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| Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous | |
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| Participants | Emma, Julian |
| Synopsis | A whole lot of inappropriate. |
| Location | The Russian Tea Room, Clinton, New York City |
| Time | January, 2016 |
| Posted By | Emma |
New Years Day-eve. While maybe not an actual thing, it was enough of an excuse for Julian to disappear from the mansion and make his way back into the city. The sun is setting, and the restaurant has just done the turnover for the night-time crowd. Which means, of course, the dress code comes into effect, something which Julian is having no part of. Standing at the maitre d's stand in his usual jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket, he's having an argument about whether or not he's dressed appropriately, and while the maitre d' is being careful to keep his voice low, Julian is going to no such trouble. "Look man, I'm not wearing a noose so forget it. I can spend just as much money in a T-shirt, so how about you find me a table? Look, there's one right there."
It's difficult to find somewhere civilized to dine in New York, since the war. The Tea Room, in its unlikely burrough, is one of Emma Frost's few remaining nooks. It's conservative and discreet. And in just the right table, she can avoid giving the paparrazi a good angle from the street — something invaluable, after their frenzied attention over the past forty-eight hours. Damn holidays. They're not easy for the rich and famous. So when the blessed quiet is disturbed, Emma notices. But she doesn't act, right away. No, the subject creating the disturbance is worth watching. Tall, rash, abbrasive. He's evidently sure of himself, to be so unapologetically disruptive. Enough that it piques one of those delicately-plucked eyebrows. Hm.
"And what about me not wearing a tie is going to bug these people so much?" Julian counters to a murmured reply from the harried maitre d'. His eyebrows go up a bit as he listens to the reply, and then, stepping back a single step so that he can view the whole restaurant from a better angle, he claps his hands together twice to get their attention (as if he didn't already have it, that is), and raises his voice, not quite a shout, but a clear, carrying volume. "Excuse me, excuse me! Sorry to disturb you all." No, he's not. "Just a quick show of hands: how many of you would be utterly unable to go on eating if I sit here without a tie. Hands up, all of you. Don't be shy. You won't hurt my feelings."
Emma is quite sure the rest of the restaurant is shocked, stunned, and absolutely intimidated by the young man's audacity. She is not, of course. But the boy does know how to make an impression, for sure. She finds Julian's demonstration equally amusing and stupid. After all, discretion is the first lesson any great figure must learn. Not modesty, no. The two are very different. Suffice it to say, only one hand answers Julian's brash challenge. It is Emma's, of course, with its delicate wrist and French manicure. The gesture is calm but confident, reflecting her cool expression. But it doesn't remain a vote, it quickly melts into a simple beckon — a controlled flick of the wrist, a curled finger. "Piotr, if you would be so kind," Emma begins, voice conversational in volume, "as to send the young man over to my table. He is expected." And Piotr will undoubtedly acquiesce, tie or not.
An imperialistic eyebrow arches as Emma raises her hand, though Julian looks more amused by this challenge than put out that his bluff has been called. Hey, she's hot. She can call his bluff anytime. He's about to open his mouth to retort with something, but the slight pause he's borrowed in order to check her out means that she's already moved on before the words form. Oh hey. A rather wicked grin appears as he's summoned over. Piotr gets a lofty look as Julian tugs his jacket straight. "Hey man. Can't keep the ladies waiting," he informs the maitre d', leaning in as if to whisper it conspiratorially, but then not actually dropping his voice at all. The man gets a backhanded pat to the chest, no hard feelings, before Julian is strutting on over towards Emma's table. "So I'm expected, hm? Let me guess. You've been waiting for me all your life, only you didn't know it." With this, he does lower his voice a little - though not entirely. Being quiet is for lamers.
Sometimes, Emma feels so much older than her twenty-five years. More like thirty-five, pushing forty. It's moments like these, really — an encounter with a surefooted upstart such as Julian. It's a teaching moment. Her mind is already a'buzz with the possibilities, should this boy not turn out to be absolutely uncouth and untrainable. Yes, a pet project. It's been some time since she crossed such sudden inspiration. And that, moreso than Julian's cocky one-liners, brings a ghost of a smile to Emma's lips. Seated, she might as well be royalty. Her heavy fur coat is mink, but snow-white mink. Fluffy and luxurious, it remains mostly closed, allowing only the suggestion of a the tight-bound corset beneath. Also white, naturally. And more than provocative enough for a sixteen year old's imagination. She gestures primly for the seat across for her. "Sit," Emma says simply, ignoring his juvenile humour. For now.
