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From: versutiae@aol.com (Versutiae)
Subject: NEW: "The Teacup Principle" by Cynthia (m/f rom) (3 of 4)
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     "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.


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