Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
This tale combined with the TV series I am now devouring is really piquing my interest in this period. Bravo barb and Windy!
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Against All Odds: A Gilded Age Romance
- Thread starter Barbaria1
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windar
Teller of Tales
Chapter 8.
Stan had expected the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange to be crowded. It was always crowded with men such as himself, buying and selling the shares of the companies that were commercializing the latest advances of science and engineering-electric light, the telephone, the phonograph-improving the lives of people and making the United States into a mighty world power.
But today, the old building on Broad Street, which had already been expanded several times, was far more crowded than the norm. For today, May 17, 1892, was a special day on two accounts. First, it was the Centennial of the founding of the New York Stock Exchange, which dated its existence to the signing of the Buttonwood Agreement on May 17, 1792.
Second, it had been chosen to be the day the new clearinghouse to make the trading of stocks and the settling of accounts more efficient and secure was going into effect. Stockjobbers such as he and his colleagues, investors and bankers were eager to see how it would work.
The traders and investors jammed the floor, along with members of the press and assorted dignitaries, including the President of the Exchange, Mr. Frank Sturgis, whose special project the clearinghouse was.
As he awaited the opening bell, Stan listened to Sturgis’ speech, or at least the platitudes he could make out over the din of the assembled multitudes. This was a great day for the investing public, for New York, for America, and on and on.
Finally, Sturgis wound down, presumably having bored himself into silence and the bell sounded. Stan rushed to one of the designated trading areas, in the hunt for shares of Mr. Thomas Edison’s newly formed company, General Electric, the product of a merger between his Edison General Electric Company and its competitor, the Thomson-Houston Company. He joined the scrum of traders shouting buy and sell orders, looking for a price at which he would be able to turn the shares around later at a profit.
The particularly active trading kept Stan occupied through the morning. He was about to break for lunch, when, glancing up, he noticed a familiar face standing some distance away. It was the man from the next table that night a few weeks ago at Delmonico’s, James Moore, the Minnesota timber and iron ore magnate. That, being in New York, he might want to observe the trading for himself was not a surprise. Doubtless he owned shares in many of the great companies listed here.
What was a surprise was that he had brought with him his daughter, the lovely Barbara. The Stock Exchange was not a place where women were typically found, although Stan had noted a few, probably the wives of one dignitary or another, in attendance this day. But none were as young or as attractive as Barbara.
She looked desperately bored and somewhat disgusted by the screaming, gesticulating men who were behaving, for all the world, like schoolboys on the ballfield. She was looking towards the door to Stan’s left, probably plotting a course to escape this mayhem.
Then, she turned and was looking straight at Stan. He saw her hand go up and wave, ever so delicately, in his direction. Dare he to dream that she was beckoning him over? What would he say to her in front of her father? Stan didn’t know, but he figured he would think of something witty and charming if only he could make his way through the crowd.
He turned trying to circumvent the assembled traders, only to run into the bulky presence of his colleague, Patrick Flanagan.
“Stan, old pal, did you get me those 200 shares for Mr. Taylor?”
“Ah, not yet,” Stan replied. “I want a lower price and no one’s biting.”
“Well, stay at it. I don’t have to tell you that Taylor is a veritable whale. He thinks the clearinghouse will help prices and he may be right. In the meantime, I need to go over and check on our friend Alex.” Alex was how they referred to the Exchange’s most venerable company, The Bank of New York, founded by the illustrious Alexander Hamilton around the time he was helping found the country.
“Yes, sure, Pat,” Stan replied. He looked around desperately for Barbara or even for her father, but they were gone. Then he caught a flash of a female figure, accompanied by a man, about to exit by the door that she had been eyeing before she had turned and looked in his direction.
Muttering “Excuse me, sir,” as he pushed through the milling bodies, he made slow progress. By the time he reached the exit and stood on the street, they were gone, doubtless having hopped into one of the hansom cabs that waited by the curb, heading back to the Plaza or on to some other appointment.
Disappointed, Stan went back inside and joined the scrum of traders.
The sight of Barbara and the fact that she had seen him and waved in his direction-or at least Stan had reason to think that she had-was foremost in Stan’s mind as he spent the day buying and selling shares.
Back at the office, as he sat with his colleagues tallying the firm’s gains and losses, Henry noticed his distraction. “Is everything OK, Stan? We had a good day; I think the clearinghouse will work to our advantage, don’t you?”
“Yes, Henry, I am sure that it will. Progress marches on,” Stan replied, without much conviction.
Soon, they were done with their bookkeeping. Stan’s share of their profits for the day was almost $ 100, a very nice sum, indeed. ‘If only I were able to spend it on Barbara,’ he thought. The vision in his mind of her smile and her delicate little hand waving in his direction made him resolve to continue his quest for her, despite the long odds.
He left the office and headed for the elevated train heading uptown. Soon, he was standing in front of the desk at the Plaza looking at the smiling face of Mr. Pellegrino.
