by Cj Paul
Your hand wanders to the crystal-borne brut and unconsciously, your fingers trace the length of the stem, up to the rim and back. Your head is tilted just a wink to the right, in a gesture of attentiveness as I hold you in my eyes and you return my gaze’s embrace, your lashes lowering occasionally in feminine bashfulness. Abandoning the flute your hand comes to rest admiringly on a small vase bearing a single velvety rose. Leaning forward I place my hand on the table palm up: a chivalrous invitation for you to connect, to touch, if you so wish. As softly as a wafting autumn leaf, you rest your hand in mine and I ever so gently stroke the back of yours with my thumb. You breathe suddenly, sharply, and I know that my touch bore the message I wished to convey – desire.
While awaiting the tea, we exchange innocent pleasantries: a sweet smile, an appreciative laugh, a loving touch of hand on hand. Our eyes lock and suddenly, beneath the organza veil of politeness and decorum, the blush in your cheek betrays you and I know you sense it. I’m going to make you cum. It’s not a question, or a proposal, or even a forewarning. It’s as inevitable as the dawn. I shall have you. Here, at tea.
You dare a look into my eyes and my wanton gaze confirms it. Our server returns to pour the tea, breaking the moment’s spell. Wide-eyed and still blushing, you graciously ask, “Do you take milk or sugar with your tea, Alex?”
“Yes, please. Both. Two lumps. A touch of milk.”
Your composure begins to return and lifting the tongs with practiced grace you gingerly drop each sugar cube into the cup and quickly bathe them in milk. You make even quicker work of your own cup and I watch you lower the spoon into the liquid cloud and enticingly stir it in silent figure-eight ripples. You pinch the cup’s handle between your thumb and first two fingers, balancing it gently on your ring finger and pinky. You lift the cup to your lips and for the briefest moment you close your eyes and sit perfectly still. Your lips part and you tip a small swallow into your grateful mouth. Your eyes open again and I feel as though I have just been made privy to something equally sacred and erotic. And I know this is just the beginning. Beneath the table, under the spell of your grace, I begin to swell for you. But I know: teatime is something to be savored, at leisure.
Our attentive server returns with a three-tiered silver curate laden with warm, freshly baked, seasonal scones and tea sandwiches that appear more like miniature culinary sculptures: truffled quail egg salad, Maine lobster with sturgeon caviar, roast beef and horseradish, cucumber-radish-basil, smoked salmon with endive. We begin to transfer the savory dainties to our own plates and I try my first sandwich, biting it in half.
I notice that you have a system for the tea ritual, taking a bird-sized nibble of each sandwich, one at a time, in turn, sipping a bit of tea in between each bite. The look of bliss and relish in your eyes, the elegance of your carriage and demeanor, your obvious savoring of sensual pleasure and variety has me bewitched. And wildly aroused. I rest an appreciative hand on your knee, give a light but firm squeeze, and smile into your eyes.
Our server returns with scones and small pots of Devonshire cream along with strawberry and blueberry jams. Again I see the thrill of anticipation in your eyes, the gleeful expectation of what’s to come with each scrumptious bite. After we’ve prepared our scones I return my hand to your knee. The warm smoothness of your lower thigh is straining my patience. Below the linen tablecloth, straining too, is my swelling manhood. You look into my eyes and slightly quiver as you take a bite of scone. You’ve been over-zealous with the jam which drips onto your lip and trickles down just a bit before your tongue deftly, seductively licks it back into your mouth. I too take another bite as my hand beneath the linen cloth expresses a need to satisfy other appetites. I begin at your knee. A gentle caress, a light squeeze lingering, a massaging press. Anticipatory gestures, the language of lust, urging you: spread your legs, welcome me. You widen your eyes and raise your brows, a girlish and innocent affectation, a coy protestation. And your knees part.
