"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.
