Welcome to another of my Encounter stories. If you've been following along, you know that our Main Female Character (MFC) will reveal a bit more about herself. We of course know that she is a chameleon, and is only interested in "anonymous, wham-bam sex" (her words) with men. Or is she? For those of you who are reading this as a first-timer, each of my Encounter stories is stand-alone, however, if you want to fully understand our MFC, you should start with the first story, Encounter at the Movies, and read these stories in order of publication. I hope you enjoy this work, and as always, I appreciate your votes and feedback.
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As the Gulfstream G700 entered the pattern over the airfield, I exhaustedly put away my laptop and looked out the window. Below us was Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport. I wasn't staying there, my destination was an hour's drive away in a small river town. Tomorrow I'm delivering a speech at a conference. It had been a long flight and I spent most of the time dealing with a customer issue.
Generally, my staff is highly competent and I don't worry much. Yesterday was an outlier, and I was dealing with the aftermath today. Yesterday, while I was walking a red carpet, schmoozing with Broadway's elite, and partying well into the night, my business became a shit show. And it was all thanks to Bradley. My Executive Assistant followed my instructions, monitoring my email and forwarding any urgent issues to him. The problem arose when he tried to address the issue which was outside of his skill set, and copied other employees on the response. Some of those employees had the skill set to address the issue. The voices of those employees were drowned out in the ensuing flurry of emails, all of which copied the customer.
I addressed the issue with emails and phone calls and pulled the business back from the brink of losing the customer. My first email was to all of my employees, advising them that
I
would be handling the issue with the customer, and anyone replying to the customer after the date/time stamp of my email would be expected to clean out their desk. My tone made it abundantly clear that this was not an idle threat. The second email was to the customer, advising them of how we would address the issue, and requesting a phone call at their earliest convenience. An hour later they called; a conference call, and multiple text messages later, the issue was resolved.
On the drive to the hotel, I used the time to decompress, my blood pressure had been through the roof. Entering through the front door of The Hotel Chanteclair, my heels clicked on the white penny tile floor, and I was taken by the feeling that I had entered a classic British Gentleman's Club. It's a small boutique hotel originally built in the late 1800s. The building was originally a livery, but since has been a bottle works, a warehouse, and, since 2021, an eight-suite hotel. The feel is dark and moody; light ceilings mixed with dark furniture, exposed brick, and dark wood. The decor fits my current mood perfectly. To the left, upon entering, was a fireplace. It was a grand affair, though I doubt it was original. Sofas and chairs were arranged in several seating areas, and in the corner was a stereo with a turntable and a selection of vinyl. A Glenn Miller vinyl album was spinning on the turntable and Tuxedo Junction was playing softly. Next to the stereo sat a woman. She was a stunning auburn-haired goddess, wearing an emerald green dress with a sweetheart neckline and a knee-length draped skirt. A matching hat, clutch, and black pumps completed her look.
I was promptly greeted by the desk clerk, who swiftly processed me in and I proceeded to my room. The walls of the room were dark and moody green, and the bedside table was dark wood, but the bed with its white cover stood in stark contrast. The bath was gleaming white tile with chromed faucets. I dropped my bag in my room, slipped off my grey pinstripe suit coat, and took my laptop to the lobby bar. I ordered my drink, a Boulevardier, and took a seat at a 2-top nearby. I began reviewing the emails from today to determine where things went wrong, and if there was anyone who needed to be counseled or, heaven forbid, disciplined when I returned. Bradley was at the top of my list.
As I sat there in my white blouse, a skirt that matched my suit coat, and black heels, one dangling off my toes, scanning the emails, and sipping my drink, I took a moment to look around. The style of the lobby was very mid-century modern. The furniture had tapered spindles or wire hairpin legs, and the upholstered furniture was blocky but comfortable. There were several faux ficus trees, and the main chandelier had a pineapple centerpiece; a symbol of hospitality. I was about to return to my work when a feminine voice broke in.
"You really should relax, it appears as if you're about to burst."
She sat another Boulevardier next to my empty glass, and I looked up as she stepped from behind me. It was the woman who I'd noticed earlier. Lost in my work, I hadn't noticed her moving to the bar. The look on my face made her laugh softly. Her lips were cherry red, and her short nails had a classic French manicure. My immediate assessment was that she had about ten years on me. In her hand was what appeared to be a Sidecar cocktail. Her look was reminiscent of the 1950s pin-up models, and she smelled like L'Air du Temps, a scent my mother favored, and a popular one in the time of the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Being the only other person in the lobby, I assumed she had placed the LP on the stereo.
"I've been dealing with a customer issue that my employees, unfortunately, made worse. It's been resolved, but now I'm considering which heads should roll, if any."
"Hmm, a powerful woman dealing with incompetence in the ranks, in a place that used to reek of horse manure. How droll."
Droll? Who talks like that? I don't believe I've ever heard anyone use that term.
"May I join you?" she asked and sat without waiting for me to respond. "Emma," she said, extending her hand.
"Alexis," I responded and shook her hand. It was soft and warm, with not a blemish in sight. "Are you responsible for the musical selection?"
"I am. I hope it meets with your approval."
"I do enjoy Big Band music, though I don't often listen to it."
I closed my laptop, it could wait. We engaged in casual conversation, primarily about me and my work, and the situation I was dealing with. When the music ended she proposed that we move closer to the stereo so that she could attend to the turntable while we continued our conversation. I took my drink and laptop and followed her to the loveseat nearby. In front of it was a low table with hairpin legs and a live edge slab of wood as the top. A rack of coasters was conveniently provided. She queued another Miller album and we both kicked off our shoes and sat slightly facing each other. Once we exhausted ourselves with the topic of my business, and ordered another round of drinks, the conversation moved to lighter subjects such as the local area, and music.
For some reason, I felt comfortable with her. I didn't often share personal details with strangers, yet with her I nearly spilled my life story. She had a way about her, calm and friendly, yet there was an underlying sexuality about her. If she were a he, I wouldn't have been so open. Hell, I'd even given her my real name! Of course, I also wouldn't spend this much time with a man unless I saw him as a conquest. Somewhere during the conversation, I curled a foot up where I could reach it and began massaging.
She smiled and looked down at my hand that was attending to my foot. "May I? I'm told the foot massages I provide are simply divine."
I was hesitant at first, but I do love a good foot massage, and she had graciously offered, so why not? I extended my leg and she cupped my heel in one hand as she began to work my tired foot. While we continued talking, I began to feel the day's stress melt away.
Damn, that feels good!
I thought to myself
"Are you available for travel, Emma? I could use your skilled hands."
"And to think, I've only touched your feet," she said, as she looked at me through her lashes and softly smiled.
I returned her smile and sighed as I leaned back against the arm of the loveseat. After a bit, she focused her attention on my calf. When she asked for my other foot, I gladly offered it and she repeated her exquisite ministrations. By the time I finished my second drink, I was little more than putty in her hands.
