Double Chocolate Chip

Well, you all know from my last posting (is that the terminology?) that Daddy wanted me in Monaco and I acquiesced on the basis that I'd set up the office, get it running and then I'd be off to New York.

And indeed I did, setting up a small fund operation out of a rather expensive duplex apartment overlooking the harbour but pleasant as it was, I just couldn't wait to be out of there. Too clinical. Too watched. And amazingly (for me) - too expensive. So New York it was. It was meant to be - I'd had a calling. It was my spiritual home, despite the fact that I'd never been there but over the next few years I grew to love that place for a variety of reasons - who couldn't?

One of them was that the delectable Samantha had followed me from London to be my PA in the Big Apple which made the settling-in a lot easier. Daddy wasn’t too keen on this arrangement, thinking, quite correctly that her amazing body would be something of a distraction whilst I was trying to start a little fund out there. If only he’d known that her body was just one of her charms and that she had a range of skills which would have caused the Kama Sutra to be rewritten had some of her wilder moments been witnessed. But Samantha aside (and she did it that way too), NY is a wonderful place for a rich boy like me to operate. A 24 hour hedonistic temple to all those whose mantra is greed, sex and rock and roll – sorry – forgot the illegal substances which are a necessity for surviving the frenetic lifestyle out there.

Despite Wall Street beckoning, Daddy insisted on a much lower key operation in Madison Avenue. His rationale was that of a man who knew the ropes and had been on them a few times. Wall St, he reckoned, would mean that we would be engulfed by the whole regulatory scene and would be restricted in what we could do. He wanted us to be close enough to ‘the street’ to capture the whispers but not be seduced by them and so for a few months on Monday to Thursday evenings, we’d end up in Grand Central at the Oyster Bar or Metrazur, whilst on Fridays we would head down to lower Manhattan to the street to hear what was going down.

I have to say that despite the obvious attractions, the new office was set up rather well if I say so myself, although the multi-talented Samantha had no little input, finding the ideal premises in a rather nondescript building in Madison Avenue, hiring key staff and generally making everything happen just as if they were ordained to fall into place without so much as a single issue.

The one problem however was living accommodation. There was no shortage of living space, but finding a suitably spacious and luxuriously furnished pad within easy reach of the office and our night-time haunts was something of a challenge – even to Samantha. And yet she succeeded in getting some wonderful apartments after only a few weeks stuck at the Chambers, a boutique hotel just next to Central Park. I say ‘stuck’ but in fact the duplex suite at the Chambers was rather chic with 900sq feet of space and spiral staircases linking the vast rooms, but I suspect it was the balcony with the amazing views which pushed the price up to over $1000 a night. Still, Daddy would never see the bills and all we had to do was one little extra deal a week to pay for this largesse.

I actually became attached to the Chambers despite the fact that it was a ten minute limo ride to the office. It was functional, served great food and the cocktail bar was something of a magnet for the young girls of midtown which I appreciated but Samantha did not. In fact Samantha had been rather over-protective since the night she had come down the spiral staircase into my bedroom (she had taken over the upper part of the duplex) and surprised me somewhat. Until that night, and despite her various attractions (great body, amazing legs and boobs and wonderful smile), we had kept our relationship strictly professional which, I am sure, amazed her as much as it amazed me. But that night, in a sort of 2am slumber, I heard some music coming on. Not loud, but loud enough to be noticeable in the background. The Beautiful South (as I learned later) apparently, singing, ‘Don’t marry her, fuck me’. As I wondered what on earth Samantha was doing playing music at 2am, I saw her shape arrive at the bottom of my bed. The duvet was pulled back and without a word, she started spreading ice cream all over my manhood (I would call them genitals, but that doesn’t seem to do them justice). She then proceeded to lick it off in such a delicious way that the extreme coldness was a mere consideration at the back of my mind. Indeed, there wasn’t much left of my mind when Samantha finished her little culinary treat about thirty minutes later, by which time she had had some ‘cream’ with her Double Chocolate Chip, not that I had any idea what flavour it was as I lay back in the silky blackness of ecstasy!

I discovered it was DCC (double chocolate chip), a particular favourite of mine as it happens, when I reciprocated in kind a little later when my brain had slowed down. Now that's what I call a PA – remembering minute details such as my favourite ice-cream flavour?