“Ah, Mr. Goldman,” the desk clerk greeted him. “So nice to see you again on such a fine evening.”
Stan thought back over their previous encounter. He was quite sure that he hadn’t identified himself. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
Pellegrino’s smile widened, like that of the Cheshire Cat in the wonderful tale of Mr. Lewis Carroll that Stan had read as a boy. “I make it my business to know the people I am dealing with,” he replied.
Stan saw little option but to forge ahead. He reached into his pocket and extracted a $ 10 bill. ‘No point beating around the bush,’ he thought. “Mr. Pellegrino,” he began. “We are both men of the world, so I will cut to the chase.” The desk clerk smiled. “I would be most grateful if you could arrange a private meeting between myself and Miss Moore,” he said.
“Ah, so your business is with her rather than with Mr. Moore,” Pellegrino said, winking at Stan.
“Yes, if you must know, it concerns an affair of the heart rather than an affair of the purse,” Stan said. He believed that Italians were even more expert in that area than the French; after all was not the great lover Casanova one of Pellegrino’s countrymen?
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Pellegrino replied.
“Impossible?” Stan asked. “She is still residing in this hotel, is she not?”
“Indeed she is, but she only leaves her room accompanied by her father.”
“But surely the man must go out on business unaccompanied? You could note those occasions and summon her down to the lobby on some pretext or other where I could speak with her. Being a gentleman, I would of course never presume to accompany her to her room, but she must know of the feelings that I hold for her.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Goldman that would not be possible either. Whenever her father goes out, Barbara is left under the care and supervision of the Swedish chambermaid he hired, Kristina. They stay in the room at all times playing cards, reading, embroidering and generally amusing themselves as women do.”
“What a pity to be in the most exciting city in the world and kept like a caged bird,” Stan remarked.
“Indeed, sir,” Pellegrino replied, winking. “But those are the wishes of Mr. Moore and he is not a man to be trifled with. I suggest that you steer your heart in a different, more fruitful direction.”
Stan sighed. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Pellegrino,” he said. He considered asking for his $10 back, given how little assistance the desk clerk had provided, but he suspected that would be met only with laughter. Instead he walked back out into the evening and took the train back downtown.
Stan had expected the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange to be crowded. It was always crowded with men such as himself, buying and selling the shares of the companies that were commercializing the latest advances of science and engineering-electric light, the telephone, the phonograph-improving the lives of people and making the United States into a mighty world power.
But today, the old building on Broad Street, which had already been expanded several times, was far more crowded than the norm. For today, May 17, 1892, was a special day on two accounts. First, it was the Centennial of the founding of the New York Stock Exchange, which dated its existence to the signing of the Buttonwood Agreement on May 17, 1792.
Second, it had been chosen to be the day the new clearinghouse to make the trading of stocks and the settling of accounts more efficient and secure was going into effect. Stockjobbers such as he and his colleagues, investors and bankers were eager to see how it would work.
The traders and investors jammed the floor, along with members of the press and assorted dignitaries, including the President of the Exchange, Mr. Frank Sturgis, whose special project the clearinghouse was.
As he awaited the opening bell, Stan listened to Sturgis’ speech, or at least the platitudes he could make out over the din of the assembled multitudes. This was a great day for the investing public, for New York, for America, and on and on.
Finally, Sturgis wound down, presumably having bored himself into silence and the bell sounded. Stan rushed to one of the designated trading areas, in the hunt for shares of Mr. Thomas Edison’s newly formed company, General Electric, the product of a merger between his Edison General Electric Company and its competitor, the Thomson-Houston Company. He joined the scrum of traders shouting buy and sell orders, looking for a price at which he would be able to turn the shares around later at a profit.
The particularly active trading kept Stan occupied through the morning. He was about to break for lunch, when, glancing up, he noticed a familiar face standing some distance away. It was the man from the next table that night a few weeks ago at Delmonico’s, James Moore, the Minnesota timber and iron ore magnate. That, being in New York, he might want to observe the trading for himself was not a surprise. Doubtless he owned shares in many of the great companies listed here.
What was a surprise was that he had brought with him his daughter, the lovely Barbara. The Stock Exchange was not a place where women were typically found, although Stan had noted a few, probably the wives of one dignitary or another, in attendance this day. But none were as young or as attractive as Barbara.
She looked desperately bored and somewhat disgusted by the screaming, gesticulating men who were behaving, for all the world, like schoolboys on the ballfield. She was looking towards the door to Stan’s left, probably plotting a course to escape this mayhem.
Then, she turned and was looking straight at Stan. He saw her hand go up and wave, ever so delicately, in his direction. Dare he to dream that she was beckoning him over? What would he say to her in front of her father? Stan didn’t know, but he figured he would think of something witty and charming if only he could make his way through the crowd.
He turned trying to circumvent the assembled traders, only to run into the bulky presence of his colleague, Patrick Flanagan.
