Caution: This Romantic Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Romantic,
Desc: Romantic Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - This book is based on The Wilkerson Institute, using some of the same Institute characters. It appears with the permission of the author. And, of course, there are a few characters from other stories of mine that appear.
Hi, folks. My name is William Cameron Harris, III, known to my friends as Cam. In fact, I regret to say that my letters are signed W. Cameron Harris, III. Sorry about that. But it comes of having a father who was known as Bill — as was his father — causing endless confusion in his childhood household. My parents solved that problem with me by calling me Cam. Oh, well...
Just to get the vital — or not so vital — statistics out of the way, as this story opens, I was 28 years old, six feet three inches tall plus a skosh, and weighed about 210. In spite of my sedentary occupation I was in remarkably good shape. Although the family has a lot of money — really loaded — my father believed in the kids working. Since I was the only one, there was little I could do to escape his attention. As a result I worked summers in heavy construction beginning in the summer after I graduated from high school and continued each year right through graduate schools. Because my family paid for my education, my savings mounted dramatically.
My savings were assisted by another factor: a family tree shaped like a pyramid standing on its apex. All four of my grandparents were from wealthy families and they each increased their family's wealth. Then the wars our country fought — World War II, Korea, Vietnam — were a major factor in thinning the family tree. I lost great uncles and uncles in substantial numbers. In every case, they were single when they died so what would have been their inheritance ended up in the hands of my parents and me. What we have to show for it is a collection of medals for bravery including a Navy Cross and a Distinguished Service Cross, as well as a collection of lesser hardware. Oh, yeah ... there's quite a collection of Purple Hearts awarded posthumously. Clearly my ancestors were better at bravery than they were at keeping their heads down.
So what does this have to do with anything? Ever hear of something called generation-skipping? To try to minimize the bite of death taxes, my grandparents — all four of them — left their estates to me. This added significantly to the Cam Harris coffers. Then there's the fact that I'm a good investor ... or a good gambler. Although I was in school for much of the time and a minor for part of it, I had Microsoft and Intel in 1983. I was in Cisco, Global Crossing, WorldCom and even Enron. But guess what? I was out of most of those by February, 2001, before the market tanked. There were many others on which I had a good and highly profitable ride before cashing out. The net of all of this was that I had amassed a fortune north of $10 billion by the time I graduated from law school.
Oh, yes ... education: I graduated summa cum laude from Yale, as a Baker Scholar from the Harvard Business School, and first in my class from Yale Law. Yep. You got it. Can you say Nerd? And one more rather vital point: In the presence of a female human below the age of 50, I do my clam imitation. I'm tongue-tied. And you know what else? The more attractive she is, the worse I am. Are you starting to get a picture? Just one last point in this vein: Not only am I tongue-tied, I also become incredibly clumsy. Once I literally tripped over my own feet and went flat on my face. And she wasn't much better than a 6.5 on a scale of 10.
However, where the female of the species is concerned, there are some who have the same nose for money that sharks have for blood in the water. They look at a guy and see a bank balance. How they do it I have no idea, but they do. And yes, there were a number of that subspecies who found me. Perhaps because of my normal behavior and lack of any attraction for girls that I had ever been able to discover, I was sufficiently frightened that I would run, not walk, to the nearest exit.
So here I was at the age of 28, still a virgin. Neat!
At this point who should appear but Jack James. Jack was a lawyer, about 40 years old, who was friendly with my father, also a lawyer. Whether my parents had anything to do with Jack's appearance on the scene, I didn't know, and don't know to this day. All I know is that I received a call from him at my office inviting me to have lunch with him at the Harvard Club in New York. Prior to that call, I'm not sure he and I had ever exchanged a total of 20 words, but I did know he was friendly with my father and he invoked his name prior to extending the invitation. Since I had nothing better to do — watching the stock tape has never been my idea of fun — I agreed and we set the date.
At the appointed time, I appeared at the club on West 44th Street, went in and found him waiting for me, along with another well-dressed gentleman I had never seen before. He was introduced to me as John Wilson with no further identification, and we went into the dining room to eat. No sooner had we been seated than Jack excused himself, pleading the need to make an urgent phone call he had forgotten about. He left the table leaving me alone with Wilson.
