Gourmet Girlfriend

(From my kitchen this month)

I am cooking a lot of seafood: scallop, prawn, crab etc (there is a lot of excellent shellfish around due to the issues the fishermen are having with trade), trying to make my recipes lighter as we head into spring. The dishes below are all my own original recipes – I am always cooking food which is very fresh, flavourful, and vibrant. I like to cook plates that are easy to share and easy to enjoy over conversation with a glass of wine.

 

Scottish King Scallops with nduja and green salsa. Confit garlic. Salad of blood orange, bresaola, black olive and feta. Baked Portobello Mushroom with mozzarella and nduja. Crab Cakes with dill creme fraiche and oscietra caviar. Black Tiger Prawn, chive, aioli. Conference pear, roquefort and endive salad with candied walnuts. Red Massaman tiger prawn curry with wild rice. Prawn Baggie with potatoes, spring onion, pink peppercorn, and fennel pesto. Burrata and tomato Tacos.

Car Tales

Above: The worlds smallest pair of denim shorts and I, stumble across a lovely little Classic Car show (Southampton, mostly American Cars)
Dream cars and observations.

Aston Martin
Okay so I’ve never been a fan of Aston Martin. There’s something about the brand… I feel in more recent years they’ve always stopped one detail short of creating a truly iconic “it” roadcar. An “it” car doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to have that thing people can’t resist. Part of the joy of driving a beautiful car is (whether you’d like to admit it or not) knowing that everyone else wants your car. The resale on most Astons are so terrible that you can’t help but be reminded that actually, most people don’t want your car (sorry!). If you hadn’t guessed, yes, my least favourite ex boyfriend drove an Aston and I’ve detested the car ever since.

Sometimes I wonder if my sense of humor comes across well in writing or not.
Anyway…

I’ve been to many car shows and dined outside many a nice restaurant and strutted through the driveway of many a nice hotel and you just never see someone stopping to take a photo of an Aston. Then – admittedly late to the party – I recently decided to watch every James Bond film from the beginning. The magic of this car became apparent. This car isn’t about getting your balls out for everyone to have a look at – it’s a beauty but it’s also a classy car.

All cars are comparable to women. This car is a classy understated woman with a pretty face who only wears silk, has no arse and never eats carbs. If you’re a man of ego, forget it. Get the one with the big fat, er, spoiler at the back and a massive pair of, er, headlights at the front. Pick a Lamborghini or something. The Lambo is a true slut of a car – and in this there are limitations. But if you are looking for something elegant, the Aston – The Aston is the one!

Rolls Royce Dawn Black Badge

There are very few things worth squandering your children’s inheritance on. Obviously, I’m one, and the other is this car. This is the one you turn up to dinner in. There’s only 2 things that belong in the passenger seat – nothing at all, or a hot woman in 6 inch heels and sunglasses (hi there!). It was a toss up between this and the Bentley GT, but the rolls wins because on one of those long beautiful roads (preferably in France)…

Actually having imagined the scenario I have changed my mind. Bentley Continental GT is is. Back to that long road in France (if they let us in after Brexit). So there’s not much room for luggage once you’ve crammed 2 cases of champagne in the back – nevermind, I’ll save on wardrobe space by not wearing any underwear. Handles a corner better than Theirry Henry and looks 10x as good. I’m thinking black with a black interior but “all black” is so 2005 so keep the chrome detail, and perhaps a little colour – I’m noticing many cars are offering the “Hermes” orange interior these days… is it too daring? Of course not – you’re in a Bentley, duh!

Land Rover (Mid 70’s)
So you’ve probably ascertained by now, that yes I am predictable in some ways – who DOESN’T like chocolate, beach holidays, and morning sex (preferably all on the same day)? But in other ways, I do like to do my own thing and go my own way. I don’t want to have the same boring things everyone else has. The Land Rover… you can’t argue that it’s a great car but it’s a bit, dare I say, “John Lewis” these days. The quality is undeniable but unless you’ve really specced the thing up then the Land Rover is no longer the panty-dropper it used to be. However, I absolutely LOVE the old ones. I love a 70’s silhouette in a car- everything from the Capri, to the old Ferraris to that car from Knight Rider. Anyway this for me is a stunning car and I’ve been to a few car shows where I’ve seen some which are immaculately restored. I’ve not seen the restored ones, or any 70’s one at all anywhere else – you just don’t see these around. Which makes me want one even more! Even that mustard colour with the tan interior (very of the time) appeals to me. Me, you, suitcases in the back and and leisurely drive to the New Forest for a weekend romp an Limewood Hotel (my current favourite country hotel). Vroom vroom!

Mercedes SL (mid 70’s)
Okay so you’re wondering why if I could pick ANY vintage Mercedes, why I wouldn’t go for the Gullwing, or the Pagoda. I don’t really have an answer other than that despite knowing it’s perhaps the least celebrated of the three (some might say the least pretty too)… I just adore it. I’ve been in a fair few and I quite like that it’s (and I mean this with fondness and respect) a really good woman’s car. It’s not too big, it’s racy, timeless… that mahogany dashboard and that elegant, slim steering wheel. I remember enjoying this car with a friend who has a large collection of mostly American classic cars but also 2 of these Mercedes. We were driving just past Marble Arch on a sunny day with the roof down and at the traffic light pulled up a couple of young guys in the sort of silly supercar you have to be under 25 to like. “Wow man!” They said to Mr Driver “Wow man what car is that, that car is so cool!”. I remember him turning to me as we pulled away and saying “You see Billie – some people have plenty money but no imagination”. I thought about this a afterwards. That being able to afford nicer things should afford you so many more options, yet most people still only consider the same small pool of options – the things that everyone else has because if given the choice most people would rather be recognised than interesting.

