Nights With Nina

I first met Nina at the opening of The Autumn Show at the Carson Gallery. She was with Warwick Smyth. Warwick and I were old acquaintances. I'd known him at university.

'So ... how long have you two been together?' I asked.

Nina frowned. 'Together? Oh, we're not together,' she said. And she looked Warwick up and down in a way that seemed to say: Really? Are you serious? You don't think that I could do better than this?

'Sorry. I just thought ...'

Warwick grinned and shrugged his shoulders. Nina seemed less amused.

The next time we met was at a party to launch the new Canary Wharf offices of The Howard Hall Group. 'We meet again,' I said.

'So it would seem,' Nina replied. 'Are you following me around?'

'Not intentionally,' I assured her.

The third time we met was at Graham Orbach's Christmas party.

'Well, I'll say this much,' Nina said, 'you certainly get invited to all the right parties.'

'As do you,' I pointed out.

'Are you married?' she said.

'Umm ... married? No.'

'Good,' she said. 'In that case, you can take me somewhere for a quiet drink. It's getting far too boisterous here.'

'Well, Christmas parties tend to be like that,' I suggested. 'You know. End of year. Goodwill to one and all. That sort of thing.'

'Well, I think my stock of goodwill is wearing a bit thin,' she said.

We grabbed our coats and strolled around the corner to The Black Orchid which, considering that it was the week before Christmas, was surprisingly quiet.

'Yes. This is much better,' Nina said. 'Mind you, they'll need a few more than you and me to cover the overheads on this place. Perhaps the staff members are all family and are working for nothing.'

'Perhaps they are,' I said. At the Christmas party, Nina, who was dressed to impress in her black Armani suit and festive red silk blouse, had been nursing a champagne flute, so I ordered a couple of glasses of Bolly. 'I assume you'll stick with bubbles.'

'Bubbles? I suppose so,' she said. 'Probably best not to mix our drinks.'

'Cheers.'

'Yes. Cheers,' she said.

For a moment or two, neither of us said anything. But then I really had to ask. 'So what is it that makes you the guest de rigueur at all of London's best parties?'

Nina smiled. 'I'd like to say that it's because I am irresistibly witty and charming; but I think it probably has something to do with my job.'

'Which is?'

'Sales Director for KnightStarr.'

I nodded. 'Ah. Yes. The luxury hotel group.'

'Well ... yes, mainly hotels. Although these days we also have a few stand-alone restaurants. You may have read that we've just acquired Squirrel's Dray and Chaps. They'll both need a total makeover of course. But we're good at that.'

I nodded.

'And to what do you owe your notoriety?' Nina asked.

'No idea,' I said. 'I can only assume that it's a case of mistaken identity. Somebody thinks I'm someone I'm not.'

'Perhaps you are,' she said.

'Yes. Perhaps I am. Just don't tell my mother.'

The next time I saw Nina she was in the role of hostess. At least she was the

sort of

hostess. Mark Ansoff and Charlie Smith, the executive chef and general manager of the newly revamped Squirrel's Dray, were the official hosts; but Nina was pulling the strings. 'I thought that you had decided to stand us up,' she said when I arrived an hour or so after the official kick-off.

'Trains,' I said. 'Took forever to get back from Bristol. Wrong kind of snow on the tracks. Wrong kind of air in the sky. Something like that anyway.'

Nina nodded. 'Well, just don't try to sneak off early. I have plans.'

Nina's plans involved supper at Chateau Royal (where, funnily enough, the staff were unbelievably attentive) and then a short cab ride to her flat just off the Marylebone High Street.

'I'd offer you a cognac,' she said, 'but I don't want to hamper your performance.'

'Oh? My performance? Am I expected to sing a song or something?'

'Once you have fucked me, you may do whatever you want. Well, within reason. But fuck first.'

'Understood,' I said.

I have to say, when you are being ambushed by a woman who is clearly used to calling the shots, it's not that easy to know precisely what the ground rules are. Should I feign a sudden romantic inclination? Should I initiate a bit of subtle foreplay? Or should I just rip her clothes off and throw her across the nearest appropriate – or inappropriate – cock-high piece of furniture?

'This way,' Nina said.

I followed her into her bedroom which, I must admit, had the look and feel of a bedroom in a five-star hotel just after the housemaid had departed. 'I'll get some coat hangers,' she said, and she disappeared into the adjoining dressing room and returned with two polished wooden hangers – mahogany, unless I was mistaken.

Nina removed her suit and carefully placed it on one of the hangers. 'Come on,' she said, nodding in the direction of the second coat hanger. 'Or do you need me to undress you.'