“Stan, old pal, did you get me those 200 shares for Mr. Taylor?”
“Ah, not yet,” Stan replied. “I want a lower price and no one’s biting.”
“Well, stay at it. I don’t have to tell you that Taylor is a veritable whale. He thinks the clearinghouse will help prices and he may be right. In the meantime, I need to go over and check on our friend Alex.” Alex was how they referred to the Exchange’s most venerable company, The Bank of New York, founded by the illustrious Alexander Hamilton around the time he was helping found the country.
“Yes, sure, Pat,” Stan replied. He looked around desperately for Barbara or even for her father, but they were gone. Then he caught a flash of a female figure, accompanied by a man, about to exit by the door that she had been eyeing before she had turned and looked in his direction.
Muttering “Excuse me, sir,” as he pushed through the milling bodies, he made slow progress. By the time he reached the exit and stood on the street, they were gone, doubtless having hopped into one of the hansom cabs that waited by the curb, heading back to the Plaza or on to some other appointment.
Disappointed, Stan went back inside and joined the scrum of traders.
***
The sight of Barbara and the fact that she had seen him and waved in his direction-or at least Stan had reason to think that she had-was foremost in Stan’s mind as he spent the day buying and selling shares.
Back at the office, as he sat with his colleagues tallying the firm’s gains and losses, Henry noticed his distraction. “Is everything OK, Stan? We had a good day; I think the clearinghouse will work to our advantage, don’t you?”
“Yes, Henry, I am sure that it will. Progress marches on,” Stan replied, without much conviction.
Soon, they were done with their bookkeeping. Stan’s share of their profits for the day was almost $ 100, a very nice sum, indeed. ‘If only I were able to spend it on Barbara,’ he thought. The vision in his mind of her smile and her delicate little hand waving in his direction made him resolve to continue his quest for her, despite the long odds.
He left the office and headed for the elevated train heading uptown. Soon, he was standing in front of the desk at the Plaza looking at the smiling face of Mr. Pellegrino.
“Ah, Mr. Goldman,” the desk clerk greeted him. “So nice to see you again on such a fine evening.”
Stan thought back over their previous encounter. He was quite sure that he hadn’t identified himself. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
Pellegrino’s smile widened, like that of the Cheshire Cat in the wonderful tale of Mr. Lewis Carroll that Stan had read as a boy. “I make it my business to know the people I am dealing with,” he replied.
Stan saw little option but to forge ahead. He reached into his pocket and extracted a $ 10 bill. ‘No point beating around the bush,’ he thought. “Mr. Pellegrino,” he began. “We are both men of the world, so I will cut to the chase.” The desk clerk smiled. “I would be most grateful if you could arrange a private meeting between myself and Miss Moore,” he said.
“Ah, so your business is with her rather than with Mr. Moore,” Pellegrino said, winking at Stan.
“Yes, if you must know, it concerns an affair of the heart rather than an affair of the purse,” Stan said. He believed that Italians were even more expert in that area than the French; after all was not the great lover Casanova one of Pellegrino’s countrymen?
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Pellegrino replied.
“Impossible?” Stan asked. “She is still residing in this hotel, is she not?”
“Indeed she is, but she only leaves her room accompanied by her father.”
“But surely the man must go out on business unaccompanied? You could note those occasions and summon her down to the lobby on some pretext or other where I could speak with her. Being a gentleman, I would of course never presume to accompany her to her room, but she must know of the feelings that I hold for her.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Goldman that would not be possible either. Whenever her father goes out, Barbara is left under the care and supervision of the Swedish chambermaid he hired, Kristina. They stay in the room at all times playing cards, reading, embroidering and generally amusing themselves as women do.”
“What a pity to be in the most exciting city in the world and kept like a caged bird,” Stan remarked.
“Indeed, sir,” Pellegrino replied, winking. “But those are the wishes of Mr. Moore and he is not a man to be trifled with. I suggest that you steer your heart in a different, more fruitful direction.”
Stan sighed. “Thank you for the advice, Mr. Pellegrino,” he said. He considered asking for his $10 back, given how little assistance the desk clerk had provided, but he suspected that would be met only with laughter. Instead he walked back out into the evening and took the train back downtown.
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windar
Teller of Tales
Notes on Chapter 8
The New York Stock Exchange dates its existence to the signing of the Buttonwood Agreement on May 17, 1792 by 24 of the leading merchants of the time. They agreed to buy and sell only amongst each other and to charge clients a commission of 0.25%.
The agreement is named after a buttonwood tree (the picture at left) under which the earliest transactions had taken place, though they had already outgrown that and traded in coffee houses-originally, The Merchant's Coffee House at the far right in this 1797 painting by Francis Guy (right) and, from 1793 on, in the Tontine Coffee House, the large building with the flag. The earliest joint stock trading in Amsterdam and later in London had also taken place in coffee houses.
