Message-ID: <15287eli$9809140608@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: versutiae@aol.com (Versutiae) Subject: NEW: "The Teacup Principle" by Cynthia (m/f rom) (3 of 4) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <1998091317455800.NAA26377@ladder01.news.aol.com> "The Teacup Principle" by Cynthia: Versutiae@aol.com (m/f rom) (3 of 4) Adrienne closed her eyes, and the morning fell away, turned smoothly aside on sleepy hinges. The kitchen faded. Soon the table, the chair, everything was completely gone. The dream swallowed her again, leaving her naked and hazy in the middle of its strange, sprawling terrace. Curved marble tiles interlocked to form a wide circle around her, smooth and cool against her bare feet. Green mountains ringed the horizon, a lumpy crown that hid the weary, late-afternoon sun. It was a sanctuary of sorts, private and removed, the air in the open valley surprisingly gentle and warm. An exotic collection of men and women lounged around her, lazy silk sashes draped around their bodies. The wraps, in countless sunset hues, hid nothing, luring the eye to the places they supposedly covered. The effect would have been the same had they simply splashed their bodies with fluorescent paint. What little they wore made her self-conscious about her own undress. Tall, tranquil and possessed of the most penetrating almond eyes, they were naturally and comfortably erotic. Apart from the sashes, they wore only a peculiar form of bracelet. A pair of chains ran over the back of their hands from a silver ring on their middle fingers and met at the wrist, encircling it twice. The chains themselves consisted of tiny silver scales that chimed with the slightest gesture. With little apprehension and even less resistance, their hands permeated those colorful silks, the chains ringing softly and hypnotically like faraway wind chimes. Fingertips whispered over nipples, mumbled through soft down. A moan rose and fell only to rise again in another mouth... and another. Her cheeks and ears felt hot. Turning away only brought her different faces, different shades of silk. The hands were the same. The mouths, open in ecstacy, were the same. They wanted her to watch, refusing to let her do otherwise. Biting back embarrassment, she licked her lips and let her eyes drink. They smirked at each other and exchanged meaningful glances as though privy to some saucy joke she had yet to hear. Casually precise fingers strummed the most sensitive skin, over and over, with deafening success. Already seething, Adrienne burned a little more when she realized even gender was not a restraint to them. Words whispered in a language she could not understand inspired ripples of musical laughter. The more they indulged, the more their eyes hung on her. The last of the sun cast everything in an intense orange glow, painting embers in those deliberate stares. She felt they were trying to find a seam, a way inside her. Without pause, hands tugged and pushed, teased and penetrated. The bracelets sang. Silent in the center, she ached to join, to be invited, but all they gave her were their moans and their stares. A whistle shrieked, scaring the dream into hiding. Sunlight and the chatter of feeding birds rushed her senses. Adrienne blinked at her book--open to the same page for nearly half an hour--tousled her sleepy, black hair and got up from the table. Bare feet patting the blue, sun-stained tile, she tied her robe and shuffled to the stove, answering the kettle's shrill call. Morning leered in through panoramic windows that swallowed most of the south and east walls. Every sill, every nook, sprouted green: a sprig here, a jungle there. Ivies lazed over the oak cabinetry. Potted plants lurked wherever space allowed. Fresh herbs in tiny ceramic pots filled the air with thick mystery like incense. As the whistle drooped away, Adrienne twirled her smile around the kitchen and grinned up at the clock. Feet stomped above her. Adrienne's eyes rolled to the ceiling, her smirk devious, impenitent. Furious and rushed, Tim interrogated the house, growling and cursing for the whereabouts of his shoes. His morning was curdling. She sighed, dropped tea bags into a pair of mugs and poured. Sweet vapors curled out of the cups. Raspberries and rosehips tickled her nose. Adrienne inhaled deeply and, after a moment's savoring, hummed the breath out. Images from her dream clung to the scent. For some reason, oranges played a prominent role in the dream. The mysterious, sensual people of the terrace made a point of showing her how erotic the fruit could be. They waved the sweet, tangy odor under her nose, rolled the dimpled, leathery skin over