Business Opportunities

The dinner had been excellent. Cheryl Hascombe, Harold Masters, and Dermot Cairns were standing before the huge fireplace in the library, sipping brandy. Cara DiGiacomo had left the room to make a telephone call.

“Harold?”

“Yes, Cheryl?”

“Could I have my skirt back now, please?”

Masters smiled.

“No, dear. I’m afraid you look far too alluring just as you are for us to give up this splendid moment quite yet.”

“Oh. Just thought I’d ask.”

Cheryl’s green turtleneck was short enough to reveal her midriff above her full-cut, white cotton panties. She filled them admirably, her pert bottom protruding proudly, stretching the fabric in all the right places. Masters let his eyes linger there for a moment.

“You see, Cairns, it rather makes my point, doesn’t it? The thesis I was advancing to you earlier, while dear Cheryl was being spanked out in the barn?”

“I’m not sure I quite understand, Harold.”

“The point about subtlety, Dermot. The point that it’s far, far more sexy to see Dr. Hascombe standing here with us in her underwear than to witness some awful floor show in which a naked showgirl with a huge bust squirms and gyrates around a pole sticking her bottom out.”

“Ah. You have a point there.”

“Especially as Dr. Hascombe is still wearing her high heels, and our little get-together this evening still retains a strong element of formality.”

Cheryl smiled. Masters went on,

“For example, do you remember that fellow you treated, oh, must be ten years ago, chairman of that big publishing house in the city? Rented apartments to low-income tenants? Fellow with the sexual dysfunction?”

“Oh, him. Yes, how could I forget? Do you still have that famous videotape?”

“Of course. It was the first one, the one that got us started. I’d never get rid of that one. Anyway, the reason I mentioned it is that whole scenario with the administrative assistant was far sexier than anything you could see in a strip club. In my opinion, anyway.”

Cairns agreed, animatedly nodding his head and resuming his habitual grin.

“Perhaps we should take a look at it again?”

“Any objection, Cheryl?”

“Provided that I am no longer the center of attention, gentlemen, I would be delighted. But of course I won’t really know, will I, until I have seen it?”

“Trust me, Cheryl, trust me.”

Masters led the others into an adjacent room with a huge bank of electronic equipment covering the far wall. The other walls had floor to ceiling shelving that was crammed with videotapes, CD-ROMs, and DVDs. The video screen was the largest Cheryl had ever seen. She was not surprised to see that the large leather chairs arranged in a semi-circle before the screen were very comfortable and, obviously, extremely expensive.

Briggs appeared from somewhere and began to twirl knobs and adjust sliding controls with an air of intense concentration. A larger-than-life scene sprang into view on the screen together with the resonant bass hum of a state-of-the-art sound system.

It’s an executive boardroom in the city somewhere. Up on the umpteenth floor. Half a dozen impeccably well-attired men and women are sitting around the large mahogany table. An expressionless young woman enters. She’s carrying a stack of files, which she hands dutifully to the chairman, who smiles and thanks her. He’s in his sixties, average height and build, with iron-gray hair.

“Just like you!” put in Cheryl Hascombe.

“I’m nowhere near as old as him!” replied Masters, with some warmth. “But, please, no more interruptions! Just watch!”

The woman leaves unobtrusively. The chairman watches her as she walks the length of the long room toward the door. She is tall and well-proportioned. Her straw-colored hair is a long cascade of curls. Her business suit is lime green, the skirt quite short. Her high heels and the skirt emphasize her long legs as she strides away, her hair bouncing attractively. The chairman calls to her as she reaches the door.

“Ms. Fairbairn!”

His deep voice boomed over Masters’ sound system.

“Yes, Mr. Sutcliffe?”

She looks at him attentively over the top of her eyeglasses, which are perched on the end of her nose.

“It’s nearly three o’clock. Do you have any meetings this afternoon? Any appointments?”

“No, Mr. Sutcliffe. I’ll be taking my night class in accounting at seven, but there’s nothing pressing before then.”

“Good. Then I wondered if we might have an hour of your time here in the boardroom this afternoon.”

She raises her eyebrows slightly and looks blankly at him.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Sutcliffe. May I ask what you would like me to do? I mean, do I need to fetch anything from my office downstairs?”

“No. Oh, wait a minute, yes. We need some sort of pointer, two or three feet long, what do you call it? For pointing things out on a chart at a sales meeting, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure I can find something suitable.”

As she leaves the room Sutcliffe beams at the others. The camera is following the significant action, panning from the door closing behind the young woman to the chairman and focusing in on him, just like a commercial movie.

