Afternoon tea was her suggestion. I had only said, “Let’s meet for tea.”
It was she who said, “The Ritz, of course, would be lovely.”
Through Lush, we had known each other for years, virtually smiling and lightheartedly bantering through many a chatroom. No hint of any particular erotic spark had ever arisen in more than two years of conversations, or so I thought. It seemed perfectly natural for me to comment that I was to be in London for a professional society meeting in two months. I admit I was surprised when she expressed interest in meeting up, and I simply said, “As the coffee is abysmal in London, why don’t we meet for tea?”
To which she quickly retorted, “Let’s do afternoon high tea.”
Ah yes, The Ritz on Piccadilly. Fortunately, the University would reimburse me the expense, so I said “Sure!”
We met in the lobby after passing under the classic blue entry canopy, a few minutes before our reservation. Naturally, I recognized her wavy tresses and charming smile from her pictures, more alluring in person than on the screen. She looked like a vision, attired in an elegant black dress that came down mid-thigh and revealed her toned legs in their glory, whereas I looked entirely professional in my steel blue suit.
We hugged, and the fullness of her chest lingered against me a second or two longer than I had anticipated. We entered the golden ballroom to the strains of Handel being played on the piano. We were shown to our table against the side wall, fully draped with a floor-length white tablecloth. Maybe it was the cost, or the pandemic, but I was pleased that the other two seats at the table remained unfilled.
A parade of servers arrived, offering multiple obscure varieties of teas, finger sandwiches, and of course, scones with Cornish clotted cream. We tasted, we giggled, we treated our palates to these pleasures. Extra gym sessions would be needed to work these calories off.
But under the table, obscured by the floor-length tablecloth, her leg was constantly rubbing against mine. This familiarity was entirely unexpected, I will admit, but certainly not unwelcome. Not nearly as surprising though as when she lifted her teacup with one hand and slid the other hand under the table to caress my thigh! Higher and higher her touches reached, and I could not prevent my penis from swelling closer and closer to her fingers.
The conversation is still a bit hazy to me, even now, but I remember her talking about how much she enjoyed the clotted cream, just as her hand grasped hold of my now turgid swollen cock and gave it a squeeze.
“Any particular kind of cream?” I managed to ask her.
“Whatever I can get my hand on,” she replied.
Slowly, her grip loosened ever so slightly, but her up and down, to and fro movements began as she continued to grasp my turgid shaft through my trousers. I glanced quickly around, and realized we were in a world of our own. She was looking at me from an angle, a curious and tempting smile on her face as she stroked me over and over. The hand moved up over the head of my cock, the more sensitive skin now almost burning with arousal. Skillfully, she quickly unzipped my pants and managed to extricate my stiff cock under a napkin she conveniently held for me. She sped up, turning to me now with a smile and a nod.
“Cum,” she whispered.
And in an instant, I exploded, my cock blasting three, four, five throbs of cum into the napkin.
I was exhausted, sated, and stunned. As she retrieved the napkin from under the table, she spooned a portion of warm cum onto the last bite of her scone before neatly licking her lips. She then methodically folded the napkin with my remaining ejaculate for the server to later remove.
Looking at me with those deep eyes and that captivating smile, she asked, “Did you know The Ritz is also a hotel?”