"Well, Mr. Harris," Wilson began, speaking with a faint British accent, "that's fortuitous. The real purpose of this lunch was to allow me to meet you—"
"I suspected as much," I interrupted, "and I really would not have agreed to lunch had I known there was an ulterior motive." I paused and added, "You do know that this club frowns — to put it most mildly — on business discussions here."
"Indeed I do," he hastily agreed. "However, this is really personal, not business. Moreover, the only paper that will change hands today is my business card, which I shall give to you when our business is concluded."
By this time a waiter had appeared and we both ordered white wine.
After sipping his wine and nodding his approval, Wilson began, "Let me tell you a little story: There's a young man named Cameron or Cam or something like that. He seemed to be frightened of women — the more attractive the woman, the greater his fright — and at the same time he attracted the type of women who seem to be drawn to the smell of money. Since this young man was truly loaded, the smell of money he exuded was strong enough to attract virtually every member of that subspecies in the Northern Hemisphere. I gather that beating them off became more than a little tiresome."
"So what did this other Cameron do to solve his problem?"
With a warm smile Wilson replied, "He became a patron of The Wilkerson Institute, of course. Then all his problems were over."
"And how did his patronage of this institute solve his problems?"
"Using some of the world's most sophisticated techniques he was matched with a young woman who met his personal specifications exactly!"
"A dating service, you mean," I said wryly. "Not interested."
"Anything but!" Wilson protested. "He hired the young woman on the standard three-year contract."
"A personal service contract. In his case, she acts as cook and housekeeper, as well as delivering various ... personal services."
"She sleeps with him, you mean?"
"Sometimes," Wilson replied blithely, "but often she returns to her own room. It depends solely on Cam's wishes."
"And when he goes out in the evening?"
"If requested, she can be perfect arm candy or anything more he may wish."
At that point we both saw Jack James returning to the table.
To my surprise, Wilson rose, extended his hand and took his leave, leaving a card in my hand with a dollar amount carefully written on the back. "I regret I must leave you now, Mr. Harris, but if you wish to reach me, I am always available at the phone number on the card. The number is the cost of our one-week orientation and selection session."
The number was not small.
"Did you cover everything?" Jack asked when Wilson was out of sight.
"I don't really know how to answer that, Jack. He certainly seems to know a lot about me, though."
"Cam, are you busy today? Do you have anything on for this evening?"
I laughed bitterly. "If you knew me better, Jack, you would know the answer without asking the question. The short answer is no."
"Okay. In that case, how about joining me for dinner? Why don't you come by the apartment at six? We'll have cocktails there and go out to eat. Sound good?"
"Best offer I've had today."
He gave me his apartment address and phone number. We finished our lunch and separated, me to return to the office. That action was almost totally from force of habit, not that I had anything to do once I got there.
I returned to my place on the upper East Side at four to prepare for dinner. After showering and changing, I appeared at Jack's apartment promptly at six. I was taken aback when the door was opened by a lovely young woman wearing a very conservative maid's uniform.
"Good evening, Mr. Harris," she said cordially. "I'm Teresa, Mr. James' maid. Will you come with me, please?"
She led the way to the living room where Jack was reading the day's New York Post. Quickly putting aside the paper, he rose to greet me.
"Welcome, Cam! I can't tell you how pleased I am that you could make it. What would you like to drink? I have several very fine single-malt scotches. Care for one?"
"Sounds good," I replied with a smile.
I saw Jack glance at the girl. She smiled, nodded her head and disappeared. A few minutes later she reappeared with drinks for the two of us on a small silver tray, along with a much larger tray of canapés that she set on the coffee table. Again she disappeared.
Jack and I chatted and renewed our acquaintance. He explained that he knew some members of my family far better than he knew me. It turned out that his law firm represented my maternal grandmother and then her estate upon her death.
"I know how much you received from that, Cam," he said. "Moreover, I also know that it was the least part of what you've received from your grandparents alone. Then there are the rumors floating around town about a young man who seems to have the Midas touch. It seems, according to the rumor, that he's in every hot stock just before it gets hot and then bails out just before it crests. The rumor has it that there are dozens of very hot traders who would pay dearly to learn of his trades ... after he does them. They're not greedy. They don't even want to know before the fact. Right after he trades is more than good enough. Any comment?"