Eventually, they outgrew the coffee houses and moved into their own space, occupying the current location beginning in 1865. The iconic neo-classical facade is actually at 18 Broad Street, though the official address is around the corner at 11 Wall Street. So when people complain about "Wall Street" should they really be speaking of "Broad Street"?
The New York Stock Exchange dates its existence to the signing of the Buttonwood Agreement on May 17, 1792 by 24 of the leading merchants of the time. They agreed to buy and sell only amongst each other and to charge clients a commission of 0.25%.
The agreement is named after a buttonwood tree (the picture at left) under which the earliest transactions had taken place, though they had already outgrown that and traded in coffee houses-originally, The Merchant's Coffee House at the far right in this 1797 painting by Francis Guy (right) and, from 1793 on, in the Tontine Coffee House, the large building with the flag. The earliest joint stock trading in Amsterdam and later in London had also taken place in coffee houses.
Eventually, they outgrew the coffee houses and moved into their own space, occupying the current location beginning in 1865. The iconic neo-classical facade is actually at 18 Broad Street, though the official address is around the corner at 11 Wall Street. So when people complain about "Wall Street" should they really be speaking of "Broad Street"?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
... and possibly reflecting on the lesbian show she and her Scandinavian Chamber Maid had put on for Signor Pellegrino earlier that day ...
Methinks young Mario is somewhat of a businessman where these so called 'affairs of the heart' are concerned!
I keep waiting for Mrs Astor to come strolling into one of these terrifically authentic scenes. Excellent as always ...
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
What a genteel way of describing the scene!
Uh huh
windar
Teller of Tales
I think I speak for Barb, when I say that we enjoyed writing Mario very much. He is what one might call a lovable rogue...Uh huh
As all Italian men are … or at least imagine themselves to be
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Interesting! As far as I recall, this is the first time, the year and month of the story are revealed.
So, it was the last year of Benjamin Harrison's presidency. Harrison, a Republican, had defeated incumbent president Grover Cleveland in the election of 1888. Interesting detail : Cleveland had won the popular vote, but lost the electoral college. In 1884, Cleveland himself had been the first Democrat to be elected since James Buchanan in 1856. In the elections of 1892, Cleveland would in turn defeat Harrison, Becoming the first and as yet only US predident to serve two separate terms.
But today, the old building on Broad Street, which had already been expanded several times, was far more crowded than the norm. For today, May 17, 1892, was a special day on two accounts. First, it was the Centennial of the founding of the New York Stock Exchange, which dated its existence to the signing of the Buttonwood Agreement on May 17, 1792.
Second, it had been chosen to be the day the new clearinghouse to make the trading of stocks and the settling of accounts more efficient and secure was going into effect. Stockjobbers such as he and his colleagues, investors and bankers were eager to see how it would work.
Second, it had been chosen to be the day the new clearinghouse to make the trading of stocks and the settling of accounts more efficient and secure was going into effect. Stockjobbers such as he and his colleagues, investors and bankers were eager to see how it would work.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Succesfully trading stocks seems a piece of cake compared to trading for Barbara Moore!
She looked desperately bored and somewhat disgusted by the screaming, gesticulating men who were behaving, for all the world, like schoolboys on the ballfield. She was looking towards the door to Stan’s left, probably plotting a course to escape this mayhem.
Then, she turned and was looking straight at Stan. He saw her hand go up and wave, ever so delicately, in his direction. Dare he to dream that she was beckoning him over? What would he say to her in front of her father? Stan didn’t know, but he figured he would think of something witty and charming if only he could make his way through the crowd.
Then, she turned and was looking straight at Stan. He saw her hand go up and wave, ever so delicately, in his direction. Dare he to dream that she was beckoning him over? What would he say to her in front of her father? Stan didn’t know, but he figured he would think of something witty and charming if only he could make his way through the crowd.
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Young Stan looks a bit like young Al Pacino?
Mario is a superb character, indeed. In many ways more of a barrier to Stan and Barb's simmering desires than old man Moore himself!
Have I said how much I'm enjoying this tale, Windar and Barb? No?
Well, I very much am!
Chapter 9
Trailing in her father’s wake, as she customarily did, Barbara ascended the double marble stairway leading from the New York Stock Exchange’s Broad Street entrance to the trading floor. This being an important occasion, or at least so her father had solemnly told her, she was wearing a new outfit, reflecting the latest in high fashion styles. Since the day they had arrived in New York, her social-climbing father had insisted that everything they did be of the highest and latest fashion, never mind the expense. And when it came to her wardrobe, Barbara was an enthusiastic believer.
On that day, with Kristina’s assistance, she had eschewed the traditionally fashionable full and excessively rigid bustle skirt and opted for the latest thing …. a more narrow and bell-shaped skirt, that hung free and flowing, which gave it the advantage of being more maneuverable. Thus, as she ascended the marble stairway, she was able to lift and swish her skirt above her ankles in a way she imagined to be quite frivolous and alluring.
