This story is a result of a radio advertisement for a NYC bank. I listen to the radio (NYC) at night, and relish hearing the voice of the woman describing experiences of banking with her ‘personal banker’ (You can find one audio example on the internet without too much trouble-I am not permitted to include the link). Remember, all events and names are fictional. Thanks to LSEiland for a great editing job.
She walked in the front door and I rose to greet her. I am a new employee at the bank, which markets their personalized banking services. She was dressed elegantly in a mauve business suit. Tall and thin, her outfit was accessorized with a pearl necklace, silver rings on all four fingers of her right hand, and peep toe high-heeled shoes.
I smiled as I greeted her. “I am Jacob Spencer, how can I help you?” She held out her right hand for a brief handshake.
She answered, “I’ve heard your advertisement about having a private banker. I’ve come into a considerable amount of money from a divorce and need some help with my financial matters.” She looked at me with a suggestive smile, “Do you think you can help me?”
I was struck immediately by her voice, thick and sophisticated, with a hint of naiveté that oozed sexuality. I have been working at this bank since finishing college eight months ago, but have not done very well in attracting new customers. This appeared to be a chance to make my career debut.
“I have already transferred my money to your bank,” she told me.
I invited her into my office and sat at my desk, as she settled down opposite me in a comfortable chair. “This really is a convenient bank for me. I get my mani-pedi just down the street. What do you think of my nails?” As she leaned forward, she waved her fingertips in front of me. She had acrylic nails, with white tips.
“Very attractive,” I told her.
She leaned back in the chair, semi-recumbent, crossing her legs as her already short skirt rode up ever so slightly to her mid-thigh. It exposed more of her taupe hosiery, clad to her flawless legs and accentuated by a gold bracelet around her dangling ankle.
I started to get down to business, “Let me look up your account and let’s see how I can help you.”
She gave me her account number and I was able to see that she recently transferred an eight-figure sum to her account. Noticing my surprised countenance, she added, “He was very wealthy, but could no longer satisfy my needs.” I felt my heart palpitate as this appeared to be the best combination of both worlds; an attractive lady, although twenty years my senior, with a large balance.
She stood up suddenly, looking intently into my eyes, “I hear you’re available 24 hours a day. How do I reach you when I need you?”
“The private banking division prides itself on excellent customer service.” I replied touting the company line, “That is one of the benefits of banking privately with us. You have access to me 24 hours a day. Here is my card, maybe we can set up an appointment in the future when I have some suggestions regarding your financial security.” I added my cell phone number to the back of the card before handing it to her.
She looked at the number I had just written, then put it in her breast pocket. She patted the pocket suggestively as she looked at me, “I’ll keep it readily available at all times.” Her haughtiness was apparent as she turned and walked out of my office, the distinct click-click-click of her heels on the marble floor evident to all as she left the bank.
Three Days Later
My cell phone rang, “Mr. Spencer, I forgot my travel bag in a taxicab. I am without my credit card for the time being. Their depot is just down the street from you. Can you meet me at the airport with a new credit card and my travel bag? I’ll being waiting for you at terminal Q.”
While I had not expected this responsibility, this appeared to be the ideal time to make a good impression on my new client. I was able to obtain the travel bag and rushed through traffic to get to the airport in due time.
I learned that terminal Q was intended solely for private jets. I met her in the terminal, where she was accompanied by a young man, about my age.
“Tommy and I are just taking a brief vacation to his island in the Bahamas. You’re such a sweetie to bring me this card. I don’t think I’ll need it, Tommy takes care of EVERYTHING.” Her emphasizing that last word did not go unnoticed.
I handed her the travel bag. It was the size of a small purse, no doubt why it was left in the cab. She opened it in front of me. I am standing close enough to see it contents; a few cosmetics, one item of clothing, a sheer black nylon bodysuit attached to lace ribbon neck, as well as a metallic item I could not identify. She delicately lifted the garment out of the bag and held it up to her body, as if she were modeling it to determine if it was the right size.
“Tommy bought this for me. He said it is the only piece of clothing I will need this weekend.” As she repacked it back in the bag, she had a mischievous glint in her eye, “Oh, he is such a naughty boy.”