I was spared the need to respond. Teresa had just returned to the room and her transformation in just a few short minutes was nothing short of astounding. The girl was short — probably about five feet two — with wavy golden-brown hair and incredible gray eyes. I knew her hair was naturally wavy from when she greeted me at the door; now it was piled high on her head. She was wearing a woman's classic "little black dress" that followed her curves perfectly. And was she ever curved! Her boobs were at least a C cup, possibly a D, but because of her short stature, I could be wrong about that. (I wasn't; they were a C+.) Her hips flared over a gorgeous pair of stocking-encased legs as she stood on four-inch spike heels.
Jack had risen from his seat on the sofa, and I rose as well.
"Cam, I would like you to meet my dear friend, Terry Michaels. Terry, this is Cam Harris who I've been telling you about." Then with a smile he asked her, "A glass of white wine, perhaps? I have a marvelous Villages Chablis."
"That would be lovely, Jack," she replied in a very warm soprano. At the same time, she extended her hand to me. "How do you do, Cam," she said warmly. Then with a lovely smile she added, "Jack could talk of nothing else all afternoon."
Jack excused himself and Terry sat beside me on the sofa, leaving plenty of room for Jack to sit on her other side when he returned. "He tells me you're thinking about becoming a patron of The Wilkerson Institute. I so hope you do."
I was puzzled. "Why would you care?"
"Because I'm a Wilkerson girl, of course. Isn't that obvious?"
I was stunned.
By this time Jack had returned with a wine glass in his hand. We chatted, but spoke no more about the Institute. Then I took a bite of a canapé.
I'm sure my eyes widened. I exclaimed, "This is the finest thing I've ever tasted! Where did it come from?"
"From the kitchen," Jack replied with a grin. "Terry made them this afternoon."
"My God! Such incredible beauty and she can cook, too?"
"Compared to some of my friends at the Institute, my cooking would rank as only marginally acceptable," she commented.
"You're joking!" I protested.
"Really, she's not," Jack said.
After a couple of hours and another round of drinks and another platter of hors d'oeuvres, we prepared to go out to dinner. When we rose to our feet, I found myself towering over Terry Michaels, even with her four-inch heels. Since we were standing so close, I looked at her face carefully. There was not a blemish nor any sign of any makeup, even at a range of only a few inches. Nonetheless, I knew she had done something to her eyes because they were highlighted far more than when she had greeted me at the door. But there wasn't a trace of anything showing.
"It's all waterproof and won't run under any circumstances," Terry commented casually, obviously having been aware that I had been studying her.
When we arrived at the restaurant — one of the finest haute cuisine French restaurants in New York — we were immediately greeted by the maître d' by name. "Monsieur James, welcome!" he said. Turning to Terry he added, "And the beauteous Mam'selle Michaels! It's so good to see you again."
"Thank you, André," Terry responded. "It's great to be back." With that she extended her hand and André bent over it, lightly kissing the back of her fingers. I was impressed as the girl accepted his homage with total aplomb. It was as if she was to the manor born. I found myself wondering about this lovely young woman and becoming more interested in The Wilkerson Institute by the minute.
After being seated at one of the very best tables, André presented menus and discussed the day's specials. Again Terry surprised me when she asked about some of the dishes in French. It was schoolgirl French, but it was grammatically correct. The maître d' complimented her on it, but she said, "It's atrocious, André, and we both know it. But thank you just the same." With that she gave him a lovely warm smile that truly lighted up her face and melted André to the floor.
We ordered wine, which was served while we awaited the appearance of our first courses. Again I found myself studying this lovely young woman. Her posture in her chair was perfect. She was fully upright with her shoulders back prominently displaying her very impressive chest. At the same time, everything she did appeared to be completely natural. There was no self-consciousness nor any effort to attract attention to herself. But periodically, she would reach out and lightly stroke Jack's hand that was resting on the table, showing everyone present to whom she belonged.
