I was surprised after I had turned onto Route 50 from 29 in Fairfax how dramatically the suburban sprawl from the nation's capital turned into lush, rolling, rich rural estates countryside. I was headed west from Washington, D.C., toward my destination in Middleburg, up the Potomac River, some twenty miles parallel to the river. I'd been in Washington, working for Rhode Island senator Steve Standish for over a year, but I had not yet traveled from the capital in this direction. I wasn't from this area. I was from Rhode Island too. My family connections had gotten me the job with Standish's office. There had been an incident with a teacher at the college prep school I went to after high school and my family wanted me out of town--as much for the family's reputation as to change my outlook on life. Little did they know they were thrusting me into the mouth of the lion.
No doubt what saved this area from a suburban sprawl of its own was money--old Virginia money and new political money. This was the Northern Virginia hunt, made famous in the late fifties and early sixties by the horse set surrounding President John F. Kennedy's wife, Jackie. She came here to ride her horses, so all who were socially prominent in Washington came out here too to join those of the First Families of Virginia who already were riding their horses here and being gentlemen farmers on big, lush estates. Both forms of the wealthy stayed and used their clout to protect their playground from suburban sprawl long after Jackie O left.
I wasn't on vacation in driving out here to the plush--I certainly assumed it was plush--Grayson Inn and Winery outside of Middleburg, although my posted schedule back at the office in the Russell building said I was--that I was spending the weekend in Richmond, in an entirely different southern direction from Washington altogether. This trip was hush, hush, but it did have everything to do with my job. I was the public affairs liaison for the senator. I was auditioning this weekend to become his deputy chief of staff. I was ambitious to work my way up, and I realized that I wasn't the only one in the office who coveted that move up. I probably wasn't the only one in the office who was willing to do what it would take to win the job either.
Audition. That, in fact, was what it was. It wasn't a job interview. Senator Standish didn't need that from me or any of the other guys--all guys. Standish didn't keep more than the requisite number of female staffers around him, and none of them were brought into his inner sanctum. Steve Standish, tall, patrician, handsome, moneyed, and suave in his early fifties, was definitely a man's man. This was an audition.
The man had fucked me on two occasions before--once in surprise in his office, with me bent over his desktop on my belly and the senator hooked up behind me, gripping my hips between his hands, and fucking me doggy style. He was a big-cocked man--quite vigorous and athletic. He also was cocky; as soon as he was able to ascertain that I would take his cock--that I wanted to keep my newly won job on his staff--he fucked me. The second time was soon after that when he tested just how far my loyalty went to him. While his wife was taking his daughter back up to their house in Newport to check out colleges for her, Standish had me rent a beach bungalow on Fenwick Island, New Jersey, for a weekend and he put me through my paces and checked out what I would do for him--again, to keep my job in his office. He fucked me repeatedly that weekend, in multiple positions, testing me on what I would take from him. I took it all.
He was also testing me on my loyalty and discretion. I met both tests. I had told nobody that the boss was screwing me and I never turned him down when he wanted to screw me.
I had done all that he wanted. Now he needed to fill the deputy chief of staff position and he was giving me an opportunity to fill it. Ostensibly, he was having a weekend at a horse-riding club he belonged to that was connected with the Grayson Inn and Winery where I was headed and I was vacationing in Richmond. We both knew what really was going down this weekend, though. I was going down for the senator--when and where he wanted me to.
I didn't know what else I had to let him do to me sexually that I hadn't let him do already. I'd take bondage and whipping and a taste of fisting--a bit of everything. The senator was always looking for new fetishes to heighten his arousal and release. I was naïve, though. I hadn't, in fact, done it all.
I knew I was being a slut, but I'd do whatever I had to to get this job. I knew that I had to do well just to keep the job I had. He was a good-looking man. I wasn't promiscuous, but I knew I had a good body and looked good in it. I might as well use it, as needed, while I still could attract men--and women, if I really had to. I took what men did to me. I endured with a smile, made all of the right encouraging sounds, and didn't complain.