hers, stroked and peeled the fruit with long, patient fingers. They pulled the oranges apart and, without letting her taste, brushed her lips with the sweet-smelling wedges. "Sourires" her mother had called them: "smiles." On and on, they teased her until she hungered, thirsted, suffered for a proper taste. Adrienne felt hazy, the air thick with suggestive stares and citrus musk. She wanted to lunge forward and snatch the fruit from their hands but could not move. Something about the cast of their eyes and the fullness of their lips made it obvious there was more to the moment than just sensuous fruit. It was about the taste and scent, the texture and color, of fantasy. Suddenly very conscious of the bodies all around her, Adrienne wandered their sculpted curves and measured angles--the men and the women. Her eyes sucked at every nipple, lapped at every crotch. Her tongue was dry in her mouth; her eyes were drowning. When her legs threatened to disappear from under her, movement stirred her alert again. A familiar-looking woman with short, auburn hair and a translucent, orange sash emerged from the group. She was tall and voluptuous, striking and purposeful. Her body bragged its arousal, ripened for the giving or the taking: her bearing undeniably wanton, her nipples tall through the gauzy material, her lips full and appetent. Adrienne was drawn and taken aback at the same time. If her features were said to be brisk, her stare was absolutely invasive. Those prying green eyes finessed Adrienne's moral knots and personal locks, exposing her with casual ease. She was not used to being on the receiving end of seduction. She felt thoroughly opened, as though lying with legs spread anticipating the sudden press of a finger, tongue or cock. Unable to resist, to move, she waited, suspended in yearning. Handed an orange, the woman casually stroked its shiny surface. Adrienne could almost feel those long fingers on her skin. Her thirst deepened. She felt as though her inhibitions were being whittled away, exposing a more feral core. She smiled weakly at her paradox: being so dry and so wet. She could feel the dozens of eyes all around her, fixed on her like compass needles. Each stare stroked a nerve. The green-eyed woman slowly undressed the orange. Aching, Adrienne wanted to peel away that clinging sash and wet her tongue between those long legs, but she could not move. She felt completely stripped. Her wardrobe of humor and hauteur was gone, taken. She had been left nothing to wear but her lust. Those green eyes made a thousand promises, and she wanted to feel each one become a reality. With a disarming smirk, the woman leaned toward Adrienne, held her gently by the chin and slowly pushed a sweet sourire past her lips and onto her tongue. Tim stamped again, and the dream fled into memory. The disappearance of his shoes fanned his frustration. She knew it would take him a while to find where she had hidden them. Feeling watched, Adrienne looked up from the tea. The side window yawned over the sink and countertops, eliminating privacy. Mr. Blintz's immaculate rose bushes neatly divided the relatively small space between the two houses. Pieter Blintz himself loomed over the hedge, suddenly tucking his eyes back into his business, embarrassment abloom on his cheeks. He was a tall, chiseled twig of a man who had surrendered most of his hair in the battle of middle age. His roses were a strong affectation, and he was almost always out fussing over them. The constant pruning and preening aligned neatly with his other hobby: peeping. To his credit, he did it with discretion and style. The rumor was his family stemmed from Austrian aristocracy, that he had once had considerable wealth, power and influence. However, the events that led to his losing the family castle and emigrating to Illinois to become a cat psychologist were shrouded in secrecy and the subject of wild speculation anytime neighbors got together to chat. The great irony was that his own cat, Rasputin, was known throughout the block as a neurotic menace. For all his aloofness and eccentricity, she liked him. However, there was too much outward dignity to the man. Adrienne suspected the creature inside would have to be uniquely twisted to counterbalance that trimmed exterior. She imagined him the patient, perverted type who would toil for hours to create obscene topiary figures. She smirked at the thought and whirled about the kitchen, doing what she liked to think of as her breakfast ballet. Moments later, the toaster obediently swallowed a pair of English muffins. Tim growled somewhere upstairs, hunting a pair of matching socks. The steepening slope of his mood