Entry into the
Valentine's Day Story Contest 2024
Submitted under the Category of BDSM because that is where the content leads
For the purpose of the competition entry/theme there's more of a lean toward the BD than the SM.
A version exists in my head that leans into the S and the M let me know in the comments if you want that version to release - although I may well be tempted without such encouragement so keep an eye on my future releases.
Anyway I digress...
***********************************************************************************
The offices of Bowen Greenslade Jones were falling quiet.
Another long week drawing to a close late on a Friday afternoon, the head count dwindling across the trading floor as I cast my eye through the open door from my private office.
Reaching up I loosen my burgundy necktie and unfasten the top button of pristine, starched, white collar of my shirt. Perception and appearance were everything, simple enough standards to uphold that helped maintain a diligence amongst all staff in the workplace. To be even observed in such moments of relaxation, as I casually lean back in my leather office chair, would have been perceived as weakness not so many years ago. Hedge Funding had changed across the thirty years since I had stated my career, and on so many levels rarely for the better.
Through the open doorway I hear her voice. the very example of the drop in standards personified.
Looking up through the partially closed slatted blinds I cast my eye over the brunette as she stands with her back to me engaged in idle conversation with a fellow junior colleague, an attractive blonde girl in a smart navy dress whose name escapes me.
Despite her loathsome persona my focus not for this first time is only drawn though to the physical splendour of the slender brunette who is dressed in a tight fitting light blue blouse coupled with a tight dove grey pencil skirt that sits to her mid thigh over light denier natural colour nylons that that cling to perfectly toned legs that are accentuated by navy blue single strap heels.
Tabitha Greenslade-Jones reputation around the Office already now far outweighed her more than pleasing on the eye physical presence. Since she started work a little over four months ago she had taken little time to confirm what many had suspected, her appointment was made based on her name rather than her qualifications, experience or even general competence.
She held an undeniable natural beauty, long brown hair normally worn tied back framed a classically beautiful face. Her body toned slender and perfectly formed was the object of desire of nearly every red-blooded male employee of Bowen Greenslade Jones, while employee relationships were supposedly not permitted, it was yet another office rule that was well known to be regularly flouted. Tabitha to her credit had not knowingly flouted such rules. She did not have to work hard to maintain a somewhat acerbic aura that made her largely standoffish and unapproachable to the vast majority of her male colleagues, even if any of them had dared risking an approach the Managing Partners only daughter.
Our paths had crossed so far only intermittently professionally, by no reason other than we had remained aloof from one another since her commencement of employment. This not least as I had not been a supporter of her joining the prestigious firm, following university and a year of international travel financed by her family's enormous wealth, a matter of fact that I felt sure she had been briefed on. I held no genuine ill towards her but simply felt her skill set would have been bettered honed away from the comfort blanket the familiar office and establishment offered her.
Tabitha represented the third generation of the Greenslade-Jones to be associated with the firm that bore her family name. Her promotion to the higher echelons of the company was all but guaranteed irrespective of performance or ability. The fast track to success at the family firm meant that her lack of discernible portfolio, her minimal contribution and work-shy reputation mattered for very little. Her semi retired Father and her sadly deceased Grandfather would have pride in her following the family mantle, it was to her genuine fortune that neither her father Rupert nor his father Lachlan were around to witness her so far day to day lethargic approach to her introduction to the inheritance the family name assured. These days the name Bowen within the company moniker Bowen Greenslade Jones apparently meant for very little despite institutional investment made several years previous that had saved the company from bankruptcy. The gesture now appearing only token by placing the extended operating name above the door and to the company letterheads.
My overriding feeling that I could not be swayed from was that the under the influence of such inauspicious prospects the future of the firm looked very bleak indeed.
Tabitha Greenslade-Jones could represent the future bur someone, somehow needed to desperately take control of the superficial young protégé.
"Any plans for the weekend Ginny?" I hear Tabitha enquire of the blonde colleague, as I still fail to recall her surname much to my chagrin.
"Scott's taking me to Edinburgh for an early Valentines getaway..." is the response earned, "...We've a flight from City Airport at half seven... I should really get a wriggle on."
"Lucky for some," Tabitha offers, her words palpably dripping in envy.
"No one with special plans for you this weekend then Tabs?"
"Chance and a fine thing..." Tabitha responds, before adopting a somewhat devilish tone, "...not even the sniff of a fuck buddy for Valentines... and I'd settle for that."
The brazen little giggles both females offer near enough repulses me as I rise from behind my desk. Crossing my office without wishing to draw any undue attention I close the door on the pair of them, not without taking one last surreptitious glance in the direction of the egotistical brunette.
"There must be someone out there for you," I hear Ginny offer reassuringly as I cast one last surreptitious look up the backs of Tabitha Greenslade-Jones perfect legs.
"Not since I split from Daniel... but there's plenty to be said for the single life...maybe I'll find a hook up on Tinder," Tabitha states mischievously as I silently close the door on their conversation.
Sitting back at the desk I try my best to put my thoughts regarding the companies irritating if beautiful eventual heiress to one side as I set to addressing the essential emails, amongst the substantial list of unanswered enquiries I need to respond to ahead of my own mundane plans for the weekend.
**********
I sit alone at the bar, nursing the same tumbler of whisky as I have done for the past forty minutes.
Looking to my watch I note the time approaches ten past eight, the realisation dawning on me that my carefully orchestrated plan has likely failed. Taking the tumbler in hand I swill the remaining contents and the fast-dissipating ice cube around the glass as I watch a smartly dressed couple head from the bar into the main reception of the Langdon Excelsior Hotel. Knocking back the tumbler of whisky I feel the warmth of the amber liquid slip down my throat.
"Can I refill your glass Sir" the tall well-built Barman enquires on his deep Eastern European accent.
"Why not," I offer without thinking and without looking in his direction as I watch the couple disappear around the corner or the double entry doors.
As they pass from my sight I see her, hearing the click clack of her black ankle strap heels on the polished marble floor as she steps confidently towards the main reception desk. My heart leaps from my chest into my throat. My anticipation builds immediately my senses alert as my imagination begins to fire. As the Bartender sets the second drink before me I take the tumbler and move further along the bar relying on the shadows of the dimly lit room to hide my presence as I keep her in my view.
A long beige overcoat covers her body, a jacket belted tightly at the middle around her slender form, I watch as she sweeps long dark hair from her face behind her right ear as she approaches the female receptionist.
I knew, or at least I hoped I knew exactly what lay beneath the form fitting three quarter length jacket. The final of three gifts anonymously delivered to her at the office across the day via courier.
The first a simple, yet luxurious, greeting card addressed to her but left anonymously and deliberately without a signature to accompany the handwritten note that intriguingly stated:
'I am drawn to you. I need to have an intimate understanding of you.'
Delivery of the card had been made whilst I was offsite, but I had noted the card lay on its side on her desk a little after ten thirty when I had returned from a client breakfast meeting.
A little over an hour later a large luxurious bouquet of a dozen deep scarlet roses were brought up from reception to her desk, much to her visible embarrassment, not least at the gentle ribbing of her colleagues given the further anonymous nature of the gift.
The third gift, which arrived shortly after lunch, was gift boxed and contained the halter neck black dress that I hoped adorned her body under the beige jacket. The black nylons that adorned her legs as she stood before the reception desk I further hoped to be the black dark denier stockings that accompanied the black basque, suspender belt and matching black briefs wrapped in tissue paper that sat in the box beneath the bespoke tailored black dress.
The note within the gift box simply read:
'Langdon Excelsior. 8pm. Give your name at reception.'
