The Chauffeuse

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."

Okay. She needed to know what she was getting into. Right now. She called Jenny.

"Hey, flirt! How's Mr. Jackson's favorite slut? He taken any liberties with you yet?"

"Samantha! When are we gonna do him, love? And who have you done lately, eh?"

Jenny Spencer was longing for the day she could teach her boss some manners. In the meantime, she fully supported her friend's ongoing campaign to seduce a VIP in the back of each of the fleet's vehicles. There were only another five limos to go. She'd crossed 20 of them off the list so far, and Jenny had been in on every one of them.

"Jenn, I swear I'd fuck a doorknob right now! There haven't been any takers at all lately. By the looks of this brief, this isn't up to much either. Shame really; I finally got one of the Spurs. But I've got a freaking uptight professor, for chrissakes! But hey, Jenn, help me out will you? What's the deal with this one? There's some weird shit here. Why can't I mention the Parthenon?"

"Hold on, love. Let me bring up the files... Blimey! This might take a while. Wait a sec... Ok, here we go... The Parthenon is a temple on a hill in Athens called the Acropolis."

"Everybody knows that, dear."

"Private school cunt!"

"Get on with it, slut!"

Jenny giggled. "Did you know it was over 400 years old when Christ was born?"

"Thanks for the history lesson. Look it's famous, so why can't I mention it?"

"Because of what happened in 1799, love. That's when we got to it. The Turks occupied Greece, and Lord Elgin was ambassador to Constantinople. He got permission from the Turks to copy the Parthenon art. Then he got a little carried away. So did half the art. Elgin spread a little bribery around the Turkish officials and next thing you know, sections were pried off, ripped out, sawed up, carted up, and shipped off to Britain."

"Bit of an opportunist."

"Well, duh! He sold the art to the British Museum for a song, eventually. So the collection became known as the "Elgin Marbles". Meanwhile, the Greeks overthrew the Turks and... get this... they've been formally asking for theirParthenon Marbles back since 1829!"

"And so over 175 years later, here comes the intrepid, and American, Dr. Barrie, because...?"

"He's trying to negotiate some sort of deal between the British Museum and the Greek government. UNESCO sent him; they have a committee for this sort of situation. Officially, the British government is trying to be civilized, make nice, show willing, that sort of thing. So there's your pickup, Sam."

"Yeah. A barrel of laughs. A book-bound, self-important, stuffy little classicist on an international junket. Oh well. Maybe the next one, eh, Jenn?"

"You never know, love! Good luck, anyway. Tell me all about it next week, okay?"

*******

He came striding loose-limbed through the double doors into the main area of Heathrow's Terminal 4 like he owned the place. At 6' 2", he was easy to spot: rangy, broad shouldered, balding with bright, silvery blonde hair. But to Samantha's practiced eye there was something else that stood out about Dr. Barrie. It was black and highly noticeable against the faded blue of his jeans. His fly was wide open, and the dark patch of his underpants was bulging gloriously forward.

Dr. Barrie was equally observant. She was only 5' 4", so Samantha had to work a little harder than the other limo drivers to catch her pickup's eye. Her jacket spread like wings and her blouse strained dangerously at the third button as she stood on tiptoe, holding the name sign high above her head. He slowed his pace and strolled nonchalantly towards her, giving them both time to take in the view. His quiet smile had broadened into a grin by the time he reached her. Samantha kept her expression impassive while she wondered how best to approach the delicate subject of her pickup's fly.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Barrie. Would you do me a favor?"

"Samantha Kane. At your service, Sir."

"Goody! Would you hold that sign up again? Or just give me the sign and hold your arms up. It really looked very nice. And call me Oliver."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oliver. What's the hard part? That's my name."

"No, the sign Sir, ah, Oliver, um, Sir??"

"Never mind."

"Okay. Ah, Sir?"

"Oliver. What?"

"You're a little undressed, Sir."

"I am? I should have worn a tie? You're not wearing one! Why aren't you, anyway? Guy chauffeurs wear them. And I like them on a girl."

"No, Sir. Ties are not necessary for our..."

"Oliver, dammit!"

"Sorry, Sir. Oliver. As I was saying..."

"But even if they're not necessary, theyare useful, don't you think?"

"What?"

"Well, I can think of lots of things to do with ties, besides wearing them. What's your name, again?"

"Samantha Kane, S... You can call me Ms. Kane."

"Oooo! I like it! Samantha. Okay, where to now, Samantha?"

