The Chauffeuse

"No, Oliver." She was surprised at the speed of her reaction, and a little puzzled. She wouldn't usually pass up an opportunity like this. In fact, she would normally have been in the pickup's lap by now. But not with this one. Something about Dr. Barrie made her nervous.

"Well okay, but you're missing a damn good opportunity. In that case, what say you put up the privacy blind over that little glass divider there?"

"My pleasure, Oliver."

"Well it would be, darlin', if you weren't so heartless."

"Yes, Oliver."

*******

The drive into West Central London was smooth and uneventful. An hour later, Samantha pulled the limo up to the door of 15 Montague Street. She popped the luggage compartment, nodded to Montague House's doorman, and opened the door for Dr. Barrie, who was stretched out and fast asleep; which Samantha found quite remarkable really, considering Notre Dame's massive organ on the Saint-Saens' Symphony No. 3 CD was blasting through all ten surround speakers.

"DR. BARRIE?"

The doorman's left eyebrow raised a notch.

"DR. BARRIE!!"

The doorman sauntered over as the bellhop pulled the bags up the steps. Passersby cast disapproving looks at the wheeled boom box; the audio system sent the organ's wild chords pumping powerfully and exuberantly out into the street. Booming timpani and crashing cymbals intermittently punched the air like thunderclaps.

"DR. BARRIE!!!"

"I don't think he can hear you, love."

"WHAT?"

"I SAID, I DON'T THINK HE CAN..."

Samantha reached for the CD controls and smacked every button until merciful silence finally filled the limousine.

"Crikey, he's tired! Or dead. He's not dead, is he?"

"If he's not, he will be."

Dr. Barrie let out a soft snore, mumbled to himself, and turned his back on the world.

The uniformed, veteran doorman filled his chest with air, the better to give the young woman the wisdom of his years: "Now, I know service is hard. I should know; I've been in it all my life. But take it from me: if you want to do well in service, and it can be a good life mind you, you've got to have the milk of human kindness in you. It's all about helping folks along, see Miss? You gotta overlook the little things. Now then, let's get this nice gentleman up into the hotel, shall we?"

Some deep survival instinct told Samantha to step back and let the doorman handle the Mad Hatter.

The 'nice gentleman' chortled in his sleep when the doorman shook him by the shoulder.

"Sir?"

The 'nice gentleman' smacked the doorman's hand away when he shook him again.

"Sir? Welcome to Montague House, Sir! Up's-a-daisy now. Easy does it."

When the proponent of the milk of human kindness tried to physically lift him, the 'nice gentleman' whirled around and smacked his fist into the doorman's eye.

"OW! Bloodyhell, Mister! What was that for?!"

"Oops. Erm, Sammie??"

Samantha pushed past the blindly staggering doorman.

"Hello, Oliver. That was the hotel doorman. You were asleep, and he was trying to get you out of the limo."

"Yikes! Did I hurt him?"

"Yes, Oliver. You did."

"Well, I am a Texan, you know..."

"He says he's a Texan," Samantha told the doorman, by way of explanation.

"'Ee's a fucking-dead-Yank bastard!"

"...But I'm not violent by nature, Sammie, really I'm not," Dr. Barrie added, piteously.

"I think you might need to be from now on, at least where the doorman's concerned. Would you like to register at the hotel now?"

"Sure. Where's the doorman?"

"He's sitting on the hotel steps."

"Oh. Well, I'll make it up to him. You go inside and wait for me at the reception desk."

"Why?"

"You're coming up to my room, aren't you?"

"What for?"

"I might have messages. Places to go. Things to do."

"Oliver, I'm your chauffeuse, not your secretary. 'Places to go' I can handle, but you have to call me if you need me. I don't go up to rooms. I'll give you my number: the phone is right here, and I'll be there whenever you call."

"Nope. I'm not leaving this spot until you tell me you'll come up to my room."

"Do you want to bed down here for the night? I'm sure the hotel could arrange some food and blankets."

"You're a tough little bitch, aren't you?"

"You betcha. Get out, Oliver."

"No."

"Oh dammit; please, Oliver? I'm not going anywhere. I'll just park around the corner. If you need me, I'll be waiting."

"You'll disappear. And you won't come back, I know it."

"I don't abandon my passengers; I'm a professional."

"That's what the last one said. Never saw her again."

"Your last chauffeuse ditched you?"

Dr. Barrie nodded solemnly. "Abandoned me in the middle of fucking Odessa."

"In the Ukraine?! Wow!"

