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Tea
    by Alison Tyler
    4:00 p.m. Thursday. Dainty ceramic teapot nestled beneath a white crocheted warmer. Sterling silver service polished to a reflecting sheen. Antique lace tablecloth so fine it could tear if you looked at it too hard.
    Last place on fucking earth you’d find my boyfriend, Charlie.
    His gold-flecked eyes are wide open, and he tosses his long, glossy-black hair out of his face with an impatient shrug. “You’re kidding, right?” he asks, visibly flinching when I tell him what I want.
    “An array of delicacies served to us in our own suite by a private waiter well schooled in the age-old ritual of high tea,” I continue, undaunted by his expression. I am repeating a passage from the slick brochure of one of San Francisco’s most famous—and snobby—hotels. A passage that has turned me on indescribably.
    Charlie just stares, dark brows arched incredulously. What have I done with his girlfriend? his expression says. And who is this Martha Stewart-like impostor who has taken her place?
    “You won’t regret it,” I assure him, and he finally reads the look in my green eyes correctly, because he begrudgingly nods his okay. Promised pleasure will make people do the most unusual things.
    4:15. Thursday. The tuxedoed waiter has left, and Charlie is a true believer. Fantasy feast of finger-length cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches is ignored in favor of a far more decadent fantasy. Tiny tea cakes sit iced so prettily all alone. And my man is spread out on the richly carpeted floor, tan slacks open, receiving his first time ever tea-flavored blow job.
    “Oh, God, Julie. Take another sip.”
    The fragrant liquid fills my mouth and I hold it for a second, swishing slightly before swallowing. Then I’m back down on him, my lips hot from the Earl Grey, the welcoming sensation of a prewarmed mouth caressing his rock-hard rod. Sip, swallow, and suck. We could do this all day.
    “Too good,” Charlie groans and arches his slim hips, pressing forward, gaining the contact he craves. “More. Please—”
    Pinkie in the air, I drink again, taking my time to savor the flavor, a combination now of the strong tea and the hot-summertime taste of my boyfriend’s naked skin. I am wearing sleek white gloves and a ruffled pastel party dress in place of my standard uniform of faded Levi’s, turtleneck sweater, and beat-up black leather jacket. But my soft caramel hair has come down from its too-tight bun, and I feel that my perfectly applied lipstick has smeared. No outfit has ever excited me more.
    Charlie’s warm brown eyes burn me with their heat as I swallow the tea, and then he stands, strips out of his clothes, and gets ready to really play. Gripping onto my shoulders, he moves my body, so that I’m on my back and he’s positioned above me, thrusting hard and slowly into my willing, waiting mouth. I look up at him, at the tribal tattoos that criss-cross his broad biceps, at the silver hoops piercing his nipples. He’s comfortable cruising the steepest city hills on his Ducati. Or spread underneath his treasured old Chevy pickup with his battered toolbox nearby. He’s at ease in dangerous places that would scare every upper-crust guest in this elite hotel.
    And now he’s turned on by teatime.
    When his cock presses against the back of my throat, I reach one hand up to find his balls as he sets the rhythm of the ride. The light caress of my still-gloved fingers takes Charlie to a higher level.
    “That, Julie,” he whispers urgently. “Keep doing that.”
    My fingertips make gentle circles as my mouth sucks harder. Careful rotations of soft fabric against even softer skin. The two differing sensations make Charlie close his eyes and moan, thrusting even harder and then holding still. Sealing himself to me. I’m growing wetter beneath the silly ruffles of the dress, and I look up from my position on the floor and see pink-orange sunlight filtering through the scalloped lace edge of the tablecloth.
    It’s