Date: Mon, 27 Jul 2015 08:49:20 -0700
From: jay roberts <diplomat1501@msn.com>
Subject: Show Me Your Portfolio, Part One   by Jay Roberts    Gay Adult

Show me your Portfolio, Part One   By Jay Roberts    Gay Adult friends.

+++If you made a contribution to Nifty you must feel good about it, but
       if you are enjoying the stories and have NOT made a contribution, 
       don't you feel a little like you haven't paid for your newspaper?

+++This story is morally corrupt and is only suitable for older folks who
       are at least 18 years old.  They have the maturity to withstand it's
       sexiness.  If you are under 18 you are here without my permission 
       and ought to leave.

John Whitman Financial Advisers was the name over the door on the tenth
floor of the building near the New York Stock Exchange.  The words were in
gold.  Mr. Whitman, the president of this company was the founder, thirty
years ago.  He now seldom came to the office and when he did, he was
accompanied by his male nurse.

The whole shebang was now run by his son-in-law Leslie Gold.  The twenty
guys who worked under him were sustained by their hatred of him.  He
earned it.  He was a master of insults and would fire anyone on the spot for
any whim.  

But  ol Leslie liked me.  Me, David Walker, thirty years old.  No masters
degree and a sloppy dresser.  Anyone else would have been fired long ago
but I think my handsomeness protected me.  I  also note that mean Leslie     
always softened his voice when he spoke to me.

Often he'd stop in my office with no apparent reason and ask, "How you
doing.  Need anything?"

I tried not to abuse my advantage but also never encouraged the creep. 
Ugh, how could anyone stand to be close to him.  But, the money was good. 
I now was pulling down in the middle six figures by virtue of the new clients
I brought in.  As you know, FAs get about 1-l/2% or more of the value of the
client's portfolio and this is split with the house Our only task is to buy and
sell.  We get a commission on each.  Our decisions do not require brilliance. 
We have access to the best research and guessing trends is pretty obvious. 
My own stock holdings had now reached two million.

Yesterday Leslie stopped into my office as usual but this time he had a
request.  

"Dave, I hired a new boy, Riley Notsinger.  He's from a very prominent 
Connecticut family and a recent Harvard MBA, Cum Laude."

He waited for me to absorb these facts.

I said, "And, you want me to mother him for his first few weeks."

Could I say no?  NO!

"Sure Leslie, I'm glad to help out."  What a pussy I was.

I pictured this callow child.  Having a pale sweaty skin and hollow chest and
a million allergies.  But I accepted and Leslie told me that the fellow was his
office and he'd send him down to me.

A folded my six foot three inch frame into my rolling desk chair and turned
on my computer to look busy when the tyro arrived.  I heard at a firm
knocking on the frame of my glass door.  

I looked up and snapped off the monitor of my computer and assembled my
most mellifluous voice.  

"Ah, Mr. Notsinger, welcome to Whitman Financial."  

I studied the fellow's appearance.  He was one handsome dude.  Not tall,
maybe 5' 8" but the package was outstanding.  (No not that package. 
Viewing it would have to wait.)

His eyes would turn any presentation into a sale.  Their dark power was
hypnotic.  His crisp dark brown hair was cut into a conservative style that
just managed to tame the curliness and one small shaft was lying on his
smooth forehead.  Then that perfectly fashioned nose who's coolness was
countered by a curvy, sexy pair of lips.  He was one fucking babe.

I indicated a chair in front of the desk and he slipped into it with a graceful
move.  Ah, to be twenty again!

He had a small waist and broad shoulders.  He didn't cross his legs but sat
slightly forward, a hand on each knee.  I took in his full thighs and even the
shiny hair on the back of his hands.

We sat, neither breaking the silence.  He must have sensed the
 awkwardness and decided to speak.  When he did, I was surprised by the
tone of his voice.  He had a rich baritone that seemed to buzz a bone in my
chest and I snapped to a straighter sitting position.