She lifted a pair of handcuffs from the bag and suspended them from one finger. “I might have to use these if he gets too frisky.” She then found her old credit card in the bag. I could tell that she was relieved to have it back, though it is now useless. I canceled it before leaving the bank.
Satisfied with being reunited with her belongings, she turned to walk up the short staircase to the plane. Stopping midway, she looked down at me, “I’m so glad to have you as my private banker. I don’t know what I would do without you.” A wave of her ruby red fingertips after blowing me a kiss is the last thing I saw as she entered the plane. Tommy followed close behind, as if attached on a short leash, like a dog heeling obediently.
Three Weeks Later
I hadn’t heard from her for a few weeks, when I received an urgent phone call. “Mr. Spencer, I’m thinking about buying a piece of property and need my banker’s opinion. Can I come over to get your opinion about a mortgage?”
“I have another appointment, but will get my secretary to cancel it. How about 2:15?” I took her abruptly ending the call without any further inquisition as confirmation of our impromptu meeting.
At 2:30, she strolled into the lobby with a folder under her arm. She was wearing a short leather skirt, white blouse buttoned halfway that tastefully exposed her full breasts, and black knee-length leather boots with barely black nylons.
“I’m excited about this property. I can’t wait to it to show you. Do you have a conference room where I can lay out some photos?”
I led her to the conference room in the back of the bank. She promptly took out pictures of a Tudor mansion, with about five bedrooms, swimming pool, spa, and large kitchen. There was also one more picture, of a room with an expansive bed on one side. Metal rods arose from each bedpost, connected at the top with railing. Handcuffs, chains and ropes were attached to the bars. On the opposite side of the room was a straddle horse with leather straps at each leg. Hanging on the walls were various leather items such as vests, pants, straps, and even a few paddle like implements.
I was the first to speak, after looking at the photos. “You told me you were divorced, don’t you think this might be too much of a house for you to maintain?”
She responded, “I am thinking about starting a business and this house would be perfect.”
I look at her, somewhat confused, “What kind of business would you be establishing in this house?”
“I was thinking about starting a male attitude adjustment clinic,” she said matter-of-factly while looking quite innocent despite her dress, I might add.
“This house is going to be very expensive, and the neighbors may not want you running a business out of your house. Have you done any market research about the demand for these services?”
“Oh, I know there is a huge demand for a business of this kind. There are so many wayward males out there that need some attitude adjustment. A little advertising and the appointment book will be filled, I assure you Mr. Spencer.”
With that, she gathered up her photographs, put them back in the portfolio and then placed a finger on my lips. “Mr. Spencer, you’re so inexperienced, you need to depend upon my expertise in some of these matters. Why don’t you arrange an on-site meeting with me and the head of your mortgage department, I think his name is Mr. Terwilliger. I’m sure this mortgage will be approved without a problem.” As she walked away, I imagined her administering a little attitude adjustment if he tried to deny the mortgage.
One Month Later
I was just about to go home when I got a call from her, “I’m thinking about making an investment in a new product and wanted the opinion of my banker.” She paused, but I did not interject. “Do you have time to meet with me if I came right over?”
“The bank is closing soon. Do you think it can wait until tomorrow?” I responded.
“Oh no, I only have a few hours to make a decision and I am talking about a substantial investment. I can bring the item with me and show you.”
Knowing we were likely going to be alone, I did want to provide excellent service. “Sure, just knock on the front door and I will let you in.” I waited about an hour before I heard a knock. I grabbed my key to unlock the front door, and let her in.
The two of us walked to my office. She was in a pair of tight stretch capris, an oversized sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder and a pair of strappy sandals.
“Oh Mr. Spencer, I think you’re going to be really excited about this product and I have the opportunity to get in on the bottom floor.”
With that, she opened her briefcase, which was otherwise empty, and pulled out a semi-rigid purple plastic item. It was in the shape of a penis on one end, but another appendage, about 4 inches long, was attached at an acute angle, about 75 degrees.
“You see, this part can be secured inside the vagina, and then this end used for male or female intercourse. The best part is that none of those ridiculous straps are needed.” She took the item and without actually inserting it, showed me how it would be positioned in the pelvis.
