Read Online Don't You Want Me? by India Knight - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: India Knight
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and I fall into a sort of reverie. William Cooper: what’s the story there? Why is he still single? Is he a professional escorter of women – an older, sadder, more humourless Frank? Or perhaps, also like Frank, he is a master of his craft, a shagging supremo, and generously spreads himself around to aid womankind. I am feeling quite sexually desperate, actually, and although I wouldn’t normally go for the smoothie plastic surgeon option, I am not quite myself atthe moment. Besides, he
is
incredibly handsome, even if he doesn’t look entirely human. And at least he has a penis. I imagine. It must be terribly pale in comparison to his face, unless he rubs bottles of St Tropez tan into it.
Why am I thinking these things? What is the
matter
with me? Sexual frustration is a terrible thing.
William Cooper does not rub fake tan into his proud member, it turns out. I know, because I saw it.
I was seated next to him at dinner. Cooper, it quickly became clear, was very much on for it: what started off as mildly flirtatious banter, of the kind you might have with your husband’s half-gaga great-uncle, turned into something rather fuller on as the evening progressed and the claret flowed. I went along with it: everyone enjoys being flirted with, and I haven’t had anyone flirt with me for ages. Not exactly subtle, though, Mr Cooper’s flirting, consisting as it did of
double entendres
, compliments addressed to my bosoms and much flashing of his weirdly white teeth. Funnily, the harder he flirted, the more I found myself flirting back (the wine helped, as did his face). His technique may have been unspeakably naff, but in the half-light, he really looked pretty sexy.
And then it was pudding: a cheese plate, passion fruit crême brulée and imported figs. I’d turned to my left to speak to George Bigsby (I was right about Tree: absolutely
riddled
with allergies to wheat, dairy, fish and alcohol, poor thing) when I felt my calf being stroked by somebody’s foot – somebody’s cashmere-sock-clad foot, by the feel of things. I stared at George, who stared back somewhat blankly, and then turned my head to my right. William Cooper winked, and carried on stroking. The stroking wasoddly vigorous – like having a good rubdown – rather than sensual, but none the worse for it. Looking around the table, I noticed that everyone was deep in conversation. I turned back to William to say something – I wasn’t quite sure what – but one look at his face left me (and this is quite a rare occurrence) absolutely speechless. Cooper was performing cunnilingus on a fig.
He held the hapless fruit, which he had split open, with two tanned, square hands, its flesh glowing pinkly in the candlelight. Then, turning his body to enable him to maintain eye contact with me at all times, he proceeded to – well, to
eat it out
, with his pink tongue, which he’d made rigid and pointy: slow, languorous licks up and down and then, horribly, faster, more insistent, probing licks aimed at the centre of the vagina-fig: pressure applied to, as it were, the fig-clitoris. At this point, he half-closed his eyes and (I swear) murmured a throaty ‘Aaah’, his tongue moving faster and faster until, presumably, he felt the fig had come. The whole performance took about a minute and a half, and when I looked around the table again, no one seemed to have noticed, amazingly.
I was
astonished
. A-s-t-o-n-i-s-h-e-d. As you would be. I mean, good grief. And then I was astonished further when Cooper wiped his mouth, licked his lips and whispered in my ear, Are you wet?’, using, I thought, rather a complacent tone of voice. It took me a few seconds to compose myself, and then I managed to say, ‘Bone dry, actually. Dry as a bone, which is coincidentally the name of an Australian type of coat.’ This was pretty much true, although I have to confess, shamefully (and yes, I was – I am – ashamed), to having felt a slight, a
tiny
twinge during his ludicrous
is
incredibly handsome, even if he doesn’t look entirely human. And at least he has a penis. I imagine. It must be terribly pale in comparison to his face, unless he rubs bottles of St Tropez tan into it.
Why am I thinking these things? What is the
matter
with me? Sexual frustration is a terrible thing.
William Cooper does not rub fake tan into his proud member, it turns out. I know, because I saw it.
I was seated next to him at dinner. Cooper, it quickly became clear, was very much on for it: what started off as mildly flirtatious banter, of the kind you might have with your husband’s half-gaga great-uncle, turned into something rather fuller on as the evening progressed and the claret flowed. I went along with it: everyone enjoys being flirted with, and I haven’t had anyone flirt with me for ages. Not exactly subtle, though, Mr Cooper’s flirting, consisting as it did of
double entendres
, compliments addressed to my bosoms and much flashing of his weirdly white teeth. Funnily, the harder he flirted, the more I found myself flirting back (the wine helped, as did his face). His technique may have been unspeakably naff, but in the half-light, he really looked pretty sexy.
And then it was pudding: a cheese plate, passion fruit crême brulée and imported figs. I’d turned to my left to speak to George Bigsby (I was right about Tree: absolutely
riddled
with allergies to wheat, dairy, fish and alcohol, poor thing) when I felt my calf being stroked by somebody’s foot – somebody’s cashmere-sock-clad foot, by the feel of things. I stared at George, who stared back somewhat blankly, and then turned my head to my right. William Cooper winked, and carried on stroking. The stroking wasoddly vigorous – like having a good rubdown – rather than sensual, but none the worse for it. Looking around the table, I noticed that everyone was deep in conversation. I turned back to William to say something – I wasn’t quite sure what – but one look at his face left me (and this is quite a rare occurrence) absolutely speechless. Cooper was performing cunnilingus on a fig.
He held the hapless fruit, which he had split open, with two tanned, square hands, its flesh glowing pinkly in the candlelight. Then, turning his body to enable him to maintain eye contact with me at all times, he proceeded to – well, to
eat it out
, with his pink tongue, which he’d made rigid and pointy: slow, languorous licks up and down and then, horribly, faster, more insistent, probing licks aimed at the centre of the vagina-fig: pressure applied to, as it were, the fig-clitoris. At this point, he half-closed his eyes and (I swear) murmured a throaty ‘Aaah’, his tongue moving faster and faster until, presumably, he felt the fig had come. The whole performance took about a minute and a half, and when I looked around the table again, no one seemed to have noticed, amazingly.
I was
astonished
. A-s-t-o-n-i-s-h-e-d. As you would be. I mean, good grief. And then I was astonished further when Cooper wiped his mouth, licked his lips and whispered in my ear, Are you wet?’, using, I thought, rather a complacent tone of voice. It took me a few seconds to compose myself, and then I managed to say, ‘Bone dry, actually. Dry as a bone, which is coincidentally the name of an Australian type of coat.’ This was pretty much true, although I have to confess, shamefully (and yes, I was – I am – ashamed), to having felt a slight, a
tiny
twinge during his ludicrous
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