"May I ask a personal question

I nodded, I hoped it would be a request to blow me, but instead he frown
cutely and said, "Do you think I'm dressed okay.  I notice the other men
here are different."

Now that was unexpected.  Here we are off on a personal note.  I restrained
myself from asking what kind of underwear he was wearing and if he would
mind giving me a pair of used ones.  Instead I said, "Riley.  Stand up.  I
really didn't notice your attire before."

He was dressed in what must have seemed to him to be his most dressy
outfit in his experience as a college boy.  He had a very well cut blue blazer
with, thankfully, black buttons, no brass.  Nice gray flannels, blue button
down shirt with a rep tie.

"You know your clothes speak before you do.  What would a client think
about your appearance?"

"I guess  recent college grad'".

"Right.  Get over to Brooks or other conservative store and get well fitted
with a dark suit, white shirt (not button down) and a very fine figured
conservative tie.  Incidentally, those shoes won't do."  I pointed to his
loafers.  "Get laced oxfords."

He smiled charmingly, so charmingly that I was ready to write him a check
for two million dollars.  "Will that make me a top selling broker?"

"Kid, with your looks and personality, you could wear a warm up suit and
end up breaking the record for sales here."

He laughed, full baritone.  Oh my I was looking at a star.

I cleared my throat and told him what I had planned as a learning
experience.  The truth was that I just thought of it this minute.

"My best client is William Priest.  I have an appointment to see him
tomorrow morning at his estate on the Hudson.  You can come and
observe."

"Yeah, I heard of him.  I think my father knew him slightly.  But thanks,
that'll be great.  Er, how should I dress?"

"For the country."

"I'll pick you up here in my car.  The least I can do is do the driving."

The next morning I waited in front of the building for the kid and his ride. 
There was a squeal of brakes and a shiny Italian sport car stopped in front of
me.  It's gold color shimmered in the AM sun.  It was a Maserati.

I he reached across the front seat and threw the door open and I squeezed
my long frame in with my knees up around my ears.  The seat was low and
seemed to put me into the position you assume in the dentist's chair.

"Morning Boss,"

I didn't answer.  I was peeved.  There was too much on this boy's plate.  His
looks and cuteness and callow manliness and then this car.  I grumbled
internally, then I surveyed his attire.  He caught me.

"You said country style."

"I know I said it but I didn't think you would arrive looking like a Brit from
the castle."

"What do you mean.  I just put on a corduroy jacket and whipcord pants
and, can a checkered shirt."

"They're just perfect," but a looked down at myself.  I was wearing a
business suit but to be informal I was tieless and had on a dark shirt.

After awhile I got over my stupid pique and I began to give him the dope on
my client, William Priest.

"I have his complete portfolio, at least I thought so.  Hell, it's over a billion
but I heard a rumor that he controls over ten billion.  How? By power of
attorney of his late three brother's estates.  I'd love to get my hands on
more of his holdings but there are scattered among several advisors."

"I heard his father made his money by lending vast sums to real estate
developers and took a percentage of ownersh9p as well."

"Exactly.  The Priest name appears in the ownership of over one hundred
prime developments and malls.  The money just keeps rolling in."

"What's he like?"

"He likes people of male persuasion."

My boy said, "U-m-m."

His brain was going at high speed I figured.

I continued, "He's in his late sixties.   Good looking like a model in a whisky
ad.  You know, trimmed moustache and lord of the manner dress."

"How well I know.  My father is like that, except he doesn't have the money
to sustain it."

My turn to say, "U-m-m."

I would have encouraged him to tell more about his apparently patrician
father but the iron gates of Priest Pines loomed up with their gilded eagles
on top of the french every yard.

There was an old gate house inside the gate but a sign said to use the
phone.  I knew all about the routine.  I had been here four times to confer
with Priest.  The first time he asked me to undress.  I almost did it.  This was
after all a stupendous client of untold wealth but I decided that the act of
undressing, which I might do, would only be a sign to the old reprobate that
I was to be had for the asking.    