"Well, actually the place was Athens. Odessais a city in the Ukraine and it's also, um, a Greek female name. I was in the middle of..."

"...fucking Odessa. Yes, I see."

"So you're coming upstairs, right?"

Samantha sighed. "Okay."

"Goody! After you."

Samantha was prepared for the worst once they were in Dr. Barrie's suite, but to her surprise he treated her respectfully and considerately. He ordered a pot of tea for her and coffee for him, and a selection of sandwiches because, he observed, she'd not yet had any lunch.

The split-level suite's bedroom was on the lower floor; upstairs was a fair-sized lounge which included a writing desk, on which Dr. Barrie quickly set up his laptop.

"Don't mind me, Sammie. You go ahead and eat. Put the TV on, make yourself at home. I'm logging on, picking up messages and stuff. If there's nothing happening you can still hang out, if you'd like. There's worse places to be, right? Or do you have someone to get home to?"

"No, nobody. I'm the independent sort."

"Somebody's gotta be trying to tie you down, Sammie. Body like that? Sure thing."

From the couch, Samantha could see images flashing on the laptop screen, and hear keys tapping, and an occasional chuckle coming from where he sat at the desk. She pried open a few of the sandwiches, spread a napkin on her lap and took one in hand. A roast ham with rocquette lettuce, tomato, and brie, on multi-grain bread. It was very good.

"Thanks for the compliment! Yeah, there's a couple trying. I like my life the way it is, though."

He was quiet a few moments, the quick tapping giving way to contemplation of data scrolling on the laptop's screen. She glanced over at the sudden quiet. He was downloading some sort of report, it seemed. After a moment, he picked up the conversation again.

"But what do you do for entertainment, love? You're too young and way too pretty to be celibate like little old me."

"Who said I was celibate?"

"Oh, so you're not? What's your boyfriend's name?"

"Never you mind."

"Okay; I'm probably outclassed anyway. Some great looking young guy with prospects and a disgustingly healthy body. I'm an old, self-indulgent has-been. But I do have oodles of staying power. Wanna try me?"

"I don't mix business with pleasure, Dr. Barrie."

"Really? That's not what it says here."

Samantha froze in mid-bite.

"What, exactly, do you mean?"

He swung his chair around to face her with a quiet smile. It was a long moment, and he filled it with a steady, full appraisal of her worried face.

"Oh, nothing. On a completely different topic, I wonder if you could do me a favor?"

"Don't tell me 'nothing'! What did you mean by that? And what do you want, anyway?"

"Well you don't have to sound so suspicious, Sammie. I wouldn't ask anything of you, you know, except it's so very, very important. And besides, I think you'd like it; it would be fun! But first, let me explain a little about why I'm here..."

Samantha finished the sandwich, gulped down the rest of her tea, folded her napkin and stood up.

"Dr. Barrie, I'm just your chauffeuse. And I've probably broken every rule in the book just by sitting here right now so, if you don't mind, I really must be going."

"Sit down. Please."

Something in Dr. Barrie's quiet tone set her ass right back down on the sofa; something in his look kept it there.

"Tell me; what do you know about the Parthenon Marbles?"

"The Greeks want them back and you're here to broker a deal, some sort of long-term loan. That's it, really."

"Good. Your mother's a Member of Parliament, isn't she?"

"What's that got to do with the price of tea in China?"

"She introduced you to a colleague of hers once, a fellow MP by the name of Sir William Rice, right?"

Sammie's eyes flew wide open, then narrowed to slits.

"So?"

"According to this report," he flicked his fingers to the laptop, "Sir Bill's a rather, um, active sort of man, isn't he? Likes younger women. Especially younger women in uniform, in the back of limousines. I'm not making any judgment calls here, you understand. It's none of my business what you two get up to. Except for one thing."

"What the fuck do you want, you shit?"

"Aww; come on now, don't be angry. Play nice. What I want is for you to call Bill and take him out to a particular lover's lane in Chiswick tonight, have some fun. You know the place already, probably. Lots of people do. Some people go there to make out; some go there to watch, right? Lots of people like to watch."

"Yeah. We call it dogging over here. Is that what you want, Oliver? To go dogging?"

"Oh no, love, not me! But if you get the place and time right, and get a little action going, I might have some nice souvenir photos for you sometime tomorrow."

"No fucking way, you bastard!"

"But it would be in a good cause, Sammie! Look, there's probably lots of amateur photos of you and Bill out there already. You two aren't exactly cautious, are you? I just want a little set of photos of my own. I'd share them with you, I promise I would!"