But her conversation focused on me. I learned that she was close to the end of her three-year contract with Jack, and neither intended that it be renewed. Furthermore, I learned that she was completing her degree in finance at New York University. I realized that this lovely young woman had completed four years of work in only three, and NYU's finance course was very highly regarded on Wall Street. Along with everything else, this girl was no dummy.
After glancing at Jack with a question in her eyes and receiving an affirmative nod she said, "Cam, I'm going to be looking for a job pretty soon. Would you mind if I sent you my résumé? I know from what Jack has told me that your occupation is investor. I've specialized in financial analysis, and think I could be of service to you." With a lovely grin she added, "I'm really great at crunching numbers!"
"She's a lot better than that," Jack added. "She's the only mistress I've ever had who has made far more money than she cost me. This girl has marvelous investment instincts. She's made far more than ten times what I've ever spent on her."
"Well, why don't you marry her, then?" I asked.
"One reason," he replied: "a very expensive ex-wife. Besides, as wonderful as she is, she doesn't love me."
Changing the subject, Terry asked, "Are you interested in the Institute, yet? I certainly hope you are."
At this point Jack interjected, "By the way, Cam, knowing your suspicious nature — suspicions solidly grounded in history, I should add — believe me when I tell you that there's absolutely nothing in this for Terry. She doesn't get five cents if you decide to go, and it won't cost her five cents if you don't."
"That's not strictly true, Jack," Terry responded softly.
Jack looked thoughtful for a moment, and then his face lit up. "You mean ... Kris?"
This time it was Terry's face that lighted up. Leaning toward him, she gave him the warmest, most loving kiss I had ever seen exchanged. Then to me she said, "That's what I love about this lug: We always seem to be on the same page."
She sat up straight in her chair and looked me straight in the eye. Whatever she was about to say was very important to her. Then she swallowed hard. It appeared that whatever was coming was something she was not at ease talking about. We had finished our entrée and were waiting for our coffee. Terry's hands were folded on the table in front of her and she looked down and appeared to study them closely.
Then she looked back into my eyes. I was surprised to see tears appear at the corners of hers. "If you go, Cam — and I really hope you will — please make a point of seeing Kristin Collins. I spoke with her on the phone just a few days ago so I know she's still there." The girl paused and looked down at her folded hands again to collect her thoughts.
"Kris Collins saved my life," she stated bluntly. Now her tears were flowing more freely as she continued, "I wasn't quite 16 years old when I arrived at the Institute. It's in Mexico on the Yucatan Peninsula. In spite of being on the Yucatan, it might as well be in the States.
"Anyway, when I arrived I was an ignorant, uneducated coke whore. I had been living on the streets by selling my body for years. What went before, I really don't know, and Doctor Henson at the Institute thinks I would be a lot happier not knowing and not remembering. Anyway, when I arrived, the greatest thing possible happened: I was assigned to room with Kristin Collins. She is without question the neatest person God, in His infinite wisdom, ever placed on the face of the earth.
"She got me through withdrawal — that was cold turkey — but with her constantly at my side, I made it. I used to see Kris constantly working and studying while I had never worked or studied a day in my life. She convinced me to change..." Her voice trailed off, but then she grinned through her tears and added, "The convincing involved more than a few trips to our dungeon where she beat the shit out of me with whatever came to hand. And if you ever see the dungeon there, you'll learn that there's no end to the things that can come to hand. But then she would cut me down, carry me back to our room in her arms and then treat the cuts all over my body with tender loving care.
"You've heard of TLC? Well, that's Kris."
"But ... beauty... ?" I stammered. "She can't be any better than you are in that department."
Terry giggled. It was the cutest, merriest little sound I had ever heard. "Do you want the truth?"
"Where looks are concerned, I'm somewhere in the bottom third of the group—"
"You're kidding!" I interrupted.
"She's really not," Jack interjected while Terry just cutely nodded at his remark.
" ... while Kris is at the very top, in a class by herself."
Again Jack agreed. "I met her," he said, "and Terry is telling the truth. Kris's beauty is utterly outrageous. The girl is just perfect. On the famous 1 to 10 scale, she's at least a 12."
"Well, what about... ?" My voice just trailed off as I left the question unfinished.
