This is the story of love lost, love explored, and love found in a place least expected. It is also a mystery that involves power, money, greed, and lust. While not as graphic as most here at Literotica I hope you find it an entertaining read. I apologize for the state of the work. It still needs proofing. Please vote and comment.
JPMMURPHY
Chapter 12
Scanner Bob had arrived. In more ways than one. San Francisco's beautiful streets, quaint streetcars and lush hillsides didn't distract Bob. He was ecstatic at finding the ICB, noting there were two buildings, both bearing the department's shield. His arms actually shook a little with anticipation.
His next big arrival was the Palace hotel at 2 Montgomery Street. Yes, he thought, all these years of embezeling, it was time to reap the benefits and enjoy life a little.
Built in 1875, the Palace Hotel, when first built, was designed to be the world's largest and most luxurious hotel, towering eight stories over San Francisco. The architects' first mandate had been to make the finest hotels in Europe pale in comparison. The host to presidents, royalty and giants of industry, was now host to Scanner Bob, a man that sought his own niche in the annals of fame.
Bob gestured to the Bellboy to come closer. Pulling his duffle bag open, he reached in and pulled out a bundle of $25,000 dollars and set it on the counter.
"A week. And I'll need a tailor sent to my room."
While a mere check-in clerk might have been taken aback, the hotel manager didn't miss a beat as he helped his new guest check-in to one of the 32 suits they offered.
"If you could sign here, please, Sir." A card was turned and pushed across the counter. Putting pen to paper Bob signed with a flare, as most members of the social elite do. Fred Johnston was common enough, he thought.
An hour later Bob stood on a short platform as the young woman measured his inseam a second time, her fingers nestled snuggly into the edge of his briefs as she noted the measurement in a small note pad.
With no illusions of being a hunk, Bob's curiosity was pricked and he asked, "It's odd, isn't it?"
The raven haired beauty, her naturally curly locks pulled back, looked up from his knees with intelligent brown eyes and inquired, "What would that be, Sir?"
"Well, are you a seamstress or tailor?" He guessed she was in her mid 30's.
Her laugh was sweet and magical and Bob could feel himself becoming aroused as she explained. At some point in his life, he might have blushed as the bulge in the front of his briefs grew slightly, taking form, but Mistress had helped him overcome that.
"An only child? How sad," he replied as he looked down on Allessandra Martinelli, fourth generation Italian/American as she carried on the family tradition of fine tailoring for the rich and famous.
Allessandra had become immune to the results her gentle and attentive labors sometimes had on her clients. She did note that this one wasn't as old as most her clients and the bellboy had tipped her off about the grungy duffle bag she'd spied thrown on the bed.
"Not really," she replied as she stood and leaned in to pass the tape measure behind Bob's back, her arms encircling him, as she passed the small metal tab from one hand to the other.
Bob wasn't sure, but she was. Her breasts pressing firmly into his thighs just below his growing bundle.
When she continued, her warm breath blew across his stomach just above his navel and Bob felt a new surge of interest
grow
for Allessandra.
"My father wanted a boy to carry on the family business. He got a girl," she said in a mirthful voice as she took note of her clients growing interest in the family history.
Straightening, she didn't miss a beat as she knelt to take an outside leg measurement, not distracted in the least by the hard red protrusion sticking out of her Clients' elastic waistband. Serves Larry right, she thought.
"You can step down now," she said, stepping back to give Bob some more room. The small directive was comforting as he accepted it as a command.
With all his training, his own assertiveness had not been explored. He was even afraid he might stutter until he glanced over at the duffle bag full of one hundred dollar bills and put things back into perspective.
"So, three suits at $3,500 each, that would be $10,500," he ventured as Allessandra stood at his back, her warm soft thumbs pressing the tape into his skin at the edge of each shoulder, taking another measurement.
"Um, yes," was her distracted response as she pressed the brass tab of the tape measure into the base of his neck, sliding the tape between her thumb and forefinger, deliberately marking distance between her hand and her client with an extended pinky, the red painted nail sliding the length of Bob's spine to come to rest on his briefs at the top of the cleft between his buttocks.
Bob actually quaked a little and said, "This is the first time I've had suits tailor made," he paused as she came into view again, tape measure draped across an arm, her granny glasses almost at the tip of her strong Italian nose and a pencil and pad in the other hand, "Do tailors accept a tip?"
She seemed to study his tall, lanky frame, what she decided were gentle, hound dog eyes and ruffled hair before reaching for the waistband of his briefs, two fingers sliding in at the gap created by his intense interest in the family history, pulling the garment down in front.
Bob was flustered for a minute when she
finally grasped his full interest in the family business,
her warm palm sliding slowly back and forth a few times.
"I think there may be a measurement we forgot to take."
"S So," Bob did stammered slightly as his eyes rolled back slightly before refocusing, "That tip. What about a tip."
"It depends," she said with a business like, deliberate tone.
Bob watched as she pressed the brass end of the measuring tape into his splay of pubic hair and stretched it out. He gasped when she wrote the number down.
Turning from her client, Allessandra walked back to the small writing table that bore stacks of material samples and sat to transfer her notations to her client book. Her decision was made. The hell with Larry. She wanted to have a little fun, get a little wild. Now she'd find out just how good a tipper her client was.
Glancing over her shoulder she put the first offer on the table, "Well, I often think my clients get uncomfortable standing around in," her eyes drifted down to see if she still had his interest, "practically nothing. I've never offered before," which was true, "but I would say... ," and the pencil eraser came to her teeth as she chewed a little and Bob watched, not breathing, "a 10 percent tip would put me in the same state of dress as my client."
Bob gathered his thoughts for a minute, reached for the waistband of briefs and pushed them down past his knees. Stepping out of the puddle of white cotton material he crossed to the bed in two long strides and pulled the duffle bag to the edge.
Walking to the table he dropped a small stack of bills on the table while Allessandra watched his bouncing shaft.
Standing, the stack of bills folded inside her purse beside the first bundle, she walked behind the changing screen that had been set up by the hotel in the corner of the bedroom and Bob watched as articles of clothing were draped across the top.
When she stepped from behind the screen Bob felt a stutter come on and decided not to comment as his own personal incarnation of the Goddess Venus appeared in nothing but black high heels.
Bob didn't even count the rest of the stack as he dropped it on the table and asked, "And what will that get me?"
Glancing at the stack, Allessandra walked to Bob and kneeled at his feet. "That will get you anything your heart desires for a very long time," her voice low and sultry.