I drove through Middleburg, which was sort of Disneyland for the rich country folk, as far as I could see. Not too far from after leaving there, I turned between two stone horses on brick pillars that broke a mile-long run of freshly painted white fencing, with green lawn and sleek grazing horses behind it, and drove an oak-lined crushed-stone drive up to a southern colonial building that sprawled out too much in two-story splendor to be just a house. I had arrived at the Grayson Inn. It had been constructed to blend in with the stately plantation houses dotted around on the manicured estates here in the foothills of the near-distant northern end of the Blue Ridge Mountains, but it obviously was newer construction than the genuine antebellum mansions it emulated. I pulled my Mustang convertible up to an imposing entrance in the forecourt of the building. The longer-term parking area apparently was located someplace else hidden from view. The drive I had turned off to enter the forecourt continued around the east end of the inn beyond a sign saying that the winery was somewhere farther down that road.
A valet and bellboy met me at the car; took my bag and suit bag out of the trunk for me, with the valet saying he'd move my car when check-in was completed; and I followed the bellboy into the inn. The lobby was understated elegance. I saw a dining room through double, glass-paned doors straight ahead and a bar, from whence soft piano music was floating, off to the right. A handsome young man in what must be the inn's official uniform--because the valet and bellboy, both also young, handsome men, were wearing a version of it as well--stood behind the reception desk and smiled a broad, welcoming smile at me.
"Checking in?" he asked.
"Yes, the reservation should be in my name, Trent Chandler, I said." I was damn sure it wouldn't be in the senator's name, although he was footing the bill for this tryst. I hadn't made the reservation myself, though. I was equally sure he hadn't made it for me in his name. He was much too careful to leave any records connecting him with his young men in this way.
The door to an office behind the reception desk opened and a real hunk of a man, maybe in his late thirties, in scruffy clothes, but filling them out to perfection, appeared in the doorway, leaned up against the doorframe casually, and gave me what I took to be a knowing look--a friendly smile but one that, at the same time, was an "eat you up" smile. I was prone to assessing all men I saw or met for their potential topping value, and this man made the top 10 percent. I blushed, as he seemed instantly to know who I was and what I was there for. His workman's clothes and open and honest "who the shit cares?" look were what seemed out of place and off color here, not me, who was here to be fucked to win a job. I was a congressional white-collar guy, but that only meant I was even more attracted to the blue-collar stud type.
"Ah, Mr. Chandler," the receptionist said. "You are booked at the riding club's building. That's Grayson Hall. You'll find it down the road, past the winery. Sean," he said, turning his head to the bellhop, "Please put Mr. Chandler's luggage back in his car." Turning back to me, he said, "You can check in at Grayson Hall. We'll keep no records here. They will take good care of you there. Enjoy your stay with us."
I didn't have any trouble linking up the "we'll keep no records here" with them taking good care of me--and the senator, I was sure. Had the receptionist's expression changed a bit? Was he giving me a more scrutinizing look now, with just a hint of smugness and condescension, which belied the added obsequiousness that had come into his voice inflection? Surely not, but when I glanced at the man lounging in the office doorway, I saw a bit of smirk in his face too. He nodded at me, turned, and went back in the office.
Had that been a "I can have you if I want" look in the man's eyes? If so, I couldn't naysay him from the effect he had on me from this brief encounter. I don't know how he could tell, though--it wouldn't just because a senator was screwing me that he should have been able to think he could as well.
My car hadn't been moved. Five minutes and it was like I'd never stepped foot in the Grayson Inn at all. Somehow, I got the impression that that was the way it had been meant to be. I drove further into the property and into more hilly terrain. I passed the winery, which looked like quite an operation. It was supported by extensive grape vine fields in this section of the estate. Past that, I drove between two hills and there, in what surely was Grayson Hall, stood what quite obviously had been the original plantation house, in red brick, with ivory pillars supporting two stories of front porch. It wasn't as big as the inn, but it certainly was big enough in its own right to deserve a "Wow," and it dominated the landscape. To the west of the house was a terrace with a swimming pool and to the east was a tennis court. Beyond the house were stables, a riding ring, and, in the near distance, a helipad--everything a big daddy like Rhode Island Senator Steve Standish could want.
