“Your Russian is in the restaurant!” the young Mexican waiter called out to Nancy, as she was finishing her snack supper in the kitchens.
“Let him wait. I haven’t eaten all day.” Nancy was in her mid-30s and beginning to show her age. She’d been a hat check girl, a barmaid, a waitress and was now the Tropicana’s resident hostess, splitting her ‘earnings’ 50:50 with the bar’s domineering Syrian boss.
“I wouldn’t keep him waiting too long, sweetie, or Varkey will be back here shouting and screaming.”
Nancy finished the last mouthful. “Let him shout, for all I care. Anyway, that sleazy Russian’s out of luck tonight.”
“How so?”
Smiling demurely at Miguel she nonchalantly licked her fingers. “’cause I’ve got the rags on, sweetie.” The camp waiter gave a haughty sniff and swept out.
The restaurant’s blue-chip Russian customer was seated alone in one of the alcoves. Miguel stood nervously beside the corpulent oligarch and handed him a menu. “Nancy says she’ll be with you shortly, Mr Oblomov. May I get you a drink before you order?”
“The usual,” was the guttural reply.
Miguel thankfully ducked off to fetch a bottle of the premium vodka from behind the bar.
“Well hello stranger!” Nancy was now standing beside the Russian’s table by the curtained entrance. “Long time no see.”
The man put down the menu. Without looking up or even returning Nancy’s greeting he took a Turkish cigarette from a pack on the table, lit it with a gold cigarette lighter and patted the banquette seat beside him. Nancy dutifully obeyed, making sure their legs were touching beneath the tablecloth. Within moments she felt a claw-like grip on her thigh. Still no words were exchanged.
Miguel returned with the vodka and two glasses, pouring a generous triple measure for the customer. “May I take your order, sir?”
“The usual.”
“Porterhouse steak – extra rare – with French fries and onions?”
“And fetch me a bottle of the Lebanese Chateau Musar. The ’98.” Miguel was glad to scurry off with the order.
“I’m staying at the Astoria Rex,” the Russian announced.
“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for the night this time,” Nancy stammered. She felt the ‘claw’ tighten.
“And why not?”
“It’s my time-of-the-month.”
“Then let’s have some fun here,” was the jilted man’s immediate response.
“Here?”
“Yeah. After I’ve had my supper, you can get down on your knees and give me a nice sucking.” It wasn’t so much a suggestion as an order. “We’ll get the waiter to pull the curtain across if you’re shy.”
Nancy had to think fast. She knocked her single measure of vodka back in one gulp. Miguel returned with the wine and a bowl of nuts, exchanging a nervous glance with the hostess. “After you’ve had your supper, you mean?”
Nodding, the Russian poured himself a glass of wine. Nancy got up and headed for the safety of the kitchens.
“The downright cheek of that slob! Just because he can’t fuck me tonight, he’s demanding a blow job – virtually in public!” She felt Miguel’s reassuring hand run across her shoulders.
“Look on the bright side, Nancy.”
“What fucking ‘bright side’?”
Miguel took a seat beside her at the table. “Tell him you’ll do it in exchange for that watch he’s wearing.”
“Watch?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, your boyfriend wears a Rolex Sub-Mariner with a jewel-encrusted bezel ring. It’s easily worth $1000. And if you managed to relieve him of it, I’d give you $500. Cash. It’s my partner’s birthday next week and I want to get him something special. Varkey needn’t know anything about our arrangement.”
Thus the scene was set for a high-risk sexual adventure, which would either have a happy ending or spell disaster for Nancy and Miguel.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As he was mopping up the last of his steak’s juices with a bread roll, Dimitri Oblomov was conscious of Nancy standing in the alcove’s entrance, one arm wrapped around its crimson curtain. She gave him a seductive smile, slipped the corner of her red silk blouse from one shoulder and whispered: “Ready for that dessert now, sweetie?”
The Russian looked up, nodded and dabbed the corner of his down-turned mouth with his napkin. He began unbuttoning the top fastenings of his trousers. Nancy advanced into the alcove, pulling the curtain behind her closed and unbuttoning her blouse. “OK if we don’t mention this to Varkey?”
The canny Russian wiped a hand across his mouth thoughtfully. “But, Nancy, you know how he likes to collect his ‘commission’.”
“Well I’ve had an idea. See what you think. When we’ve finished – and believe me, sweetie, I’m planning to give you one of my de luxe bj’s – how’d it be if you just left that wristwatch of yours on the table before you go? Back in Moscow, you can always claim its loss on your insurance policy.”
His chubby hand stroked his chin stubble, then a lecherous grin broke the ice. “OK you little minx. But it’d better be ‘de luxe’!”
Nancy (from years of practice) was certainly as good as her word. On her knees under the table, she bared her breasts and rubbed them against the old man’s legs, making a gentle moaning noises. She first ran her lips slowly around his swollen glans, softly fondling his ball sack with one hand. Then her tongue darted – like a butterfly – along his thickly-veined shaft. Eyes closed in ecstasy, Oblomov’s head slumped back on the couch, indicating that a climax was approaching. Nancy tensed herself for the eruption and when it came, like a real trouper, swallowed every drop.
“Mmmm, well don’t you taste lovely tonight, darling,” she whispered in his ear, scooping up the wristwatch from the table and heading for the kitchens.
