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Tea Service

"You're drinking tea? Some Dommly drink that is."

He focused on the world again. Set down his cup in its saucer. Then looked at her.

It was a long, evaluating, cold look. She was a bit of a brat. No, that's not exactly accurate. She was shy. She had to work hard building the courage to approach cute guys, and in her nerves she came off as bratty. Strike first: good tactical policy. Sucks for dates, though.

The long, silent look didn't help her composure any. Fortuantely, he spoke before she could screw up further.

"Really?" The tone was not mocking, but not very forgiving either. "Then you need to be taught how to serve tea."

He watched her some more, still appraising. She was nice to watch. Under his stare, she didn't quite squirm, and didn't quite blush. And didn't, quite, drop to her knees and beg forgiveness. It was a close call, though. She suspected forgiveness wouldn't be so easy to earn.

"You have a choice. Choose well, it will be your last. You can go away. Or learn Tea."

'Here?!' she thought. 'He wouldn't dare. Would he?'

They were at a cosy tea-house down in the city. It was past midnight: a private event hired by a goth role-playing group just ending. He wasn't part of the group, quietly sitting in a corner drinking his tea. It took her all night to build up the courage to approach him, but he was flame and she was moth.

Burn or die. Or both.

Amidst the velvet black and lace of gothic drama, she just forgot she was probably talking to a non-player. Or, more likely, her wanting (wanton?) subconscious overrode her original tame comment. Under his scrutiny, she realized what a blunder she had made. Some assumptions are right, though. And, for all her shyness, she had a 'sense' about these things.

He had 'Dominant' glowing all over him.

"Pierre?" he spoke to one of staff, "This lady is my guest. She will stay after the group leaves. The Mistress and I will close up."

"Yes sir."

She hadn't made up her mind. Well, she hadn't spoken her mind, but it was made up when she stood in front of his table. He seemed to know her choice.

It was pretty obvious: she hadn't gone away.

He nodded once, deciding.

"Emily," he said, pointing briefly at her. "You may call me 'Sir.' "

"Yes, master" Oh shit. Where did -that- come from? She didn't know this guy yet. A bit early for -that-, right? She thought she probably shouldn't speak.

" 'Sir' " It was a mild reproof. The scary kind of mild. The exciting kind of scary.

Right. She definitely shouldn't speak. It would get her into less trouble.

"Say your farewells, then come back and sit." he told her.

'Emily' saw the owner speak to the man, look at her and smile. The blurb in the tea menu spoke of the owner as "Rebecca, the Tea Mistress", but everybody took that to be just a whim. Seeing that smile, Emily knew her own private guess at the title was closer to truth. The last of the goth party finially left, with not a few envious looks at Emily for being invited to stay. If only they knew.

"Thank you, Pierre, Jorge, Anna. It was a good night, I am pleased," Rebecca spoke to her staff. She was a taller woman. Grayish hair, sharp features, long dress and tea-rose blouse setting off her angular body, not hiding and softening it so much as glorying in its strength. The guys bowed slightly, Anna sketched a curtsey.

'My god,' thought Emily, 'We were pikers dressed in black. I'm back in Bram Stoker's London.'

The door locked behind the departing staff.

"Emily."

Oh shit. She hadn't come back and sat. Well...maybe he didn't notice.

"Do you have trouble following directions?"

He noticed.

"uh...No mas...sir"

He stared coldly at her.

Ooops. Duh. She scurried over and quickly planted her butt in the chair opposite Sir.

"Tea, Emily, is all about ritual and discovery. You were right in one thing. It is not a 'dommly' drink. Nor a submissive one. Tea -- is. Through the ritual and striving, you will learn service. Through service, you will find reward.

Lay your hand upon the table. Palm up."

Emily placed her hand on the table, and he put his tea cup in her palm. It was hot, (how did he -do- that? He had that cup out for hours!) But not painfully hot.

"The tea must be calm. Don't disturb my tea," he said, with a pointed nod towards the cup. "You will be calm."

Emily stared at the tea cup in her palm, trying to keep even the slightest tremors from showing. She could barely concentrate on his voice.

"What you think of as your personality will not be needed here. Let it go. You will be your essence, your essence will be service. Your service," he smiled, "will be my pleasure."

The tea trembled. Gods that smile was distracting.

Sir slapped his hand down on the table. She jumped. Slightly, but enough. The tea definitely trembled. Sloshed, more like.

"Stand up. At the side of the table, face the table. Keep the cup in your palm.

"Calm. You will not let outside distractions colour the tea, nor your response. It would be bad."

He smiled again. This smile made her wet, it promised punishment and reward. He held up his hand, showed her his palm.

Then swatted her on her ass. Stinging, but little thrust. She barely kept the tea cup from spilling. Barely, but enough.