“She really is rather fine, isn’t she, gentlemen?”

“Hey! Ladies too!” puts in one of the women present.

“Oops. Sorry, Frances. I meant, ladies and gentlemen.”

Murmurs of approval. One of the men looks uncomfortable. He’s large and fit, thirtyish, probably played football in college – but maybe had a decent, though not stellar, GPA anyway.

“What’s the matter with you, Matthews?”

“Nothing at all, sir, really.”

“Good. Then why don’t you go over to the wall safe, please, and let me know how much money we have on hand in the cash drawer under the document files.”

He throws keys to the young man, who fields them expertly and busies himself at the wall safe halfway along one of the long walls. Riffling through stacks of bills, he says:

“As an approximation, sir, I’d say something a little over seventeen thousand dollars.”

“Ha. I would have guessed about twenty. Come to think of it, I can’t remember when we last had occasion to draw from it. Anyone remember?”

The others present shake their heads.

“Never mind. It should be sufficient for what I have in mind, at any rate. Bring it over here, Matthews. Just stack it all on the table.”

A telephone on a nearby credenza chirps softly.

“Pick it up, please, Jenkins.”

Jenkins is also young, but thin and balding. He clearly did not play any kind of sports in college, though he may have graduated with Honors from an excellent school. He listens, holds the phone away from his ear, and talks to Sutcliffe.

“It’s Ms. Fairbairn, sir. All she can find is a wooden yardstick. She wants to know if that will do.”

Sutcliffe laughs aloud.

“Ha! It’s perfect! Oh, yes, just the very thing. Tell her to bring it up right away.”

Ms. Fairbairn enters the room and, in response to Sutcliffe’s signal, places the yardstick on the table. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the money.

“Please sit down, Ms. Fairbairn.”

He gestures to a large leather couch near the foot of the table. She seats herself and crosses her legs rather elegantly. Sutcliffe continues,

“Matthews, go and lock the door, would you, please? You have the key, it’s on the same ring as the others.”

Frowning slightly, Matthews goes over to the door as Sutcliffe goes on,

“What do we pay you, Ms. Fairbairn? And what’s your first name, anyway?”

“A little under forty thousand a year, sir. And it’s Samantha.”

“Well, Samantha. We would like to offer you some money, perhaps ten or fifteen thousand dollars or so, for your services over the next hour.”

Samantha Fairbairn is looking mildly stunned.

“Mr. Sutcliffe, I can’t imagine what I could possibly do to merit that kind of remuneration.”

Sutcliffe thinks to himself, I guess nothing fazes you much, you pretty young thing! He continues, aloud,

“I would like to ask you to undertake a series of small tasks. I’ll explain each one as we get to it, and you can consider them one at a time. Does that sound agreeable? You can accept or refuse any or all of these little assignments, as you choose.”

She frowns thoughtfully, then looks up. Her expression is carefully controlled.

“I’m always open to potential business opportunities, Mr. Sutcliffe. I don’t want to spend the whole of my career in the research department.”

My, you are a cool little opportunist, aren’t you, Ms. Samantha Fairbairn? Certainly explains why you’re hitched up on the sly with that oily snake Matthews. Jeffrey Matthews, the high-flying young executive who wants to save the company money by turning our low-income tenants out on the street. And he had the nerve to tell me earlier that his girl friend (Samantha here, though he doesn’t know I know that) agrees with him entirely on this innovative plan of his. This is really going to be interesting.

Sutcliffe gets up and fiddles with the climate control unit on the wall.

“Something wrong with the air conditioning today. If no-one minds, I’m going to remove my jacket.”

As he does so the other men follow his example.

“Ladies, please feel free to take your jackets off, also.”

The two middle-aged women present smile at each other knowingly, then take off their jackets and drape them on the backs of their chairs.

“You too, Ms. Fairbairn, please.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“No, please, I insist. We will feel like utter slobs if we go on sitting here in our shirtsleeves with you dressed up so formally.”

“As you wish.”

Ms. Fairbairn gracefully removes her jacket, folds it, and places it carefully next to her on the couch. Sutcliffe gives a satisfied chuckle.

“Ha! That was easy.”

He gets quizzical looks from everyone in the room. He laughs.

“Ms. Fairbairn could have earned some of her money by taking her jacket off. But we got her to do it for free!”

She frowns at him.

“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“You will. Let’s go on. Since you missed your first ‘business opportunity,’ here’s the next. Suppose I offer you a thousand dollars to take off your skirt?”

