Olive Brine Tea

Sara plucked stray olives from between the trays and put them into the discard container. From there they'd be chopped and used for pizza toppings or in sandwiches. Standing at the olive bar, she felt her apron string hugging her belly. Pulling it tight like that showed off her figure. It also constricted her when she bent to reach olives that had rolled too far from the spit guard.

An older man, with silvery hair, dressed in a good suit and overcoat, approached Sara with a steady look. She put on her customer-friendly face, noticing his good posture and poised carriage. Wide shoulders, flat belly. Handsome still, the man radiated a charisma of calm.

"Excuse me ... Sara?" He squinted at her name badge. It said, Hi, I'm Sara, How Can I Help You? "I wonder if you'd do me a favor."

She expected him to ask her to fill a container with olives. Many of the older people requested this, as if afraid they'd make a mess. She knew, from chasing stray olives of various flavors, many did make a mess. "Sure. If I can." She wondered why she'd added that.

Was it his gaze, which scanned her figure? Was it the way he studied her face, especially her eyes? She felt a thrill inside.

"I'd like a special kind of olive."

She gestured to the olive bar. "As you see, we have quite a variety."

"Ah, but not quite what I'd prefer." He took a long flat wallet from inside his jacket. He took out a fifty-dollar bill.

Sara cocked her head slightly in puzzlement. "Sir, the clerks up front will be glad to--"

He took a card from another pocket and folded the fifty around it, offering both to her with a slight bow. As she hesitated, he said, "I'll give you fifty dollars to take a container of Sicilian olives and replace the liquids with ... your own."

She blanked, staring at the money. Fifty dollars would be useful. "My ... liquids?"

"Yes." He put the money and card into her hand. "You could take a short break."

She blushed so hard she thought she might faint. Unsure what to do with the money, she thrust it toward him. "You want me to ... pee?" Her whisper conveyed outrage, if mildly.

"Olives benefit from brine." His voice, so soothing and calm, remained steady as he watched her eyes. "Special brine is to be savored."

She wanted to be outraged but in fact found herself intrigued. What he asked would not be difficult. Carry a container of olives into the employee's rest room, open it, drain the oil, then hold it in place and relax her bladder. Fifty dollars. It would pay toward her new car, needed since the one her parents had given her had finally seized up.

As if following her thoughts, the man said, "I'm David. I buy olives weekly." He lifted a hand toward her, let it fall without touching her. "I'd be honored if they were yours, and I'd pay you each time, of course."

She shivered. She thought of her mother and wanted to gag, to shudder in revulsion, but again, a tingle went through her. Neither gagging nor disgust rose in her. Temptation combined with a lure of easy money was what she felt, and, she admitted, a certain curiosity about this older man.

"It would be a quiet arrangement between two adults. We'd keep it between us, a private matter." He smiled, nodding slightly.

Would he ask her to do increasingly vile things until he'd made her his whore? She'd refuse. She'd draw the line Everyone had to pee. It was normal, and if a lonely old man had a urine fetish, what of it? She was healthy, taking no drugs.

An arrangement between two adults. "Just you and me."

He held her gaze, smiled, and nodded again, once, as if sealing a deal.

Hadn't some of the boys she'd let crawl onto her done worse, and with little or no manners, certainly with no benefit to her?

She took a breath and put the money and card into her jeans pocket, then took a plastic container and used one of the aluminum spoons to half-fill it with olives. She tried to get as little liquid as possible.

Pressing on the lid, she glanced at the man, David. "Be right back."

"No hurry, Sara. Thank you."

She walked across the sales floor and went behind the bread counter, then to the swinging doors, carrying the olives low against her apron. No one took notice of her. She went to the restroom, a single bathroom shared by employees. It was empty.

Inside, she locked the door, popped open a corner of the container's lid, and poured off the olive brine. It smelled strongly of Italian herbs and spices. She ran some water to rinse the sink.

Pulling off the lid, nearly dropping it, she set the container with lid on the sink counter. She pulled up her apron then unbuttoned and unzipped her pants. She debated whether to enter the toilet stall but, with a glance at the locked door, decided fuck it. Slipping her underwear down, she held the olive container in front of her, against her fur, and took a breath, trying to relax.

