Cup of Tea

This is, he thinks, their fourth date. He hadn't realized they were on their first date as it was happening-it wasn't until she slipped her hand casually into his without breaking stride that he realized that she might actually be enjoying his company as more than just a friend from shared classes at King's College. Avoiding tourists and drunken degenerates and all the detritus of the city, they twisted and weaved through the sidewalks of Camden Town on their way to a local coffee shop. They had spent hours there—he refilling coffee, her only drinking tea—talking about their lives; their hopes, their dreams; new loves and past loves; their favorite scents. Lavender and vanilla; avocado and mint. She talked with her hands and smiled with her eyes and her voice carried the trace of a mid-Atlantic accent. He fell deeply, hopelessly in love, and she thought he was funny, at least. He didn't seem to be the type of man that could make you hurt the way some others could—in fact, he seemed the kind that she could enjoy hurting. For though he didn't know it at the time, the barely five foot, blond haired American ex-pat sitting across the table from him always—always—got what she wanted.

At the end of their first date, they had been pushed out of the coffee shop by an impatient barista, and the sign clattered click-clack-closed as they walked out into the early evening London light. She placed his hand on the small of his back; guiding him gently. He liked how it felt to be led along, and before he knew it they were in her apartment, and her mouth was pressed against his, and he was fumbling against her body, and then she pulled back, and laughed, and told him "Not today, James," and went to pour their fourth cup of tea for the evening. Thinking back, he couldn't remember why it hadn't bothered him. He was just happy that she would spend more time with him. He felt like a moth being drawn to a candle flame. She was fire, flickering and radiant, something he couldn't help to contain.

The second and third dates had gone similarly—she would message him, telling him she was available that day or the next, and he would force himself to wait an hour before responding that yes, he could meet her at Euston station, and yes, that coffee shop would be lovely. Each date started the same way—he arrived ten minutes too early; her precisely on time, and on tiptoes she would stand to place a kiss on his lips, and then he was being whisked away. By their third date, the baristas didn't need second tellings, and coffee and tea were kept flowing, and they would sit and talk and laugh and share furtive kisses and the patrons would look away, afraid to look on such intimacy. He wondered what others must think of the two of them—her in her immense beauty; her brown eyes that held depth; the long hair she kept always out; the slight upturned smile she carried with her everywhere.

And he was...well, he was decidedly less beautiful; yet there was an earnestness in his looks, and he smiled easily. His hair was brown, and his bangs were unconquerably curly, and his nose rounded and upturned. He was a solid young man; running to the heavier side when growing up. College had thinned him out enough, and daily workout routines even more so. In the evenings, he would run, and he could feel the eyes of some of the women travelling down his back to his legs and ass. Even he knew what they were looking at, his calf muscles flexed and hard, drawing deep breaths as he neared the end of his jog. It was there, stretching after a run, that he had first said hello the woman who had set up her picnic blanket near him, eyes peering above a tattered and dog-eared library book. He recognized her from one of his classes, and she invited him to sit down and catch his breath with her. The next day they were sitting in a coffee shop, their legs twisted together underneath the stained mahogany of the coffee table.

Back at the apartment, now, after the fourth date. Ashley's apartment was surprisingly unkempt—someone who seemed to have such control over him couldn't conquer the dishes, it seemed, and the thought calmed some of his nerves. James knew she had taken him back to fuck him—not to make love, for while he was beginning to think he loved her he knew that tonight was not for that. He knew they were going to fuck because an hour ago, she had leaned over her coffee cup, and her folded arms pressed her breasts together, and she breathed in deep, and she told him that she wanted to fuck him.

(She was not one for subtlety.)

The woman stalked back to the couch where he was sitting. She was dressed in jet black jeans, and a simple red v-neck blouse—everything about her exuded confidence, and her wardrobe was no exception. She owned almost every article of clothing in black, and the pieces were designed to draw attention to her best features, to make men and women on the tube stare. Sometimes she liked to stand in front her date on the underground, her body gently pushing against his as the train rocketed around corners, feeling his erection grow as their bodies pressed together. Tonight was no exception—the only ostentation was a set of golden and silver rings that she wore on each finger, and they clacked gently against her living room table as she set two mugs of tea to steep and cool.