Well, that might be fun, I thought. But I think she just meant that I should get on with it. I took off my suit coat, and then my shoes, and then my trousers.

Meanwhile, Nina removed her hot pink silk blouse to reveal a matching hot pink bra, knickers, and suspender belt. A snatch of an old Guy Lombardo song suddenly came to mind. 'Enjoy yourself / while you're still in the pink,' my brain said. Although, of course, it was Nina who was 'in the pink'. But that didn't mean that I couldn't enjoy myself.

Dressed in her workday uniform, Nina was attractive but unquestionably business-like. Stripped of her dark Armani suits and her seemingly endless supply of silk blouses, she was simply sexy. Her toned limbs and torso suggested that she made regular trips to a gym. Her breasts were big enough but not too big. And, when she removed her bra, her brownish-pink nipples were almost big enough to hang a hat on.

For a moment or two, Nina just stood there, her feet slightly apart, her arms spread, her palms facing towards me, as though she was waiting for me to say something. A few wisps of golden pubic hair peeped out from either side the narrow front panel of her bikini-style knickers. 'I suspect you are a stockings man,' she said.

I just smiled.

Off came her knickers and, now dressed only in her hot pink suspender belt and her black stockings, she advanced on me and slipped a hand inside my blue and white striped boxer shorts. 'I think these are going to have to go,' she said, lowering my boxers and freeing my growing cock. 'Socks too. I've never understood why some men think it's OK to have sex while wearing socks.' She had a point.

And then we were on the bed: kissing like greedy 18-year-olds; our fingers frantically exploring hitherto uncharted territory.

But the foreplay didn't last for long. Within a few minutes, Nina was scrambling for a condom and signalling that she wanted my cock inside her slippery tunnel without further delay. I was, of course, happy to oblige.

One of the disadvantages of using a condom is that it does slightly reduce the sensation of all those divine little vaginal ridges rubbing against the head of one's cock. But, on the other hand, one of the advantages is that it does slightly reduce the sensation of all those divine little vaginal ridges rubbing against the head of one's cock. Without the condom, I think that it might have been all over before either of us wanted it to be all over.

'Is this the part where I have to sing?' I asked, as we lay, half-entwined, in post-coital contemplation.

'I'd rather you didn't,' Nina said. 'Maybe next time.'

Oh, well ... at least it seemed that she had decided that it had been satisfactory enough to warrant a next time.

'We could have that cognac if you like,' Nina said.

'Why not? I'm not driving.'

My next encounter with Nina was not for another three weeks. After our great start, you might have expected it to be the very next day; but the following afternoon Nina had to fly to New York to weave her magic at a trade fair for five-star hospitality enterprises. 'I'll send you a text,' she said. And she did – a couple of times a day for the whole two weeks that she was away. Text? Sext? Where is the line? And, anyway, did I care?

Nina arrived back at Heathrow at around midday on the Tuesday. Unfortunately, I had flown out to Philadelphia at 9:05 that same morning. 'Sorry,' I said. 'But needs must when the devil drives.'

'Do I know this devil?' Nina texted.

'I'll need to take advice on that,' I replied.

I arrived back from Philly a week later on the BA overnighter. The theory is that you spend the night sleeping, and then awake, refreshed, an hour or so before landing at Heathrow. The reality is that – thanks to the time difference – it's a very short night. By the time you've had a spot of supper and got yourself off to sleep, it's time to wake up again. But I'll say this for BA: that first mug of tea as you fly in across Scotland is absolutely brilliant!

Nina had suggested that I turn up at her flat any time after 6:30. 'I'll make us some supper,' she said. 'You can keep me company while I do something. At this stage, I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to do. Probably chicken. Are you OK with chicken?'

I arrived at her flat just after 6:45. 'I brought some wine,' I said. 'There's a red and a white. I wasn't sure. There's a Sancerre and a new world pinot noir.'

'Thank you. You didn't need to; but thank you. Let's start with the white.'

'Now?'

'Now is as good a time as any,' Nina said.

While I poured a couple of glasses of the Sancerre (just as well that it was chilled), Nina started assembling ingredients on the countertop in her designer kitchen.

'I looked at your website,' she said.

'My website?'

'Well ... those chaps you work for. OHT Partners.'

'OTH,' I said.

'Whatever. It doesn't tell you a lot, does it? It doesn't even say what you do.'

'Does it not?'

'There's a line about helping to find the future. But what does that mean?'

OHT's strapline is: Helping you to create the future. But never mind. 'What would you like it to mean?' I asked.

