Goran saw the young man standing nervously at the reservations desk and liked what he saw. He was even happy that Serge, the maître d, was pretending not to see the young man, because that meant that Goran, the waiter, could see him to the table—and could make contact of some sort with him on the way there. Goran was one to make an immediate assessment of the playing field and pick out who he would like to play with.
"Table for one?" he asked, as he approached the young man at the entrance of the terrace section of the Great Falls, Virginia, Serbian Crown restaurant. It was an exclusive suburban restaurant on the Potomac Palisades south of Washington, D.C., that was frequented both at lunch and dinner by the rich and powerful of the nation's capital. Goran felt it was perhaps to be his good fortune that the maître d hadn't considered this young man identifiable as rich or powerful.
"No, two, please," the young man said with a shy smile. "I'm meeting someone here. I'm surprised he isn't here already, but I don't see him."
"Certainly, umm, will this? . . . Perhaps if we have a name of your dinner companion so that we know who to bring to the table." Goran suddenly realized that he needed to know whether to seat the young man by the door to the kitchen or in a prime spot. The maître d would have his hide if he guessed wrong.
If it were up to him, though, he would seat the young man in his lap. He couldn't be more than twenty-four and was movie-star handsome. Dark, Mediterranean features, with black curly hair, full lips, and blue-green eyes the color of that same sea. He was dressed presentably enough for the maître d. He just hadn't been recognizable as someone important. And he was beautifully formed. He also looked like what Goran went after—a submissive, who'd just let Goran have his way with him.
"Uh, of course. Senator Julian Jamison."
Goran practically snorted, both from surprise and amusement. Senator Jamison was about as glorious as clientele came in the Washington area. The maître d would swallow his teeth when Goran told him whose luncheon companion he'd stiffed—and rightly so. And Goran couldn't help but get approval for having saved the situation.
"Very good, sir. How about this table here?" Goran had taken a U-turn into the center of the dining area.
"Umm, maybe something a little more out of the way?" the young man asked shyly.
Goran's antennae went up. An almost obviously submissive young gay man—like most gay men Goran could tell these things with a great deal of assurance—meeting a prominent senator and asking for a discrete table. His prospects were looking up. The restaurant had such tables, of course. "How about that one over there, blocked off from the other diners a bit by the trellis and grapevine?"
"Perfect. Thanks." The young man gave Goran a shy smile and looked down.
Bet he knows, Goran thought. The dip of the head; bowing to the Alpha Male. Bet he knows that I'm a dominant. Bet he knows I'll fuck him if I can too. Bet he's already resigned to letting me.
Goran placed the palm of his hand on the young man's back to guide him over to the table, and was rewarded with a slight shudder. Another good sign. Surrender. Only opportunity lacking.
Goran was just the ticket for a certain type of young man. His was body-builder built and a bit thuggish looking. He was of Serbian descent—as all of the crew at the Serbian Crown were—and he clearly was a dominant and demanding sex partner. He was in his mid thirties, old enough to be well experienced and yet young enough to be vigorous and have stamina. Goran sought out the handsome, submissive types who he could fully master, and, he was happy to say, he couldn't remember ever having had an unhappy customer.
And this young man, Goran gauged, was exactly the type of young man he specialized in.
"May I get you something to drink while you wait?" Goran asked, solicitously.
"What? Oh, yes, a glass of sauvignon blanc, please. The house wine would be fine." Another submissive dip of the head after he had spoken.
"Certainly sir." A smile that was as assured as it was possessive.
Goran had the pleasure to inform the maître d, whose eyes were drilling into him as he approached for giving up a key table, who the young man was waiting for. He stayed around the reservation desk only long enough to see the maître d blanch at hearing the senator's name and for beads of perspiration to dot his brow, before he hurried to the bar to pour a generous glass of better-than-house wine, reasoning that the more wine the young man drank, the more opportunity Goran would have with him. Then he went into the kitchen and, invoking the name of the senator, rustled up a choice appetizer and then returned to the young man's table.
The young man was sitting, looking pensive, and not noticing Goran's approach. His hands were on the table, with one fiddling with his napkin, and Goran managed to brush it with his, making sure to brush the thick blond hair on the back of his hand against the young man's hand, as he set the wine glass down. Another little shudder from the young man rewarded Goran's effort.
"The wine. And the kitchen would be pleased if you would try out this appetizer—on the house—and let me know how you like it." He stood close over the young man and smiled down at him. He made sure his crotch, with its decided bulge, was at the young man's eye level.