Julian is not big on following orders, but hey, there are times he doesn't object to being bossed around. With that same ease, he pulls back the seat across from her and drops into it, the leather of his coat crinkling as he leans forward to rest an elbow on the table, the better to be up as close and personal as a restaurant setting will allow. "A woman who knows what she wants when she sees it. I like it." As if she were ever concerned about his approval, but still, he gives an approving nod before sitting back again. She might be thinking pet project, but he's really only thinking one thing.
She could guess just where Julian's mind is. Or she could just find out — but thankfully, she thinks better of that. Delving into hormone-rich thoughts is often unappetizing. And Emma is really looking forward to the borscht. Which is unordered, yet, luckily for Julian. He may yet have a chance to order, too. But not if the boy continues to be such a cretin at the table. Her eyes fall purposefully on Julian's elbow when it knocks the table. She hopes it will fall away when he sits back. But when it doesn't, she slowly lifts her icy blue eyes to meet Julian's. "Remove your elbow from the table, please," Emma requests delicately. It's really more of an order again, but she thoughtfully included a 'please' just to smooth over the boy's sizeable ego. She then allows another patient smile. "And do introduce yourself."
He isn't so quick to follow the order this time, eyebrows lifting as he considers his options here instead. But she is pretty hot. So Julian uses the introductions as an excuse to do as she asked without actually doing it because she asked. Instead, the elbow is lifted as a hand is offered across the table. "Julian. Keller." The last name is spoken as if he's used to it being recognized, though whether or not word of the Beverly Hills family is quite so well-known in social circles up here is something he hasn't yet bothered to learn. If the name isn't known yet, it will be soon enough, he's confident. "And you are?"
Mm. No, the Keller name is unfamiliar. Being of East Coast privilege, she's not well-versed with families of Los Angeles import and wealth. But the way Julian provides it, there's a moment of piqued curiosity. It's a kingly surname, strong and spoken with confidence. She makes a mental note to look into these Kellers, see what she can unearth. And though she doesn't often exchange handshakes, Julian earns a rare one. Slipping a hand from the warmth of those furs, she lightly takes his. It's not a wet fish shake, but a gentle one. Sometimes, gentleness belies strength. "Mister Keller," Emma greets, giving him that much formality. "I am Emma Frost. You may call me Miss Frost." She really won't tolerate anything else. "Would you try the borscht? I'm having it. It's quite good."
Julian's side of the shake is firmer, though done with the same careless confidence as everything else. It's firm because that's how he shakes hands, not because he's trying to prove anything. At the same time, he's not bothering to dial it down because she's a dainty woman either. "Mister Keller? Miss Frost? C'mon babe, this isn't the 1950s," he points out with a grin, as he sits back again. "What is it with rich people and all this need to stand on ceremony anyway." He shakes his head, glancing around at the stuffy types, all being good little droids and obeying the dress code. "Borscht? Sure, let's start with that. Before we … move on to other things." He doesn't really mean the main course either.
Emma is, arguably, going against the grain as far as dress code. Leather corsets being a touch risque, after all. But there's no sense arguing that point. She allows Julian that burst of impudence again, casually giving the nearest waiter a beckon. That waiter naturally eyes Julian with some mixture of reservation and disapproval. But it's Emma that addresses the poor thing. "Two borscht. And a bottle of red." What red, she doesn't really care — just about everything available at the Tea Room meets her standards. Which are rather low, since she finds wine to be another tedious aspect of being rich. Necessary for appearances, but tedious. "Now, Mister Keller," Emma continues, dropping that same title without once debating its 1950s use. "Tell me about yourself — before we move on to other things." Yes, she just might be indulging him. "Are you in school?"