She’d also wore one of the new puffed sleeve, or gigot, shirts, underlain by a new kind of corset designed to protrude and draw attention to her chest, as well as to accentuate her hips. Being slim, with somewhat narrow hips and a tight little butt, she liked the way in which the new style made them an asset rather than render them hidden.
To top off the ensemble, Kristina had arranged Barbara’s long brown hair in the new, all the rage, chignon style … with a bun at the top of her head and the rest loosely puffed and curled all around. Preening before a mirror, Barbara had loved the way the arrangement framed her face and seemed to draw attention to the expressiveness of her deep brown eyes.
And so, as they emerged at the top of the stairway and stepped out onto the crowded trading floor, which her father had solemnly informed her was known to insiders as the “board room”, Barbara couldn’t help but notice that she was turning heads. And of course, to add to the fun and excitement, nearly all of those heads were male.
But, she also noticed that her appearance was not the only thing attracting attention. The place was a veritable beehive of activity, with men in starched collars, some in shirtsleeves, bustling about, closely mingled with one another across the crowded floor, raising their hands in odd and frenzied gestures, and shouting out, often in words that seemed totally incomprehensible to her.
As she well knew, men were attracted to money as much as they were to anything. And this place, with its high ceiling and stately marbled columns struck her as a veritable temple to the accumulation of wealth. Small wonder that her father would take such pride in taking her there.
Her father had waded eagerly into the melee of trading. And she followed him dutifully as he wended his way across the floor, stopping to greet and often exchange words with men he apparently knew, occasionally introducing her to the younger ones.
She wished he wasn’t so obvious. She felt at times like she was being bartered or auctioned off to the highest, most eligible bachelor bidder … like a common share of stock in her father’s burgeoning financial empire.
This constant and purposeful mingling went on for some time, and it wasn’t long before Barbara became totally bored, and sought escape by redirecting her mind elsewhere. For the most part that meant recalling the events of earlier that day, when Mario had turned up at the door of the hotel suite to accept payment for future services rendered in her ongoing quest to learn more about the elusive Mr Goldman. She and Mario had agreed the previous night that the down payment for those services was to be in the form of allowing him to be a spectator that morning to the little after-bath ritual that she and Kristina performed together daily.
She had met Mario at the door to the suite, dripping wet with a towel wrapped loosely around her torso, as she had just stepped out of the bath.
“Oh, you’re here a trifle early,” she said as she leaned out to glance up and down the hallway before admitting him and then quickly closing and locking the door.
“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” had been his response.
“I’ll bet. Follow me. I’ve informed Kristina of the plan. She says she’s okay with it.”
“I don’t imagine as your chamber maid she has a choice, but I’m glad she’s okay with it.”
On entering the bedroom Barbara and Mario had found Kristina bent over the bed arranging a covering of bath towels. The Swedish girl was stark naked.
“Mr Pellegrino has arrived,” Barbara had declared rather unnecessarily.
“God morgon, Mr Pellegrino,” Kristina had responded formally, turning to face him and performing a small curtsey.
“This morning you can call me Mario, Kristina.”
“Yes, Mr Pellegrino.”
“Kristina and I were about to ….” Barbara had begun to explain, but was abruptly cut off in mid-sentence by Mario who brushed brusquely past her to take a seat on a chair, which he drew up to face the bed.
“Go right ahead, I’ll just watch from here as we agreed,” he had said with an agreeably affable wave of his hand.
Barbara had looked at him a bit dubiously, but then with a shrug dropped her towel and took up her customary position lying face down on the bed.
“Oh my … may I … uh … please comment on what Ii am seeing and feeling right now?” Mario had gasped, face alight in excited admiration.
“No, you may not!”
“Pity, I was just about to say something about your cute little ass.”
“Save it. You’re here to observe, Mario, nothing more. Kindly keep that in mind.”
At that point, Kristina had commenced with administering her customary highly-sensual massage, oiling snd kneading Barbara’s backside from shoulders to thighs and back again. And for a moment, in her bliss, Barbara might have forgotten about Mario’s presence had it not been for his heavy breathing.
“Jag tror att herrn Pellegrino skulle vilja delta,” Kristina had observed as she finished the ritual, as she always did, by applying both oil and two fingers to Barbara’s pussy.
“No! He’s not allowed to take part, no matter how much he wants to!” Barbara had retorted sharply, having needed no translation.
“Ja, he only watch … time to roll over on your back now, Miss Barbara.”
Mario had emitted a series of quite audible groans as he then was treated to the spectacle of the two naked young females coupling, with Kristina on top. Craning his neck and leaning left and right, he had strained to take in as much as he could as they kissed and vigorously caressed one another into a lustful frenzy. In the heat of their passion, Barb all but forgot about him again as she gripped the bedding, white knuckled, in response to Kristina’s fast-paced licking and nibbling assault on her nipples, and having neared that point of sensual no return, cried out, “Now! Kristina, now!”
