Jasmine Tea

I placed the jardinière beside the window seat, as she instructed.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Thank you very much. There's no way I could have got that home from the store on my own. Now ... I must get you some refreshment.'

'Thanks,' I said, 'but I really should be getting back. We're a bit short staffed today.'

'Nonsense,' she said. 'We'll have some tea. You're a man who likes tea.'

'Do I?' I asked. Three-quarters of an hour ago we hadn't even met. Now here she was telling me what I liked.

'Of course you do,' she said. 'Wait for me in the library. It's up the stairs. Second door on the right.'

'You don't need a hand?' I asked. 'With the tea?'

'Not just now,' she said. 'Perhaps later. I'm not much of a cook, but think I can make a pot of tea. I can also make a pretty decent martini. Would you prefer a martini? I suppose I should have asked.'

I told her tea would be fine. It had only just gone 2:30 in the afternoon.

'Off you go then,' she said. She wasn't exactly bossy, but her tone was firm.

The library, as she called it, was a small windowless room that had probably started out as a box room or a child's bedroom. Now its walls were entirely covered in books. In the centre of the room there was a low coffee table on which there were still more books. The only other 'furniture' was a selection of large cushions.

I spent a few moments scanning the spines of the books. There must have been about four or five thousand books in the room, although I could discern no method to their arrangement. Novels snuggled between biographies, and short story collections nestled with cookbooks and treatises on gardening and boatbuilding.

With my back to the door, I didn't hear her coming up the stairs. The first indication that she had entered the room was another instruction. 'Get two or three cushions,' she said. 'Make yourself comfortable.' And then, when I grabbed a couple of the cushions nearest to hand, she said: 'No, not those. The red one. And perhaps the dark green one with the gold tassels. I think you'll find them more appropriate with jasmine tea. And take your shoes off, too,' she said.

I wasn't quite sure why I needed to take my shoes off, but I did so anyway. A house rule perhaps?

'You have an impressive collection of books,' I said.

She looked around the shelves as though seeing the books for the first time. 'Hmm. Yes,' she said. 'Yes, I suppose so -- although, to tell the truth, some of them are not very good.'

'You've read them all?' I asked.

'Hmm.' She hesitated. 'I've read ... well, put it this way, I've read most of the ones that are worth reading,' she said.

'And how do you decide?'

'Decide?'

'How do you decide which are worth reading?'

She rearranged the tea glasses on the tray and poured some jasmine tea -- complete with delicate white flowers -- into each. 'I suppose,' she said, 'they are worth reading if they amuse me. Or if they inform me.' And then, after a moment or two, she added: 'And of course they are especially worth reading if they arouse me.'

'Arouse you?'

'Yes,' she said, looking at me with a rather stern expression. 'In the internet age, printed erotica is too often undervalued. One-handed books have much to recommend them. They allow one to use one's imagination. They allow one to participate in the erotic adventures of others. A little vicarious ecstasy, you might say. Yes, every woman should have a small supply of erotic literature at her bedside -- as, indeed, every man should. I'm sure you have such a supply.'

'Well ....'

'Exactly,' she said.

She glanced off into space as though trying to recall a thought or an event from the past. 'Don't get me wrong,' she said, 'I have nothing against a good movie, that is to say a good erotic movie, but I find that so few of them are -- good, I mean. All those formulaic plot lines. And such bad acting usually. Imagine The Pirate Princess or Tina Takes Charge with some decent actors. But, alas, I doubt we shall ever see a young Judi Dench in the role of Tina -- or a young Meryl Streep in the role of the Pirate Princess. That said, some of Tinto Brass's better work is headed in the right direction.' She took a sip of her tea. 'And you?' she asked. 'What erects your tent?'

'Oh, you know,' I said. 'Usual stuff. I suppose.' Although goodness knows why I was telling this to a woman I had only just met.

She moved the tea tray more towards the centre of the coffee table and began reorganising the some of the cushions. Once she had made a bit of a 'nest', she sat herself opposite me, her ankles crossed, the skirt of her silky dress bunched up in her lap. Her bare thighs were tanned and firm and I thought I could just make out a hint of dark pubic hair in the shadows. 'The usual stuff?' she said. 'Are you sure you mean the usual stuff? Or are you more stimulated by the unusual stuff?'

