This farcical story is totally fictitious—no resemblance is intended to any persons dead or alive, or any organizations for that matter.
The situation regarding the Parthenon Marbles is real, however. I have profound respect for the many individuals working to achieve an agreement on the future of these truly great works of art. Hopefully, someday, the Marbles may see their homeland again.
In the meantime, my only aim is to amuse and publicize. If you want to know what it's really all about, there are several informative websites, at least one of which is collecting online signatures in support of the restitution of the Parthenon Marbles. If you would like the URL, drop me a line. (Literotica.com does not allow the posting of links.)
Oh, and thanks for reading!
Alexis Haines
*
She was hoping for a few days off, but it didn't look like she could ask right now. Her boss was scowling, fussing with his file drawer, acting businesslike. So the demure young blonde kept quiet and stood attentively.
The windowless office was airless, stuffy as only an old British office building can be. Yet to Humphrey Jackson, when the youngest member of his staff stood before him, there was a cooling ambience in his cramped, square world. She was quite deliciously refreshing. As usual, he found it completely disconcerting.
She watched him trying desperately to avoid her eye. He laid what he had been pretending to look for on his desk's dark, polished surface, stared at it, and then straightened it. And then straightened it again. Then for the fifth time in as many minutes he adjusted his wife's silver picture frame by an eighth of an inch. He touched only the sides, so as not to leave finger marks. Mrs. Jackson taught him that.
He sighed and got down to business, forcing himself to concentrate on projecting an air of competence and professionalism, something befitting his senior years. He collected his thoughts, pursed his lips, placed his elbows either side of the slim folder, steepled his fingertips and fixed his employee with what he hoped was an avuncular but stern regard. To Samantha Kane, he looked more like a haggard and worn out crow than a kindly uncle.
"He'll be arriving at Heathrow airport from JFK this Friday at 11:35 a.m., GMT. Here's your brief, Miss Kane."
She promptly stepped forward to his desk and took the slim portfolio he handed to her, not even bothering to glance at the familiar vinyl cover with the scratched gold lettering and graphic. They all looked the same: "British Diplomatic Corps, Limousine Service", importantly blocked under the Royal Family crest. She retreated, held the portfolio behind her back, and regarded Humphrey Jackson coolly as he studied her.
Samantha Kane had joined the Diplomatic Corps when she was 21, specifically asking to be considered for the Limousine Service. It wasn't hard to find her a place: she had been educated at one of Britain's top public schools for girls. But instead of pursuing her education at one of the many universities that would have accepted her, she took an apprenticeship with Rolls-Royce Motor Cars. Despite her youthful inexperience, that apprenticeship stood her in excellent stead with the Limousine Service.
She had some additional credentials, too: for example, her mother was a highly respected Member of Parliament. Humphrey Jackson couldn't fathom why Samantha Kane would want to be a chauffeuse, but in the eighteen months she had been with the Service she had lived up to all expectations.
She had a lot going for her; she was well spoken and obviously smart. A little below average height, she nevertheless had a quietly commanding presence that was impressive for her age, exuding calm confidence without a trace of defiance or intolerance. And, although it wasn't supposed to be a factor, she had the kind of curves that made her uniform look a lot sexier than it was: classic navy blue blazer with brass buttons; crisp, white cotton blouse; a short, straight navy skirt; black hose and black 3" patent leather pumps, all topped off with the regulation peaked cap. She didn't wear it quite right, though. A little of a jaunty angle over her bangs and sleek, bobbed blonde hair.
But to Humphrey Jackson, 59 and scrawny, with thin, brown hair and an insipid smile, she was altogether a delightful picture. His eyes grew round and childlike as he took in the tight spread of her skirt over her lovely, spreadable thighs and nice, high, round titties, and her innocent face with plump, pouty lips and big, baby blue eyes that would be so lovely if they were looking up at him from his groin right now... His nether parts were stirring again. He wondered vaguely if she knew. He rather suspected that she might.
He realized he had been silently staring at her breasts for at least a full minute now and that she was still standing quietly with her arms behind her back, perfectly poised. She had a lot of class for a 23-year old, he had to admit. Very cool. And yet there was something inviting about her nice, full breasts; just like the rest of her. They almost seemed to be begging to be squeezed and to be smooshed with your face in them and... He glanced guiltily at Mrs. Jackson's photo and harrumphed back to the matter at hand.