But rather than turning herself about to scissor, as she ordinarily would have done, Kristina had reached instead for an item wrapped in colored tissue paper that had been lying off to one side on the bed. Kneeling between Barbara’s widely splayed legs, she had unwrapped it, revealing the hand-carved Swedish dildo she had shown to Barbara the previous day. Reaching for the bath oil, she lathered a coating of lubricating fluid over the entirety of its lacquered, brightly painted shaft. And then, as Barbara had spread her legs ever wider and reached down to touch herself with extended finger, Kristina eased its phallic head into Barbara’s gapingly open slit and began to expertly work it back and forth and all around until Barbara climaxed with an exclaimed “yessss!!!!” … an outburst so loud that it literally reverberated off the ceiling and walls.
And that, as it turned out, had been simply too much for Pellegrino, who startled both girls by suddenly starting to clamber onto the bed, sans pants and sporting a full erection.
“Mario, no!” Barbara had yelled, rolling quickly away from him.
“Slappna av, Kristina tar hand om honom!” cried Kristina, intercepting her boss, backpedaling him off the bed, and forcibly seating him on his chair again. Then without further ado, she calmly straddled him, took him inside of her, pressed her large milky white breasts in his face, and rode him till they both climaxed, screaming “Min Gud!” as he ejaculated inside her.
Back on the trading floor, Barb grinned happily to herself as she went mechanically through the rituals of introductions to her father’s many business associates. Her thoughts returned to the scene back in the hotel suite, and the way in which things had ended.
Mario had been full of apologies at first, embarrassed by his impetuosity, but had quickly recovered and become all business-like. He had generously said that he would recommend an immediate hike in Kristina’s pay going forward, and had assured Barbara that he was now on the Goldman trail full-time … cautioning though that there would be a need, no doubt, to collect additional payments from she and Kristina before all was said and done.
“Barbara!” hissed her father, breaking her reverie, and bringing her mindful presence back fully to the stock market trading floor. “What’s gotten into you? I just introduced you a few seconds ago to one of the best-known traders here, and to his astonishment and mine you responded by shouting “yessssss” at him. For God’s sake, please try to be pay attention and act dignified and ladylike for the rest of our time here. And mark my words, young lady, that embarrassing outburst will not go unpunished. It’s the leather strap for you tonight back at the hotel!”
Reprimanded and embarrassed, she looked away from him and away from all the screaming, gesticulating men milling about on the trading room floor, casting her gaze towards the door. She’d had enough. She’d embarrassed herself and her father. She wanted desperately to leave.
But then out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. There was no doubt, it was definitely HIM … that elusive, mysterious, desirable soul, she knew only as “Goldman”.
She stared straight at him, and raised her hand to beckon him towards her. She thought she saw a sign of recognition cross his handsome face. And for a brief time he seemed intent on making his way toward her, slipping past people and angling in her direction, but then he abruptly stopped to engage in a prolonged conversation with a heavy set man.
Perhaps she’d been mistaken? He hadn’t recognized her after all? It was just her imagination? Perhaps she should try to get his attention again? But then, one shouldn’t appear too eager, should one?
But it mattered little, because by then it was too late.
Her father had taken her firmly by the arm and had begun to propel her towards the stairway and doors exiting out to Broad Street, saying brusquely, “Come Barbara. We’re finished here.”
She knew then that she was really in for it.
Trailing in her father’s wake, as she customarily did, Barbara ascended the double marble stairway leading from the New York Stock Exchange’s Broad Street entrance to the trading floor. This being an important occasion, or at least so her father had solemnly told her, she was wearing a new outfit, reflecting the latest in high fashion styles. Since the day they had arrived in New York, her social-climbing father had insisted that everything they did be of the highest and latest fashion, never mind the expense. And when it came to her wardrobe, Barbara was an enthusiastic believer.
On that day, with Kristina’s assistance, she had eschewed the traditionally fashionable full and excessively rigid bustle skirt and opted for the latest thing …. a more narrow and bell-shaped skirt, that hung free and flowing, which gave it the advantage of being more maneuverable. Thus, as she ascended the marble stairway, she was able to lift and swish her skirt above her ankles in a way she imagined to be quite frivolous and alluring.
She’d also wore one of the new puffed sleeve, or gigot, shirts, underlain by a new kind of corset designed to protrude and draw attention to her chest, as well as to accentuate her hips. Being slim, with somewhat narrow hips and a tight little butt, she liked the way in which the new style made them an asset rather than render them hidden.
To top off the ensemble, Kristina had arranged Barbara’s long brown hair in the new, all the rage, chignon style … with a bun at the top of her head and the rest loosely puffed and curled all around. Preening before a mirror, Barbara had loved the way the arrangement framed her face and seemed to draw attention to the expressiveness of her deep brown eyes.