"Oliver, why don't you just go there and get 'a little set of photos' of some other couple, if you want them so much? Why does it have to be me and Bill?"

"Because Bill is Chairman of the Select Committee for Culture, Media and Sport, sweetheart. It's a rather important committee for me. In a few weeks' time, they're considering changing the law on the British Museum's acquisitions and long-term loans. The museum trustees don't want it to change: the museum can't give up the Marbles while the law stays the way it is. Right now, it's watertight. But Bill's committee could change all that."

"In other words, you want me to help you blackmail him."

"Don't you have a conscience, Sammie? Don't you think the national treasures of Greece should be back where they belong?"

"My conscience! What aboutyour conscience, you hypocrite?!"

"Iam exercising my conscience, Sammie. It's my methods that are immoral, that's all. It wouldn't be so bad, would it? Don't you think it would be fun?"

Samantha had to admit the exhibitionist angle had always appealed to her. Bill liked it too; it was what made sex in the limo so exciting. But photographs? That was going way too far.

But then she realized she had no choice. She pictured her Mum opening a large, flat envelope, reading the unsigned cover letter, skimming the pages of the nasty, anonymous report, the mounting panic and dismay. It was too awful to contemplate.

Dr. Barrie watched the conflicting emotions playing across her young face with sympathetic interest, and then wandered over to the coffee table and nonchalantly selected a sandwich. Samantha swallowed her fear with a good draught of anger.

Which bounced right off Dr. Barrie as he stood happily chewing on a whole wheat, roast chicken and mesclun salad in one hand, and a chunk of farmhouse cheddar in the other.

"I swear, if you did anything with those pictures I'd run you over first chance I got. And back over you, too. I'd fucking kill you."

"Whoohoo! So you'll do it? That's wonderful!" He waved his sandwich between bites while he paced excitedly around the living room.

"Don't worry about the pictures. I wouldn'treally do anything with them, Sammie; I wouldn't need to! It's just a bluff, like poker. Look, Bill's an okay sort; he wants the committee to make the right choice, I know he does. He just needs a little encouragement to do the right thing."

"You'd be helping him, actually. Lots of people would say he was a brave, upstanding man. It could be a wonderful thing for his career; think of that! He'd go down in history as the man who orchestrated the greatest humanitarian gesture in the history of art. You will do it, love, won't you?"

"What's in it for me?"

"Wow! You mercenary little bitch, I fucking adore you! Well, let me see... there's my assured discretion with that little report there. I know that's important to you, and I take that seriously. And you'd have the undying gratitude of some Greeks I know."

"Oh yeah, great! A friend I don't need and a lifetime's supply of ouzo! What assurance do I actually have, Oliver? It'd better be something good. You're asking me to risk everything my Mum spent her life building."

"You'll just have to trust me, darlin'. I can't prove I won't do something. Not on the report, anyway. But the photos wouldn't have to be much of a risk to you, or your Mom. Nobody needs to know it's you having it off with Bill. Ever worn a mask? What you keep in your toy bag, anyway?"

"None of your business. And no, I've never worn a mask."

"Well, as it happens, I have one with me! Wanna see it? Hmmm?"

"No."

"Oh, sure you do."

Oliver padded across the thickly carpeted living room and down the small flight of stairs to the bedroom suite. He soon returned, holding out a small, black spandex object.

"It's 'one size fits all'. Try it on?"

"No."

"Go on; you'll look so cute. It would make my day."

"Oh, give it here!"

"Atta girl!"

Samantha took the cloth mask and turned it over in her hands, considering. It was like a hood, with small holes for the mouth and neck. It would be a snug fit. But it was stretchy and light; so light, in fact, it was see through. But it had a padded section where it fit over the eyes. She wouldn't be able to see, but she could pull it off easily enough if she didn't like it. So she shrugged her shoulders, slipped her hair neatly behind her ears, slid the opening onto her scalp, and pulled the mask down snugly over her head.

It was soft, and kind of comforting and, although she couldn't see, she could breathe easily and sense what was around her. In fact she was aware of Dr. Barrie softly humming something classical to himself as he walked about the room.

"Tah dah de tee dah, dee tah da dah dah; doo doo doo doo-dle de doodle-dee ta dah... How's it feel, babe?"

"Fine... Oliver?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"What am I doing?"

"You're sitting on an old perve's sofa in his hotel suite, looking pretty in a kinky mask."

"That's what I thought."

"Oliver?"

"Yes, dearest?"

