“Madam…” The chauffer said, startling me. He had my bags in hand, prepared to escort me up the steps of Donovan Hague’s home. I’d been flown via the mogul’s private jet to the Amalfi Coast, where I would stay as his personal guest in a private villa on the estate.
Our firm had always done business with incredibly wealthy men used to being in the company of beautiful women and Jerrick Morgan Limited, the wealth management firm I had worked six years, knew the effect I had on potential clients.
I was no fool. I knew my looks were a big deal. Jerrick Morgan decided to take advantage of that fact once they realized what they had in me: a sexy and attractive go-getter, ambitious and determined, willing to do what it took to get new business, and millions of dollars, in the door. As part of the Senior Investment Team my track record for signing clients had, so far, been unsurpassed. I was great at my job, but was smart enough to use the advantage my looks and charm gave me to succeed and sign more clients than anyone in the firm.
Donovan Hague would be no exception. A man of great wealth, the firm was incredibly interested in obtaining his account, the biggest we’d sign in nearly a decade.
I stood aghast, in awe of the immense scale and beauty of Hague’s Italian home. To the right was a private orchard of lemon and olive trees. To the left was a tennis court and beautiful-constructed conservatory. I couldn’t allow this level of opulence to throw me off my game.
Stepping from the car and following the chauffeur, I walked the steps to the double doors of the estate. Searching for a bell, I saw none. The chauffeur straightened, snapping his body to attention, my carry-on bags tightly within his grip. Suddenly, the double doors opened. A woman appeared, her long arms stretched, opening the doors to full capacity. She was olive-complexioned, with long, dark hair, perfectly straight parted down the middle. She was exotically striking.
She was wearing a custom designed maid’s uniform comprised of a top and skirt, her midriff, flat and toned, between the two garments. The top had holes, allowing her breasts to hang, visible, through the top. The skirt, a short, black lace petticoat with a ruffle at the bottom, was incredibly short, falling only five-to-six inches from her waist. Her height close to six feet tall, I saw every inch of her long legs. She wore no panties, her fully shaved mound visible through the sheer skirt.
“Welcome, Ms. Bailey,” she said with a slight accent. “My name is Sofia. We have been expecting you. Lambert!” She snapped to the chauffeur, who quickly bounded the rest of the steps with my belongings and entered the house.
“Lambert will be placing your things in the guest house. They’ll be put away and ready for you when you retire to your room this evening. Please, come in.”
Turning, her skirt billowed, giving a full view of the cheeks below. Underneath the hem of her skirt was a small tattoo of the letter “H”. She sauntered through the foyer in six-inch gold heels, glancing back every few steps to ensure I was keeping pace. In her right hand she held a smart phone in a pure gold case. That must be at least 24 carats, I thought to myself.
She led me down an intricate labyrinth of hallways and into an immense library completely furnished in 19th century Victorian furniture. Inside, another maid, in a similarly designed uniform, placed a silver platter of hors d’oeuvres on a French gilt marble table. She was fair-skinned and green-eyed with a spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her hair was platinum blonde, her roots showing no sign of imperfection. Long and straight, it flowed down her back; parted down the middle just like Sofia’s. Her breasts were immense, much larger than Sofia’s. Her nipples were pierced with small gold rings dangling from them. Her big breasts swayed as she bent to set the tray upon the table.
“Thank you, Gwendolyn, that’ll be all.” I heard a male voice say from the corner of the room. I looked to the left and saw Donovan Hague sitting behind a large mahogany desk.
Gwendolyn straightened, turned on her gold heel and exited the room, her large breasts bouncing as she walked. As she passed me, she smiled politely my way. Crossing my path, I turned my head slightly, following her, noting the letter “H” tattooed on her right, taught buttock.
“Welcome Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth, Ms. Bailey?” he asked, his voice a silky baritone.
“Yes, please.” I said. “Hello, Mr. Hague.” I did not expect him to offer the same courtesy. Walking toward me he politely offered his hand.
“Please have a seat.” He said, motioning to an antique sofa prominently situated in the middle of the room. “Can I offer you a refreshment, Elizabeth?”
Hague stood and circled his desk, leaning one arm casually against the edge. He wore designer navy suit pants and a crisp white collared shirt unbuttoned slightly at the top. Hague was a strikingly handsome man with medium length sandy brown hair sprinkled with flecks of distinguished gray. His chiseled face barely showed signs of his forty-seven years. He was most certainly the sort of man to walk in a room and be noticed as well as the sort of man to leave that same room and be remembered.
“Um… sparkling water, please.” I said as I sat.
Nodding toward Sofia, who stood in the entranceway at attention, he communicated Elizabeth’s need for a drink. Raising her phone Sofia typed a brief message and smiled Hague’s way sweetly. He mouthed the words “Thank you” in her direction and nodded his head. As she turned to leave the room, I watched as his eyes traveled up and down her body, stopping just at the letter “H” on her voluptuous rear.
Another maid entered the room, holding a delicate silver tray with a clear crystal glass of sparkling water. This newest “H” girl was mocha-complexioned, lithe and lean, with perky breasts and thick, dark nipples peeking from the holes of her uniform. Her hair, long and dark, was straight and parted down the middle like the others. Similarly, she was lovely, her features delicate, like that of a doll.
“Your sparkling water, Ms. Hague.” She said, walking toward me and bending slightly. In my eyesight, I saw Hague focus on her rear, his gaze languishing on her clearly exposed vagina. Her breasts swung forward, nearly colliding with my hand as I lifted to retrieve my drink.
“Thank you….” I said, slightly embarrassed.