He assures me the staff are familiar with these kinds of illicit encounters. Their discretion can be counted on. The blind eyes they turn as they pass our table, the very obvious way they signal their approach from some distance, where they have placed us in the room, it’s all geared to maintain the high-class appearance of the tea room.
He’d booked the table under the name of Sergeant, explaining that he’s flying out today and simply must see his girl first, commanding a level of respect that’s extended to me on my arrival in the large room. A well-lit extravagant space, high ceilings adorned with chandeliers, each table boasting thick luxurious table cloths and the finest silver.
Table cloths that double as camouflage for where his hands are slipping between my legs, covering the gentle taps that indicate I should part my thighs for easier access.
He’d told me to be prepared. I would leave the conference early and join him. I would enter the room with poise. Remember I am a lady, walking tall, looking elegant still in my professional attire, outwardly demure; but no knickers, definitely no knickers.
Gentle fingers stroke my bare skin, making me shiver. Softly making circles against my clit as I attempt to keep composure. He leans in, smiles and whispers “good girl”, pleased with me for completing his request.
She takes our order without the hint of a knowing smile. Either we’re managing to be discrete or she’s an incredible actress. She expertly recommends brewing time for each type of tea, explaining the difference between my chocolate black tea and the passion fruit one he’s selected. She is the embodiment of professionalism.
I, however, am struggling to maintain an innocent exterior, particularly when as he demonstrates the reason drinking his tea prompted a huge smile. He waves his fingers under my nose and I faintly smell my own aroma, the aroused wetness he’d discovered between my legs. Lingering on his fingers and detectable as he brings the teacup to his lips.
“I’m impressed” he tells me.
“You said I shouldn’t wear them, so I didn’t. I have to be a good girl for my Daddy.”
“Yes, you do…” he confirms “ and you’re a very good girl”
I beam from his praise and snuggle into him, bury my face in his neck and scatter kisses across his jaw line. Following his eye line I see them bringing our afternoon tea spread. Sandwiches, scones and mini cakes, Christmas themed and presented with impeccable attention to detail.
“What would you like first?” he asks me, amused by how my eyes light up at the delectable display. I plump for sandwiches, cut into perfect fingers. He joins me, briefly, before making a bee line for the puddings. Daddies can break the rules and have dessert first if they want to.
He chooses the sloppiest pudding of all the tiny portions and I know what’s coming. With one arm wrapped around my shoulders the other spoons the messy deliciousness into my mouth. He’s so enthused for making me filthy he’s practically bouncing, bringing the next portion quicker than I can devour the first. I hold the container down onto the table so he can scrape into the corners, getting every last drop, changing course last minute to feed himself.
My attempts to reduce the sticky residue left around my lips prove futile as he swiftly chooses another sploshing candidate. Once again he quickly spoons mind-blowingly tasty pudding into my eager mouth, swapping between us; one for Daddy, one for me. He dots my nose with cream and licks it off, chuckling as I squirm at the muckiness, trying to keep my squeals to a minimum so as not to attract attention.
Sliding a hand under the table I feel how the fun with food has affected him. Hard and straining against his jeans. Sticky faced kisses take my breath away and my hips begin to rock slightly, I stroke him in time, pushing my hand against his hard cock. All the time daring myself to take it further; I know he wouldn’t stop me if I undid his trousers but I fear getting caught. An exciting chilling fear that’s has adrenaline coursing just from the suggestion.
I’m certain now there’s no denying our deviant intent, to defile this very posh Mayfair hotel. Mischievous miscreants masquerading as wholesome , just sharing an innocent treat of afternoon tea together. Yet the staff continue about their business as if our chats weren’t being punctuated with obvious fooling around.
Easily transitioning between playful banter, heartfelt sharing and passionate physical affection, time is flying. I’m building to a point of teased rampant want. Having to suppress wicked wishes, images of just climbing onto his lap, testing the staff’s resolve, finding that tip point where we’d be asked to leave. What would it take? What do I dare?
I won’t call his bluff because I will lose. He’d fuck me right here and now…and I know it.
The more aroused, the more single minded I become, it’s all I can think of. Distracted by denial, seemingly self-imposed as I deal with the head-fuck of knowing I’m the one holding back. But we can’t, we shouldn’t, it’s wrong: which makes me desire it all the more.
He can see it, I’m sure, the internal dialogue that I’m hiding badly. He sees my struggle and he amplifies it for his own amusement. His teeth find my neck, nips that pull and hurt so good, his beard rough against my soft skin. Our kisses leave me breathless and longing.
A longing I can no longer resist, as we leave the tea unfinished, the final few cakes uneaten and take our debauchery to the streets to find somewhere public yet more private to continue our fun.