Not that he's unaware of being eyed by the waiter, but Julian pretty much just ignores him now, since there's no point in continuing the debate with the staff. Julian got his way, and that's all he really cares about at the moment. Well, that and seeing how far he can look down her corset without being too obvious about it. At least he manages to talk to her face - it's just when he thinks she's not looking that his gaze drifts southward. Being so woefully underage, he'll still take his booze pretty much however it comes, so red wine simply gets a nod, as though his opinion were being sought. That she indulges him gets a grin, and makes him a little more agreeable to answering these questions. "Unfortunately," he replies. "Some new place upstate. Pretty boring, really. There are much more interesting things to learn about me." A suggestive smirk suggests that most of those will be learned during the 'other things'.
Just the reason she doesn't ask Julian's age, right off. She'd rather not get the service in a fuss over providing wine to the woefully underage. But she's certain the boy — no matter those mature good looks — must be underage. He'd have boasted right-off if the upstate school in question was a college, she suspects. Needing another twenty or thirty minutes before the beet soup arrives, Emma settles comfortably into the premise of small talk. She is, of course, gauging Julian's every word and action. Which is a good sign. For despite the almost-bored expression she often conveys, it means he's anything but boring. Deciding to play along with Julian, just to see how forthright the boy can be when indulged, Emma reaches unobtrusively across the table to brush his closest forearm, cold fingertips dancing down the sleeve 'till she can lay that palm atop his. "Then give me an example of the interesting things I might learn, Mister Keller."
It is, in fact, all about the details you don't tell. Probably just as well that he doesn't realize Emma is on to him there, or he might be tempted to lie, something he doesn't actually bother to do all that often. The truth is so much better. As she reaches for him, his eyebrows go up and he offers a pleased smirk. Julian doesn't answer right away, not rushing in with some schoolboy boast. No, he takes his time to get around to the schoolboy boasting. "Let's just say that for someone with such large … hands, I am surprisingly dextrous. Just promise when you're screaming my name later, it's not going to be all this 'Mister Keller' bullshit."
Oh, what an entertaining character, this Julian. She really shouldn't toy with that arrogance or that even more formidable sex drive. Ought to just give the deeply-sexual conversation a wide berth, casting about for something more appropriate to spend their time on. But there's something very Mrs. Robertson about the whole exchange. She senses no true threat in this boy, not yet. In fact, she's quite confident she could do horrible things to Julian's psyche, should the boy get overzealous. Her cool fingers run the bumps of Julian's knuckles, eyes never once casting away from his. There's a smile now, indulgent but mildly dangerous. "Oh, I am quite certain I won't be using your name at all. I tend to favor more.. colourful vocabulary."
And Julian, of course, simply things he has the demure lady eating right out of his hand. Sometimes these socialites, they need a thrill. Must get boring being so prim and proper all the time. He's quite content to serve as an outlet for those frustrations. He offers a wolfish grin, his gaze flickering to their joined hands for just a moment, before they return to meet with hers again. "Kinky. I like it. Who knows; maybe you'll teach me a few new ones." Of course, his tone seems to doubt that, but then, he might not be all that far off the mark, even if he does just think he's humouring. "You know, we could always just skip the beets. Get out of here." There's a gesture with his head towards the door, an eyebrow raised in question.
"I am certain I will," Emma returns, without any room for doubt. But then, in her own doublespeak, she may not be referring to the bedroom with that promise. For the more she humours Julian, the more she finds his childish one-track-mind to be amusing, rather than aggravating. He is an acquired taste, that's for sure. And Emma happens to be just enough of an eccentric to enjoy it. She sees promise where most would find only perversity. Strange. And wisely, she skirts the entire notion of 'kinky'. If only Julian knew just how much of an understatement that descriptor was. Instead, she smoothly dissuades from the idea of skipping dinner. "Mister Keller, I'm afraid you've caught me at my hungriest. So no, I regretfully will not be persuaded to 'skip the beets'," she assures, still committing the boy's fingers and knuckles to sense-memory. And just on time, the wine arrives. The waiter, of course, allows Emma a taste, first — an obligation she fulfills with her free hand, not separating from Julian even with the audience. Her nod signals the waiter to pour the two glasses, then depart. "Try some."