And so, as they emerged at the top of the stairway and stepped out onto the crowded trading floor, which her father had solemnly informed her was known to insiders as the “board room”, Barbara couldn’t help but notice that she was turning heads. And of course, to add to the fun and excitement, nearly all of those heads were male.
But, she also noticed that her appearance was not the only thing attracting attention. The place was a veritable beehive of activity, with men in starched collars, some in shirtsleeves, bustling about, closely mingled with one another across the crowded floor, raising their hands in odd and frenzied gestures, and shouting out, often in words that seemed totally incomprehensible to her.
As she well knew, men were attracted to money as much as they were to anything. And this place, with its high ceiling and stately marbled columns struck her as a veritable temple to the accumulation of wealth. Small wonder that her father would take such pride in taking her there.
Her father had waded eagerly into the melee of trading. And she followed him dutifully as he wended his way across the floor, stopping to greet and often exchange words with men he apparently knew, occasionally introducing her to the younger ones.
She wished he wasn’t so obvious. She felt at times like she was being bartered or auctioned off to the highest, most eligible bachelor bidder … like a common share of stock in her father’s burgeoning financial empire.
This constant and purposeful mingling went on for some time, and it wasn’t long before Barbara became totally bored, and sought escape by redirecting her mind elsewhere. For the most part that meant recalling the events of earlier that day, when Mario had turned up at the door of the hotel suite to accept payment for future services rendered in her ongoing quest to learn more about the elusive Mr Goldman. She and Mario had agreed the previous night that the down payment for those services was to be in the form of allowing him to be a spectator that morning to the little after-bath ritual that she and Kristina performed together daily.
She had met Mario at the door to the suite, dripping wet with a towel wrapped loosely around her torso, as she had just stepped out of the bath.
“Oh, you’re here a trifle early,” she said as she leaned out to glance up and down the hallway before admitting him and then quickly closing and locking the door.
“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” had been his response.
“I’ll bet. Follow me. I’ve informed Kristina of the plan. She says she’s okay with it.”
“I don’t imagine as your chamber maid she has a choice, but I’m glad she’s okay with it.”
On entering the bedroom Barbara and Mario had found Kristina bent over the bed arranging a covering of bath towels. The Swedish girl was stark naked.
“Mr Pellegrino has arrived,” Barbara had declared rather unnecessarily.
“God morgon, Mr Pellegrino,” Kristina had responded formally, turning to face him and performing a small curtsey.
“This morning you can call me Mario, Kristina.”
“Yes, Mr Pellegrino.”
“Kristina and I were about to ….” Barbara had begun to explain, but was abruptly cut off in mid-sentence by Mario who brushed brusquely past her to take a seat on a chair, which he drew up to face the bed.
“Go right ahead, I’ll just watch from here as we agreed,” he had said with an agreeably affable wave of his hand.
Barbara had looked at him a bit dubiously, but then with a shrug dropped her towel and took up her customary position lying face down on the bed.
“Oh my … may I … uh … please comment on what Ii am seeing and feeling right now?” Mario had gasped, face alight in excited admiration.
“No, you may not!”
“Pity, I was just about to say something about your cute little ass.”
“Save it. You’re here to observe, Mario, nothing more. Kindly keep that in mind.”
At that point, Kristina had commenced with administering her customary highly-sensual massage, oiling snd kneading Barbara’s backside from shoulders to thighs and back again. And for a moment, in her bliss, Barbara might have forgotten about Mario’s presence had it not been for his heavy breathing.
“Jag tror att herrn Pellegrino skulle vilja delta,” Kristina had observed as she finished the ritual, as she always did, by applying both oil and two fingers to Barbara’s pussy.
“No! He’s not allowed to take part, no matter how much he wants to!” Barbara had retorted sharply, having needed no translation.
“Ja, he only watch … time to roll over on your back now, Miss Barbara.”
Mario had emitted a series of quite audible groans as he then was treated to the spectacle of the two naked young females coupling, with Kristina on top. Craning his neck and leaning left and right, he had strained to take in as much as he could as they kissed and vigorously caressed one another into a lustful frenzy. In the heat of their passion, Barb all but forgot about him again as she gripped the bedding, white knuckled, in response to Kristina’s fast-paced licking and nibbling assault on her nipples, and having neared that point of sensual no return, cried out, “Now! Kristina, now!”
But rather than turning herself about to scissor, as she ordinarily would have done, Kristina had reached instead for an item wrapped in colored tissue paper that had been lying off to one side on the bed. Kneeling between Barbara’s widely splayed legs, she had unwrapped it, revealing the hand-carved Swedish dildo she had shown to Barbara the previous day. Reaching for the bath oil, she lathered a coating of lubricating fluid over the entirety of its lacquered, brightly painted shaft. And then, as Barbara had spread her legs ever wider and reached down to touch herself with extended finger, Kristina eased its phallic head into Barbara’s gapingly open slit and began to expertly work it back and forth and all around until Barbara climaxed with an exclaimed “yessss!!!!” … an outburst so loud that it literally reverberated off the ceiling and walls.