"Oh. Thanks," the young man smiled up at him. It was a radiant smile. His eyes were flashing like he was excited about something. Goran hoped that, before he left, he'd be excited about Goran, but he knew that it was too soon for this smile wholly to be for him.
"Your wish is my command," Goran said in a soft voice, although this was the opposite of what he was hoping for down the road—he wanted to command and he planned on being hard if he did. That's what a submissive young beauty like this needed—a pounding deep inside him, rattling his world completely. "If there's anything . . . anything at all . . . that I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask."
They both heard the arrival of the senator at that point and both looked up. He pulled up in a stretch limousine, with both driver and body guard, and the maître d was beyond vociferous in greeting Jamison.
Goran backed off, watching the obviously important, trim, for all appearances prematurely gray-haired man move across the restaurant floor toward the table. There was something in the way the man looked, though—a bit embarrassed and uneasy—that told Goran that perhaps this meeting wasn't going to go completely as the young man had planned and hoped. If not, Goran's prospects had just increased tenfold.
* * * *
As the senator walked across the mostly empty terrace dining area, Goran's eyes went to the young man. He's stricken, he thought. There was no doubt that the senator was spiking him. Goran suffered a twinge of regret. It wasn't likely that he could compete with riches and power—unless, of course, he could get his dick in the young man. That would level the playing field real fast. This type of submissive settled right down once you had your dick in him.
The young man rose from the table. "Senator."
"Tyler," the senator answered. His voice was a rich baritone. His smile was one that surely gave comfort to his constituents, but, to Goran, it looked a bit strained, and the senator wasn't making eye contact with the young man. Again Goran sensed that there was something wrong here—and that it probably was something the young man wasn't aware of.
After he had taken the food and drink orders from the senator and the young man—being happy that the young man ordered a second glass of wine—the waiter was drawn away to take the order of another table, and then another.
There was a chill in the air at the table when he returned with the drinks. The two were still engaging in small talk, but the young man was repeating, "What is it Julian? What aren't you saying? There must be a reason we're meeting like this rather than in the office or at the apartment."
Their food was ready when Goran went back to the kitchen. The young man was engaged in animated conversation when he brought the food to them, but he stopped and looked down at the napkin in his lap while Goran served the food. Goran tried the typical "I hope you enjoy" small talk but the young man didn't respond and the senator was a bit brusque and dismissive.
The really nice thing about this table mostly being hidden by a wall at the side and a vine-covered trellis toward the restaurant proper was that there was a place a waiter could stand right where the wall and trellis met where it would appear that the waiter was being attentive to the tables but yet he couldn't be seen from the table behind the trellis and could hear what was being said at that table as clearly as those at the table could. This was one reason why this was Goran's favorite table to attend.
"You can stay in the apartment until the end of the month, of course," the senator was saying. "I doubt that will be a problem if you're going back to Louisiana, though."
"I don't understand, Julian," the young man replied in a snuffly voice. "What have I done? I've always been discrete and I've tried to be careful. And both the job and cutting us off at the same time. I just don't think I can—"
"It's the kindest way for it to end," the senator said.
Yeah, right, Goran thought. But this was getting interesting. He just might be able to make something out of this.
"I don't—"
"It's my fault. I should never have started this in the first place. It's too risky. People will find out. It will ruin your life."
You big shit, Goran thought. I'll bet you seduced him. In fact, I know you did. He doesn't look like he has an aggressive bone in his body. You just pushed him up against a desk one night, and once you'd gotten your dick inside him, he was ready to do anything you wanted. And ruin his life? Please. It's your skin you're worried about. You don't give a shit about him. You used him for as long as you thought it was safe. And now you're throwing him away.
"Please, Julian. There must be some way. And at least . . . at least let me keep the legislative assistant job until I find something—"
"It's already too risky for that. I think some of the staffers are already talking. No, it's best if we make a clean breast of it. Ummm. Have you tried these scallops? They are absolutely delicious. Come, you haven't touched your meal. No, you best go back home to Louisiana and let the whole affair . . . just let it all vanish. A few months and we'll both not even think about it, I'm sure."
"I'm not sure at all," the young man said. "I could go to Idaho. Find a job or something in Boise. Then when you went back home—"
"There's really nothing else to discuss about it, Tyler. It's over. It's finished. This really is the best way—especially for you. I can't really blame you. You were like a disease. But it isn't right. We must move on."
I wonder what other young staffer he's found to fuck, Goran wondered. Will he move him into the same apartment? He couldn't feel any resentment, though. He was a shark himself. And he was smelling the chum in the water.
"If you aren't going to eat those scallops, you might as well send them over here," the senator said right before Goran had to leave his vigil to serve at another table.