The final car is a real toss up between two lifestyles – do we go for something practical – the car you can fit 3 suitcases and 2 kids in – the Bentayga, the RR Cullinan? I’ve been in both and that Cullinan is like driving down the street in an Emirates 1st class cabin, with the the most graceful drive imaginable – you could literally run someone over and not realise, so deliciously responsive is the suspension – and given the price of the thing you can likely afford the subsequent lawsuit. It’s also the only car where if you did run someone over they’d probably use their last breath to thank you for the experience.

Or are we going for a truly flashy ostentatious super car – the Lambo, Bugatti, or Maserati – perhaps in lime green or wrapped in gold?

Well… these are dream cars after all.

Sexy, slender, and curvy with the best looking backside on any given street – but that’s enough about me, my final option is the Lamborghini Venemo. I know, I know you’re thinking Billie. Really?! The answer is yes! Like I said, cars are like women, variety is the spice of life. You don’t want a Lambo all the time. No one is going to funeral in a Lamborghini Venemo (although, I would!). But I believe in embracing your inner child and this car is an exercise of what I like to call “boyerism”. A Boyeur is one who embraces their inner boy. It’s okay to leave some space between the Art galleries and The Economist App for a silly car, a little rock and roll. Mine would be the typical yellow and I’d have a silly number plate too: “B1LL3” or something.

My Never Ever car:
My worst car experience. Actually… my worst car experience was when I was learning to drive in the countryside and I swerved to avoid a pigeon and drove the car into a ditch. I’d worn heels (because in a battle between glamour and intelligence, glamour won) and so had to crawl on my hands and knees out of the car and up the side of horse-manure coated ditch in Louboutins. I screamed the whole time and the people in this little village (Swaton, in Lincolnshire – I guess not much happens there) thought it was hilarious.

But I digress. The worst car in circulation is without a doubt the Jaguar Mk2.
It’s a long story but at my first ever car auction I ended up being in the passenger seat of an old one of these driving back. This particular car was rare: all original, one owner, all the paperwork and something like 3000 miles (which to a car collector is a bit like having an orgasm at precisely the same time your team wins the FA cup).

It was the worst journey of my life (and that’s saying something because I’ve been one of 7 tipsy girls squeezed onto the back of a half-broken tuktuk in Thailand, and I’ve also been in a hot air balloon with a friend who got their balloon licence by cheating on the test). Recounting this experience is so stressful I’ve poured myself a glass of champagne to cope with my emotions. This car had: No power steering. Meaning… turning the wheel is like trying to turn a wheel that’s buried in half dried cement. Oh and no seatbelts! Because nothing gets a woman wet like a near-death experience on the M25! Apparently on these historical cars it is perfectly legal not to have them. Even on the motorway! No side/wing mirrors – who needs to see what’s going on behind them anyway! A gear stick so stiff you needed 2 hands to move it, and the front seat is a bench so as you turned corners (each corner is like risking your life as you’re acutely aware that you can’t see what’s behind you – and FYI you never get used to how terrifying this is), if you’re medium or light weight – given the total lack of seat belt and the bench seat – you find yourself sliding horizontally across the seat into the lap of the driver! Intermittently the breaks would just stop working – meaning if you were driving towards traffic your options were to slow down to a snails pace (because also if it stopped completely you had no idea if it would start again(!)) Or alternatively turn onto a side road and drive round the block – over and over. Absurd!

Opening the door for the first time, my nostrils were rudely violated by the acrid whiff of dead people (or as car enthusiasts call it, “Lovely old car smell”). To clarify: yes, I do usually quite enjoy an orifice or two being rudely violated but this was, unfortunately, a far cry from being bent over a desk in the Four Seasons. The smell alone should have served as a big enough hint that this thing is more or less a coffin on wheels, but alas, I ignored the obvious signs and allowed myself to be driven to a fate worse than death in a car that somehow managed to assault every single one of my senses.

This vehicle is a Boris Johnson: a bumbling idiot of a car; it’s obvious and apparent flaws only made more frustrating by the fact that everyone seems to love it anyway. “What a lovely car” people remark in the streets, seemingly not noticing that you’re hanging onto the window for dear life.

It’s one thing to feel that a car is unsafe, it’s quite another to feel like the car itself is committed to taking your life (and quickly at that). To this day I’m convinced this was a sophisticated attempt to kill me, but luckily for you, dear reader, I live to fight another day! 😂

Phew – off for another remedial champagne – see you soon!

Billie xxx

Cambridge (Fiction)

7:49am

I join the queue for
The taxi rank
At
Charing Cross Station
On the clearest morning in
August.

These mornings great poets write about:

Through foamy clouds
The sun breaks and beckons like
Waves welcoming
Surf to the sea.

I wear
Common Projects, leggings,
And an old battered Cambridge University sweater I found in a vintage shop

You glance over your shoulder once.
Then again.
Curiosity gets the better of you –

“Did… You, er… You went to Cambridge did you?”

You ask,
Like a charicature of a
Carefree man
Your shoulders slouching into a shrug
You hands
Deep in your
Trouser pockets

“No, I went to Kings.”

“Then why are you wearing a Cambridge University jumper?”

“So men like you will talk to me.”

I reply with an offhand defiance.

“Ahhh-“

Your face reddens.
You can’t think of anything to say.
I watch your hands twisting
Awkwardly in your pockets
(you’re wearing those loose linen trousers that are
impossible to iron and really
ought to be worn in sunnier climes).

“Did you go?”
“Yes. I, a long time ago now.”
“What did you read?”
“Politics with economics”
“What a fun degree -“
I say without the faintest trace of sarcasm

“- too bad I didn’t get in!”