And Julian is pretty much just following that one-track mind to its logical conclusion. And he doesn't even think to question how easy this whole pick up has been, considering the fact that Emma's options surely aren't limited to horny teenagers from a prep school upstate. No, he assumes he's just that good. Of course. He simply grins at her own confidence, bending his thumb up to brush at her hand in turn. When his plans for a speedy getaway are thwarted, he gives an easy roll of his shoulder. "Beets it is then," he replies with a smirk. He can wait. For a little while. Especially when there's wine involved. "Hey, if you insist…" He picks up the glass, giving the liquid a quick glance with a not entirely unpractised eye, before swigging back a little more than a modest sip.
And she watches, of course. It's sometimes unnerving, that unyielding eye contact. It isn't unblinking, but it's constant and omniscient, missing nothing. When Julian takes to the wine so heartily, there's a faint darkening to her expression, a cloud that forms with the subtle knitting of her brows. Unacceptable, obviously. "Mister Keller, do go easy on the wine. Smaller sips," Emma demures gently. It isn't an outright reprimand — it's too instructive for that. Like a kind teacher. She herself uses the off hand to bring that glass aloft, taking the most polite of sips. Mm, wine. Though she wishes it were vodka, right about now. But it'll do. "Tell me, dear." For once, switching off the formal title. "Besides your vaunted dexterity and implied girth, what else might convince me to sleep with you?" Okay, now she's just being direct.
Julian rolls his eyes at the reprimand, but he sets the glass back down. He's not entirely incapable of being trained, so long as he thinks there's something worthwhile at the end of it. "Relax doll. I think I can handle a little glass of wine." Because surely her concern was just about him getting too drunk to be of service. Her directness gets a grin and he looks at her through his eyelashes, a rather cocky but amused expression. "Well, c'mon. Have you seen me." She couldn't possibly need more persuading than that. "But hey, if it will sweeten the pot, I'm totally down for letting you tie me up." He sort of gets the read she might be into that type of thing.
Quite right Julian is, too. But she's smart enough to not show any surprise, however mild. Emma remains the picture of composure, even in response to be deeming 'doll'. She would correct him, but it's such a small offense. Better than the familiarity of 'Emma'. That definitely wouldn't be allowed. Any change in expression is not immediate after Julian's response. Rather, she bides her time, fingertips still toying with the veins and curves of his captured hand. But eventually, she deigns to smile again. It's no warmer than ever — and neither are her fingers, even now — but it's there, with a teasing curve that promises that something worthwhile at the end. If Julian behaves. "Careful. You might not want to give me such free reign," she advises. "You might not get back in time for classes in the morning." She doesn't say 'tomorrow' right off, because she doubts any school would be in session so soon into the new year.
"Another thing you should know about me? I like a challenge." It's spoken with a wicked grin and not a trace of teasing. If Julian had any self-doubt at all, he might not be so quick to reveal that particular weakness. But hey, one of the reasons he likes challenges is because he's damn sure he can overcome anything put in his path. "And besides, I've got a trick or two up my sleeve." So saying, he attempts to turn his hand over under hers, fingers curling up to catch hers lightly. Not in a hard grip or any show of force, but a demonstration of those quick and dextrous movements, as well as a chance to return all those playful little gestures she's been showing him. "And something tells me it would be so worth playing hooky."
Judiciously, Emma doesn't prevent the movement. If only because she doesn't feel she's lost any control over the exchange. Her hand remains on top, so she's perfectly willing to allow the boy's fingers to curl beneath her palm. The gesture displays a certain ambition on his part — not willing to sit easy or passive with the status quo. She commiserates with that. "Of course you do, dear," Emma says. Probably in answer to both Julian's love for a challenge and those 'tricks' waiting to be played. But just then, the soup arrives — in all its bloody purple glory, with a dollop of sour cream for each serving. The bowls are meekly placed, the waiter careful not to intervene or even comment upon the two. Smart. And so delicately, she draws that hand away from Julian's, fingers tracing the boy's 'till the last possible second before parting with some reluctance. "Eat your soup, Mister Keller."