Bracing your hands on the table you stop eating. I bid you continue as my hand masters the plush of your thigh and I take you slowly, inch by inch. Taming your shy reluctance with each torturously patient advance, my hand at last brushes the lace of your panties. I feel your heat, humid, effulgent with yearning. And with the lightest touch of my fingertip I taunt your wakened clitoris. I grip your eyes as I rouse you. Your aqua orbs no longer invite, they beg, as you press against my hand, craving release. I pull my hand away, and you let out a bewildered gasp. I slowly tuck your hair behind your ear and leaning in, whisper, “Take them off. Now.”
You sigh, and with a feigned drop of your napkin, you bend to retrieve it, now bare beneath your Chanel sundress. This time it is your own hand that presses my palm into your lap and you look into my eyes, imploring: Release me. Please. I loosen the silk choke of my vintage Armani tie, so slightly that even the most attentive eyes would hardly catch the play, but you notice. And your breath catches. You know I mean business. You’re anticipating each slow advance of my hand’s sure progress as I coax your thighs apart.
I sink my fingers inside you and take your hand to set it in my own lap. You find me unzipped and erect, awaiting your impassioned caress. Your lust now fully awakened your eyes seek mine and find their answer: I am going to cum with you. Your jaw parts and your eyes widen, but all you manage to voice is ‘Yes.’
Our server returns with an assortment of petite desserts and a special order of strawberries and cream. Her timing is impeccable. You sit frozen, trying wildly to concentrate on the delights of the table but with little success. I invite you to take a strawberry and your focus returns. You immediately reach for the plumpest, reddest berry, plunge it into the attendant bowl of cream, lift it to your lips and slowly lick it clean, your eyes locked on mine throughout. Now I take a berry, press it to my lip and kiss it, then instead of biting into it I take it beneath the table, pressing its sweet juicy flesh against that of your own. Teasing your opening with my fingers I feel you grow slick and I dip the fruit into your pooling nectar. The dripping red berry emerges in my glistening fingers and without delay, I run it across my lips and onto my tongue, biting it and savoring every drop of the forbidden fruit.
Again my fingers are inside you, more urgently now. I feel your grip growing tighter, more feverish, around me. Glistening foreplay pearls lubricate my shaft like a tongue as your hand works every inch of it, your eyes closing as you let out a low moan with each full stroke. And as I swell rock hard under your touch, I feel your loins clench and push, and demand, and flood. Your hand careens down the length of my shaft and together, we cum in ecstatic torrents.
Finally, we release our hold of one another and I watch with loving satisfaction as you bathe each of your fingers with your lips and tongue, delicately sucking them clean, one by one. Following your lead, I do the same, enjoying my last lingering taste of your deliciousness.
The server returns, check in hand. I place my credit card in the bill holder as we take our last sips of tea in satiated silence. Our eyes meet, cups clink and instinctively we smile at one another, and together merely say, “Cheers.”
And that Cariña, is a proper tea.
Reading his message was at once an overwhelming turn-on and utter agony. Trying not to writhe and moan in my seat was nearly impossible, and I am all but convinced my teenage seatmate sensed my arousal – the flight attendants too, for that matter.
Now there is nothing to do but wait, and fantasize. I put my coat under my head and rest against the window, peering out at the little cars and buildings and houses below, all appearing as inert, minute dots, but all full of individual lives. Time stands still and I am unaware of how long I’ve been daydreaming, when the announcement is made to prepare for landing. “I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be,” I hear myself say aloud.
As the plane begins its descent, I reflect on all I’ve left behind – my home, my beloved pets, my routine, my life, my entire history – to be with a man I’ve never met. All at once, a pang pull
s at my heart and inexplicably I am gripped with homesickness already. After all that’s happened, my home has been the only connection to my family. It’s where my mother lived out her last and happiest years. It’s where I matured into a woman. And it’s where I learned about what matters most in life – unconditional love.
* * *
Owing to the bulkiness of my winter clothes, and cluelessness as to how long I will be staying, I have checked a bag, and thus need to wait by the luggage carousel to retrieve it. I have no idea if Alex has arrived yet or not and I search the terminal breathlessly for signs of him. No one is allowed into the baggage area other than those awaiting their luggage. Even so, I scan the space beyond the roped-off section I’m in, my heart now pounding in my chest. I wonder if I will be able to sense his presence. And I wonder how I will feel when I see him.