"You'll find full particulars on Dr. Barrie in the brief, Miss Kane. An American gentleman, about my age. We will be relying on your full discretion to do as you see fit, as always."
"Of course, Mr. Jackson."
"Pay particular attention to the notes, if you would. If you have questions or need any further information, Jenny is at your disposal. She has access to the electronic files, of course. I warn you though, they're rather extensive. They go back quite a way, so do please try to be specific if you need my secretary's help."
That sounded odd. "How far back, Sir, if I may ask? Just curious, Sir."
"Ah, just over two hundred years, from around 1800. Any other questions?"
Samantha stared just long enough to confirm her boss wasn't joking. "No, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
"Good. You'll have one of those ghastly stretched Rolls-Royces. Should be ready for you around 8:00 a.m., tomorrow. Check with the garage. And Jenny has Dr. Barrie's name sign made up for you."
It seemed extraordinarily excessive legroom for a one-passenger pickup but Samantha didn't mind. She would have preferred one of the new, super-long Rolls-Royces, the extended wheelbase Phantoms. The Corps hadn't sprung for one of those yet, though. A bit much at around ₤200,000, she supposed.
"So it's one of the stretched Spurs then, is it Sir?" she asked, more nonchalantly than she felt. There were two Rolls-Royce Silver Spur IIs in the Corps' fleet. They were showing their age a bit now, but they were still classy and she hadn't had a chance to try one out yet. Everybody needed a goal in life; this was part of hers.
"Yes, yes; horrible things. But that's what he requested. Well, off you go! Go home and read the brief, Miss Kane."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, and good afternoon, Sir."
He kept his head down as she turned and left. It really would be too much to stare at her buttocks as well. Oh, but what he wouldn't give to bend that tight arse over his desk, some fine day!
Mrs. Jackson didn't look amused.
*******
An early afternoon back at her flat wasn't the few days off she had wanted, but it was something. Samantha quickly changed out of her uniform into an old cropped t-shirt and skimpy panties, brewed a pot of tea, and spread out on her living room floor to read through the brief. Maybe she'd have a long soak in a hot, steamy tub and give herself a trim. 'Business before pleasure', as Mr. Jackson would say. She smiled. She'd deal with him one day. Soon. But first things first.
The brief was characteristically thorough. Dr. Oliver Barrie, American, in his late 50s, was apparently some kind of ancient artifacts expert. He'd recently spent some time in Greece advising on a new museum. Not good. He sounded bookish and boring, not what she needed at all. Oh well.
The itinerary was straightforward enough. Tomorrow was Friday; she would pick him up at Heathrow at 11:35 a.m., and then bring him back to the Montague Hotel in West Central London. About an hour each way. That was it for tomorrow, unless Dr. Barrie had other plans.
The next day, Saturday, he was chairing some sort of meeting at the hotel. Samantha was familiar with the Monty. It was an upscale hotel just across the street from the British Museum. Although it was styled like an old townhouse, the Montague Hotel was totally wired and had great meeting facilities, all the latest equipment. But it had charm, too; there was a little garden and even a deck. She sighed. He probably wouldn't like it, and she'd have to listen to him complaining every day.
But not on Sunday. She'd have Sunday off, unless something extraordinary happened. Not much in the way of official duties over the weekend.
Monday was different. They'd be taking the Roller out for a run along the M40 motorway to Oxford; fifty-five miles, about an hour and half each way if traffic was good. Dr. Barrie was in a five hour meeting with more museum types, by the look of it. She'd be hanging around all day but that would be alright; Oxford's student population made it an interesting place. Monday could be a good day.
Then on Tuesday he'd be at the British Museum for a while, but that didn't mean much, since the hotel was right there. She'd take him back to Heathrow on Wednesday for a mid-morning flight to New York.
So much for the personality profile and itinerary. She didn't really think he was going to be a good prospect but at least there would be plenty of downtime on this assignment.
What was it all about? The background notes included the usual hints on where to park and stuff, but they weren't exactly typical. In fact, the whole thing was bizarre. One short set of instructions made her sit up:
"
Publicity Sensitive Assignment:
Avoid the press. Do not discuss the Elgin Marbles or the Parthenon. If required to assist with situations involving Greek nationals, refrain from speaking to them. Maintain professional decorum at all times."