'I suppose that depends on what you mean by unusual,' I said. 'You could say that one person's unusual is another person's usual. I'm not into S&M -- if that's what you mean. I've never found pain particularly erotic.'

'Fair enough,' she said. 'But you're tastes are not entirely vanilla. I doubt, for example, that you would decline an invitation to watch me urinate.' She said this not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

'Why do you say that?' I asked.

'Because I know such things,' she said. She spoke confidently, in the manner of someone who was used to giving orders -- someone who was used to giving orders and having them followed.

'How do you know such things?' I asked.

'In the same way that I know you are, as we speak, trying to look at my vulva without alerting me to the fact that you are trying to look at my vulva,' she said. 'You don't deny it, do you? And why should you? You know that's what you are doing. And I know that's what you're doing. Here, let me make it easier for you.' And with that she pulled her skirt almost to her waist and spread her knees. 'There. Is that better?' She took another sip of her tea, holding her glass between the thumb and index finger of her left hand.

'Tell me, did you realise that I was not wearing knickers? she asked. 'Or did you just hope that I was not wearing knickers?'

Without waiting for a reply, she went on. 'As you can see, talk of erotica -- or perhaps the memory of recently-perused erotica -- together with the knowledge that you were trying to sneak what I believe is known as an upskirt, has itself had a certain arousing effect.

'Do you notice a certain puffiness of my outer labia?' As if to ensure that I had understood what she was talking about, she lightly traced the outline of her vulva with an elegant index finger. That done, she used the same elegant index finger to test the firmness of her labia majora, rather in the way one might test the firmness of a freshly-baked cake.

I had noticed the puffiness of which she spoke. I had also observed that her pink inner labia had a slight glisten to them as they peeked out from her previously-hidden valley. Clearly, they were far from dry.

'And you?' she said. 'What news from within your elegantly-tailored trousers? Do I detect movement, the beginning of an erection perhaps?'

'What do you think?' I asked.

'Oh, I know what I think,' she said. 'I think I wish to see it with my own eyes. I think that would be only fair, don't you? Even while you ask me what I think, you struggle to keep your gaze from my pudenda. It is only fair that I should be accorded similar privileges.'

'You may be disappointed,' I said.

'I assure you I am never disappointed to gaze upon an erect penis,' she said, '-- especially when I have played some small part in its erection. Now, are you going to remove those trousers? Or do you need my help?'

I got to my feet, undid my belt, unzipped my zip, and let the trousers fall to the floor. My briefs followed and my almost-erect penis sprung free.'

'Very nice,' she said. 'Yes, that's pretty much what I was hoping for.'

'Only pretty much?' I said.

'Well I was hoping your penis would be closer at hand. My hand,' she said. 'Come and sit over here so that I can appreciate its increasing girth and experience its hardness. And while I'm doing that, you can -- if you wish -- assess the wetness of my vulva.' She drew an elegant finger along her hair-fringed cleft. 'I think it's becoming magnificently moist, but I would value a second opinion. You might also have an opinion on the way in which my clitoris is beginning to outgrow its hood.'

I settled myself on the cushion beside her though facing in the opposite direction so that I could more easily reach the object of my interest and she could just as easily reach the object of hers. Her vulva was, as she suggested, becoming magnificently moist. 'You're right,' I said.

'I usually am,' she replied. 'But what, in particular, are you confirming?'

'Your vulva,' I said. 'It reminds me of the finest velvet, the finest wet velvet. Warm. Smooth. And slippery. Yes, very slippery. In fact it's the warmest, smoothest, slipperiest vulva I have experienced since I entered this house.'

'I think you will find,' she said, 'that it's the only vulva you have experienced since you entered this house.'

'That diminishes the excitement not one bit,' I assured her.

'Yes,' she said, 'I had gathered that from the state of this fine penis.'

As she began to stroke my cock, my fingers explored her slippery warmth. As the first finger slipped into her without a hint of hindrance, I felt the walls of her vagina briefly contract. After several slow exploratory dips, I judged it was time to add a second finger. My judgement was clearly sound. 'Yes,' she said. 'You've got the idea. I do like a man who knows what he's doing.'