"Good, Emily. Tea is calm. Acceptance, -without- resignition."

He showed her his palm again. Emily was ready this time. Swat! The tea-cup barely tremored. Her ass barely hurt as well, but she knew that it was only layers of black fabric that cushioned her.

"Now. Take all this away. We will start with a clear world."

Rebecca appeared at her side.

"Bring the cups this way, Emily. Stand up straight, don't slouch, girl!" Rebecca tapped a crop against her boot.

"Yes ...uh...Ma'am?" Emily said, eyeing the crop.

"Mistress." Rebecca turned and strode off towards the kitchen. Emily scurried after, trying to keep up.

Emily made another trip to completely clear the table, leaving only the creamer and sugar. A few moments later, there was a twack and a 'yip!' from the kitchen, and Emily re-appeared to remove the service set as well.

"Calm, Emily."

Damnit, her name was -not- Emily! Then he smiled at her again. Calm, he had said. Don't let your ego drive your being. Gods, but he had a beautiful smile. Emily was just a label. A rather pretty label.

She returned to stand beside his table, hands behind her back, eyes downcast.

"Demure, Emily. Not role-playing submission. You may look at me."

No, she better not, she thought. Then she would get distracted for sure.

"The water must be boiling. For some rituals, you will boil the water in front of me -- the waiting is an opportunity to clear your mind.

"This time, you will be learning the art of staying calm. Grace under pressure. Timing. That will be useful ... later.

"Start the water, then while it is heating you will lay the service. Sugar, creamer, spoon and serviette on a tray. Place the tray to the side, lay out the serviette, spoon on top -- bowl up, sugar on the right -- my right, creamer left. I will have honey rather than sugar. Use both hands. Bow as you approach or leave the table."

Emily stood a moment.

"Open yourself to the flow, Emily. The Tea will tell you when, not your shells, your masks."

Flow. That word may have more than one meaning: gods his voice was sexy.

"Emily?" She focused back with a start. "Go."

She scurried off to start the water boiling, and get the tea service. What the hell was a "serviette"? She would have to ask Mistress. Crap. Crop, rather.

Rebecca was patient with questions. There was another snap-and-yip from the kitchen. Rebecca was -not- patient with forgotten directions. "Bow when leaving or approaching the table." Don't these damn tea drinkers overlook -anything-? Snap-yip! Honey, not sugar. There is no need for sugar on the tray as well. No, they don't overlook anything.

Emily came back out, walked to the table and bowed. It was a nice bow, very Eastern. Sir smiled. Happy, Emily laid out the service with a calm flair, like she remembered from a Japanese tea ceremony she saw in a movie once.

Sir glanced at the setting, then looked at Emily with a raised eyebrow. Uh oh. The honey was on the right, spoon on the napkin -- she asked -- not too far, not too close...what?

"Rebecca? If you would be so kind?"

"-His- right, girl."

Oh crap.

"Come with me." Rebecca marched Emily back to the kitchen. A crop makes a subtlety different sound when hitting heavy fabric, vs. a thin layer, vs bare skin. This was the thin layer sound. Two strokes. Two yips. Emily did sound cute, being thrashed.

Emily came back out, bowed and corrected the arrangement. "Sir?" she asked, an appeal for re-assurance.

"Thank you, Emily. That is lovely." That wondrous smile again. "I will want an Oolong tonight, please. Oolong's are the tea-between-the-worlds. They are the most demanding in preparation, taking careful supervision, a firm and steady hand, time and patience. Much like a submissive. Do you enjoy being a submissive, Emily?"

The warm liquid of his voice tasted sweet, intoxicating.

"Emily?"

She realized with a start that he asked her a question. She has drifted into ... somewhere.

"I do not need a robot, Emily. I could get tea from a machine for that. Nor do I need 'Sub emily.' You must be -here-, Emily, but -here- is not 'Emily.' Stay in the -now- and just be. Emily, " he paused, making sure she was focused on him this time, "do you enjoy being a submissive?"

"Oh yes, M...Sir."

He quirked a quick grin at the slip. Rebecca sighed, but he shook his head minutely.

"Patience, my dear. She does learn." This to Rebecca. Rebecca shook her head and replyed with an exasperated snort.

Emily suddenly remembered the water heating. She should check on it: Mistress Rebecca mentioned how over-boiling killed the water. But, Sir was still here. Watching her. She fidgeted, from uncertainty and a wave of shyness. Did he really like the way she looked? He was so... conservative. Was her dress too slutty? Too gothy makeup? She half-turned to flee to the kitchen, then froze, dilemma-ed.

"Emily, what is more important: Me, or the Tea?"

Did he know -everything- she was thinking?

"Your dress is beautiful, Emily, as are you yourself. Stop fidgeting with it, and focus on the question."

Yup, he probably did.