'I don't know,' Nina said. 'I mean ... how would I, as a senior manager, know if needed you?'

It was a good question. 'Well ... in our experience, someone will usually have suggested that you talk to us.'

'Someone? Which someone?'

'Oh, I don't know. Someone you trust. Someone who thinks that your organisation has a bright future but doesn't feel that you know how you're going to go about reaching that bright future.'

'And you,' Nina said, while chopping a parsnip with sufficient force to make me hope that she wasn't thinking of my neck – or worse – at the time. 'You are described as Senior Consultant at Large. What does that mean?'

'Well, you know,' I said, 'a few grey streaks starting to appear at the temples; a lot of time on aeroplanes and in non-descript hotel rooms.'

'And presumably someone pays for this?'

'Oh, yes. Handsomely. They appreciate it more if they're paying through the nose. Not unlike the boys and girls who choose to stay at your establishments, I imagine.'

For someone who, I presume, didn't spend a lot of time in the kitchen, Nina was a dab hand with a chef's knife; and, after just 15 or so minutes of sipping and chatting and slicing and chopping, she suddenly announced: 'Now it's up to the oven. One hour at 185 should be about right. No ... better make it 200. Now ... let me see ... what could you and I do to keep ourselves amused for an hour?' And she hitched her skirt slightly, shimmied out of her knickers, gathered up her wine glass, and started walking in the direction of the bedroom. Naturally I followed. It would have been rude not to have.

As you may recall, on my previous visit to Nina's bedroom she had been very particular about putting her suit on a coat hanger. This time, she just tossed it on a chair. She must have caught the slightly surprised look on my face.

'What? Oh! My suit? It's OK,' she said. 'This one's off to the cleaners tomorrow.'

'Fair enough.'

Nina unbuttoned her blouse and was just about to take it off.

'No,' I said. 'Leave it. I like it just the way it is.' And I guided her, slowly, to the edge of the bed. 'Just relax,' I said, sitting her down and spreading her thighs, 'while I explore this wonderful, fragrant, crevice.'

'Are you telling me what to do?'

'It would seem so,' I said.

Nina gave me what I took to be a look of disapproval. But then, as I nuzzled her soft blonde pubic hair and started to tongue her moist valley, she let out a soft moan of approval. Did Nina have the softest, juiciest vulva ever? It had to be a contender. Even before my tongue had really got to work, she was wet, wet, wet.

A couple of orgasms later, I got the feeling that Nina was about to call it a day on the carnal front – even before I had had a chance to give my cock an outing. 'Come on,' I said. 'On your hands and knees, and stick your bum out where I can get at it.'

'Are you giving orders again?'

'Afraid so,' I said.

Nina frowned but then rolled over, got onto her hands and knees, and presented her beautifully toned arse. Meanwhile, I retrieved a condom from my shirt pocket and slipped it over my erect cock. Everything worked perfectly. It was as though we were made for each other. I entered her in one long slow movement before picking up the pace to a gentle jog.

'Oh, fuck, yes,' Nina said. 'That feels ... well ... perfect.'

From where I was, it also looked pretty good. Her narrow waist. Her beautifully-shaped buttocks. Her slippery tunnel in just the right place to receive my hard cock. Yes, Nina was right: it was perfect.

And 15 minutes and rather a lot of moaning and squealing later, the roasted chicken pieces with an assortment of root vegetables, garlic, and rosemary were also approaching perfection.

'Another glass of white wine?' I asked. 'Or shall I open the red?'

Nina frowned. 'Up to you,' she said. 'Maybe red. I don't know. Can't you decide?'

As Aristotle and his mates observed more than two thousand years ago, after sex all animals are sad. Was that all it was? Was Nina sad? Or was she suddenly in a bad mood? Had I said something? Had I done something?

'Can I do anything to help?' I asked, as Nina started arranging the chicken and vegetables on a serving platter while continuing to frown.

'You don't think that I can arrange some simple food on a bloody plate?' she said.

'I'm sure you can,' I said. 'I'm just trying to be helpful.'

For whatever reason, the evening never really recovered. We ended up having an argument about ... well, nothing really – and dining in dark silence. When, shortly after nine, Nina stifled a yawn, I took the opportunity to take my leave.

Somewhat to my surprise, she asked: 'Am I going to see you tomorrow?'

'Not unless you're going to be in Leeds,' I said.

'Leeds? What are you doing there?'

'Umm ... a little bit of talking ... and a whole lot of listening,' I said. 'If all goes according to plan.'

'And when are you back?'

'Friday night. Late.'

'Oh.'