"There are two things," he responded. "First, since I'm not quite five-ten, she's too tall for me. Kris Collins is five-nine plus." Then he grinned and added, "From looking at Terry, you might get the idea that I'm a boob man, and I am." At his comment, Terry rolled her shoulders back even more raising her luscious tits higher. "Kris is much more streamlined — a beautiful B, I think. Then there's the fact that she's very athletic — I'm not; and very intellectual, too. Again, I'm not."
"Okay," I conceded, "this girl walks on water without getting her feet wet. But what's that have to do with me?"
It was Terry who replied. "Because this is her last shot," she said softly. "Kris is almost 23 and has been on the Yucatan for nearly eight years. She's never been selected. If she's not selected within the next few weeks, she'll either be asked to leave or — even worse — asked to join the permanent staff."
"Why would that be even worse?" I asked, displaying my ignorance.
"Because then she would never get out," was the soft reply. "It's a closed society down there. Kris would have no opportunity ever to meet an eligible man ... Ever! That's where she would end her life."
"The prognosis?" I asked.
"She'll almost certainly be asked to join the permanent staff. As it is, she holds the personal record for just about everything they maintain records on, and that's a pretty extensive list. Moreover, not only is she personally outstanding, she's also an incredibly gifted teacher. I don't think there's been a girl who's gone through there in the last five years who hasn't learned something from Kris. And I mean having been personally taught by her; I don't mean from observation."
Suddenly Terry changed the subject dramatically. "Tell me more about yourself, Cam. You're really fascinating!"
I slowly shook my head and replied, "Terry, already I have achieved a lifetime first this evening: You're the first young woman — let alone the first gorgeous young woman — I've ever been able to talk to without sounding both tongue-tied and like I had a mouthful of marbles." I looked at her closely and added, "Furthermore, I really get the impression that you're interested in what I have to say."
"That's only because I am," she replied with a lovely grin.
While Jack took care of the bill, we chatted about investments and interesting companies to invest in. I quickly learned that, as advertised, she was truly knowledgeable about Wall Street and investment vehicles of all kinds. As we returned to the apartment, we engaged in a brief debate involving the relative merits of selling put options versus selling a stock short. The girl was smart!
As soon as we were back in the apartment, she put on coffee, then disappeared. Jack poured three snifters of very old Armagnac and we returned to our previous places on the sofa.
A few minutes later, Terry reappeared, and I was utterly stunned ... again. She had shed her dress, her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was wearing the tiniest shorty nightgown that barely covered her crotch, along with a diaphanous silk peignoir. Both garments were a very pale shade of gray, picking up the color of her eyes. They were also so sheer, she might as well have been nude for any covering the garments provided. It was apparent that her nipples were taut and her pussy had been shaved. She was a vision!
Instead of sitting on the sofa, though, she sat on a small armchair facing me. As she was about to relax, she looked at the two of us and rose again and left the room. A few moments later she returned with a cigar humidor, a cutter and a lighter. After opening it, she selected a Corona corona, cut off the end, and lighted it with the greatest care to ensure that it was evenly lit. Determining that it was, she passed it to me, then repeated her actions with a second which she gave to Jack. Finally, she selected a slim panatela which she lighted for herself.
After swishing her Armagnac around in the snifter in her hand she inhaled the vapor and sighed. Then she took a puff on her cigar and announced, "This is about as good as it gets."
I found her behavior to be utterly incredible. Here she was, this utterly beautiful young woman, essentially naked in the presence of a stranger, yet seemingly unaware of her effect on me.
We continued our previous discussion of options and short selling, then shifted to specific companies. I was impressed with the cogency of her analysis, and even more impressed by her specific knowledge of certain companies that I followed closely ... or thought I did.
Finally after a particularly telling comment about a company in which I had a very large long position, I asked suspiciously, "How do you know that? Insider knowledge? Internet scuttlebutt? What?"
"Not hardly!" she responded with a giggle. "Everything I've told you is from company-published sources: annual reports, quarterlies, 10-Ks, proxy statements ... I'm like Alan Abelson of Barron's: strictly public — and published — material."
"I follow that company closely and I've never heard a whisper about what you've just told me. How come?"
Again I heard her lovely giggle. "I read the footnotes, too. And the footnotes to the footnotes. It's really amazing what one finds there sometimes."