“It’s called a Feeldoe, and I want to make it a household item. The company needs funds to distribute to local pharmacies. They are willing to make me a partner.” After a pause, she added nonchalantly, “And don’t you just love the color,” as if the item was a fashion essential in addition to its use for pegging.
I must have been blushing before I asked, “Did the company provide you with any marketing materials, customer surveys, or a business plan to look at?”
“It’s patented (if you don’t believe me, it is US patent 5690603 according to Wikipedia), I just received the new prototype installed with a vibrator in the tip (she pointed to the tipoff the dildo, as if I needed to be shown) and I intend to try it out tonight.” She put her finger to her chin and then picked up her cell phone, flipping through her contact list. “I wonder which one of these young men would help me out, I know they would all be willing.” She then looked at me and said, “Or is this a task for my private banker?”
After about a minute of silence, that seemed more like five, I was unable to bring myself to acquiesce to her request. She pushed a button to connect with one of her contacts.
“Jimmy—-can you come over tonight? I have something to show you.” She listened to Jimmy talk and then giggled, “Something like that.” Jimmy must not have had any hesitation, as she said “Ta-da” and hung up.
As she walked out of my office, she turned her head partway and said, “Mr. Spencer, I’m sure you will come to regret this missed opportunity.” Was “come” intended to be a pun?
Six Weeks Later
It was about 7 pm. My cellphone rang and I heard her crying on the other end. “I think I have been scammed. Can you come over right away?”
While I had other things I intended to do, she gave me her address and I drove over to her house. She filled me in on the details when I arrived.
“I was on the Internet a few weeks ago. Someone offered that if I send him $5,000, I could pick up two million dollars at a foreign bank that he had not been able to bring into the United States. I sent him a check, but tonight when I tried to use the telephone the number he gave me, it was disconnected. I think that I lost my money.”
I was surprised that she was so naïve to one of the oldest known internet scams. “Well luckily, he didn’t get more money from you. This should be a learning experience that you should always consult with me before engaging in any similar transactions.”
“Do you think I need some punishment for my financial ineptitude?” I looked at her quizzically, not really knowing what to say. She looked at me expectantly.
“The only way I will learn is if you give me a spanking,” she said.
I was sitting in one of her dining room chairs, as she walked over. She dropped her skirt and bent over my lap, looking up at me with her pouty lips.
“Oh, please Mr. Spencer, don’t make it too painful,” she pleaded unconvincingly as she handed me a long wooden ruler, inscribed with the name of my bank.
She wore stockings held up by a lace flowered garter belt. The straps of the garter belt and the top of the stockings perfectly framed my target. Her buttocks were separated by the thin layer of nylon of her thong, assuring that each cheek would have equal attention.
As she bent over my knees, she slightly separated her legs. This created an opening between her thighs and buttocks. A slight wiggle of her bottom seemed like a lewd invitation for me to nuzzle my face between her legs and deeply breathe in the aroma of her perfume and sex. However, it was clear that she was the director of this play and I was only a supporting actor.
As I delivered my first spank, she said, “Mr. Spencer, I been a very bad girl.” The second was delivered shortly after and she responded, “How could I be so foolish?”
I made the third harder with the snap of my wrist, trying to give the intended effect without undue pain. “Ouch, Mr Spencer, I promise I won’t do it again.” I saw the redness on her buttocks start to come forth, and delivered the fourth and fifth, each on a different cheek.
“Ohhh, my little bottom is getting so sore. I won’t be able to sit down tomorrow.” She gave me no indication that she wanted me to stop. I delivered another. “Please, Mr. Spencer. Keep me from doing bad things.”
As I gave one more spank, I told her to arise. She stood up in front of me, in her garter belt, stockings and panties, both hands rubbing her buttocks. “I promise to consult you with any future financial matters, Mr. Spencer.”
Two Weeks Later
It was the night before income taxes were due. My cell phone rang, and she was on the other end. “Mr. Spencer, I’m having some trouble with my taxes. Can you come over and help me with some of these forms sent from your bank?”
I knew this was part of my responsibility, but why so late? I knew that her taxes would have to make it to the post office by midnight, so I quickly responded, “I’ll be right over.”