Her flow wouldn't start.

"Oh for fuck's sake." She wanted to piss now so much cramps had begun but nary a trickle escaped her. A thud on a wall outside the bathroom didn't help. She closed her eyes, thinking of the money.

She also thought of David, wondering if he'd be as gentle as she imagined him as they made love.

At last her stream began. She sighed and savored the release, the easing of the cramps. Gooseflesh blossomed on her belly, breasts, and throat. It wasn't an orgasm but it paralleled one, somehow. She enjoyed the sensation.

She was surprised to find that emptying her bladder filled the olive container only two-thirds full. The olives bobbed in it, looking perfectly normal. It pleased her that the switch wouldn't be obvious to the cashier.

She snapped the lid on, used a paper towel to dry herself, and washed her hands before pulling up her underwear and jeans. Finally smoothing down her apron, she unlocked the door and carried the olives out, again keeping them low.

David waited by the olives. He smiled as she approached him. He took the container with a nod of his head. "You're wonderful."

"It wasn't so bad." In fact, she felt as if she'd just masturbated, that mixture of let-down and gratified exhaustion. What had he called her?

Wonderful? She blushed as his compliment finally sank in.

"Thank you, Sara. See you next week." He gave her a little wink and set the olives in his cart along with some bread, cheese, wine, crackers, and other items.

She watched him go.

It was only after her shift, once she'd gotten into her car, that she thought to look at the card.

David Weller, Antiquarian, the card said. It gave a telephone number and business address in the West End, where wealthy people lived.

On the back, in his clear, bold handwriting, she found a small note:

I sensed your maturity and appreciated your poise. Thank you for your strength, Sara. Under this an email address had been written.

#

She did not contact him for three days, but on the fourth day's evening, as she sat eating boxed Mac & Cheese and a boiled hot-dog, she opened her laptop and wrote a brief email. Hi, David. I hope you're well -- and enjoying your special olives. Never met anyone like you before. / Sara

Thinking about David often, she wondered how many women he'd approached, and how many times he'd been slapped, evoked an indignant scolding, or been escorted from a store. Had he ever been arrested for a sex crime? Was it a crime to ask someone a question like that?
 This day and age, she thought, anything could be construed as a violation of some sort. She found herself glad he'd chosen her. He was safe with her, she told herself. She'd protect him and his little quirk.

How, then, had he been sure enough of her?

Did something in her character show to those who knew how to see it?

With a start she realized he had to have been watching her for awhile because he'd written her name on the card, and she'd not seen him write at all. He'd had it ready beforehand.

Her name badge gave him her name, sure, but knowing it was reasonably safe to approach her in public with such an outrageous request? Such daring lay beyond her, she realized, heart pounding

So he'd been in the store observing her many times before.

A feeling of dread oozed over her. Was he creepier than she'd thought? Had she let herself in for a ride straight to Hell?

Maybe he stalked young women and approached them all the time. Maybe he was a serial killer or rapist. Maybe ...

... you should settle down, she thought. Take a breath and stop borrowing trouble.

Still, she was now in a strange situation, indulging a fetish new to her with a man she didn't know, a man her father's age. When spelled out like that it sounded appalling, and stupid. She decided to do some internet surfing to find out some of what she might be dealing with.

#

For three weeks David showed up at the store during the lunchtime crush, a good time for Sara to remain unnoticed. He would approach her as she worked at the olive bar, which had become a regular daily chore for her in hopes of seeing him again.

From online searches she knew his Antiques Boutique had three locations and was thriving. His success grew in humble ground and he continued to live in a decent house that fell well short of the McMansions favored by other rich people in the city. He was a widower, his wife. Gladys, having died a decade and a half back.

"You look well." He smiled at her.

"You're so mysterious." She referred to his cryptic reticence in their few email exchanges. He revealed little about himself and in fairness asked her little about her life.

"It is discretion, Sara. Part patience, part awareness."

She put together a good container of olives and took them to the restroom, noticing how calm she'd become about doing this task. She was even proud of her product, and drank lots of water before his visits.

His fifty that day contained another card with a note on back, giving an address different from his business, and a time, eight that evening. Please join me for a casual tea party. David.