“Well…”
Your hands move around in your pockets as
If you’re searching for lost thoughts
At the bottom

“I think I probably like the women bold enough to pretend they’ve been there more than most of those actually in the place.”

You say in act of carefully considered
Flirtatious diplomacy.

(I grin.)
“What are you doing?”

“I popped out of the office to get some things from Boots but they won’t let me in because I forgot my mask so I’m going to my next meeting instead”

Thoughts collected,
The hands finally escape the pockets and I glance downwards

No ring
Apple watch
Big, broad, tanned hands like rusty spades.

“Well you can have one of mine I have plenty”

I reach into my well worn Bottega Venetta bag for a disposable mask
And a pen.
I scrawl my number on the mask and hand it to you

“Now I can’t wear it. Your number’s on it.”

“You can have another mask if you like.”

I produce another mask from my bag and hand it to you

“How many have of those things have you got?”

“200 or so. I bought them in bulk on Amazon.”
I say casually,

“Thats ridiculous.”

“Jeff Besoz would beg to differ, plus, I’m highly intelligent-
I went to Cambridge, remember?”

I’d love to grab your cock
But I settle for
Another playful grin as you
Briskly walk towards your taxi.



BF.

Kiss Me, Whiskey

There comes a time when a woman’s tastes start to adjust themselves upwards, and as you probably know, if  there’s something I’m simply never willing to compromise on, its the quality of what I put in my mouth (flirtatious wink here).

 

You may remember a while back I discovered the joy of Zacappa rum. For many years I thought I hated rum – annoyingly, or perhaps understandably, I realised I don’t hate rum at all – I just hate cheap rum. With most things I find I tend to enjoy what is objectively the best quality, and I always try to seek out quality things and learn about the processes involved in making them.

 

Whiskey is a slightly different story. I haven’t really enjoyed any at all, and I’ve been lucky enough to try some exceptional ones. I still didn’t like it. I branded it a “mans” drink, and went running back to my trusted favourites (negroni or champagne cocktail) instead. Recently though, my tastes have started to adjust to appreciate whiskies, and a few friends have gifted me bottles for my bar. The three bottles I have so far are, all of which have been gifts by those wishing to drive me to alcoholism, er, I mean improve my bar.

 

1. Jack Daniels Single Barrel Select.
2. Whistle Pig (10 Year) Rye.
3. Redbreast Single Pot Still (12 Year).

 

It seems a great shame I have more American whiskeys than anything else so I would appreciate something strong, smooth, and Scottish (whiskey, I mean) to add to my collection.

 

I think everyone should have a drinks trolley. I found mine at an antiques shop – it’s mid century so barely an antique, and despite me not being a heavy drinker it’s been a real pleasure to fill it up with different spirits and mixers (I’m in love with maraschino cherries – which I sometimes add to a vodka and tonic for a delicious girly cocktail). I have a couple of decanters now, as well as some beautiful crystal glasses, which somehow add to the pleasure of drinking – especially when trying something special.

 

Here’s to a whiskey kiss or two,

Billie x

A Season of Substance

Dear Yummies,

 

I am sat here, at 6:30pm, with the central heating on, watching The Crown in my favourite silk slip. Are you watching it? This is the type of show I was sure I would hate, but having exhausted every war film, and every serial killer documentary known to man, and everything Anthony Bourdain ever recorded (these being my preferred three things to watch), I thought why not throw myself into something on the “popular” list. I don’t usually enjoy drama. In fact, even when reading I find fiction a waste of time. I think has something to do with my wider personality. I’m a realist, living a fantasy, not a fantasist. I accept the imperfections of life, without trying to pretend they aren’t there. It’s something I really appreciate in others too. If I’m getting ready for dinner and I ask you “do you like this dress?” and you don’t, I respect you saying “No”. So anyway, despite my preference for the real, here I am watching this fictitious show about the Royal family, and I’m enjoying it – well, kind of enjoying it, I’m writing this at the same time after all.

 

All change this week – London’s lockdown is finally over (sort of). According to Boris, you can only go out for a drink if you’re having a “substantial meal first”. Irritating but I’ve thought of a clever way to work around this. Earlier, I called Le Gavroche to ask if cock counts as a “substantial meal”, but they refused to answer, so I guess we are just going to have to find out (any takers?)! I did a small photoshoot on New Bond Street today – one of my favourite places for shopping and looking at cars before a quick walk (strut) to Cecconis for some calamari and the second best Bellini in London (after Dukes). All of a sudden, the Christmas Spirit just took me over – I am feeling so positive and Christmassy! I think it was all the boutiques with their sparkly tasteful Christmas decorations, the smiling gentlemen in winter overcoats providing enthusiastic encouragement as I posed for my shoot – my photographer always laughs at this because she can’t comprehend that when men try to approach me or check me out in public I feel so embarrassed and shy! She keeps saying, “how can YOU be shy!?”. Well, these things definitely did contribute to my good mood, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that in 24 hours, I could finally enjoy a drink and a substantial ****.

 

These last few weeks have been… Not as great as the first lockdown. I’ve been running, but it’s cold and I’m a wimp. I did do 2 runs in the rain, which I found strangely thrilling, but long distance running isn’t really my thing – Paula Radcliffe I am not (luckily for you). Can’t wait to get back to training and weights, I’ve even bought a pair of impossibly tight mini leopard print gym shorts to celebrate (lucky for gym). I haven’t read as much as I wanted to, but having been a subscriber for some time, I downloaded The Economist app and it’s very good. I wake up each morning, roll over in bed, and as you’re not there, open the app and read the Morning Briefing, and listen to a podcast (most of them have a similar conclusion: for one reason or another, we’re doomed) before starting my day.