Ashley pulled James into her body and kissed his mouth. When they kissed it felt like he had just been dunked into cold water—his hair stood on his head, and he bolted awake. Her hands pressed each side of his face, and they kissed, deeply, until his hand began to spin and his cock strained against his pants. She pushed him back into the couch and climbed on top of him, one hand slowly unbuttoning his shirt while the other roamed through his hair. He moved his hands, cautiously, to her sides, feeling the warmth of her skin, feeling the way her ass flared out and how hard and toned it was. He was in heaven, until she broke away. He looked up, puzzled, his dark framed glasses askew.

"James, I like you. I like you a lot. And, frankly, I want to fuck you. But, I don't want to fuck this up, and I'm worried that I need what you can't give."

James looked up at her, her hair illuminated by the ceiling light. It looked like a massive halo hanging over her. He wondered what the fuck she was talking about.

"Ash...what do you mean? Is there something you need to tell me?" he asked.

He was concerned. He was very fond of this girl, and, for the first time, she seemed upset. Her lip was quivering. He wondered if she was about to cry.

"I. Okay. I didn't have the best last boyfriend. Well, I had pretty much the worst one. He dictated everything. So, when you kiss me, it's hard..."

He kissed her again, on the neck and pulled back. He made sure to hold each part of her—to keep skin on skin at all times. If they broke apart, they would never join back together, he thought. So he kept his hands moving up her legs, rubbing her thighs, her back, her stomach.

"I understand, Ash. If you don't want to, you don't have to," he said, and he was almost surprised to hear himself meaning it. He truly didn't want to fuck anything up; and even though his cock was throbbing so hard it began to hurt, to really fucking hurt, he wanted to make sure this woman was whole again before they fucked. And so he sat, silently, waiting for her to talk.

"I know this sounds crazy," she starts. As she speaks, she starts to remove her clothing—there goes her shirt over her head.

"...But my last boyfriend never let me be in charge. He controlled everything, and I was too stupid and young to realize what an ass he was."

There goes the bra. Her breasts spill out; heavy and pendulous and full. Her nipples are wide, and bright pink like a kitten's mouth. They look like they would taste incredible.

"So, since then, I don't really like men telling me what to do. Any men. When we broke apart, we really fucking broke," she says, and laughs, short and high and soft.

She continues talking as she stands up, and pushes her jeans off her hips, and wriggles out of them, shaking her ass slightly as she folds them neatly and places them on the chair next to her couch. James moves to pull off his belt, but she looks, and cocks her head, and mouths no to him before continuing. Confused, still aroused, he just stares as she keeps going.

"And most men...well, they don't like it. They think that you can own a woman, and can control her, and the way you do that is to make her gag on your dick or cum on her face or squeeze her ass on the sidewalk. And listen, I like that shit. But not right now. Right now, I need..."

Then her panties are off, and she's standing stark naked in front of him. His breathing is heavy, and the only other sound in the apartment is her iPod playing softly on the kitchen countertop, streaming into the living room.

"...I've just seen a face I can't forget the time or place where we just met..."

"I need you to let me be in charge, okay? It's not...it doesn't mean that I don't value you. Or want you. But I need to fuck when I want to fuck, and cum when I want to cum, and I need you to respect that. And I know that's a lot to ask. Is that okay?"

James laughs. His relief is so obvious that Ashley begins to laugh again, and then he takes his jeans off, and as she begins to protest, he kisses her again, and squeezes her ass quickly, and then pulls away.

"I was expecting much, much worse," he says. Grinning, he pulls the rest of his clothes off, until they are standing naked, facing each other. The tea lies abandoned on the table, no longer giving off any steam.

"This isn't my first time with this kind of thing, Ash. Sorry...this isn't my first time, mistress," he says, grinning before he lies back down on the couch.

"Do your worst," he adds.