After that, the maid only had one bed to make each day as Samantha and I made up for lost time. She was great in the office and fantastic in the sack, but how much of it was down to the champagne and cocaine cocktails she was indulging in on a nightly basis?

Introducing Nigel

Hello fellow bloggers. My name is Nigel Smarther-Blair or ‘Smarter than the Average Bear’ as my fellow grads at Cambridge used to call me, the reason for which, will I am sure, become clear later on. This is my first blog posting so let’s see how it goes – it’s really to keep mummy and daddy off my back. They are such awful worriers and it’s not as if they don’t see me. Daddy comes down in his jet every few weeks or so (mostly without mummy for reasons of potentially damaging divorce settlements !) and takes back the information that I’m fine, living well within my means (!!) and am ‘dating’ the most gorgeous, young Russian girl called Natasha.

So, a bit of biographical history for you all. I suppose there’s not much to say before Cambridge beckoned. I’d been an absolute shit at school but was quite good at arithmetic and maths (must have been in the genes) and good old Daddy knew a Fellow at one of the colleges and so before you could say ‘first class honours’, a sizeable donation was made and I was off to Cambridge (pictured) which, I must say was a blast from start to finish. The ‘first class’ degree evaded me however.

Parental concern about my living standards meant that they just had to buy me a modern pad on the outskirts of the city and also supplied me with a brand new Range Rover (Vogue – what else?) which was kind of them. These two accoutrements, of course, meant that I was a bit of a target for the young ladies of Girton College which was within staggering distance of my pad. They were not an unwelcome distraction to my studies I have to say and it took another ‘financial intervention’ from Daddy to ensure my undergrad results were ‘massaged’ enough so that I could take a post grad MBA. I mean, everyone needs an MBA to work in the city these days. First Class with Hons would have been preferable but boozers can’t be choosers – ha ha!

It was a wrench leaving Cambs and all the lovelies whose clothes seemed to interminably litter every room of my pad, especially my bedroom! Geraldine was a particular favourite but whilst she was a wiz at maths she wasn’t too good on dates and the taking of pills and yet another intervention from Daddy, again financial, meant that I wasn’t encumbered with a preggers girlfriend, thank God! Never heard from her since daddy handed her the envelope. I hope the little sprog she had (I heard from a mutual friend) is doing well and has some of the family’s maths genes. God – he, or she, might grow up to be a genius and a rich one at that. What with her maths ability and my family’s money-making prowess – who knows what she might have produced?

Well, after leaving Cambridge in 2001, which was just as well, as my cocaine habit was really taking off (like my head did sometimes), I was given a nice little position in Daddy’s hedge fund business. It wasn’t called a hedge fund in those days, it was more like an investment club for Daddy’s chums. Daddy had been making a fortune for Barclays for years, mostly as a result of his contacts in the city who always managed to ‘advise’ him of any little corporate surprise before it hit the City wires and not entirely surprisingly, after one particular spat with his Chairman over his ‘pathetic bonus of only £2 million’, he decided to go it alone.

He managed to get his hands on a nice little office in Mayfair (long before it became the Hedge Fund capital of London) and got his pals to chip in some dosh and before you know it, he’s returning a stunning 25% a year and is inundated with cash coming from all directions. Ok he’s been investigated by the FSA a few times but Daddy’s contacts closed ranks and assisted in getting him not only cleared, but cleared with a public apology from the head of the FSA – after all, where would Daddy’s friends be without their annual 25%?

I was provided with a wonderful period drawing room as an office, an unfortunately stunning PA called Samantha and an expense account which was so humungous it must have been bigger than some 3^rd world countries GDP! Daddy gave me a smallish fund to run and I did ok – well it would have been silly to beat his 25% so I came in at a nicely conservative 19% in my first year which earned me a £1m plus bonus. My first salary. Not bad, but I wanted more. I mean my living expenses, excluding my drug habit which had resurfaced, was running at about £150k a month and I was having to resort to a bit of ‘skimming’ to make ends meet. Unfortunately, Daddy’s auditors found a ‘little discrepancy’ in the books and I was packed off to the Caribbean for a year whist things died down a bit. There was no chance of me returning to London so once the sunny sabbatical was up, the choice was New York or Monaco. Daddy had always wanted a ‘nice little tax-free operation’ and Monaco was the most likely destination but I managed to persuade him, with Mummy on my side (it was the shopping!) that I should spend a year in the 'centre of the Universe', Manhattan, New York.