 

My plans for a few days winter sun have been postponed, I was due to fly out tomorrow, but with many of my favourite people in town, I thought, Christmas is once a year after all, and a beach will always be there – so I shall be spending December in London (subject to away dates) – hopefully with you! I can’t wait to get back to my normal life of dinners and champagne evenings. We have survived! And now it is time to celebrate. I love spontaneity, but my diary doesn’t, so please plan out date in advance if you can. It’s Christmas after all, and I’m a firm believer that between visiting relatives you don’t really like, and the mind numbing hours trawling through the John Lewis website only to find that thing you should of bought two weeks ago is now sold out, you should always make some time around Christmas for yourself – after all, even Santa deserves a treat. A substantial ****, even 😉

 

Lots of love,

Billie x

Dinner Dates and how to Do them.

Hey yummies!

Hope you are well, that your temperature is mild, that your throat isn’t tickly, and that you’ve adjusted to the new world of masks and rubber gloves (although for a kinky babe like me, this has always been my world!). The age of Billie withdrawal is over! I wanted to take a moment to put together a few notes about dining. Over dinner or lunch is of course one of the most effective ways to get to know someone – how better to relax than over a delicious meal, a good bottle of wine, and with sexy, intelligent company. 

 

Some details:

 

  • It is usually my preference to enjoy our private time first. If you prefer the other way round, that is no problem at all, but there’s something about a passionate time in the bedroom, followed by a delicious meal and wine, that I really enjoy.
  • Our dinner date can take place in any restaurant to suit your taste – quality casual, smart casual, and fine dining options are all available.
  • Vegans not welcome (just kidding!)
  • I have a very intimate knowledge of the London food scene as this is a big part of my life – if you are unsure of where to pick, please tell me what you enjoy and I can send you three quality suggestions.
  • Of course, I also love surprises discovering new places, and being introduced to your favourite places. I would love to accept your invitation. 
  •  

Some of the restaurants I haven’t visited but would love to are:

 

  • Louie (TOP PICK for casual): Brand new and in the spot where Joel Robachon used to be – I’ve heard amazing things. A bar, restaurant and terrace, live jazz and DJ, Creole food (which I’ve never tried) and a great chef behind it all. I would love to try this new opening. http://www.louie-london.com/
  • Kutir: A beautiful looking modern Indian restaurant. I know many of my clients absolutely love Indian food, so this would be perfect if you like a little spice and a little refinement too (like me! 😉) https://kutir.co.uk/
  • La Gavroche:  http://www.le-gavroche.co.uk/
  • Spring: Have heard great things about the menu, will suit someone who enjoys a clean, elegant menu and beautiful dining space. https://springrestaurant.co.uk/
  • Les 110 de taillevent. Lockdown meant my planned dinner here was cancelled and I’d love to finally visit. A fantastic wine list (award winning in fact, with 1500+ bottles available, and 110 by the glass!), and a legendary French chef behind this sophisticated yet relaxed bistro. Sounds heavenly! https://www.les-110-taillevent-london.com/
  • Kiln: A busy, casual Thai restaurant in Soho that I’ve been wanting to try forever. A relaxed spot with an open kitchen that focusses on small plates and big flavours. http://kilnsoho.com/
  • Le Petit Maison: Have been to the one in Dubai and would love to try this one! I will meet you in my most elegant dress and heels. https://lpmrestaurants.com/
  • Scully: Very very high on my “want to try” list, beautiful fusion plates by a very interesting, creative chef. https://www.scullyrestaurant.com/
  • Onima: Straight from Mykonos to London (I love Greek food, Milos is a favourite of mine) Onima has a Greek-Asian fusion concept that matches the cool and sexy vibe. The cocktails also look very good! Maybe one for a boozy lunch or sexy dinner date. https://www.onimarestaurant.com/
  • Evelyns Table: A small, hidden, Soho spot. Will suit one of my cool foodie clients. http://theblueposts.co.uk/
  • Maggie Jones: A rustic and romantic, charming farm-to-table restaurant that serves moreish, fresh comfort food. Menu looks not too complicated but very tasty! http://www.maggie-jones.co.uk/
  • The Araki: Very fine Japanese restaurant that only seats 9 at a time, chef has held 3 michelin stars for along time. This is an intimate experience, for someone who loves and appreciated top quality Japanese food. https://the-araki.co.uk/
  • A Chefs table (TOP PICK for fine dining): I am yet to try dining at a chefs table. This is something I would love to experience, at a restaurant of your choice. 
 
 

Ticked off my list so far:

 

  • Portland Restaurant
  • Norma
  • Maison Francis
  • Davies and Brook (tasting menu)
  • Brat at Climpsons Arch 
  • The Berkley
  • The Ninth
  • Fifty Cheyne
  • Fischers
  • Amazonico
  • Les 110 de Taillevent
  •  

Can’t wait to catch up, or meet you for the first time over some delicious food!

 

Big kisses and footsie under the table…

 

Love Billie xx

Seasons Greetings

A time for Freedom and Festivity

 

Available from Dec 3rd for Dinner, Overnight stays, and Away dates.

 

Why not make the end of lockdown, the start of a new adventure? I think we can all agree we deserve it!

 

I look forward to your invitation.

 

Billie x

P.A. Fantasy (Part 3)

I stand there, waiting, the silence unbroken, my heart pounding, expecting any moment now, the sting of a firm hand on my naked backside. Something else happens. I bite down firmly on my bottom lip, to stop myself being noisy, as quite unexpdctedly, I feel two of Mr Hardigains wet fingers jam themselves into my bottom. I bite harder on my lip as he begins moving his fingers roughly in and out. He is close behind me, pressed up against me, one hand moving quickly and aggressively, my bottom wobbling from the impact, and the other hand pinning my waist to the desk.