Ashley needs no second telling. She climbs on top of him, and presses her bare pussy down onto James' lips. She is wet, and he drinks from her like she's a cold glass of water on a midsummer day. He licks from back to front, and then his tongue travels up to her clit, and she moans her approval.

"Lick me, damn it," she hums, one hand in his curls and the other in her hair, bucking wildly against him as he picks up the pace, curling his tongue to dig deeper into her warm folds. His hands reach around to her ass to draw her in; but as soon as he claws into her she slaps his hand away and gives him a warning look. He stops tonguing her for a moment to apologize.

"I'm sorry, mistress," he says.

"Make me cum," she orders, and he answers by reaching one hand up to her clit, pushing his thumb into her button as his tongue keeps hammering into her.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK," is all she says as she cums and tenses, her body suspended above James' face, before she falls back onto him, body heaving, heart beating a snare drum against her chest. She stays there for a moment before she composes herself again, and kisses his neck. She bites, twisting her teeth against his skin, and he moans, low and long.

"Let's go to the bedroom, love," she says, moving her neck like a shorebird, lithe and graceful. He smiles, and before he knows it, she slaps him, quick and hard, across the face. It stings, but she kisses the cheek quickly.

"I...what..." is all he can muster.

She doesn't respond, and instead walks towards the bedroom. Her ass shakes with each step—she has a round, apple shaped ass, yet it's still tight and firm. He cannot imagine how lovely it must be to fuck her from behind—so he reminds himself to behave, and listen to his mistress.

He follows her into the bedroom. The walls are slate grey, and the bed is a dark cedar—she is already kneeling there, her hands holding something black balled up in her fists. She points down to the fabric, and instructs him to lay down. He does, and she wraps a cuff around his wrist—he realizes it is an under-the-bed restraint system, and he doesn't struggle against the second cuff. After his wrists are securely fastened she moves to his ankles, and ties them together. He is spread eagle on the bed, and his thick cock twitches, precum glistening from the head of his cock. Ashley kneels between his knees, and looks at his cock. She grasps his cock between her pointer and ring finger, and rolls her wrist, jerking him off slowly. He is so aroused that the mere touch of her hand on his cock causes him to shiver, rolling his shoulders back, thrusting his crotch and cock up at her. She smiles, and, eyes locked against his, takes him into her mouth.

Her mouth is warm and wet and he can feel her fighting her gag reflex, choking back his full length. Fingernails scratch against the inside of his thighs; his head swims with the sensation of pain and pleasure. Her tongue travels around the head of his cock, flicking at the underside of his dick. She moves in circles around, dancing tightly with her tip, and then pushes herself all the way down, coughing slightly as it slides deep into her throat. She's so small that she can only get halfway down, but even so, this is undoubtedly the best blowjob of his life. Looking down he can see spit dripping out from her mouth down the length of his cock and into his trimmed pubic hair. If he focuses further out, he sees her breasts hanging there, and when she forces her head down he gets a view of her ass, round and shaking each time she deep throats. He feels himself about to cum; he tenses his legs against the sheets. As soon as he does, she stops sucking.

"Not so fast, stud," she says to him, and climbs off the bed. He looks over, helplessly, and sees her pulling something from a slender box in her bedside table. It's a riding crop—long, leather and black as night, with a heart shaped paddle at the top. James catches himself admiring it like a work of art; until he realizes that she intends to use it on him.

The riding crop travels in a long, looping arc before smashing against his chest. He breathes in deep; she hits hard for a petite woman. Red, angry marks swell against his chest and his cock twitches again, this time spilling mixed spit and precum onto his chest.

"Beg for me," she demands, and brings the crop down again.

"Please, mistress, fuck me," James pleads.

The crop falls in a flurry of hits, each drawing another mark on his porcelain skin.

"Beg, fucker," she says. She's straddling him now, and so she brings her pussy to the tip of his cock. She pushes herself down an infintisimal amount; his cock can feel the heat pouring off him.