"Why do I like you?"

"Because I make you wet?"

Samantha thought about it for a moment and then said, "Yes, Oliver. That's probably it."

*******

She woke at 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning with a feeling of foreboding. She and Dr. Barrie had chatted a while, ordered more tea, and she'd left feeling like she should be angry with him, but yet she couldn't be. She wasn't quite sure why. It bothered her, and she didn't understand that, either. And then there was what had happened last night.

She poured too much Rice Krispies into her breakfast bowl, put the box down and stared out the window at the wall of flats across the yard...

"Make me happy, little girl! Undo the buttons. Show Daddy what you got under that cutsey little blouse."

They were in the limo, parked at an angle to a chain link fence. It bordered the lane and marked the boundary with the neighborhood park. An old, wide chestnut tree offered the illusion of privacy, but its overhead branches wouldn't interfere with any photography, as far as Samantha could tell.

Sir William was slouched expansively, half lying on one of the wide leather seats, legs apart. A prominent bulge rested high on one thigh under his lightweight wool trousers. He was in rolled-up shirtsleeves; his tie was on the carpeted floor where she'd dropped it, beside the pinstripe suit jacket. Samantha was sitting on her heels between his feet.

"You want to see them, Daddy?"

"Don't tease."

His dark blue eyes glittered in his big face, a slow smile appeared between the well-defined contours of his close beard. He reminded Samantha of a poet with his sweeping, thick, graying hair and a bricklayer with his big, heavy hands. Actually, at that moment, what he really reminded her of was a lazy but speculative cat.

"Stop me! But, hey, let's try something different. Here..." she pulled the mask out of her blazer pocket. "Put this over my head, Bill. Make me wear it. Then I'll do anything you want." Here kitty, kitty.

Sir William took the mask, turned it over in his hands then gave Samantha a level look.

"You tried this before?"

"Never," she answered truthfully, as she took off her blazer. "But I thought you'd enjoy being in control, for once."

She undid the second button of her blouse, and his eyes dropped to her hands, small and smooth with short, clear-polished nails. He watched her run her palms along the outer curves of her breasts; the third button relaxed as she pushed her tits together and made her cleavage deepen.

"I'd be very good in that mask, you know. I'd let you do whatever you wanted."

She undid the third button and he sighed at the sight of her creamy mounds, barely adequately contained by the briefest of little, white, lacy demi-cups. They'd left the interior light on, as usual. Every little frill was as clear and pretty as a picture.

"You could tell me what to do, Daddy; I'd be able to hear you..."

Opening the fourth button totally widened the blouse's gape and he blinked slowly as she arched her back, pulled her shoulders back, and lifted her chest towards him. She hooked her forefingers over the edges of the cups and slowly pulled down on them until her nipples emerged, pert and pinky brown.

"...I just wouldn't be able to anticipate anything. But I don't mind surprises."

She ran slow little circles around her nipples with a forefinger on each.

Samantha undid the last two buttons and the blouse hung fully open. She let it drop over her shoulders and slide down her back, then hugged it up around her like a low-slung shawl, waiting. The bulge under his trouser leg had fattened and lengthened considerably.

"Take off your skirt, slut."

She quickly undid the buttons on her sleeve cuffs and happily discarded the blouse. Reaching behind her back she kept her eyes on him as she unzipped the regulation navy blue skirt.

"Will you make me wear it, Daddy? Please?"

She rose up off her heels and slowly slid the skirt's waistband over her hips and down to her knees. A taught, white, lacy suspender belt came into view as her skirt pooled on the floor. He stared hard. She wasn't wearing any panties, and was freshly trimmed. Her lips were clearly visible: luscious, plump, and completely smooth. Her clit was peeping out between them, an intimate, revealed secret. Just for him.

"Please?"

She splayed her fingers and slowly smoothed the middle one up and down the inch-wide strip of dark blonde hair. The fingertip dipped closer and closer to her clitoris with each downstroke.

Sir William was breathing hard, open-mouthed. His voice was a croak: "C'mere!"

Samantha walked between his legs on her knees, skirt working around to her ankles. She pressed her belly into his groin.

"Yes?"

"Hold still."

He slid the mask over her head and roughly pulled it down. Everything was covered except her pretty, pouty, pink-painted lips. In the mask's soft darkness, she felt him take her head in his hands. Her lips registered his tongue running over them, sucking on them, his lips pressing and his tongue forcing into her mouth. She opened to him. She felt moist and voluptuous, her breasts swelling as her breathing deepened.