"Sir, Oliver... before we go..."

"Come on, Sammie! I don't have all day... Street's this way, right?"

He strode off towards the exit. Samantha stood and considered the situation a full ten seconds, by which time he had deftly threaded his way past several small groups and a small, lone, ambling child, and almost reached the automatic doors to the street.

"OLIVER, YOUR FREAKING FLY'S OPEN!!"

Samantha had learnt to project her voice over the sound of engines and machinery during her apprenticeship with Rolls-Royce, a trick that had proved effective in many prior situations. It worked well in the current situation, too. Dr. Barrie stopped dead in his tracks, looked down, and then slowly turned to face her across the hall. There was unabashed delight on his boyish face. There was also an unmistakable twinkle in his gray-blue eyes, discernable even at that distance. It had turned into a devilish gleam by the time Samantha caught up to him.

"You did say 'at your service', did you not?"

"Yes, Oliver. I did."

"I've got my hands full, dear. Be a sweetheart, would you? Do the honors."

"Give me the bags, Oliver, and then you can zip it up yourself. I'm not touching it."

"Oh go on. Please?"

"No."

"No, Sir."

"Fuck you. Oliver. Sir."

"Whoohoo! God, I like you. But it's against my religion to make a girl carry my bags."

"In that case, may I suggest you place your bags on the floor, dress yourself, and then retrieve the bags? After which you may wish to follow me. I'd be happy to get you out of here and on your way. Oliver. Sir."

"Would you really? That's so sweet of you. But Sammie, what if I don't want to put my bags on the floor? Somebody might run off with them. That happened to me in Athens once, you know. Some shit stole a very valuable, very ancientarybollos from me that way. Of course, I shouldn't have had it to begin with but that's beside the point, don't you think?"

His wide-eyed perplexity on the matter was stunning. Samantha took in her pickup's mild, smiling face, the battered brown tweed jacket hanging on his broad shoulders, his denim shirt, long-legged blue jeans, thin beige dress socks, black leather Oxford brogues and prominently bulging black cotton underpants, and decided he was madder than a March hare.

"This is Heathrow, Dr. Barrie; Terminal 4's security is among the best in the world. However I think the matter would be most easily settled in the limousine. Let's get your bags safely stowed, and then you can make yourself comfortable on the way to your hotel. How does that sound?"

"You're such a sensible young woman, Sammie. Lead on!"

And so Samantha Kane's pickup gleefully strode behind her out of Terminal 4, with his fly spread proudly to the street.

The royal blue, eight-cylinder Rolls Royce Silver Spur II Touring Limousine was one of the fleet's older automobiles so, obviously, 'making nice' to UNESCO was not a high priority for the Diplomatic Corps. But Dr. Barrie didn't seem disappointed. After helping him deposit his bags in the luggage compartment, Samantha held a rear door open for him and watched impassively as he literally dived in, with yet another jubilant, "Whoohoo!"

The extended wheelbase made the limo over 17 feet in length, most of which was devoted to the passenger cabin. Rolls-Royce traditional in every respect, the seats were not arranged down the side of the body as in most modern stretched limos. Two wide, dark blue leather 'lounge' seats faced each other across the ample seven-foot width, which Dr. Barrie immediately took the measure of as he landed full length, face down. He had about four inches to spare above his head. The seat facing the back of the car was shortened to accommodate the corner entertainment unit, which was the next focus of Dr. Barrie's evaluation. He played with the TV remote and the CD jukebox controls simultaneously as Samantha positioned herself in the driver's seat, flipped a switch, and spoke to him through the intercom. On her side of the glass divider panel, it sounded like the Tower of Babel had moved in back.

"Dr. Barrie?"

"Hi, Gorgeous!"

"Are you comfortable?"

"Oh yeah."

"Then would you buckle up, um, Oliver, please?"

"No way."

"Sir, it is the law here that rear passengers should wear a seat belt where provided. Itis for your safety, Sir, as well as being a legal requirement."

"Sammie, I'm from Texas. We don't care about the law here. Hell, we don't much care about the law there. And this is the Diplomatic Corp, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Oliver."

"Yes, Oliver."

"So that gives me diplomatic immunity, right?"

"Well, technically..."

"Good. Get moving. I'm gonna play some CDs and stuff. Oh, but before we get going, Sammie?"

"Yes, Oliver?"

"My fly's still open. Wanna see? Huh? Wanna?"