"Norman Spinrad - tHE FAT VAMPIRE" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spinrad Norman)

She didn't need to steal a glance at the total to heave a great sigh of relief when he reached smoothly into his jacket pocket, pulled out an overstuffed credit card holder, extracted American Express platinum, and slapped it down on the service tray with a flourish. Chivalry had apparently not quite expired, and neither had his plastic. "Well?" she said, smiling at him, after he had signed the credit card receipt.

"Well?"

"Well, your place or mine?"

Armand Kubescu didn't actually blush, but he did frown deprecatingly. "Please don't think that...anything is required," he said. "The pleasure of your company as a dining companion has been quite enough. I don't enjoy eating alone."

He sounded so sincere, so suave, such a gentleman, that Christine felt an instant surge, if not quite of lust, then certainly of willing warmth.

Unless....

"Uh.... you're not gay, are you?"

Count Kubescu laughed. "Not quite," he said, reaching across the table to take her hand, "merely content."

#


It wasn't what you could really call kinky, but it certainly was rather weird. Armand gallantly insisted on going to her place, surely much more charming than his grubby bachelor pad, he assured her, and so his Volvo followed her old Porsche up into the hills to her garage apartment.

Once inside, he asked if she had any wine, which didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary, nor, when she told him there was a cold bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge, did it seem anything more than European manners when he volunteered to fetch it.

But when he returned to the living room, he had the open bottle and two glasses awkwardly clasped in one hand, and a big plate piled with bagel chips, garlic rounds, doritos, and an assortment of cheese scraps balanced on the other.

These he proceeded to gobble as they sipped wine, babbled inanities, inched closer to each other on the couch, and let nature take its inevitable course.

Which it finally did, and they moved into the bedroom, though not before he had eaten every last crumb. Once the foreplay had been concluded, Christine was somehow less than surprised to discover that Armand Kubescu was a master of oral sex beyond anything in her previous experience.

What was surprising, however, was the strange and entirely uncharacteristic lassitude with which she accepted the whole impressive performance. While he brought her to orgasm after orgasm, she just lay there supinely, drifting voluptuously in a foggy torpor, as if it were she who had previously gorged herself like a python.

Nor did all he had eaten seem to have drained his energy for the main event, though Christine's memory was a bit vague on that in the morning, seeing as how she had fallen asleep either during it or immediately afterwards.

What she certainly did remember was waking up in the middle of the night feeling as if she had eaten an anvil. Her sides ached, her gut rumbled, and the contents of her stomach seemed to be pressing at the back of her throat.

Armand seemed quite soundly asleep, and anyway there was nothing else for it, so she stole out of bed into the bathroom, assumed the position, and stuck her finger down her throat.

What emerged seemed hardly anything at all. She tried again, and came up empty. Two more gags proved to be nothing but dry heaves.

When she gave up and slipped back into the bed, she heard crunching sounds from the pillow beside her, an apple, or maybe a pear by the sound of it. While she had been doing her thing in the bathroom, he had apparently woken up, gone to the kitchen, and now he was once more doing his!

Good lord, had he heard her?

In the morning, she awoke to the ordinarily enticing aroma of coffee and frying bacon. Armand soon enough entered the bedroom bearing a breakfast tray. On it were two cups of coffee, and two plates, each laden with eight strips of bacon, four fried eggs, and two thick slices of whole wheat toast slathered with about half a pound of butter.

"Uh...how sweet," she managed to say, for after all, it was. Nor was there any mention of middle of the night events, thank god.

Armand attacked his food in the usual manner, putting it all away before she had managed to get down two eggs and three strips of bacon for courtesy's sake. When it became obvious that she could
eat no more, he had no trouble devouring her leftovers too.