'Look, maybe we could do something on Saturday. Perhaps I could take you somewhere for a little supper. See how you feel.'

'Hmm ... I don't know,' Nina said. 'Maybe. Maybe. I'll, umm, think about it and give you a call.'

She did give me a call. She called me the next morning while I was on the train on my way to Leeds. 'I'm sorry about last night,' she said. 'I think I was just feeling a bit tired. I do tend to get a bit scratchy when I'm tired. Don't know why.'

'That's OK,' I said.

'And if the invitation for supper on Saturday still stands, then, yes, thank you. I'd like that.'

Given that Nina was used to dinning at Michelin-starred restaurants, I decided to go the other way and I made a booking at Ciao Bella. Not that there is anything wrong with the food at Ciao Bella – or the service, for that matter. But it is definitely Nonna food – very good Nonna food – but Nonna food, nevertheless. You almost expect the kitchen to be staffed by a brigade of little grey-haired ladies in black dresses and crisp white aprons.

'Oh, by the way, there's no menu as such,' I told Nina as we took our seats.

'No menu?'

'But don't worry. It's all good.'

'Antipasto,' the waiter said, in a manner that suggested that this was not even up for discussion. 'And then may I suggest the gnocchi?'

'Gnocchi sounds good,' I said.

'And for

secondo

... lamb? Or chicken?'

'Umm ... why don't we leave that up to you?' I said.

'I think the chicken.

Pollo alla Diavola

. Succulent chicken. Marinated in lots of freshly-ground black pepper and lemon and rosemary.

Bellissimo

. And

contorno

... umm ... some grilled green beans drizzled with olive oil? We can discuss

la dolce

later.'

'So ... what did you think?' I asked when we got back to Nina's flat. 'That wasn't all bad was it?'

'It was ... excellent. I should talk to our development team about incorporating something like that when we renovate La Canalasso.'

I had my reservations. Ciao Bella worked because it was what it was. Simple. Humble even. I couldn't see how you could have a simple, humble trattoria in a five-star hotel. But I didn't say anything. I was beginning to learn that it was better not to start such a conversation with Nina. It could only end in acrimony.

'I think what we need now,' Nina said, 'is a glass of grappa.'

Now there was an idea that I

could

go along with.

Nina produced a bottle of grappa and a couple of shot glasses, and we headed for the bedroom.

For once, Nina wasn't wearing her 'uniform'. In place of a crisply-tailored Amani suit she was wearing a blue and green striped midi-length dress with a full skirt. 'That's a very nice dress,' I said. 'Very nice indeed. And you wear it well.'

'Thank you,' she said. 'I was just about to take it off. But, if you like it so much, perhaps I should keep it on a little longer.'

'I think you should,' I said. And I guided her backwards to the elegant half-upholstered Louis XV-style elbow chair. 'I think you'll be comfortable enough here,' I said. 'Although before you sit down, perhaps I should just remove your knickers.'

Nina smiled and shook her head slightly. 'Uh-uh. You can't,' she said.

'No?'

'I'm not wearing any.'

I felt my cock twitch. 'Oh. I see. Are you sure?'

'I am.'

'Well, I suppose that if anyone would know, you would. Nevertheless, I should, perhaps, just check. Just to be sure. You can't be too careful with these things, you know.' And, as she lowered herself onto the edge of the chair, I raised her skirt and nudged my face between her toned thighs. 'Ah, yes,' I said. 'You are right. I don't know why I doubted you. One naked pussy. Ready and waiting for a good licking.'

Nina smiled and nodded. 'Well ... get on with it then.'

And so I did.

I have noticed over the years that some women are ready from the off, while others take a moment or two to get warmed up. And then there was Nina. Nina was ready almost before the off. By the time my tongue had completed its first circuit of her succulent vulva, she was as wet as a proverbial shag on a rock.

'Oh, yes,' she said. 'Yes. Yes. Yes.'

And who was I to disagree? If Nina said yes, then yes was the answer.

After two squealing, giggling orgasms, Nina declared enough. 'Well ... for the moment anyway.'

'You wouldn't like to try to make it three in a row?'

'Well, of course I would,' she said with a broad grin. 'But maybe a little taste of that grappa first.'

I got myself up off my knees, poured a couple of shots of grappa, and handed one to Nina. 'Cento di questi giorni,' I said, raising my glass.

'Cento?' She frowned. 'A hundred?'

'Yeah. Why not?' I said. 'If a thing's worth doing, it worth doing often.'

Nina smiled and clinked her glass against mine. 'Cento di questi giorni,' she said.