Episode 1
Three pairs of feet peered out from beneath a large leopard print satin covered duvet. One pedicured pair belonged to a high profile politician’s wife who was renowned as the bike of Parliament and would freely straddle any guy’s hard saddle without a helmet, bell or any warning lamps. The second, yet delicate pair belonged to a naïve reality star from a poor quality, now decommissioned TV reality series. And the middle, hairy pair of feet were owned by Bradley Walters, TV presenter and well-loved showbiz personality.
Bradley Walters, the twenty eight year old strawberry blonde Godlike figure of a man, basked in the centre of his king size bed in Holland Park as his two nameless conquests each had a grip of his seven inch throbbing manhood, both encouraging a growth for a second round.
‘Bradley,’ cooed the politician’s wife in his ear. ‘I need you now.’ Her red hair cascaded over the glistening pillowcase as her lips nibbled his ear.
‘Me too,’ whispered the reality star, stealthily slipping underneath the slippery cover, eager to have her morning protein.
‘Girls,’ he groaned with pleasure, as the reality star started to expertly feast on his breakfast sausage, a remarkable feat of knowledge coming from an innocent looking nymph.
Not wanting to miss her turn, the politician’s wife straddled across his toned bronze chest in order to give him another full view of her Brazilian.
‘Eat me Bradley, eat me,’ the red head breathed, sliding across his face full of morning stubble.
‘There’s plenty of time. Don’t rush me.’ His words became lost under the pressure of her slender body.
But there wasn’t any time left. In fact, Bradley was running late. Again.
It was not unusual being the tenderised piece of meat in a Bradley Walters sandwich. This was now the norm. A nightly and sometimes a daily recurrence. And it wasn’t unusual to miss his early 3am morning call, even with his Galaxy S9 blasting out the song, Bat Out Of Hell.
There was a frantic knocking on his front door.
‘Mr Walters, are you there?’ he heard a muffled, yet recognisable voice from downstairs.
‘Yeah, hold on mate. I’m just coming,’ he mumbled from underneath the politician’s wife’s waxed pussy. I’ll be down in a minute,’ his flushed face covered in her love juice, ‘Just having a lick and a promise.’
‘I’ll be waiting in the car,’ replied his driver.
The driver didn’t get a reply. Bradley was too busy cleaning up the politician’s wife whilst the reality star cleaned him up at the same time too.
This was typical of Bradley Walters. He was young, free and single. A free agent living life on the edge. Partying from day to day whilst somehow, earning a small fortune in between.
‘Let’s do this again,’ the politician’s wife kissed him on his liquid covered lips.
‘I’m up for that too,’ the reality star popped her head out from the covers with her chin dripping in spunk.
‘Sure,’ he gave them his usual ambiguous answer. He didn’t want to commit to anything definite. He was a man about town and this was just a one off. A one night stand between three consenting adults. Right?
Bradley Walters always made it clear to every woman that he’d slept with that it was a onetime event and he was a long life singleton, never to be caught in the dreaded net of wedlock. No woman, however rich or famous she were, was going to pin him down to a life of suburban domesticity. He was a wild animal. A stud. A sexual predator. A creature who craved instant gratification wherever he could find it. He didn’t care who he hurt in the process. In honesty, he was too self-absorbed and coked up to realise who he had hurt in the past to get what he wanted. He was a star. Loved by all and lusted after by many. People worshiped the ground he walked on. Many tried to copy him, emulate him and try to outdo him, but Bradley Walters was unique. He had that special quality that people would pay a fortune for, steal for or kill for. Simply, he was made of stardust.
Life was all about him. He was a leader of The Me Generation. A fully paid up, platinum member of the Instagram and Twitter elite. And that wasn’t going to change for a long, long time.
Well, that’s what he thought!
Phyllis Harrison-Smythe, a coiffured, stylish, acidic spitting fucking bitch rested her manicured hand on her chiselled hip, sculptured from many expensive cosmetic surgeries and aided by a string of fad diets, mindless hours on the treadmill and bouncing on the cocks of countless young hot studs, stood back and admired her new expensive acquisition, a Jackson Pollock.
The personification of perfection still couldn’t believe that she had paid fifty thousand pounds for a piece of work that looked as if a three year old had painted it. But however much she had paid for it, to have a Jackson Pollock grace the walls of one of her exclusive London eateries, sent out a sign for plebeian social climbers to grovel and worship at her Manolo Blahnik size five feet.
Phyllis checked over the stylised brush strokes and squiggles by using her fifty five years of impeccable taste and sophistication. But she couldn’t decide whether it was A or C, art or crap. Though for that amount of money she had spent on the painting, she came up with the right answer.
Art!
Smiling to herself for having successfully out bid a young wannabe society debutante at an auction, whom dripped in her sugar daddy’s borrowed diamonds, pouted like a cod fish and wore a Versace mini skirt that was so short that you could practically see what she had for breakfast, Phyllis knew that the vulgar Knightsbridge jail bait didn’t stand a chance of winning against her. Phyllis knew the old man, the girl’s sugar daddy intimately from many past and forgettable encounters that he was a tight fisted bastard, who liked to fuck young pussy who had no fat, no brains and were big in the breast department.
Phyllis Harrison-Smythe, a society entrepreneur, business woman and key member of the elitist London scene, glanced down at her new sparkling Cartier watch, a gift from a generous Arab customer and noticed with her piercing grey eyes, it was nearly time to open up The Harrison, appropriately and arrogantly named after herself.