"I'll do anything, Mistress Ashley. Fucking Christ, just let me inside you. I need you. I want you so badly, please, fuck," he pleads, and then she slides her pussy onto him and he nearly screams.

It feels like two people have been stitched together; he is in so deep and her cunt is grabbing so hard. He rolls his hip as much as possible to push himself deeper, but she easily presses him back against the sheets. She sets the tempo, and depth, and every half minute or so she'll pull herself up and make him beg for it again. Only then does she sit back down onto him. After a few rounds of that though, she stops, riding in earnest, riding crop tossed to the side, bouncing furiously on his long cock. She feels the orgasm build in her, and she reaches down to rip the cuffs of his wrists.

"Only touch what I tell you, she says," and he struggles to keep his hands at his sides.

"Twist my nipples when I tell you," she says, and he puts his hands at her waist and she doesn't shoo them away this time. Leaning down, she kisses him hard, and bites his lip, and then she starts to moan.

"Yes, yes, oh, yes, oh, yes, do it, James, do it," she says and he reaches up, and takes her nipples between two fingers each, and twists gently.

She screams, her orgasm rippling down her body like an electric shock. Muscles tense and he feels like his cock is being squeezed dry; he has to fight not to cum as well. Her orgasm seems to last forever, short cries and gasps punctuated by rolling shivers. She finishes, and sighs, and reaches over to undo the straps on his legs.

"Fuck me from behind," she says, and positions herself on all fours, ass in the air.

With one hand, she reaches back to spread her pussy open—he is mesmerized by the sight of her tight asshole and pink, perfectly shaved cunt.

"Do I need to fucking repeat myself?," she asks, and James fumbles, inelegantly positioning himself behind her. The head of his cock presses against her warmth and she moans, her head tipped back.

"Ashley, may I fuck you?" he asks, and she murmurs her assent.

"You're learning. Good boy," she chuckles, and doesn't wait for him, instead thrusting her ass back and impaling herself on his cock.

His hands reach around to grab her waist and he falls into a rhythm, sliding his full seven inches in and out of her, seeming to get deeper every time he thrusts.

"Fuck that pussy, you fucking bitch, fuck me," she cries out, moans of oh oh oh after every hard thrust.

James is as silent as he can be; hardly believing his luck. Her second orgasm occurs much more quickly then her first—one moment he is thrusting into her warmth, one hand reached around to her breast, and then he feels her tighten and sharply let out her breath and the shivers start again. She cums, hard, and then slides off of his cock. He can't take much longer.

She can see that he needs to cum, and rolls onto her back. Spreading her legs, she slowly begins to play with her cunt, and he kneels between her legs, jerking himself off while watching this live peep show. After a few moments, she leans up and grabs his neck, pulling him down to press his body against hers.

"Cum inside me," she says, softly, and he pushes himself into her. She kisses him, and their tongues melt together as he bucks himself into her, pump after pump, his cock searching for her g-spot and finding it, her hands scratching his back.

"Make me cum, James, make me cum," she tells him.

"I want to," he replies, simply, and speeds up his thrusting.

After less than a minute, he can tell he's about to cum, and she looks at him, and smiles and nods, and he thrusts his cock in once more before he feels his balls tighten and he explodes in orgasm. Shot after shot of hot cum sprays into her pussy, he knows that even as deep as he is into her she can feel him cumming into her.

"Fuckkkkk," he says through gritted teeth, finally feeling his cock empty completely.

Before he can say anything, she kisses him, deeply and pushes him gently off of her. She walks to the bathroom to clean herself off, leaving his head swimming with instant replays of what has just transpired. He can feel his cock already responding to the memories, and he hopes that he'll be able to stay the night.

The sink runs, and he sees her peek her head out of the doorway.

"So, fancy a cup of tea?" she asks and they both laugh. He pulls himself off the bed, walks into the bathroom, and turns the shower on hot, pushing Ashley into the stall.

After a few minutes one can hear the sounds of skin on skin and lover on lover reverberating through the apartment. It will be a long night; and in the morning, they will need their coffee and tea.