And Julian is just silly enough to think he's got an edge on the upper hand now. Not that he ever thought he'd lost it. Being Julian, he still clearly thinks he has this broad eating out of the palm of his hand. He grins, all, 'Yeah, of course I do' at her. When the soup comes, he doesn't even spare a glance for it or for the waiter. Pfft, let them talk in the kitchens. Any way he looks at it, Julian only comes out on top if this tale gets told. His hand lingers there for a moment once she pulls away, before he more slowly sits up himself. "Hey, you're the one who's hungry enough to order purple soup," he points out, tone a little lighter now. Not that he seems unfamiliar with the dish, nor hesitant to pick up a spoon.
Whether or not that 'something' motivates Julian to be so compliant, Emma is most impressed by the boy's obedience. Cocksure or no, Julian is proving to be quite trainable. Which she finds agreeable, in turn, otherwise it wouldn't be worth the burden of carrying on with this suggestive banter. And yes, there is a certain victory Julian would gain should any of this get out. But she's confident enough that word-of-mouth would be the only damaging means. As the press and media, always looking for scandal, could and would be effectively dealt with. Emma is, after all, in a position of considerable influence. Not even the trashy tabloids would dare run this story. Thus, she's quite at ease as she takes her spoon — dishing out her first taste before speaking. Mmm, soup. "You will enjoy it. Now dear, tell me, where were you born?" More small talk. But it's not without its merits for Julian. Beneath the table, a foot — encased in the pointed toe of a white Prada heel — nudges the inside of one of his knees.
The roving foot actually manages to surprise the smooth lad a bit. Not enough to make him jump, but his eyebrows do go up. He's not going to complain though, no way. He's just used to being the forward one. Maybe there really is something to this whole hitting on Mrs. Robinsons idea. Flashing her a grin, he twirls his spoon deftly between his fingers, a bit of showing off before he dips it into the soup. He takes a mouthful of it before answering. No reaction to the taste of it, but he does slurp it up just a little. Considering his on and off manners, it may be just an attempt to get a rise out of her. "Well, I grew up in Beverly Hills," he responds indifferently, shrugging his shoulders. Then again, perceptive as she is, the wording there might be noticed. 'Grew up' not 'born'.
A Californian. Yes, that explains so much. Her perception of the West Coast isn't entirely favorable, but she can keep an open enough counsel on the matter. It doesn't discolour her still-forming opinion of the boy, though. So that foot remains beneath the table, carrying on its troublesome path from inner knee to inner thigh. She's now half-resting the arch of her foot on the chair's edge, though she keeps the shoe's toe along that upper thigh. Rubbing back and forth with such fine motor control, two inches one way and then the other. How she's managing to be so dexterous herself is a wonder. And she certainly makes it appear effortlessly, keeping up the charade without once drawing attention to it. She nods primly, quite conscious of the slurping. A first infraction. Another, and she'll certainly correct the behavior. "I didn't ask where you grew up, Mister Keller."
Julian shifts just slightly as her foot moves, but otherwise, he seems keen on taking on this new challenge of pretending there's nothing going on under the table. He does look rather like the cat who swallowed the canary though. There's a laugh as she catches him out on his semantics. "Born in Van Nuys. Moved to Beverly Hills when I was five though." While he maybe wasn't quite as forthcoming with that bit, he's not the least bit apologetic for the nouveau part of his riche. He doesn't apologize for anything. "How about you?" He takes another sip of his soup, slurping just a bit, rather purposefully right at the end.
All the more informative, though, just knowing that privilege wasn't something Julian was born into. A 90210 zip code does mean a healthy income, though. So somewhere between being born and turning five, Julian's parents struck big. This much is obvious — and begs further investigation. But not out of Julian directly, no. She'll poke around, see what she can dig up on the Kellers of Beverly Hills, formerly Van Nuys. In good time. For now, she shows only minimal interest in the answer. It's almost as if she doesn't care. "Boston," Emma answers, quite okay with the eye-for-an-eye philosophy. "Born and raised. And now you're in New York. How curious." The reprimand comes this time, as might be anticipated. Her foot slips from the boy's thigh, nosing right into his crotch to give a firm push. "Do not slurp, dear." It's like correcting a dog. Bad Julian, bad.