Suddenly, he stops.

I stay in position, waiting for further instruction.

“Get on your knees and clean up.” Mr Hardigain instructs.

I do as I told, looking up at him from my knees I take his wet fingers into my mouth, to the back of my throat, sucking greedily on Mr Hardigains fingers.

“Right thats enough.” He says “You’ve disappointed me Billie. I was hoping you’d be up for this job but now… I can’t have a common whore working for me.”
He looks at my discarded mini skirt with disgust.
I prickle with embarrassment.

“Don’t you EVER enter this office dressed like that again! EVER!”

Hardigain paces around his office, neck red with anger, finally stopping at the window, and turning to look at me.

“Get under the desk.” He demands
“Yes Mr Ha- What?”
“Get under the fucking desk. You want to dress like a slut then I’ll treat you like one. Take everything off and get under the desk.”

Self consciously I undress. It doesn’t take long, with just my blouse and bra to remove. I stand there in just my shoes. Mr Hardigain approaches me, staring at my feet

“Where are those from?” He asks, nodding at my heels
“I, er… River Island I think?” I say, my toes curling with apprehension.

“CHEAP SHIT!” Mr Hardigain barks. “Why are you wearing cheap shit to this office when I gave you money to buy your wardrobe? Take those nasty cheap shoes off. IMMEDIATELY!”

Silently, I slide out of my heels. Mr Hardigain picks them up and throws them casually out of the window.

“You look more expensive naked than you do in these shitty cheap clothes. Now get under the desk.”

The desk is a huge, dark brown antique. Cherry wood with several draws, contrasted with a leather Timothy Oulton chair. The back of the desk is covered with a thick wooden panel. On my hands and knees I crawl into the space under the desk, crouching on the floor and waiting. My Hardigain takes his seat behind the desk, and I hear him pulling ope  one of the draws – a small one on top, which you need a minuscule gold key to open. Seconds later, I hear the jangle of metal on metal –

“Give me your hands Billie.”
I stretch out my arms from under the desk; Mr Hardigain secures each wrist with a handcuff, then each handcuff to a metal look discretely installed under the desk. I feel a pang of excitement as to what might happen next. Hidden from the rest of the office, I wait in silence on my knees I both my hands now secured either side of me in a “Y” shape.

Mr Hardigain pulls his chair in, his crotch now inches from my head, and unzips his trousers. His rubs his sticky cock all over my lips and –

A loud bang as the door is flown open!

“Is Billie here?” Asks a womans voice in a thick Glaswegian accent that J recognise to be Janice, a data analyst from the office, a particularly miserable gossip with an insatiable thirst for reality TV and Terry’s Chocolate Orange.

“No.” Replies Mr Hardigain curtly. “I sent her home for incorrect attire”

“Shes a bit dippy isn’t she? Hard to believe the lass really graduated from Cambridge with a first” Janice laughs “Guess they take anyone these days. Gorgeous looking lass mind, but not much upstairs I’m afraid. Will you keep her on?” Janice asks, probing Mr Hardigain for gossip.

“I’m considering it.” My Hardigain replies cooly. His hand reaches discretely under the desk pulling me by my hair onto his cock. I suck enthusiastically (it’s in the contract, after all) and he leaves his hand at the back of my head, keeping me in position as I gag silently on his cock from under the desk, my hands bound and unable to free myself. Bubbles of spit and precum foam in the back of my throat, and I feel Mr Hardigain throbbing with excitement.

“Was there anything else Janice?” He asks.

“Ah yes so, I mean I don’t mean to be a bitch” Janice starts, with the air of a woman who lives on an almost constant diet of bitching “But I noticed Emma in accounts hadn’t sent those emails yet. Three days after you asked her to. I didnt want to mention it but… I know you like to be in control of everything that goes on in here.”

“I do” – says Mr Hardigain “Thanks Janice, I’ll have a word with Emma later.”
Janice turns to leave the room and with her back to him Mr Hardigain now places both hands on my head and begins aggressively bouncing my head on his cock, his legs shaking as he loses control. I let out a little scream as my throat is flooded with a huge load of his hot cum.

Janice turns round suddenly
“What was that?”
She asks, her brow furrowed with suspicion
“Ahhh… Oh nothing” Mr Hardigain replies “Er, just opened one of those funny emails people send”
My Hardigain pulls his wet cock from my mouth and begins slowly wiping my face with it.

“Ooo let’s see then!” Janice says, heading back towards the desk.

I gently begin sucking Mr Hardigains cock hard again.

“No Janice. You’ve got a deadline due today. Get back to work please.”

Janice leaves, disgruntled and suspicious.

The door closes, and I begin giving Mr Hardigain another wet sloppy blowjob, sucking his balls enthusiastically as he relaxes in his chair. My tongue slowly licking downwards, rimming him slowly, his cock now fully hard again.

“You’re very good at the Billie” he says breathlessly, hands on the back of my neck, guiding my head firmly between his legs “I’d love to-“

– “Willie, Cava?” A voice calls from behind the office door just seconds before it opens.

I would recognise that voice anywhere. Patrique Mersault, the guy behind the famous brokerage. I applied for a job there three times and they didn’t even interview me. Patrique is well known in the city. He legend he likes to promote is that his family used to own vineyards in Mersault, but others believe his surname came about because his great great grandmother, a common milkmaid, used to break into the vineyards at night and get pissed.

“New PA Willie, ah?” Mersault says, a charming grin flashing on his chisseled face.