I shook my head but did two things. First, I made careful mental notes of what she had told me about the company. Second, I carefully put my business card on the coffee table in front of her and said, "By all means, please do give me a call when you start looking for a job. Terry Michaels, based on what you've just told me, you've already made me far more money than I'll be paying you for a year."
With her eyes dancing she retorted, "I haven't told you how much money I'll be looking for."
"And I haven't told you how much money you've just made for me, either," I replied with a grin.
At that point Jack, who had been listening to our conversation and being very obviously proud of Terry's performance, took a hand. "Teresa," he said sternly, "what do you have to say for yourself? What is your excuse for appearing before a guest virtually naked and embarrassing him so?"
Before I could protest, Terry was off her chairs and on the floor on her knees. She was sitting on her ankles with her knees spread as wide as she could get them. Her shoulders were back and her hands were resting on her thighs, palms up. Her eyes were downcast, focused on Jack's shoes.
"I am truly sorry, Master," she squeaked.
"What is the appropriate punishment?" Jack demanded.
"Thirty strokes, Master?" she replied with a question in her voice.
He appeared thoughtful for a moment, then nodded his head firmly. "Yes, that's appropriate," he said slowly. Then in a command voice he added, "Take your position!"
"Now, Master?" Terry protested. "But your guest is still here."
"And he was the victim of your behavior, Teresa, so it's appropriate that he be here to see you punished. Take your position!" The last sentence was delivered loudly and forcefully.
Gracefully rising to her feet, she lifted the peignoir up and gathered it at her waist. She was now naked from the waist down. With her back to me I could see that she had a perfectly shaped, perfectly conditioned bottom. Then she lay across Jack's lap with her bottom still thrust toward me.
At that point Jack began to truly torment this beautiful young woman. He gently caressed her bottom, then gave her a hard smack. The fact is, though, I'm virtually certain that it sounded much harder than it was. Nonetheless, the shape of his large hand was almost immediately apparent in red on her otherwise creamy bottom.
The punishment continued in this vein until Terry screamed, "No more, Master! Please, no more! Just beat me! Double the number of strokes. I don't care. But I can't take the combination of caresses and spanks any longer!"
"You have nothing to say about it, slut! I control the punishment, not you."
I could clearly see her puffy labia showing between her thighs. Furthermore, I could easily see her vaginal juices leaking out and dripping on the carpet. They had started as drips, then became a trickle, and as I watched became an almost continuous stream. Finally the magic number of 30 was reached.
Gently he lifted her up and then sat her on his thigh. Turning her head toward his, he melted his lips to hers. Her arms flew around his shoulders and she held him tightly as their lips merged and their tongues began their duel.
When they finally eased apart, Terry looked down at the carpet. Seeing the pool of her fluids there, she punched Jack on the arm and exclaimed, "Damn it, Jack James, this is the end! I just got finished shampooing the carpet today and already I have to do it again. Why in hell can't you spank me in the kitchen? There I can wipe up my cunt juice with a sponge." Then in an utterly disgusted tone of voice she added, "Men!"
Jack and I both laughed at that one.
With arms around each other's waist, the two walked me to the door. Again, both seemed oblivious to the incredible display of Terry's undeniable charms. At the door, she looked up at him with a question in her eyes. He grinned and nodded enthusiastically.
Terry reached up for my neck, pulled me down and proceeded to melt her lips to mine. Believe it or not, it was the first real kiss I had ever shared with a woman, and I scarcely knew what to do. Thank God for the erotic stories on the Net! Without them, I would have been utterly lost. I opened my mouth a bit and instantly her tongue probed, searching for mine. When they met, they danced, then linked. Her lips were so soft, lovely and loving. There were no sparks or bells, but it was an incredible kiss.
Finally we separated and Terry said softly, "I hope you go to the Institute and look up Kris. I just know you'll love her. And when you get back, you can be sure I'll be in touch about a job."
Jack and I shook hands and I returned to my apartment.
Although it was almost two, John Wilson had said I could call him at any time. So I did. Not wanting to waste any time, I booked the week starting the following Monday. It was early spring, the sap was rising, and a young man's thoughts turned to what young women were thinking about all year.