Julian swallows the soup hard when he suddenly finds a foot in his unmentionables, and not in a good touch sort of way. Eyebrows shoot up, but at least he isn't so uncouth as to go scooting back in his chair or anything. Instead hands come up in a half-hearted show of surrender. He's got plans for those bits later, and those plans don't begin with getting crushed by expensive footwear. Ow. He clears his throat, trying to get back to the conversation, regain what he thinks is the upper hand. "Well, not that curious. I think my parents' general approach is 'the further, the better'. Next stop will be Europe, I'm sure." He speaks of it so indifferently, yet there is a certain bitterness to his smirk. Then again, who doesn't have parental issues these days.
Again, something Emma can only relate to. Parents can be such a migraine. But that doesn't mean Julian earns any sympathy from her, so far unimpressed by his origin. She's tempted to have a go at the boy's thoughts right then, just to unearth any juicy details not forthcoming. But she resists the delicious temptation again. In time, maybe. Right now, so much can be garnered without such tactics. He responds well to applied pain, something that is sure to bring a darkness to Emma's smile. Her foot eases off the pressure, but doesn't budge. It takes a gentler approach to those tender parts, as if in apology. A softer rub, with the very sole of her shoe's toe. "I'm sure. And what is it that interests you, Mister Keller?" She gestures neatly with the spoon, prepared to take another spoonful of the borscht. "After you are through with your schooling and no longer have a curfew, of course." A gentle tease, drawing attention to the boy's youth.
At least Julian doesn't seem to be angling for any sympathy. If anything, it was intended to show how little he cares about his family's desire to ship him as far away as they can. As she changes tactics towards that rather delicate region, all thoughts of family and parental problems are pretty much wiped from his mind for the time being. "Right now? I'm pretty much interested in seeing you naked," he replies, quite honest and yet with that wicked grin again. Nothing else seems too very important at the moment. His soup is mostly forgotten about as well, though being a teenage boy, he still managed to put a dent in it.
He can be so helpless sometimes, Emma thinks. Although she supposes that's as much her own fault, encouraging the boy so — most notably with the attention given beneath the table. Yes, it would be rather difficult for any man to keep their thoughts on things mundane and practical. A boy would have an even tougher time. She doesn't seem to mind Julian's preoccupation with all things deviant, though. He's endearing for an aspiring lech. Her toe continues its purposeful ministrations, neither quickened nor slowed. "Ordinarily, Mister Keller," Emma begins, lowering her own spoon. "I would disdain such haste. Half the fun is the chase. But tonight, I'm equally impatient." To what end? Taking her time, Emma sips the wine again — careful not to polish off the dregs. Lowering the glass, the foot slips away from between Julian's thighs. "I trust you are ready to go."
"Don't worry, doll. I know when to take my time," Julian assures her, all cocksure and bravado, lest she think he's as quick on all aspects of this particular arrangement. Not so worried that he's going to drag his feet now, though, not when victory is so near at hand. No doubt fully aware she won't approve of it, but figuring it won't get him into so much trouble that she'll call the whole thing off, he picks up his wine and tips it back in one go as she finally pulls away. No sense letting good wine go to waste. "I'm set." Perhaps to make up for the lapse in manners there, at least to make sure this stays on course, he pushes to his feet to offer her a gentlemanly hand up. "Shall we?" Okay, and maybe to hurry it along a bit too.
No, she doesn't approve of the barbaric gesture. But then, there is some sense to not being wasteful, either. So Emma doesn't remark on the offense — but instead, remembers it for later. She's come to a decision on where this is all going. And so she will remember every small infraction Julian commits tonight, trusting that it will be dealt with accordingly. All too soon, really. Daintily, she accepts the boy's hand, also separating from the table. Those rich furs fall in a cascading wave down to her expensive shoes. And for a moment, Julian is sure to catch a glimpse of the provocative get-up below. Corset, thong, garters and stockings. All white. No, not a very ladylike wardrobe at all — but she makes it elegant, no? Releasing Julian, she steps past the boy, making her way towards the exit. She doesn't stop to pay — they know her. And rich people don't have to wait around to see to bills. "Come along, boy." A new substitution for 'Mister Keller', that. And she doesn't wait up, certain Julian is close behind.