I begin rimming Mr Hardigain even more passionately, lapping between his legs like a hungry kitten.

“What?” Mr Hardigain asks, struggling to keep it together
“I ‘eard you ave a New PA Willie? I remember the last one? Emma was it? The girl who does the tax now, ah? I know exactly what is going on under that desk.”

He grins at Mr Hardigain, highly amused. Mersault walks around the desk, to behind Mr Hardigain, where he takes in the spectacular scene. Me, each hand chained to each internal side of the desk, fully nude and now with Mr Hardigains cock balls deep in my mouth. I look up at him, my lipstick a mess and sticky cum all over my face.

“Very nice Willie.” Mersault says “Very nice. I… er… could I…? You want to share?”
He looks at me for an invitation. I see his cock straining painfully in his trousers. I shake my head, in a ridiculous attempt to act aloof.

“Good girl” Mr Hardigain says, stroking my hair.
“Unfortunately Billie and I have an entirely exclusive arrangement” Mr Hardigain addresses Mersault, a smug grin spreading across his face “You’ll have to find your own. Now be a good PA and lick my balls Billie.” Hardigain says, showing off.
He reclines lazily in his chair and I begins slowly and passionately licking his balls, my eyes locked with Mersaults.

“Anyway” Mersault continues speaking to Mr Hardigain as if this is an entirely normal situation “I ave everything for the new location. I ave a developer coming tomorrow, if you can be there 3pm we can get everything signed. I will leave the filed with you”.

Mersault slaps down four identical files onto Mr Hardigains desk.

“A demain!” he says, turning to leave. “And ah, if you change your mind Billie, you can-“

“- She won’t change her mind.” Mr Hardigain interjects.

Mersault shrugs, winking at me, then leaves.

Alone once again Mr Hardigain looks down at me from under the desk, taken aback by the sudden competition for my affections. Abruptly he uncuffs my hands

“I’m letting you leave early as you’ve done an excellent job today Billie! Go to Bond Street and get yourself a pencil skirt and some stockings and some decent bloody shoes with no platform.”

I crawl from under the desk, retrieving my bra and skirt, putting them on whilst Mr Hardigain watches.

He takes a battered Ferragamo wallet out of his pocket and peels off a small wedge of crisp, £50 notes, and tucks them into my cleavage.

“I didn’t want to have to do that Billie but you must learn how things are done in my office. I don’t want you looking cheap you must look sexy and expensive at all times unless I’m in the mood for something else. It’s in the contract Billie you know what I expect of you. If you come here inappropriately dressed again I will strip you naked and parade you through the trading floor then fire you. You will leave the building naked and have to make your own way home.”

I gulp, feeling very self conscious in my mini skirt. I’m not sure if he’s joking, although present circumstances would suggest not.

“And -” Hardigain looks me in the eye, and I catch a brief break in his steely facade “- Stay away from Mersault. Please. He’s a charlatan. And…” he turns to face the window, his hands in his pockets “I found you and took a chance on you and I don’t want you doing this kind of thing with other people. Am I understood?”

“Yes Mr Hardigain”. I reply.
I walk towards him. He looks down at me fondly.
“You might need to clean your face” he smiles.
I smile back, reaching into my handbag for some makeup wipes.

I leave the office, one of Mr Hardigains long coats over my shoulders to hide my short skirt.
Janice eyes me suspiciously as I make my way across the trading floor. “I thought you’d gone home pet?” She asks, eyes looking me up and down. I ignore her completely, and head towards the lift.
 

To be continued…!

-BF

Haute Cuisine at Home

Some suggestions for at-home restaurant dining. All available Chez Billie.

Gymkahna (Indian – 1 Michelin Star):

https://gymkhanalondon.slerp.com/order/store/gymkhana-london-gymkhana-london-pre-order

 

Hide (Modern European – 1 Michelin Star)

https://hide.co.uk/home/

 

Bocca Di Lupo (My favourite Italian – Sharing plates):

https://boccadilupoathome.com/pages/november-menu

 

Galvin (French – 1 Michelin Star, and others):

https://galvinrestaurants.com/galvin-at-home/

 

Kitchen Table (European – 2 Michelin Star):

Tasting Menus


Sketch (Modern European):

MMmm... Menu

Amsterdam,

A special 3 days with wonderful company.

Thanks for not letting a worldwide pandemic get in the way of treating us both to a much needed break.

Ik hoop je snel weer te zien ❤

What I’m Cooking

A selection of my recent plates – a joy to share with lovers and friends.

 

I recently spent some time at a prestigious cookery school where I also learned to master the soufflé (like most things, it’s easy when you know how). The other recipes are as usual all my own original recipes that I’d love to say have taken years of development, but in reality – I tend to know what I want to make, and the recipes come mostly fully formed into my head – I make them up almost instantly and they almost always work. From Borough market to Fine Food Specialist, from China Town to Ginger pig – I am enjoying sourcing the best ingredients for my creations.

 

I am lucky enough to spend many an evening in some truly wonderful restaurant – something I’m very grateful for. The cumulative impact of these experiences and my own passion (I started cooking when I was 4!) has given me a lot of confidence in the kitchen – there’s nothing I won’t try, and have recently started experimenting with fusion. My only Achilles heel is pastry – I’m not a baker – and can’t imagine I could create a dessert tastier than Ben and Jerrys or Mr Kipling. In the kitchen as in life – there is always more to try and discover.

 

P.A. Fantasy (part 2)

Sexy Secretary
20200714_193625

(Long Read)

Part 2: The Contract.

He steps towards me, towering over me even in my heels and pulls me by my waist towards him. Our bodies pressed against each other, we kiss deeply and passionately.

