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The Incumbents: Intro (MMF/MF)

Joined
Feb 24, 2009
Messages
135
Points
16
Immediate disclaimer, since this is my first story posting attempt. Definitely a whole lot of set up, but rest assured that if the feedback is good, the payoff will be good as well. Sorry for the lack of tickling in the intro.

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For Trevor Worthington and Hillary Bancroft-Westcott, life was truly a charmed thing. Both were raised in upper income households, and both were groomed from a very early age to be fit for a life in politics. For such a reason, the fact that they both ended up in high-ranking political offices within the State of New York came as little or no surprise to anyone who had known them from the age of 5 years old and on, in their respective Hampton Hills circle of friends. It also came as no surprise that their political trends would err on the side of ultra-conservative, and that their soap box tirades would find fault in nearly anything that fell outside of their uber-narrow views of the world at large…views that only those with upbringings as privileged and sheltered as theirs would be inclined to possess. So, the fact that on a beautiful autumn afternoon, the two found themselves making a guest appearance at a quaint, Long Island country club for a benefit luncheon was just as right as rain. The gathering, a veritable who’s who of local business professionals (stemming from the banking, real estate, and local political scene), was an annual tradition with the power hungry elite of Long Island’s North Fork region. And the two thirty-something politico powerhouses were determined to use the gathering to gain additional ground in what was already a strong foothold where the following years re-election campaign was concerned.

Trevor, at 38 years of age, looked fit enough to be in his twenties (and still playing rugby for his Ivy League alma matter). At an impressive 6’2, 220, he was certainly easy on the eyes. He was sporting what had become his power-luncheon uniform, of sorts, with starch-creased khaki’s, pristine white cotton oxford, blue blazer, and brown leather loafers. Meanwhile, ready at his side stood the 36-year-old Hillary, whose 5’9, 135 lbs of beauty was equally (if not even more so) age defying. She was adorned in her best Hampton-esque Ann Taylor power pantsuit, with her favorite Banana Republic blouse, modest patent leather Nine West Rocha heels, and black tights. Together, the duo made for an easy couple to hate upon first glance (for what usually stemmed from jealousy driven reasoning, at least where their competitors and detractors were concerned). But there was certainly no debating the fact that among the power-elite, this team was a force to be reckoned with!

The couple had just finished a standing ovation-inducing trip to the podium mic, and were glad-handing with a variety of re-election fund contributors on their bee-line path to the door. For, on the other side of which would be waiting their limo in the club’s horseshoe valet. They were due to attend another social function that evening, on the big island, otherwise known as Manhattan, and the 2+ hours of drive would likely be spent strategizing about the looming campaign initiative that would soon consume the majority of their waking hours. It never ceased to amaze either of them just how much time was spent getting re-elected, and how little time was actually spent doing anything by way of reforming/enacting/or otherwise where actual new legislation was concerned.

But truthfully, that was of little or no consequence to either of the tandem, as their political motivations stemmed more from self-aggrandizing (and just plain selfish) reasons. For Trevor, the bevy of beauties at his constant, but publicly well-hidden beck and call was motivation in and of itself. A fact that he kept under wraps from his trust fund wife Mitzy Preston-Worthington, for fear that the exorbitant creature comforts her families’ ‘funds’ provided. As for Hillary, it was tough to say what motivated her exactly. She was certainly accustomed to the constant attention and pampering that her chosen profession afforded, and being in the spotlight nearly 24/7 was far more satisfying an emotion than any actual positive action she thought to tackle on behalf of her elected role. If she was really pressed for an answer, she’d probably say that the lack of real work she was forced to endure on a daily basis was as good a motivation as any. She, like Trevor, was married, to one Ronford Basil Westcott of Rhode Island. And, like Trevor, her marriage was also largely a window dressing that her public role mandated. After all, a single woman had little place in politics. Yet, despite their nearly matched physical beauty, equally unsatisfying marriages, and similar political and social motivations, Trevor Worthington and Hillary Bancroft had never even contemplated, seriously or at great length at any rate, an extra-marital relationship of any kind. To them, it was simply too great a risk for what they stood to lose should such a controversy be aired in public. And in this day and age, with the Internet affording the public nearly real-time, voyeuristic satisfaction where tabloid related fodder was concerned, in the form of unflattering video and photo smear tactics, the risk of public embarrassment far outweighed any physical attraction the two might harbor for one another. After all, either of the two could have their choice of affairs, in far more private fashion, with a laundry list of willing partners.