"Uh...the te..you..uh...the...Sir?" It was a wave of minor panic. Was this a test she couldn't pass? A trick?

Screw the Tea! She was serving -Him-!

She straightened, and looked up, straight into his eyes.

"You are, Sir. Let the water overboil and be damned. I'll stay here until you dismiss me, Sir." A pause, thinking. "Or the time is right."

"Very good, Emily! I am proud of you." That glorious smile again. Emily came to a boil herself, for just a moment, basking in that praise.

"Please don't curse, though. Rebecca? If you would be so kind?"

Ah well. She earned these wacks. "Two, on my bare bottom, please, Mistress" she said to Mistress Rebecca.

Rebecca laughed. "Come, girl." Just before the kitchen door closed, he heard: "..and it will be three, for saucing me."

There were no yips, but the twacks were definitely on bare flesh.

Emily came back out after a bit, carrying a bowl of tea leaves and a cup. A bow, a shy smile, and another artful placement. Per Mistress Rebecca's instructions, she measured out a careful amount of leaves into the strainer placed in his cup.

"Thank you, Emily. Turn around."

He lifted her dress and briefly caressed his hand over her bottom.

"Service is it's reward, Emily. The reward is not in the caress, or the cane; but in doing what the flow demands."

Emily understood then. Not the murky half taste of over-brewed supermarket tea, but the clear, amber taste of fresh leaves steeped in truth. He caressed her for -his- enjoyment. And: his enjoyment -was- in her enjoyment. And: he would enjoy if she got this damned tea service right. Then maybe he'd fuck her. If she was a good girl. And lucky.

So she would damn well get this bloody service right.

The water was ready. Just shy of boiling, in an insulated decanter. It would keep for the few moments needed to bring it to the table and pour it over the tea. She approached, bowed, and waited for instructions. There was something on the table. Little clover clamps.

"I want my tea to seep for three and one half minutes. Un-button your dress."

Her dress? What did Sir want now? Not just to ogle her tits -- gods, she would like that, and his mouth suckl...focus, girl. Unbutton. Stay in the now, the reason is un-important.

"Good." He stopped her when she reached the waist buttons. "Some people do not understand the importance of time in Tea. Change the seeping time, and you change the tea."

He reached a hand into her dress, and caressed her breasts, one at a time, as he talked.

"Do you have a watch?" Emily shook her head, as he tugged, very gently, at her nipples under her lacy bra. "You may use mine."

He took out his pocket watch and laid it upon the table. Emily was mesmerized by the watch chain. Ok, lets be honest, she was mesmerized by the fingers hardening her nipples.

"You may get distracted, or loose track of time." Her...ah, yes, harder, please...distracted? Never. "So, I've arranged to keep you focused."

He ... huh? Oh shit.

The clover clamps bit hard on her stiff nipples. She gasped. Pain focused her, quick.

"You may pour the water, Emily. Three and a half minutes. Then you may remove the clamps."

She poured. It hurt, but it wasn't bad.

One minute. That would have been good for a delicate White Tea.

Two. A hardier White, a green, a second pouring. And the clamps would be off. They started to hurt, now.

Three. A light Black, or an Oolong. This was an Oolong, why not just three minutes? What was thirty seconds? Thirty seconds with Damn Clover Clamps on.

Three minutes and thirty seconds. He smiled, he had been watching the time too. Made it! She exhaled, relieved, reaching up to remove the clamps, then lift the tea from the cup.

"Emily?" His voice stopped her hand cold.

"Which is more important: You, or the Tea?"

...or the tea. Or his tea. -His- tea. Shame flooded her, bitter as missed timing. Damnit. She -knew.- She had -known.- She started to cry. Failed. The pain in her nipples was nothing now. A just punishment. She wanted to flee, hide, ashamed.

"Hush, my luv. Be gentle. Gentle" Sir gathered Emily in to his chest, removing the clamps and massaging her breasts around the auroras, stroking her hair, murmuring softly.

"You understand now. Share my tea, luv, you've earned it." He snuggled her up on his lap and gently fed her tea. Honeyed, wonderful, perfectly brewed, life-giving tea. Her tears stopped, and she drifted in his presence.

On impulse -- insanely brave, for had she not swam in the boiling water, and passed through, alive? -- she reached down and caressed his groin. Groped his cock, to be accurate. He was hard as the porcelain cup at her lips. Hot as the flow in her mouth. Oh yes. She would get fucked tonight.

"I swear, Dermot, I don't know why you bother, at times. Just beat her, fuck her and be done. She'll still follow you like a puppy dog."

Sir laughed. "Because I like my tea, Rebecca. And you aren't always here to serve me. It worked for Pierre, didn't it?"

Rebecca smiled.

"So, Emily," she asked, "Do you need a job? What -is- your name, anyways?"

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