 

Just as Mr Hardigain is hastily removing his jacket there’s a knock at the door, and it slowly opens.

 

I jump towards the table and take a seat, legs crossed and pretending to flick through my emails, milliseconds before a well-dressed gentleman enters with a briefcase, and a folder overflowing with paperwork. His glasses are slightly crooked and there’s an air of acute frustration about him.

 

“A bloody liberty that’s what this is!” he exclaims, glaring at the both of us “I’ve got three cases on at the minute, one very serious fraud and two mega deals with the Russians and you… you’ve got me HERE!” his hand shakes with rage and a few sheets of paper escape and fall to the floor “You’ve got me here AGAIN Willie, because YOU cant keep your goddamn willie in your pants!!!!!”

 

He strides to the table and slams down the folder.

 

I sit there in silence, confused as to what’s going on. I glance at one of the loose sheets of paper on the floor and recognise the name on the letter header. Surely this cant be THE Kenneth Lingwood? I think to myself. Not Lingwood the famous contract lawyer? The one who’s famously never lost a case (but settled many out of court, obviously). Why on earth would he be –

“I’ve got 5 minutes to look at the document Willie” he says impatiently, glancing at a tatty old Cartier watch on his wrist “and I’m only doing this as a favour because we go way back. This goes tits up and you’re on your own.”

 

He glances at me with a curious mix of disgust and pity.

 

Mr Hardigain hands him a single page of printed A4 paper, a little too far away for me to be able to clearly read it. Lingwood adjusts his glasses and peers over it, a pen hovering over each line as he slowly reaches the bottom. Finally he finishes.

 

“Is this it?” he asks

“Yes” replies Mr Hardigain “Is it airtight?”

“This is…” Lingwoods voice cracks, seemingly unable to control his outrage “This is one of the most… legally spurious, perverse contracts I have ever… I have ever…”

“- is it airtight?” Hardigan interjects, cooly.

“Well as you bloody well know” Lingwood lowers his voice to a whisper and turns his back to me “If she signs this of course it’s airtight but….” I listen intently but can only hear the odd word or phase “enforceable… but… NDA… need a bloody therapist… Geneva convention… I will not be witness… end of my career… remember that girl… no judge would… Jesus Christ…” and then finally “does SHE even know about all this?”

 

They both turn to face me. I stare back earnestly, trying to figure out what on earth is happening. I muster a smile, which neither of them returns.

 

“It’s…” Mr Lingwood begins gathering up his paperwork “Willie… It’s what you need it to be.”

He strides towards the door, pauses for a moment then doubles back and hands me his card. “Good luck!” he exclaims, before turning on his heel and leaving.

 

The moment the door shuts I get to my feet.

“What was all that?” I ask “Is this? What’s going on? As your Personal Assistant, I demand to be-“

“Lingwood” Mr Hardigain says calmly “Is an old friend of mine. I… I just needed someone to look over your work contract before you sign, just to check everything is er… legally… er… legal.”

“Why wouldn’t it be legal?” I ask, letting out a nervous laugh.

“If you just sign, then we can finish your first day early. I’ll send you home for the rest of the day on full pay and of course, please have the things I’ve asked for ready by tomorrow.”

 

Mr Hardigain puts down the single sheet of A4 paper, and a Mont Blanc pen. He slides it towards me and I see for the first time, what appears to be the outlines of a basic contract. I pick up the pen (lovely pen) and skim read the page, my eyes widening with more and more shock at every line. The page reads:

 

“23/10/2020

I ________________ do hereby enter a contract with Mr Willie B Hardigain.

This contract states that I _________________ must

  • Always wear high heeled stilettos and silk stockings whilst in the office environment.
  • When not in an office environment must always be wearing matching lingerie under clothing in either lace or silk.
  • I must provide the following services to My Hardigain within 10 minutes of him having requested:
    1. Oral sex (including but not limited to: blowjobs, rim jobs, ball sucking, deepthroat, and cock worship).
    2. Massages (including but not limited to: back and shoulder massage, deep tissue massage, scalp massage, and foot rub.
    3. Deep and passionate French kissing with tongues, kissing and affection, both in public and private environments.
    4. Full penetrative sex. Both vaginal and anal, in all possible positions, in private environments, hotel rooms, the office after hours, company car etc.
    5. Be willing to groped both clothes and fully nude, in all positions, in any private environment.
  • Fully naked photos must be sent to Mr Hardigain twice weekly so he can be sure I _____________ am staying in shape.
  • Must have a current valid British passport and be able to travel at 12 hours notice, anywhere in the world.
  • Must in no uncertain terms, share the contents of this contract with any third parties, media outlets, friends, family members, or anyone other than the other person stated in this contract.
  • Must have a manicure and pedicure at all times, must work out a minimum of twice a week, must keep up to date on all news, politics, and current affairs.
  • Must not engage in excessive complaining, nagging or otherwise bothering Mr Hardigain during working hours, unless it is a work matter, or the matter pertains to something mentioned in this contract.
  • Plan all itineraries for business travel, including flights, transfers, hotels and restaurant reservations, entertainment, theatre tickets and any other particulars.
  • Must maintain a fully monogamous relationship with Mr Willie B Hardigain, maintaining an outwardly modest demeanour, and not relieving yourself of any sexual gratification that is not at the hands of Mr Willie B Hardigain, or yourself.
  • Must dress appropriately at all times:
    1. A classy and sophisticated designer office wardrobe. Skirts above the knee and trousers are not permitted in the office.
    2. In private environments must have a full selection of lingerie in lace and silk, fetish outfits, and uniforms
    3. If 11 a) or b) are not adhered to, you will be sent home to change
 

Every day in the Hardigain office is a new adventure. However, the following Schedule must be adhered to:

  • 7-7:30am massage and or/oral sex performed on Mr Hardigain
  • Lunch hour and business lunches: You must relieve Mr Hardigain during business lunches. You will have to find creative ways in which to do so without arising suspicion. He will instruct.
  • Board meetings: You must relieve Mr Hardigain after board meetings. He will instruct.
  • After hours: After hours at the office you must perform an erotic strip tease for Mr Hardigain, whereafter he will instruct you on how best to please him.
  • Weekends: Mr Hardigain will occasionally need you on weekends and private holidays. You must make yourself available.
 