The luggage carousel’s conveyor belt surges into action, and I watch bag after bag that is similar to mine, trying to locate the one with the pink bandana tied to the handle. I am deeply focused on the hunt for my case, when the hair on the back of my neck begins to stand at attention, and I feel a strange tingling throughout my body. And then I hear it, softly, from about fifteen away, just past the baggage area section dividers.
“Cariña.”
My heart stops and breath catches. Every fiber of my being is singing with joy and desire, love and gratitude. And I am at a total loss as to what to do or say.
“I came,” I say with a simple shrug.
“Get used to it, Sugar.”
He winks.
I sigh...and smile.
I notice my pink-bandana’d suitcase start to go back around the carousel, and I make a dive to seize it. I pull up the bag’s handle extension, collect myself, and take a step, the first step, toward my destiny.
###
About the author:
CJ Paul, under different nomenclature, is a published non-fiction author and produced playwright. Inspired by personal social media messages and posts, Paul has based this playful, erotic, romance trilogy on actual events and online interaction. Fictionalizing only the personal particulars to avoid scandal, Paul candidly shares an authentic tale of intense desire and timeless love that conquers all.
Coming soon:
Bound – part 2 of the Conquered trilogy
Ruled – part 3 of the Conquered trilogy
Conquered in the Kitchen – Alex’s recipe for delicious debauchery
CJ would be delighted to be in contact with you via:
The Conquered site
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[email protected]
A peek at what’s to come
Join Alex to be Conquered in the Kitchen
In the Pink – Shrimp in a rose Vodka sauce atop Fettuccine
Every now and then, we all enjoy a simple quickie. But, there’s no need to allow the craving for almost immediate satisfaction to interfere with the pleasure of devouring. The key is simplicity. Rather than becoming distracted with multiple steps, this recipe focuses on two basic in-and-out procedures. This sinfully delicious dish can be ready in minutes to satiate even the lustiest appetite. It’s certain to have you coming again and again for more. Pour a glass of vodka and do as I say.
What you Need:
12 jumbo peeled and deveined shrimp
1 lb. fettuccine pasta
5 Tbsp. unsalted butter
2/3 Cup vodka
1/2 tsp. finely chopped cherry pepper
16 oz. plum tomatoes, drained, seeded and pureed
1/2 tsp. salt
3/4 Cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
3/4 Cup heavy cream
Italian parsley to garnish
What to Do:
If you haven’t washed your hands after chopping the pepper, do so now – you never know where they may be encouraged to roam. Let them begin by embracing the round, smooth curves of a substantial pot. Fill it generously with lapping water and get it hot – make it boil. Add the long, unyielding pasta and cook it till it feels perfect in your mouth.
While that’s rolling in the hot wet, you’re going to make things melt and simmer. To the inviting bottom of a cherished skillet, add the hard butter, vodka, and tongue-teasing pepper. Sweat them mercilessly for 2 heated minutes. Now gather the fleshy, pink sea bounty and lay it lovingly in the savory, slick melt, heating each side for about 3 minutes and adjusting for girth. Introduce the ripe, red puree to its sizzling bedfellows and spill thick cream over all. Blend.
Allow this happy melange to frolic in the heat for 5 minutes and season with salt. By now the pasta has been adequately dealt with and drained. Slide the limp noodles into the sizzling sauce and add the fresh, grated cheese. Toss, twirl and stir until every inch of the pasta springs to zesty life under the drenching caress of the sauce.
Plate it, garnish with the vibrant, green parsley, and get it to the table with haste. You’re sure to want this in your mouth without another second of cooling delay. You may be distracted by how lovely it feels in your mouth, but please, don’t forget to swallow. Mangia.
Acknowledgements
Sincere and loving appreciation goes to all who have inspired, supported and assisted in the creation of this book. Special thanks to angels Bertha, Lealyn and Mai, as well as Bill, Corinne, Darryl, Jack, Jeffrey, Joy, Maureen, Michelle, Nichole, Sarah and too many others to mention. Bless you all – especially those who get their friends to buy copies, preferably multiples.