The men gasp and look nervously at each other. The female board members smile at each other in an ‘I’ve seen it all before’ kind of way. Samantha Fairbairn reddens slightly, and looks at Sutcliffe consideringly. Alarmed, Matthews leans forward and stares earnestly at Sutcliffe.

“No, sir, please, we can’t possibly – I mean, surely we can’t – er, I think we should allow Ms. Fairbairn to get back to her work downstairs immediately.”

“Quite the knight in shining armor, eh, Matthews? But take a look at your girl friend over there. I think she’s seriously considering my offer.”

It’s Matthews’ turn to redden. How the hell did Sutcliffe find out?

Samantha narrows her eyes and asks,

“So if I take my skirt off, I get a thousand bucks, and I don’t have to do anything else at all unless I agree to it?”

“Precisely, Samantha.”

She looks at him appraisingly.

“I’m not sure I know all these ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“Profuse apologies for my rudeness, Samantha. Ms. Frances Cohen is our Personnel Director. Mr. Matthews you know, of course. Jenkins here is an aspiring editor. Mr. Murphy is Vice President for Sales and Marketing . . .”

He introduces all five colleagues. Samantha says,

“Good. Then everyone here is employed by the company.”

“Yes, of course. Why the concern?”

“It would hardly be appropriate for me to accept your, what did you call it? assignment if there were outsiders present, Mr. Sutcliffe. We have to think of the image of the company, don’t we?”

Sutcliffe gives a mocking bow.

“Very well said, Ms. Fairbairn. I can see you have a very bright future ahead of you with us.”

“I’m very pleased to hear that, sir. I confess I had been wondering what effect this afternoon’s episode would have on my career.”

“Nothing but positive, I can assure you. Now, what do you say? Will you indulge my little whim?”

She hesitates, purses her lips consideringly, then stands up and starts unfastening her belt. Matthews protests again.

“Be quiet, Jeff.” She gives him a severe look. “I’ll decide for myself what is acceptable to me.”

She unzips her skirt and lets it fall around her ankles. She’s wearing a black silk blouse and bikini-style pink cotton panties. Her nylons are thigh-length. She steps out of her skirt, kicks it aside, and places her hands at her waist, looking coolly at Sutcliffe. The others are silent, apart from some coughing and harrumphing. The men hardly know where to look.

“Jenkins, give Samantha a thousand dollars right now.” Sutcliffe points at the stacks of bills. Nervously, Jenkins hands the money to Samantha at arm’s length, keeping his distance as if she has a highly contagious disease. Sutcliffe continues.

“Thank you, Samantha. Now, more choices for you. I’ll give you a thousand dollars for every item of clothing you remove. And I certainly hope you will feel free to reserve the option of removing absolutely everything. As you can see, unless you happen to be wearing three layers of clothing – and obviously you are not – we have more than enough money to compensate you handsomely.”

She purses her lips, staring directly at Sutcliffe, then shrugs. She undoes her blouse and removes it. Sitting down again, she slowly unrolls her nylons and removes them, then waits. Sutcliffe signals to Jenkins.

“Three thousand more for her, Jenkins.”

Blushing faintly, Samantha bows her head and takes off her bra. Her breasts are full and firm, accentuating her flat belly and slim waist. Sutcliffe is chuckling.

“Excellent! Go on, Jenkins, more money.”

Samantha, wearing only her panties, is silent, regarding the others with a half smile.

Frances Cohen speaks for the first time.

“Go ahead, darling, take them off. We’ll give you two thousand for the panties.”

Sutcliffe nods his approval.

“How much is that so far?” he asks.

“Five thousand, sir; that’s not counting the, er, undies, sir.”

Jenkins looks extremely uncomfortable. Samantha says,

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, but I believe I’ll keep things as they are for the moment.”

“Very well, Samantha. Let’s see how it goes. We have at least half an hour yet before the meeting is over. Yes, the meeting. We are still in session, you know. Let the minutes record that Ms. Fairbairn provided some specialized consulting services during the meeting, for which she was reimbursed out of petty cash. Now, what’s next on the agenda? Matthews?”

Matthews looks up from his minute-taking, flustered.

“The new manuscript from Dame Justitia Weekes-Barrow, sir, the next in her ‘Squire Jasper’s Bedchamber’ series.”

“Ah, yes. Before we consider that, perhaps Ms. Fairbairn would bring us all some sherry from the cabinet over there. Take some yourself, of course, my dear.”

“I rather think I will, sir,” she replies, dryly. All the other eyes in the room follow her pink panties, stretched in the appropriate places by her ripely protuberant buttocks, as she prances across to the drinks cabinet.