was entirely her fault. As the sourire entered her mouth in the dream, Adrienne had moaned awake, startling herself. Yin, their black cat, stood on her belly, his green eyes huge and hypnotic like an owl's. That piercing stare brought back the red-haired woman from the dream and a flood of images and sensations. Immaculately white, Yang meowed from the doorway. Yin's tail went up like an exclamation point, and he sprang from her stomach to engage his friend in some early-morning rough-and-tumble. The terrace dream rolled over and over through her mind, leaving her wet, wanting. As Tim snored next to her, she masturbated for several minutes, dream-drunk and desperate for release. When she reached the brink, she stopped, greedy for more. She looked from her husband to the clock and realized there was enough time. On the verge of rolling onto his sleepy body and completely attacking him, she paused. A smirk unfurled across her cheek. Possibilities tumbled through her mind, a hundred erotic paths to explore. She leaned over and set the clock a half-hour ahead. She held her wet, spicy fingertips under Tim's nose and then drew them over his lips. He only snored more quietly. She grinned, delighted by the challenge, and burrowed under the covers, wadding herself into a ball at the foot of the bed. She smiled for a few moments in that little world, listening to him breathe, watching his chest rise and fall. She leaned in close and, as subtly as possible, took his sleeping cock into her mouth. Tim's hips trembled slightly, but he did not wake. The man could sleep through a riot in an fireworks factory. She immediately thought of the fleshy sourire the dream-woman had pressed between her lips. She sucked gently, tasting him, waking his cock, carefully drawing it to stiffness. When it as thoroughly hard, full of well-rested wanting, Tim's eyes creaked open. He smirked down at her and then shot the clock a worried look. She kissed the tip while gently jerking the shaft, her eyes locked on his, and wondered what he would do next. As she traced his cock with her tongue, she watched his eyes oscillate between her mouth and the clock. Time and teasing were playing their usual game with him. True to most Monday mornings, the clock was winning. He was due to give a presentation first thing. It was some pointless number recital that had been dumped in his lap on Friday. He had not even reviewed the figures. His hope had been to look it over before going in this morning, but... The more she teased him, the more he pleaded at the clock. She kept stroking and licking and sucking him, intent on pulling him back to her. The alarm went off, squawking like a parrot on Prozac. His muscles and nerves suddenly bunched up, and he hammered the clock until it understood that shutting up was in the best interest of its survival. Tim sighed and gave her a bent smile. She wandered his eyes for a moment and continued her tease--slowly. Tight in her hand, he was not getting away. Lips tight around the head of his cock, she sucked in a lazy rhythm, randomly spanking the tip with her tongue. He began to lose his concern for time. When she felt his interest swerving her way at last, she stopped. She frowned at the clock as though noticing it for the first time. "I'm sorry," she said. "You're going to be late." She sprang from the bed and very, very slowly stooped over to pick up her robe, giving him a view of everything he was going to miss. She shrugged into the heavy terrycloth and tied the sash. "You'd better hop in the shower," she said. "I'll get the kettle on." Grumbling followed her all the way downstairs until it was swallowed up by the shower. The toaster rattled, launching the muffins. Adrienne snapped into the present again. She had been daydreaming in front of the window, her robe once again yawning, giving Mr. Blintz a show. He stared over his wall of roses as he might once have gazed over the family ramparts; he lent voyeurism a peculiar dignity. Catching her eyes, his gaze rolled smoothly down to the roses. He sucked in his lips. Had there been a Mrs. Blintz, he would have had his roaming eyes removed by now. Adrienne found it a little exciting, though. That warm, watched feeling conjured an incident involving Tim's brother. Rik had done some house-sitting for them weeks ago while they were visiting friends. The night they returned, Adrienne undressed to take a shower and noticed a peculiar smell coming from the clothes hamper. A single stomach-turning sniff identified Rik's cologne: a melange of musk and paint thinner that should have been called Desperate Artist. It was certainly Rik's style to sneak dirty clothes into someone else's