Casual, she thought. With David, who always dressed better than anyone else she knew, casual required a follow-up email. She asked him if he meant jeans and a tee shirt, or perhaps a dress.

Oh, a dress, please. Needn't be fancy.

#

A search on her phone got her to his house, that same one he'd lived in for thirty years now, modest but well-kept, on a manicured lawn with lots of trees and hedges.

Parking in the lot to one side of the house, where his own car, a Mercedes 300 SL, stood under an awning, she sat for a moment, flustered. Her nervousness manifested in a touchup to her makeup, some primping for her short hair, and a smoothing of her dress front.

She'd worn a floral print sleeveless with V neckline, the hem falling to her knees. She now worried it wasn't too casual, too summery.

Taking a deep breath, she popped open her car door and pushed it open. Swinging her legs out, she stood, took another deep breath, and closed the car door behind her as she walked around the corner to the front door.

She felt pretty, pudgy, pert, exhausted, excited, and nervous as she raised her hand to press the doorbell button.

Chimes sounded inside, the Big Ben variety, deep and resonant. She smiled, thinking how well that suited the David she knew.

With a twist of the doorknob, the heavy oak door swung open and there stood David in one of his three-piece suits. "Ah, Sara. Welcome. Please come in." He stood back, holding the door open.

She walked into an entrance hall that featured a Grandfather clock, a half-spiral staircase, and a stained glass window set well above the door. She walked on parquet tiles. "It's so beautiful."

"It is but a setting for genuine beauty." David gestured, then led the way down a hall to a door on the left. It was a double-wide door, one of those that slides open into the wall. Through it a tea parlor waited, along with two other people, a man and woman.

Both looked older than David, who introduced them as Margot and Anthony. "Delighted to meet you, my dear." Anthony, who'd sprung to his feet, bowed to her.

She managed to keep a giggle inside her by feigning a cough.

"Sit here beside me, dear." Margot patted the chair to her left, the empty one between her and David.

To Sara's surprise, they had an interesting conversation not only about antiques -- with a few jokes about themselves being prime examples -- but about contemporary news and entertainment, too. Margot knew fashion well and complimented Sara on her dress, while Anthony proved to be a wellspring of travel stories from Europe and Asia both.

David held his own and then some, making wry remarks, sly observations, and clever ripostes. Sara found herself glad she'd come and not at all burdened by an evening among older folks. They treated her as a star would be treated but it was David's attention she enjoyed the most.

#

When everyone was relaxed, and knew each other as well as new friends can, David excused himself, stood, and went to a sideboard. From it he brought a tray with a china tea set on it, a chubby tea pot and four delicate cups, with a sugar bowl, a small pitcher of cream, and an array of silver spoons. Napkins of linen were handed to each person.

He put the tea service on the table around which they sat.

David took the lid off the tea pot and opened a rectangular ceramic box. From it he spooned loose tea scented with cloves and orange peel into the pot. "Five. One for each of us and one for the pot." He put the lid back on.

He lifted the tea pot and handed it to Sara. "If you'd be so kind as to fill it for us."

She almost dropped the tea pot. She squirmed on the chair. "Here?"

David smiled and put a hand under her nearest elbow. Lifting her to her feet, he guided her across the room to a Victorian screen, this one with silk panels painted with Japanese scenes of flowers and birds and waterfalls. As she walked the tea pot's lid rattled slightly.

He leaned to kiss her throat. "You're wonderful."

His whisper shot through her like electric shock, even more stimulating than the touch of his lips under her jawline.

Behind the screen she found a stool, a low table, folded towels, and other items she might need. A mirror faced her so she could see herself.

Sara set the tea pot on the low table. She removed the lid. Again she took a deep breath. Lifting her skirt, she gathered it so her arms could hold it out of the way, then lowered her panties. They fell to her ankles.

She kicked them away.

Straddling the tea pot, she pressed her fur to its opening and found her flow eager to begin. The sound of drips became a gush as she relaxed, emptying her bladder with a long sigh of contentment.

The scent of orange rind and cloves mingled with oolong tea leaves rose around her as she stepped back to use a towel. She found her underwear and put it back on, then smoothed her skirt, checking in the mirror to make sure she looked okay. She noticed how her face glowed. Putting the lid back on the tea pot, she cradled it, surprised how hot it felt.