Riley's car purred up to the covered entrance.  A servant in bid and tucker
and white cotton jacket popped out the side door and said, "May I park you
car in the garage (British accent on the last syllable) My employer is waiting
in the study."

We had no luggage and I decided to not to bring a briefcase.  Let this be a
meeting led by Priest.  Maybe he planned to give me more stuff.

He was lounging on a maroon leather tufted tuxedo couch.  I took in the
whole scene reading it hard so that I might know how to proceed.  I took in
the hand that rested on the arm and saw a large pearl ring.  Never saw that
on other visits.  He was dressed in a tweed Norfolk jacket and fawn colored
trousers, ready for the shoot.  I also noticed that his moustache that had
been rather large and droopy was now trimmed like a 1930's movie star.  Oh
shit, he had tinted his pure white hair blond.  I think the old auntie was
going outwardly gay but then he sprang up with surprising youthfulness and
grasped my hand in a strong grip.

"Good to see ya Davy," he said like a two-bit gangster.  "And who is this?" 
He said, his voice softening and his eyes raking my protege."

>From that moment on I might not be in the room.  He addressed all his
remarks to Riley who he seemed to know all about and even used the boy's
last time once.  I bet the old lecher had a private investigator check him out.

"Sykes, bring in those papers I was working on last night."  Those words
were spoken in a hand held device.

Riley was casting his around this sumptuous room, especially at the
paintings.  He was paying special attention to one old oil showing a mother
and child.  I didn't think much of it.  I liked Warhol better but what do I
know.

"This painting looks familiar," Riley said softly.

Priest threw back his head like someone about to let out a large guffaw but it
ended in a girlish giggle.  "You damn well should think it familiar."

Riley said, continuing to study the faded painting, "There is one like it on the
stairs going up to the bedrooms.

"That, my dear boy, is the copy that your Daddy had made.  I bought the
original from him."  And then, for the first time he turned to me.  "Mr
Notsinger is someone pressed for funds and he is fairly stripping the house
of its paintings and fine antique furniture.  I did buy an armoire. "

Poor Riley was red in the face and terribly embarrassed.  He might have
bolted except he was there for business.

That must be what he alluded to on the way up, just before we reached the
gates of the estate.   I mean he had hinted that something bad was
happening to his family.

Priest now strode around the room, his Englishy booming voice dominating
the moment.  "You, Davy have been doing okay with your piece of the pie.  I
mean you're producing about five percent increase combining the value
increase and adding dividends."

"Thanks," I said and I puffed up with self congratulations.  But he glared at
me and continued.
 
"No better than the other financial advisers on other parts of my holdings."
.
Oh shit and I thought I was a miracle worker.

"Now this meeting today.  I have a small group of securities in a special fund
that I manage myself.  It's only about (he consulted the pile of papers in
front of him) a hundred million.  It's my go to hell fund.  I take risks and use
my own hunches.  It's done better than any other investments I have. 
Earning a steady ten percent increase in value."

"That's really impressive," I said, preparing to take over the fund as soon as
he finished his discourse.

"I propose to turn management of this fund over to young Riley."

Both Riley and I gasped.  Me out of disappointment and he from joy.

"But I have one task for Riley before I formalize the stewardship of the
fund."

"Yes sir," Riley said with his resonant baritone.  He had screwed up his
forehead in concentration and pursed his lips a bit.  I hadn't noticed before
but they are red in color, almost like lipstick.  It was hot, hot. Hot. 
"Whatever the stipulation, I'm sure I can comply."

"Good, the requirement is that you strip off all your clothes and stand naked
before me."

The silence was so thick, you could cut it with a knife.  Riley's face was a
study in conflict.  Getting this portfolio would propel him in the ranks of
senior adviser.  

His face was a study of conflict.  Should he be a blatant whore for the money
or should he bravely refuse.

Suddenly he slipped off his jacket.

End of Part One