This morning, I had never even seen this woman, and this afternoon here I was with the index and forefinger of my right hand exploring her warm vagina while my thumb massaged her firm clitoris.

'Did you know,' she said, 'that the English language has more than 200 slang and informal synonyms for vulva and, or, vagina?' She briefly paused from milking of my cock, apparently in order to ensure that I would pay proper attention to her next pronouncement.

'These days,' she said, disapprovingly, 'some people -- even some people who should know better -- use the words vulva and vagina as though they were synonymous. They are not. Vulva refers to the external genital organs -- the external genital organs of a woman, that is -- whereas vagina refers to the internal passage and literally means sheath.' And then, having made her point, she resumed her ministrations.

'Two hundred,' I said. 'That many?'

'Trust me,' she said. 'Mind you, many are not to my taste. Many appear to have been coined by men -- I'm almost sure they were men -- with a low opinion of vulvas, vaginas and women general. I prefer that you do not use such words in my presence. But that still leaves an ample selection. Pussy, of course. But also kitty, beaver, snatch, and muff. Don't forget your tea, will you,' she said.

With my fingers working her -- shall we say snatch? -- and her fingers massaging my throbbing penis, I must admit that tea was not the first thing on my mind.

'When I was a girl,' she continued, 'one of my brother's favourite terms for the female sex organ was minge. Personally, I always thought minge sounded a little lacking in generosity. I don't know why. Perhaps in my young mind there was some association with the word mean. Minge: mean. Mean: minge. You see what I mean. And then there's quim, another family favourite when we were younger. These days, however, quim sounds rather quaint and slightly old fashioned. Still, I prefer it to minge.'

She continued: 'My aunt Marion generally referred to her vulva as "the jewel box". I always thought her use of the impersonal definite article made it sound as though she thought of it as belonging to somebody else. And perhaps, in a way, it did. She was from an era when men -- well, some men anyway -- believed that they just had to marry a woman and they automatically became the rightful owners of their bodies.'

She took another sip of tea before dipping her finger in the brew and smearing a little of the jasmine-infused liquid on the head of my cock.

'Many people,' she paused and scanned the crowded bookshelves, 'indeed, many writers, seem to enjoy a synonym with a jokey quality. Take bacon sandwich, for example, a reference to the appearance of prominent pink labia minora sandwiched between their more ample labial sisters. Amusing? Perhaps. But not particularly romantic. And then there's the idea of cunnilingus and pubic hair brought together -- quite neatly -- in the terms fur burger, whisker biscuit and furry doughnut. Again, more jokey than arousing, I think. And as for cock pocket and serpent socket, well ....

'Personally,' she said, 'I find cunt as good a word as any. Yes,' she said thoughtfully, 'cunt. Used properly, cunt can be both sexy and seductive. But there's definitely a trick, a knack, to its use. And some people never seem to learn that trick. A pity really.'

A few more moments passed in similarly instructive vein. But then -- and here I'm not sure whether the trigger was the fact that I now had three fingers buried in her cunt and, with each thrust, her hips were coming forward to meet me, or whether her keenly-focused mind had reached a tipping point laden with sexual slang, but, whatever the trigger, she came to a halt in mid sentence. Her measured breathing became short and shallow. The tanned skin above the scoop neck of her silky dress became flushed. Her thighs closed about my hand. And she began to shudder. 'Oh, fuck, yes,' she said. 'Fuck. Yes. Fuck.'

Credit where credit's due, while enjoying her orgasm she still managed to keep pumping my cock and, within a very short time, I was joining her in a moment or two of erotic ecstasy. Three generous shots of pearl white semen flew through the air and splattered gently onto her taut, tanned thigh.

For five or ten seconds, we both just sat there on our cushions, enjoying the moment. Then, slowly -- ever so slowly -- she traced a finger through the pool of fresh semen. With her warm, smiling eyes fixed firmly on mine, she brought her finger up to her mouth and slowly licked it clean.

'Don't forget your tea,' she said.