Taking it back to the group she handed the tea pot to David, who placed it on the tray. "We'll let it steep a few minutes."

Margot patted Sara's arm. "What a treat you are for us."

"David spoke so highly of you." Anthony smiled at his host, then at Sara, as if to confirm the approval of both.

Heart racing, slightly dizzy now that she'd sat down, Sara wondered what she'd gotten herself into.

"Would you like to pour, Sara?"

David startled her with the question but she shook her head. "No, that's okay. You can pour." She was about to add, None for me, thanks, but thought better of it. If they enjoyed it, maybe she would.

He gave Sara the first cup, then poured one each for his guests, finally pouring the last for himself. They all raised their cups, and David said, "To Sara, for her strength and kindness."

Sara found herself confronting the cup. It smelled like ordinary orange-clove tea. She dared a sip, coating only her lips, and when she licked them she found the mix of sweet, astringent, and mild salt intriguing. She took a real sip then, coating her tongue.

"It's delicious." David said this decisively.

Margot and Anthony concurred at once, complimenting Sara for having made such good tea for them. No one reached for sugar or cream.

Sara wobbled in a bubble of unreality. She couldn't believe where she was or what she was doing, yet had to admit, amazingly, she enjoyed it.

Margot and Anthony chatted a bit, then finished their cups and stood, thanking David for a lovely evening and pausing, before leaving the tea parlor and house, to place a hundred dollar bill each on the tea service's silver tray. David added three hundred dollar bills of his own, then handed them all to Sara. "Worth every penny, Sara. Just wonderful."

She hesitated about taking the money but realized it was part of their ritual, and certainly she was entitled to be paid for supplying their cravings. She felt like a whore but less tainted, somehow. More a valuable commodity than a debased person, perhaps because she passed along her essence instead of accepting others'. Her product was all out-flow.

#

David kept Sara on his arm as he said his goodbyes to the older couple, who strode toward a waiting town car at the end of the drive. "Early bed-time for them both."

Nine-thirty had chimed on the Grandfather clock.

As he closed the door, David encircled Sara in a light hug. "Thank you. You were marvelous."

"I didn't do ... much."

He kissed her forehead. "You did more than you ever dreamed."

She knew that was true. "I never knew about any of this. With the ... brine, I mean."

"Ah." He strolled with her back to the parlor, where they sat now nearer the fireplace, which he ignited. They sat on a love seat, a two-person sofa, and he asked Sara if she'd please stay for a late dinner.

She'd had a quick burger on the way over but didn't want to leave, so she said Sure.

A catered dinner arrived from a restaurant she'd heard of but couldn't afford to patronize. The meal, for two, contained four courses, salad, and dessert. Afterwards, they had coffee. Sara was stuffed by the time midnight chimed. David, a nibbler, talked about his travels searching for antiques, his love of old books, and how he wanted to take Sara sailing once Summer came. They blue-sky blathered for awhile of places they'd like to see.

A third yawn told her she'd better be getting back to her apartment.∂

"Are you all right to get yourself home safely?"

She smooched David on the cheek. "I'm a big girl. I've been out past the witching hour before."

He asked her to text him when she was safe in bed.

At first that felt too protective, but she found, once she'd tucked herself in, that saying goodnight was just a nice thing to do.

#

She began visiting David's house three or four evenings a week, for chat, meals, and laughter. They became great friends, and occasionally she'd brine some olives for him, or help host a tea party, usually with Margot and Anthony but now and then with others who were visitors passing through on antique junkets. Turned out a whole group of people traveled the country year-round looking for bargain furniture to be fixed and sold in better antique shops. Some of them shared David's tastes.

A few winters down the line from when they'd met, David lay ill in his four-poster bed. Sara visited him often during that time. He also had a live-in nurse to look after his meds and temps and other needs.

"Sara, I'm leaving the business and house to you."

Shocked, she nearly fell off the edge of the bed, where she'd been sitting holding his hand. "No. Don't talk like that."

"Please, hear me out. You can continue what I've got rolling. It's a good chance for you to get on your own feet."

She was not a gold-digger and hated this kind of burden. "What if I don't want it?"