She then walked over to the full length Georgian mirror by the entrance and studied herself from head to toe and was impressed by her reflection as her little black Chanel suit draped her liposuction, nipped and tucked tanned body perfectly. She adjusted her Asprey diamond encrusted brooch with her bright red claw-like talons and smoothed down her grey Vidal Sassoon asymmetric bobbed haircut.
The final touch to her perfected, high maintenance ensemble came in the form of a tube of red Chanel lipstick, which she applied liberally to her collagen implanted lips. Having finished wiping the luxurious grease stick over her lips and was comforted by hearing the ‘click’ from the black lipstick case as she replaced the lid, she heard her mobile phone ring.
‘Hello,’ Phyllis chirped, recognising her best friend’s name popping up on the screen.
‘Dahling, it’s me sweetie.’
‘Candice. Yes I can see that. What a pleasant surprise.’ Phyllis beckoned one of her two glamourous front of house hosts to open up the restaurant. ‘How are you?’
‘Simply divine. Can’t chat for too long dahling, the pool boy is about to service my pool.’
Phyllis smirked at Candice’s rude remark. Phyllis knew perfectly well that she didn’t have a pool as she was staying at Claridge’s for a few weeks. They only have a health spa.
‘But Candice, you don’t have a pool in London,’ she continued with the joke. Remarking anything about a pool was an in joke about their sex lives.
Candice laughed. ‘This is just a quick call to make sure that you are still going to Melody Starr’s party on Saturday?’
‘Of course. It’s not quite my thing to go to a flash pop star party, but you know me, I wouldn’t miss a party for the world.’
‘Splendid. Now listen dahling, Candice continued, ‘I’m going to send Alfredo my new chauffeur to collect you. You know the one, the hot Italian stud with the ring through his seven inch cock?’
‘Vaguely…’
‘You must remember him dahling, you were there. He was the one I picked up at that little boat party in Cannes. You know, where all those gorgeous waiters dressed up as sailors in their tight white little shorts and we discussed how we’d fuck the living lights out of each one?’
‘Oh yes. Now I remember. He was the gorgeous one that you pointed out to me as you could see his P.A. through the flimsy material.’
‘Exactly. His Prince Albert. Well anyway, Alfredo is going to collect you, say about eight o’clock? Then we can make our grand entrance together. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?’
‘Fabulous Candice. Are you bringing any play things with you?’
‘Dahling. You know me. Would I let you down?’
‘Indeed not. I know you have impeccable taste. But this time, can I please have one with a hint of a brain. It’s simply no good having a gorgeous hunk hanging off my arm if I can’t have a decent conversation with him, is it!’
‘Who wants a conversation with them? Not me sweetie. But I thought you were supposed to be seeing that gorgeous blonde piece of rough. Now what’s his name?
‘Damn I forgot about him. You mean Paul Sawyer?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. That dreadful action man soap actor with a body to die for!’
‘I know. He’s such an awful actor who thinks he’s Mr Macho. And anyway, it’s only a publicity stunt. God knows why I accepted his agent’s offer. He’s a tad too old for me! I prefer my men to be much younger and can fill me up,’ she giggled, reminiscing on the disappointing no show in her Lapis Lazuli bathtub.
‘Phyllis! You boffed a soap star?’
‘I’ve boffed many soap stars. But there’s no need to be jealous. Nothing happened. In a drunken state, I thought I’d could make him come around to my kind of thinking.’
‘Really? So what happened?’
‘He fell asleep on my bed. In private he’s as limp as a wet lettuce with a cock that’s the size of a pea!’
‘No?’
‘Yes really. His PR company wanted him to date me for a month or so, so that it takes the heat off his alternative lifestyle. I‘m his beard.’
‘His beard? Alternative? You mean he’s gay?’
‘Camper than a row of tents with bells on.’
‘Oh you poor thing. Imagine, having to work on his floppy disc when his hard drive is yearning for a different lap top!’
‘Let’s just say, our systems are not compatible. I shall not make that mistake again.’
‘Don’t worry dahling. I’ll pick you something nice for later that evening.’
‘Thank you Candice. If you can, that’ll be fab-u-lous. If not, don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be able to find myself a little play thing there. Oh, by the way, are we still doing lunch today?’
‘Not today dahling. I have a busy schedule….having my pool serviced and one thing and another. Why not pop by my hotel later. We can have drinkies at the bar.
‘That will be great. We can discuss what we’re going to wear for the party on Saturday.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Enjoy your…erm…dip.’
‘Oh dahling, I intend to get thoroughly drenched! Goodbye sweetie.’
As soon as Phyllis put the mobile down to her best friend, a glamorous Bianca Jagger look-alike whom she had known for five years, Phyllis hurried around the restaurant and spoke to the manager to see if everything was ready to open. Phyllis was not normally this early at the restaurant but she was expecting a delivery at her art gallery this lunch time so she thought she would pop in to see how everything was before her next business ‘meeting’.
Realizing that her team were more than capable of coping with the daily pressure, she decided to leave them to it as that’s why staff were put on the planet. And anyway, she was the boss, so why should she have to do all the hard work?
An executive decision was made. With an award winning chef at the helm and an experienced manger to deal with the nitty gritty of staff tantrums and customer demands, life was too short to worry about little things like that. She had other concerns to think about like experiencing one of the two most important things that her life was worth living for.
The first was sex and that was waiting for her later in the shape of a young, mindless hunk that she would use and abuse at Melody Starr’s party or, if she found herself feeling randy during the day, she could easily pick up the phone and call her personal masseur Jean-Claude, who was constantly on tap and always up for a quick grope, suck and a fuck.
But the most important subject in her life was her most favourite past time ever and that’s what she needed to do, and do it as soon as possible, otherwise she would burst.
And that was shopping!