I'd been working as an analyst at the investment firm for almost 3 years when the opportunity came. My manager recommended me for an opening in the Private Client Division.
I met with the PCL manager, Libby, and two weeks later I started my new position as a PCLA (Private Client Liaison - Associate). I spent the first three months in the training program, learning the ropes, dos and don'ts, etc. From there I was assigned to a Liaison Team to manage a pool of C-Level clients, those with total accounts between $1MM and $5MM. A year later I was moved to the B-Level team, where I was allowed to personally manage 3 clients, each with $10MM+ accounts.
Wealthy clients are very demanding, on a "good day", you might want to strangle one. Despite this I was very good at my job; sometimes I was even proud of my work. Regardless, the pay was amazing and got exponentially better with each client level.
I was determined that it wouldn't be long before I was managing my own A-Levels ($25MM+).
Things took an unusual turn about 3 months ago...
Libby called me into her office one afternoon for an unscheduled evaluation. Things went well, she was pleased with my work, the clients were happy, and she even gave me a few tips. As I was about to leave her office she invited me to a weekend gathering for the team and a few clients at her home.
I pulled into the circular driveway at her spacious home late that Saturday afternoon. A valet took care of my leased BMW 2 Series Coupe. Libby's mansion was amazing - I added "big-ass house" to my to-do list.
I grabbed a drink and hung out with my co-workers and did "the dance" with current and potential clients. The rest of the evening went well, I got "a little tipsy", but held back to ensure that I didn't embarrass myself. Towards the end of the evening, Libby pulled me aside and asked that I stick around after everyone else left.
"This might be interesting..." I thought to myself; the scotch was talking.
Libby is an all-business type, very conservative, but not bad to look at. She's in her early 60s, a widow, physically fit with blue eyes and short blonde hair. It was a stretch to imagine that she would find someone like me interesting at all (black, mid-30s, and slightly overweight).
Around 11:30 the guests began to thin, so I tried to be inconspicuous and linger near the kitchen with the hired wait staff. I didn't want to give any of the company people the wrong impressions about me or Libby.
She found me on the patio near the pool when the last of the staff had left.
"Glad you could stick around, David." She smiled as she approached me. Libby had poured herself a fresh bourbon and extended one to me. She'd removed her shoes and neatly rolled up her jeans to her mid calves. I found her small, bare feet and manicured toes very sexy, but tried not to stare. I already felt the familiar twinge in my crotch.
"I'm glad too," I smiled taking a swig, "thanks for the late-night invite."
We took a slow stroll around the oval pool as we continued to talk - and I soon learned the real reason for all the attention.
Libby complemented me again on my work so far, and was encouraged by my potential. My 3 clients were especially pleased with me, which led her to believe I could handle more "demanding" clients. The type that could ready me for A-Level status.
"You will be expected to give an A-Level client 'whatever' they want..." she said draining her glass. Her emphasis on the 'whatever' didn't go unnoticed.
"Does that mean slathering myself in oil and dancing around in a Speedo...?" I joked as I took another sip.
"Would that be a problem for you if it did?" her face was all-business when she asked.
