The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again Part 7

THE RANGER AT PARSONS GREEN

Fridays. Fridays are good. I closed the gallery at three in the afternoon and drove down to Parsons Green in Sarah’s Porsche. I parked up outside a new pub, The Ranger. The beer garden was brimming with braying Sloaneys and palm trees. Pashminas and posh accents everywhere. I saw Barwick Ford sitting at a table surrounded by posh totty, big Harley Street teeth chattering and laughing. Barwick loved the ladies. I went to the bar, grabbed a bottle of Krug in a bucket and joined Barwick.
‘Hugo’ cheered Barwick. Introductions and double air kisses. ‘Hugo, Venetia. Venetia, Hugo. Lucy Hugo, Hugo Lucy. Zara..’
‘We’ve met’ I interrupted, looking at Zara’s new boots. Gorgeous knee high stiletto boots by Jimmy Choo, with the customary back zips.
‘Hello Land Rover lover’ she giggled.
Barwick continued ‘Hugo, Georgia. Georgia, Hugo. Olivia, Hugo. Hugo, Olivia. Jemima, Hugo, Hugo Jemima. All in PR!’
‘What’s PR?’ I asked, sitting down in only my Dior pants.
‘Perverted Relations’ chewed Olivia, grabbing a glass I filled with Krug.
‘I thought so’ laughed Barwick ‘Hey Hugo, I was telling the girls about you jumping the Serpentine, with two mallards. What an athlete this man is!’
‘Really amazing’ brayed Venetia ‘Maybe one day you can jump me, without the mallards’
‘Yeah it would be a pleasure, let me see your shoes’ I said. She put her foot up on the table in front of me, encased in dark brown leather strappy Jimmy Choo studded stiletto. Nice pedicure. I was trouty.
‘Do they meet your approval?’ said Venetia, with her sunglasses on her head. Moschino logo glinting in the sun.
‘Five inch heels’ I noted ‘Jimmy Choo has some fans at this place. Leave your foot on the table’
‘I soooo love working in PR’ brayed Venetia quite tipsy ‘I’m working for Quentessentially dot com! I was at Marlborough! I am sooooo fucking posh’
‘Rather’ grinned Barwick ‘an old posh Marly gal!’
‘Working for whom?’ I asked, rubbing my crotch.
‘Quentessentially dot com’ echoed Venetia as I lusted over her Jimmy Choo shod food. I saw it reflected in the champagne bucket, a double lust.
‘She works for Quentessentially dot com’ said an equally tipsy Olivia.
‘Quen….ta…senshellairrrr dort com’ slurred Lucy Possomsby, crossing a pair of marvelous legs. Chanel ballet flats. Always one.
‘My go’ brayed Jemima Cone ‘QUENTESSENTIALLY dot com’
‘I’m in fucking PR and I work at Quentessentially dot com ha ha’ snorted Georgia Barton-Batting. ‘It really is soooo quintessential darling’
Fuck, they were getting bungalowed. They were playing that game of who can say what they do for a living in the poshest accent. It was a well known party game amongst the well-heeled upper classes. Barwick had been buying a fair amount of the old sparkly stuff. I think Venetia won the posh accent competition.

Even though I was surrounded by the girls from Totty Towers, I had a sudden urge to fuck Zita Zippa so I took some ultra high res photos of Venetia’s Jimmy Choo and headed across to Fulham Road. I kept thinking about Zita in that lovely Givenchy leather dress. She was at her swanky boutique cross-legged on the cream leather sofa, reading a book called Footsucker by Geoff Nicholson. I put the closed sign up on the door.
‘Zita you gorgeous Italian sexpot’ I said, with a rocket in my pants. She perked up straight away, preening her hair and checking her leather skirt. It was a gorgeous Givenchy black leather skirt with a Moschino tweed dogtooth check jacket in a quirky style, lots of gold chain bling and buttons, her looks were more than a touch of Nigella Lawson. I was fascinated by her accent still, the mix of husky Italian and posh Sloane was quirky and sexy. She went to Roedean. I took a long look at her sexy peep toe platform stilettos by Prada. She uncrossed her long legs and re-crossed them.
‘Come, sit down darling. You do shoe kissing’ she smiled. Oh how I became hard in a few seconds. No need for Hardlong with Zita Zippa. Her knees were particularly ravishing.
I took some photos of her. She posed in various positions, which took her back to her modeling days. I got some good close ups of her shoes. And her face too, there was no Italian woman in London as beautiful. She had been kissed by angels. So beautiful, yet so kinky.
‘Does my naughty Hugo want a shoejob?’ Zita was twitching a dangling Prada.
‘Oh yes, I want one of those’ I panted. She pushed her foot against my crotch as I stood in front of her. She rubbed her shoe up and down my bulge rhythmically. I grabbed the heel and assisted the process, which became more rapid. Then I pulled my pants down.
‘Naughty naughty soooooo naughty’ she purred like Eartha Kitt. Then she gave me a handjob and we snogged and I had a fucking nice orgasm. I shot all over the cream leather sofa. I had another orgasm a few minutes later as I lay on the floor kissing her shoe and jerking off. Then another one as I did her up the arse on the sofa. I spent most of the evening there, fucking and fucking and wanking and fucking and each time she got more disheveled and more beautiful. I could have died of sex that night. Sarah has never given me as many orgasms in one evening. Zita Zippa has some kind of magical aura, even her name gives me butterflies. When I was driving home, I was wanking, just thinking of her! Fuck, I’m hopelessly lusting after that woman, nearly twenty years older than me. Fuck. Is it love or lust? I turned around and drove back, horny as hell. She was just leaving the boutique all smartened up, she looked more like Nigella Lawson than ever. We snogged and snogged in Fulham Road. I drove her home and we fucked all night. On my way home on Saturday morning, I pulled up at the traffic lights, looked at the driver of a sporty convertible in the next lane, fuck me, it was the real Nigella. Zita was more beautiful! Sex sex sex and fucking sex.
‘Sex and more sex’ I said out loud.
The real Nigella was grinning. Or was it the real Nigella, were there other Nigellas all over Chelsea, teasing me? Oh Chelsea on a hot Friday night!
Barwick phoned and asked if I was up for drinks. I said I’d meet him for a beer. Good chap is Barwick. I told him I had Zita on my mind, it was nothing personal at The Ranger. He said Venetia Quentessentially had the hots for me and wants to know the next time I’m booked for dirty stiletto sex. I can’t get away from it! It turns out he went back to Venetia’s apartment in Knightsbridge with the PR girls and they all had some pretty hardcore kinky sex. I need to go to Tibet or something, become a monk. My life has gone from not enough to every minute of the day. I’m an irresistible posh cunt who stalks Chelsea in Dior underwear.