint of patchouli? I did not recognize the scent. Something custom-blended, no doubt.

I offered him my hand and he took it, gently but firmly, holding on just that fraction of a second too long for comfort. His clasp was warm and dry. Slightly rough. Not an accountant, this one. His hands had done real work. I wondered how he would handle my breasts, my pussy. "What the hell is wrong with you!" I scolded myself severely. "You know what an asshole this guy is, and you still fantasize about fucking him?" I really should listen to myself more often.

He bowed mockingly over my hand and ushered me into the room. I tried not to be impressed. The decor was subdued yet elegant. A single table, stage center, was set with crisp linen and sparkling crystal and silver. At one end of the room was a cozy conversation area with comfortable sofa and chairs. At the other end was an ornately carved walnut bar, complete with impeccably uniformed bartender. For some reason, this stilled the danger signals a little. After all, there would be a witness to whatever he was planning. A hotel employee, I assumed.

He guided me to the conversation area and seated me on the plush couch. I sank into it, further than I liked, and pointedly slid over to one end, hoping to maximize the distance between us. Bad move. Of course, he then seated himself squarely in the middle, much closer than I found comfortable.

"Something to drink?" he asked.

I thought quickly. Perhaps it would be easier to deal with him if he were somewhat inebriated. I needed to keep my wits about me though. Perhaps something unidentifiable by sight, which I could replace with soda water at my first opportunity?

"Vodka and tonic," I said stiffly. "Lime. Stirred, not shaken."

He had the grace to smile as he beckoned to the bartender. "Grey Goose and tonic," he ordered. "And I'll have the usual."

The drinks arrived before the silence could become overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Even as it was, I understood that he was trying to make me nervous, hoping I would begin to babble, saying anything to fill the void. I refrained.

I tasted my drink. Perfect! Damn. This would not do. "Could you stiffen this a little?" I asked the bartender innocently. "I would like to be able to taste the vodka." I was hoping that if it tasted bad enough, I wouldn't be tempted to drink too much of it. He nodded coldly and transported my glass back to the bar.

Andrew Sr. waited politely while my drink was modified and returned. Again the uncomfortable silence. Bastard.

I nodded my appreciation and sipped again.

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