laundry, coming to claim them later when they were clean. However, when she flipped open the hamper, she did not see any of his signature black clothes. In fact, all of her panties had magically risen to the top of the pile. She frowned. The sweat-and-lacquer smell was stronger. It took only a moment to isolate the source: a particularly rumpled pair of lavender silk panties. She lifted them out and turned them over in her hands, uncertain how to feel, to react. Out of curiosity, she pressed the cotton panel to her nose. Her scent was so strong it nearly eclipsed the cologne. The heat and stress of the day she had worn them came back to her immediately. It had been weeks since she and Tim had had the time and energy to make love. They were both rushing to get to the end of the day, to a few greedy minutes together. The evening was an island of promise. Fantasy had tortured her all day, especially when she found herself stuck in traffic, sweating and aching, wanting nothing more than to get home to the mouth and cock she loved. The stress, anxiety and demented driving had proved lusciously worthwhile, though. She was surprised the panties were not ripped. The idea that Rik had indirectly tapped into that experience aroused her more than she wanted to admit. Clear in her mind was the portrait of him lying on their bed stroking himself, her panties draped over his face. She imagined him stealing her scent into his lungs, painting the spicy cotton with his tongue. Although the image aroused her, she found it criminally familiar. Even by just a small step, he had crossed the lines of voyeurism, fantasy and trust. While she found the trespass arousing, she knew she had to get back at him. Although as good-looking as his brother and a decent artist, Rik was a self-absorbed prick, and his charisma could only forgive so much of his behavior. She smiled, thinking about how she had made him squirm. It took a lot to make Rik outwardly nervous, but she had spun a cruelly convincing tale wherein Tim discovered the panties and made the connection. She never told her husband about the panties or the story she told his brother. However, she was sure Rik still expected Tim to attack him at any moment, and the payback felt pretty good. Adrienne shook away the cobwebs of memory and laughed at herself. She had the hardest time focusing her attention in the morning, especially when sex hung in her mind like a fog. Sash secured once more, she plucked the muffin halves from the toaster and laid them on a small plate. She ferried the tea and muffins to the table and nestled into one of the four oak chairs. A squat glass vase in the middle of the table held white and purple sprigs of larkspur. Honey and marmalade lounged under the flower canopy. The rest of the surface was littered as usual with her books and notes. Although free for the day, she wanted some sort of lesson planned for tomorrow's class. Her dog-eared poetry anthology lay open to T. S. Eliot. She bobbed the tea bag in her cup and smiled at the page, turning the singsong verse in her head: Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of toast and tea. With her spoon, she fished the tea bag from her cup and smirked up at the clock again. Its second hand clicked loudly, laboring from moment to moment. Through the window beyond the table, she watched finches flutter around a community of feeders hung from low branches. Trees yawned over the backyard, their leaves just beginning to yellow. Blintz's wall of roses continued to the end of the yard where it yielded to a shaggy hedge. He loitered around the last few bushes, snipping at invisible imperfections. He also happened to have a great view of their rear window. Yin and Yang exploded into the kitchen as though a pack of rabid wolves nipped at their heels. Sliding across the tile, the cats scrambled, trying desperately to find footholds. In seconds, they vanished into the dining room. Behind them stalked Tim, his hair wet, his clothes looking as though they had mugged him. He frowned at the clock, his toes impatiently wiggling in his black socks. He was going to be late. His tie hung askew, a charming red noose. His face was painted a hue mixed from panic and fury. She casually spread marmalade over the craggy surface of a muffin and munched, reading her book. She paid him no mind. She could feel his frustration. It radiated from him. She wondered if she had teased him too far. At this rate, she expected to have her bottom blushed before morning's end. Adrienne glanced up at him and grinned. She loved him beyond words. Unable to resist, he smiled, his anger receding. Her robe hung loosely enough to let fingers of sunlight