I went to her house, knocked on the door and she answered. She was dressed in a silk robe draped to her ankles, and 4″ red high heels. She had a scotch in her hand and said to me, “I’m so glad you’re here, I never could do this myself.”
She walked over to the dining room table, where there was a raft of papers strewn over the tabletop. I sat down next to her. She sat back in her chair, her robe now separated, showing the length of her legs. It was not clear to me whether she had any garments underneath.
I started by organizing her receipts into piles. Some of them did not appear appropriate for her taxes. Many were for various lingerie items from specialty shops, others were from adult stores.
I said to her, “I don’t think you can deduct these items on your taxes.”
She responded, “Oh, these are legitimate business expenses, can’t I put those items on schedule C?”
It appeared she might be a little more knowledgeable at doing her taxes than I had suspected. Nonetheless, we spent several hours together and I was able to complete her taxes satisfactorily.
“Oh, Mr. Spencer, I want to thank you.”
She had been drinking her scotch during my work. Her words were now slightly slurred. She owed about $10,000 with penalties.
“I will need you to make a deposit so I can pay the IRS.”
“Can you do that tonight so my check won’t bounce?”
I shook my head, “The bank is closed, so the deposit cannot be made until tomorrow morning.”
She pouted again and said, “You must make a deposit tonight.” With a curiously mischievous look, she continued, “Maybe you can use the back door.”
With that, she turned off the remaining light so only one lit candle illuminated the room with its flickering aura. She gently pulled my cock from my pants and kissed the tip with her lips, leaving a blush of red lipstick, as if measuring its rigidity. Her robe opened completely, revealing her beautiful body, belying her age twenty years my senior.
She dipped her finger in a small jar that contained a golden gel and spread it over my entire rigid penis, as if applying fingerpaint to a water soaked canvas. In a fluid movement, she turned opposite me, positioning her anal dimple directly over the head of my cock. She lowered herself down, relaxing her sphincter, entirely engulfing me to the point where she was entirely supported on my thighs.
After replenishing her fingertips with the lubricant, she synchronized her up-and-down motion on my cock with a circular motion of her middle fingertip on her clitoris with one hand. She rhythmically pinched her nipple between her thumb and forefinger with the other. She had an uncanny skill of constricting her sphincter muscles upon arising, and relaxing them as she descended.
The synchronousity of her motions was hypnotizing, choreographed precisely like a solo dance performance. She seemed to glide effortlessly, her legs taut, the angle of the stiletto heels precisely aligning her rectal chamber with my erect cock. Her movements were lithe like a svelte gymnast, lifting herself to expose the shaft, but never the head of my cock. It didn’t take long before I could feel my erection build, despite this being my first time at anal penetration.
She turned her head, and said to me in a sultry voice, “Make sure you insert your deposit in my vault tonight,” as she continued her milking motion. This culminated in an ineffable simultaneous orgasm.
She sat for a moment, my penis still fully inserted, but softening. Once she felt it flaccid, she stood, and looked at me, “I have to take a shower, just let yourself out.” She handed me an envelope with the check and left the room.
The next day
The next morning, I was called into my supervisor, Mr. Fredrick’s office. He was in charge of private banking at the branch I worked for. “Mr. Spencer, I received a letter this morning which was most disturbing. Let me read it to you…”
Dear Mr. Frederick
I have decided to withdraw my funds from your bank. I have been working with Mr. Spencer, but have found his expertise at private banking to be lacking. He was unsupportive of a real estate transaction, requiring me to seek out specialized mortgage advice from one of his superiors. When suggesting a new business, he was reluctant to develop a business plan with me and was unwilling to participate in evaluating the product. He was hesitant in satisfactorily redressing errors I made in my financial transactions. Lastly, he seemed disinterested in establishing unconventional avenues of new growth in our banking relationship.
Needless to say, I was fired from my job. Despite this letter, I still had to make the deposit that she had given me last night. I opened the envelope. There was a check for $100,000. I had one of her deposit slips, and as I was ready to take it to the teller, I noticed that it was made out to me. I thought she had made a mistake by adding a zero and made out to the wrong person, a result of the scotch the night before. I tried to call her on her cell phone, but it was disconnected. What would happen if I deposited a check that she had mistakenly written the wrong name on?