“Go on, Matthews, let’s hear some of the dear lady’s purple prose.”

Matthews clears his throat and reads:

Bound helplessly to her evil master’s bedpost, the raven-haired Lady Rowena begged Sir Jasper for mercy. He twirled his mustachios and curled his lips in a malevolent sneer as his devilish laugh echoed off the crenellated battlements and embrasures of his grim castle.

‘Never!’ he declaimed, as he savagely ripped open her bodice to reveal the pendulous globes of her ample bosom. ‘Now that you have been espoused to me by the bishop himself, I claim my connubial rights to carnal union with your ripe and virginal body.” He seized his goblet of Rhenish wine and drained it in one draught as his squinting eyes ran lecherously over the curvaceous form of his despairing victim. ‘You are but my chattel, Rowena, to dispose of as I wish. Tonight will I slake my lusts on your body, whether you be willing or no . . .’

But a sudden clatter of well-shod hooves on the drawbridge heralded the fortuitous arrival of Prince Goodley, who burst into the chamber, sword drawn, as he vouchsafed: ‘By gadfrey, thou varlet, fain will I exact my cruel revenge upon your ignoble person — ’

“Yes, thank you, Matthews, that will be quite enough for the present,” interrupts Sutcliffe, blandly. “Any comments?”

Five minutes later Sutcliffe turns his attention back to Samantha, who has been sprawled negligently on the couch, looking bored.

“OK, not much time left. Samantha, you’ve only made five thousand so far. And I have to admit that our best-selling Dame’s eloquence has excited in me a compelling desire to enact a little scenario with you. If you bend over the arm of that couch and allow Jenkins here to give you a swat on the rear end with that yardstick, I’ll give you another thousand. Two thousand if you take your panties off first.”

“Please, sir, no,” quavers Jenkins. “I couldn’t possibly do anything like that.”

“As you wish, Jenkins. You can leave us to it, then. I’ll speak to you tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, but sir, I’ll stay if you want me to, I certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize my . . .”

Sutcliffe gives a weary sigh, and addresses Jenkins with exaggerated patience.

“Jenkins, if you happen to decide that it meets with your approval to carry out my express instructions, you will not be jeopardizing anything.”

Flinching from Sutcliffe’s steady gaze, Jenkins gingerly picks up the yardstick and toys with it nervously. He tries not to look at Samantha, who has apparently decided to keep her panties on. She walks in studied fashion over to the side of the couch and stands facing the wide leather arm at the left-hand side. She bends over it, resting her forearms on the seat and propping herself up on her elbows. She has hollowed her back, so her bottom rides high on the arm of the couch. It’s too high for her to kneel on the floor, so her legs are bent awkwardly.

Sutcliffe ponders, then says:

“Samantha, that looks a little uncomfortable. Jim — ” (he looks at Murphy) “—take that ottoman over there, would you, and give Ms. Fairbairn something to kneel on.”

Murphy looks older than the others, in his forties, perhaps. Samantha gets up. Murphy places the ottoman against the side of the couch. Samantha kneels on the ottoman and assumes her previous position, bending over the arm of the couch. Sutcliffe says,

“Will that work?”

It will.

“Right, Jenkins, over to you. By the way, I hope you’re right-handed. If you’re a lefty, you’ll have to stand in front and obstruct our view.”

Jenkins, his voice unsteady, assures Sutcliffe he’s not a lefty.

“Do it with gusto, man, or we won’t be getting our money’s worth.”

Jenkins stands behind the couch, draws his arm back, takes aim, and brings the yardstick down, delivering a swishing slap to Samantha’s bottom. She gasps and twitches slightly. Matthews glowers at him. Sutcliffe says,

“Pretty pathetic, Jenkins. All right. Give her the thousand bucks. Put it over there, by her clothes.”

Samantha gets up and sits on the couch again. She studies her fingernails with a show of nonchalance, then looks at Sutcliffe and speaks without emotion.

“So, what happens next, sir? Any more business opportunities for me this afternoon, or shall I go back to my office and get some work done?”

Sutcliffe laughs.

“I’m sure we can find something more interesting than that. For one thing, I would like to give you a spanking myself. And I’m not going to hold back the way Mr. Jenkins did, so how about two thousand? Four thousand with your panties down?”

For the first time, there is apprehension in Samantha’s eyes as she looks sideways at him, her thick hair getting in her eyes.

“All right, Mr. Sutcliffe, but just one. Let’s see how that goes before I agree to anything else.”