stroke her breasts. He knew she was playing a game but had yet to get a peek at the rules. Tim drew close, looming over her, and kissed her neck, his hands greedily roaming inside her robe. She politely pushed him away, reminding him he was about to be late for his presentation. "Oh come on," Tim said, frustrated. "You can spare a few minutes, Ade. You have the whole day free." "Have I ever explained the Teacup Principle?" she asked. "No." "It's all about savoring. Sipping as opposed to guzzling." "In other words, tantalization." "Exactly," she smirked. "There isn't the time. You're torturing me, Omnia." She smiled at the pet name and looked him over with a sigh. Sitting with her legs spread a little, she drew the robe away from her lap, showing off her dark-haired pussy. "Taste," she said. He knelt and was between her legs in a blur. He hummed when he realized how wet she was, that she was in that long-simmering state of arousal in which she loved to suspend herself. He adored it. He was almost able to feel that bittersweet ache. He pressed his mouth to her, trying to do too much at once, his lips clumsy on her clit, his tongue swinging wildly. Still, he got a very good taste of her, and the haphazard sensations were enough to twiddle her toes. "Mmm. Ok. Ok. Stop. Stop!" She had to push his head away. "Now," she said, dipping a finger in the marmalade jar, "taste this." She held her shiny, orange fingertip to his lips. They closed around her finger and gentle sucked at it. She adored the sensation. Desperate as he was, he could have gone on for hours. She finally stopped him. "Now taste me again." As he leaned in, she grabbed his eyes and poured caution into them. "Gently this time." His lips eased around her clitoris, molding to its shape. He drew her in like a breath, holding her in his mouth. Her taste was sharper this time, richer: a spice dangling on the edge of definition. She rewarded him with a long, drawling moan. Pleased, he hummed, teasing her all the more. Her head lolled back, and she caught her favorite voyeur in the act again. Mr. Blintz stared over the rose wall, absently running a finger between the petals of a particularly large bloom. "Friend Blintz is watching us." "The Marquis de Saab? I'll have to have word with him one of these days," he growled. "If he lives that long. You're going to give him a heart attack someday." Adrienne grinned, rose out of the chair and draped herself over the table. She nudged her robe aside, exposing her ass. Tim knelt behind her and laid kisses on her skin at her direction. She controlled his mouth, telling him when to sip and when to stop. Absolutely aching, desperate to be in the scalding squeeze of her pussy, the tight mystery of her ass, the velvet glove of her mouth, anywhere, he held on with remarkable patience. All the while, she leaned over the table, her legs wide, smiling as her husband's lips and tongue followed her voice, smiling as Blintz cast furtive glances over his roses. Tim's kisses popped on her skin in synchronicity with the clock's cruel second hand, reminding him of the time slipping away from him. He knew there was no time for complete indulgence, for release. For every second lost, she made him aware of another raw nerve and tense muscle in his body. All at once, he stopped and rose purposefully, scowling at the clock. He was officially late, and the presentation was to be a disaster. Teased and frustrated and on the verge of madness, he stalked toward his briefcase. She stopped him, snatching his arm. "I've got to go the work, dammit!" "I don't think so." She turned back to the table and took up her cup. "What?" "You're sick today," she said offhandedly, turning while taking a casual sip of lukewarm tea. "What?!" "Steve's doing your presentation." She grinned. "By the way, you owe him... big." "But..." "I called while you were in the shower. It seems you've come down with a terrible bit of the flu." He fell quiet, blinking. Adrienne laughed and set down her cup. Tim looked dazed. She dropped her robe, leaning luxuriously over the table, her hands under her chin, her elbows on the cool wood. "I wonder what you could do with your unexpected free time," she smirked, wiggling her bottom. "I was hoping you might re-shingle the roof." All at once, the tension and anger he had been holding onto burst from him in throaty laughter. He freed his cock and took her from behind, laughing with her at how cruelly she had teased him and how delicious it felt to be making love at last. Tim chuckled, "Pass the marmalade!" Up on his toes, agog, Pieter Blintz fell less than gracefully into his roses. -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----