Kinghorn's tip really was glistening.
He was quite aroused. She sat back in her computer chair now swivelling slightly to either side, her long legs now neatly and elegantly crossed. Her skirt smoothed down, without a trace of where he had been. Her blouse still crisp, but now it appeared, the buds of her breasts had come alive, their trace just showing through faintly in the morning light. Her cheeks slightly flushed her blurry eyes now alive. That underlying excitement she sometimes suppressed, somehow betraying her.
The morning light was crisp and bright. Paris had come alive. The long French windows of the apartment let the light flood in. The blueness of the crisp clear sky gave freshness to the day.
For Kinghorn this was business.
His stiff middle classiness, made it hard for him to relax. He liked the Duchess; they got on very well sexually. They rarely talked. Twice in fact had they talked properly.
The one time on the plane between Carcassonne and London, when the co-pilot hadn't arrived, he wasn't essential for the short trip; she asked if she could sit by him. Impressed Kinghorn felt, by his command of her aircraft. She only had the one; it had been in fact her fathers. He noted her elegance then as she sat in the seat, and how she put on the head set. And how she had waved her hair, and lifted her arms to put it on, he smelt her beautiful smell that seemed unique to her, or perhaps he though in retrospect to her perfumer in Grasse.
He noted at that time three things seemed to emanate from her. She was liberated, she celebrated life in her own sophisticated special way, and she was an explorer of humanity for truth and ultimate happiness.
This took him to the second conversation in London. Soho in fact. A strange choice he thought for a Duchess. In a restaurant bar called Soho Soho, this was the early 90's. It was a Friday night. A piano played blues music as they drank; he had asked her how she relaxed. She was on the third wine splitzer. She laughed and told him the more splitzers she has, the more she relaxes. As he laughed, she sat back in her seat and uncrossed and crossed her legs, in the most beautiful and erotic way he had ever seen. He had a full clear view, for a very subtle second, of her tan stocking tops, thighs and skin coloured panty and matching garter belt. At that time he wished the view would last for ever.
He smiled to himself as he stood quite erect in front of her. He swivelled directly in front of him, both feet firmly on the floor, legs slightly open. His penis was still hard, still glistening. She took it in her mouth. Her lips sealing at one point round his manhood. He could almost have cum there and then.
What is going on with your pre cum? Kinghorn thought to himself. What a strange thing to say. He put this down to the aristocratic eccentricity she emanated. She stood perfectly still and left her to finish. She did. Looked him in the eye, reclining back once again, legs now crossed again, fingers light touching her pearl necklace.
"That was yummy Kinghorn" she said smiling. He stood still; she looked at him and his penis for some time and reclined back in her seat, pushed back slightly. Uncrossed her legs, and put both of her high heeled black shoes firmly on the floor. She looked him in the eye. Kinghorn was harder again. One hand had drifted onto her blouse, her breast in fact; she just slowly let it glide gently to and fro over the tip of her nipple that Kinghorn imagined must, by now be quite, quite erect.