And that, as it turned out, had been simply too much for Pellegrino, who startled both girls by suddenly starting to clamber onto the bed, sans pants and sporting a full erection.
“Mario, no!” Barbara had yelled, rolling quickly away from him.
“Slappna av, Kristina tar hand om honom!” cried Kristina, intercepting her boss, backpedaling him off the bed, and forcibly seating him on his chair again. Then without further ado, she calmly straddled him, took him inside of her, pressed her large milky white breasts in his face, and rode him till they both climaxed, screaming “Min Gud!” as he ejaculated inside her.
Back on the trading floor, Barb grinned happily to herself as she went mechanically through the rituals of introductions to her father’s many business associates. Her thoughts returned to the scene back in the hotel suite, and the way in which things had ended.
Mario had been full of apologies at first, embarrassed by his impetuosity, but had quickly recovered and become all business-like. He had generously said that he would recommend an immediate hike in Kristina’s pay going forward, and had assured Barbara that he was now on the Goldman trail full-time … cautioning though that there would be a need, no doubt, to collect additional payments from she and Kristina before all was said and done.
“Barbara!” hissed her father, breaking her reverie, and bringing her mindful presence back fully to the stock market trading floor. “What’s gotten into you? I just introduced you a few seconds ago to one of the best-known traders here, and to his astonishment and mine you responded by shouting “yessssss” at him. For God’s sake, please try to be pay attention and act dignified and ladylike for the rest of our time here. And mark my words, young lady, that embarrassing outburst will not go unpunished. It’s the leather strap for you tonight back at the hotel!”
Reprimanded and embarrassed, she looked away from him and away from all the screaming, gesticulating men milling about on the trading room floor, casting her gaze towards the door. She’d had enough. She’d embarrassed herself and her father. She wanted desperately to leave.
But then out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. There was no doubt, it was definitely HIM … that elusive, mysterious, desirable soul, she knew only as “Goldman”.
She stared straight at him, and raised her hand to beckon him towards her. She thought she saw a sign of recognition cross his handsome face. And for a brief time he seemed intent on making his way toward her, slipping past people and angling in her direction, but then he abruptly stopped to engage in a prolonged conversation with a heavy set man.
Perhaps she’d been mistaken? He hadn’t recognized her after all? It was just her imagination? Perhaps she should try to get his attention again? But then, one shouldn’t appear too eager, should one?
But it mattered little, because by then it was too late.
Her father had taken her firmly by the arm and had begun to propel her towards the stairway and doors exiting out to Broad Street, saying brusquely, “Come Barbara. We’re finished here.”
She knew then that she was really in for it.
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A note for chapter 9.
Rose-painting or rosmålning is a Swedish decorative folk painting style that was widely practiced in the 18th and 19th centuries. It was first used to decorate church walls and ceilings. It then spread to wooden items commonly used in daily life, such as ale bowls, stools, chairs, cupboards, boxes, and trunks … and as one might suspect, even wooden dildos of the kind Kristina employed so effectively to send Barbara into rapturous orgasm.
The art form featured a stylized form of ornamentation made up of scrollwork, fine line work, flowing patterns and sometimes geometric elements, along with the employment of bright hues. A representation of some kind of plant or flower, sometimes fantastical, was an ever present feature.
Rose-painting or rosmålning is a Swedish decorative folk painting style that was widely practiced in the 18th and 19th centuries. It was first used to decorate church walls and ceilings. It then spread to wooden items commonly used in daily life, such as ale bowls, stools, chairs, cupboards, boxes, and trunks … and as one might suspect, even wooden dildos of the kind Kristina employed so effectively to send Barbara into rapturous orgasm.
The art form featured a stylized form of ornamentation made up of scrollwork, fine line work, flowing patterns and sometimes geometric elements, along with the employment of bright hues. A representation of some kind of plant or flower, sometimes fantastical, was an ever present feature.
Here's one before being painted
Feel the, err, craftsmanship.
And then, as Barbara had spread her legs ever wider and reached down to touch herself with extended finger, Kristina eased its phallic head into Barbara’s gapingly open slit and began to expertly work it back and forth and all around until Barbara climaxed with an exclaimed “yessss!!!!” … an outburst so loud that it literally reverberated off the ceiling and walls.
I take it that she liked it?
“Save it. You’re here to observe, Mario, nothing more. Kindly keep that in mind.”
At that point, Kristina had commenced with administering her customary highly-sensual massage, oiling snd kneading Barbara’s backside from shoulders to thighs and back again. And for a moment, in her bliss, Barbara might have forgotten about Mario’s presence had it not been for his heavy breathing.
At that point, Kristina had commenced with administering her customary highly-sensual massage, oiling snd kneading Barbara’s backside from shoulders to thighs and back again. And for a moment, in her bliss, Barbara might have forgotten about Mario’s presence had it not been for his heavy breathing.