As the two finally exited through the club’s lobby doors, which were held open for them by the help of course, the site of the awaiting jet black, stretch Lincoln was certainly a site for sore eyes. The couple was just too exhausted to even notice that the figure behind the wheel of the limo was definitely not Rhodes, their normal driver. After the obligatory spousal cell calls, the power-duo were just about to engage in a strategic brain storming session when they both began to feel a bit light-headed. Fighting at first, but eventually succumbing to the overwhelming fumes being leaked in from the well-concealed nitrous tank that had been hidden in the automobile’s trunk, the two passed out cold where they sat. The driver, glancing back in his rear view mirror through the now lowered separating glass divide to ensure the couple’s drug-induced complacency, continued on his south-bound course to the awaiting garage in the outskirts of Brooklyn’s warehouse district.

Just shy of three hours later, the Lincoln snaked its way through a maze of cobblestone access roads before finally arriving at the door of the East Dock’s building 40. Reaching up to his visor and depressing the garage door opener sent the building’s huge steel door winding in on itself as it screeched its way towards providing enough clearance for the limo to enter the building’s long vacant warehouse floor. The limo came to a slow gliding stop at a pre-determined spot; one that had been carefully marked on the floor with fluorescent yellow duck tape. Throwing the car into park, and turning off the ignition, the driver exited the drivers seat and made his way to the back of the car as the garage door made its grinding descent. He opened the left rear door, and reached in to grab a hold of Trevors 200+ pounds of anesthetically provoked dead weight. He had been anticipating the State Official being a royal pain in the ass to lug out of the car from pretty much the second he saw him in person for the first time (as Trevor was exiting the country club just hours before). But, it was hard for him to complain given the extremely generous compensation that the evening’s undertakings were providing him. And, this was going to be fun just watching, let alone if his employers actually let him take part in what was in store for Trevor and Hillary. Half lugging, half dragging, the driver managed to position Trevor carefully in the pre-determined spot, which again had been painstakingly measured and marked in fluorescent tape. After all, his employers had taken great care in the meticulous planning of the evening’s events. At the pre-determined spot, the driver took hold of the sash that had been lashed and looped over one of the warehouse’s cross beams, some 25 odd feet above their heads. Holding Trevor’s hands together, the driver carefully looped the sash around the slumbering politician’s wrists, ensuring the bindings to be firmly secured, before allowing him to slump to the cold concrete floor. The driver then walked over to a pulley crank attached to one of the warehouse floor’s perimeter pillars. He slowly began winding the pulley clock-wise, which in turn began to pull the sash taut and raise Trevor to a tippy-toed position in the process. After he was satisfied with his initial task, the driver repeated the process with an equally unconscious Hillary. Upon completion of stage one of his instructions, the driver reached into the cooler nestled in the limo’s trunk to remove an ice cold bottled water as a reward for his efforts thus far. As he slammed the cars trunk, swigged his beverage, and hoisted himself to a seated position on the Lincolns front hood, he couldn’t help but admire his handy work. There, dangling from the rafters on their overpriced, patent leather tippy-toes, were two of New York’s truly elite; none other than the renowned legislative team of Trevor Worthington and Hillary Bancroft. And as he sat there, anticipating the arrival of his employers (and the dastardly plan they had concocted), he couldn’t help but feel a sudden rush of adrenaline course through his veins. For the first time all evening, he was starting to get a sense of just how much fun this was going to be.

TO BE CONTINUED
 
What a wonderful teaser! I, for one, am looking forward to part 2!
 
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