All costs incurred in maintaining this contract will be covered by Mr Willie B Hardigain. Your budget will correlate with your progress and dedication to your job, which will be plotted in monthly progress reports. Should you breach contract yet wish to remain in contract, suitable punishments will be arranged at the discretion of Mr Hardigain.

 

This is a non-negotiable contract. Should you wish not to sign this contract, your temporary contract as a Personal Assistant will terminate immediately and you will no longer be an employee at Hardigain investments, and will have no future opportunity to join this company, nor any subsidiary companies or partnered companies at a later date. In the interest of discretion, you will also be blacklisted form working in the City, with no view to having this blacklist removed at a future date. If and when you decide to leave this contract, should you do so after more than 1 year (365 days) employment you will be given a generous severance, providing you sign a Non Disclosure Agreement. Should you refuse an NDA, you will be….”

 

My eyes widen to the size of saucers at the final line

 

“…Prosecuted for the sexual harassment of Mr Willie B Hardigain”

 

I look up from the contract, a massive fake grin spreading across my face, and let out a fake, girly giggle.

 

“You’re so funny” I laugh “I can tell you’re going to be really fun to work for with a sense of humour like that! Everyone says you’re a really funny gu-“

“It’s not a joke and I’m now running late for my next meeting so how about you sign the contract, and you can start properly tomorrow” says Mr Hardigain, prickling with impatience.

 

“I…” The smile drops from my face “I mean… this can’t be serious as serious contract! I… I mean, oral sex? What are you talking about? Stockings? And If… then… if I… you try and prosecute ME? Mr Haridgain… Do I look desperate to you?” I ask, with all the attitude I can muster.

 

“Yes.” He replies curtly. “You took an Uber pool to work and I’ve already run a credit check. Thirty grand worth of student debt, 4 credit cards, a shopping habit you can’t afford and your landlord is trying to evict you.”

 

I stand there mouthing wordlessly, absolutely stunned.

 

“Mr Hardigain. Let me tell you a story. I grew up in-“

“No” he interrupts, rudely “No we’re not going to do this crying begging poor me poor life bullshit. I’ve been there before and they all sign in the end. I can improve your prospects expeditiously so either sign the contract or get out.”

 

The room is swallowed by a deafening silence.

 

I reach for the Mont Blanc and pause – my pen hovering over the page, over my future in The City. I take a deep breath, exhale, and…

 

Sign the contract; my palm sweating and my underwear suddenly damp.

 

“Good. Now pull your skirt down.”

 

Well, I think to myself, it’s not my fault if I’m contractually obliged.

I do as I’m told and Mr Hardigain approaches me, sliding his hand under my silk panties and between my legs. His fingers return soaking wet.

 

“That’s what I like…”  he says, hastily unzipping his trousers and pushing me to my knees. Before I’ve had a chance to catch my breath, he shoves his hard cock into my mouth – pulling my head down onto him, the tip of his cock pushed deep in the back of my throat. He cums in my mouth within seconds then pulls out.

 

Unsure what to do, and embarrassed to have enjoyed it, I swallow and get to my feet, trying to look elegant as I put my skirt back on.

 

Mr Hardigain has taken a seat and watches me get dressed.

 

“Swallow was not in the contract Billie, but I’m pleased with your effort! I’ll have your company card arranged for tomorrow morning. Remember,” he says, folding my contract in half and handing it to me “7am tomorrow for the… er… massage.”

 

I nod silently.

“I can’t wait to have you sat on my cock” he says, casually, picking up his briefcase. “Anyway, I have to dash Billie – tomorrow – 7am. Don’t be late, or you will be punished.”

 

 

The next morning I awake at exactly 5:30am, giving myself plenty of time to get ready for Mr Hardigain and arrive at the office on time.

 

As I’m drying my hair, I switch on the radio and hear a chirpy “Now remember folks, clocks went forward last night so it’s been one less hour in bed. This is Pete Mackey reporting for Talk FM, at 6am of shall I say, 7am on Tuesday the 29th….”

 

I gasp. My heart skips three beats, a knot turning in the pit of my stomach. My iPhone smashed last week, and unable to afford the repair, I was forced to buy a much cheaper handset. A cheaper handset which clearly doesn’t update for daylight saving time. Oh no!

 

Panic stricken, I throw on whatever clothes I have to hand and head straight to work, arriving 45mins late, my lipstick smudged and my shirt un-ironed. I hurry through the office, avoiding the disapproving glances of my colleagues and head straight for Mr Hardigains office.

 

I enter, close the door, and immediately begin trying to explain

“I am soooo so sorry, what happened was my phone, I had the new iPhone but then-“

 

“Not another word.”

 

Mr Hardigain is sat behind his desk, breathing heavily through his nose, his neck red with anger. “What I need…” he explains calmly “Is for you to pull down your skirt and bend over this desk.”

 

He stands up to watch me do it.

Embarrassed, I pull down my short (oops!) skirt, and bend over the desk, realising that in my haste, I’ve forgotten to put underwear on.

 

To be continued….!

B x