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Innocent Tea and Sinful Rum
BY: Mostly Harmless*** I love tastes. Rich foods, delicate
pastries and smooth wine to wash
it all down. If I were not a blacksmith, I would be a cook, I think. Just to sample my own creations. I remember in England, before I came here, how my mother's cooking seemed to make the days worthwhile. We were never rich, but she made due, whipping together minced pies and biscuits seemingly out of nothing but table scraps. It was never quite enough to keep me full. All day in a crowded factory with hardly a bite and then to come home to such meager, delicious meals. My stomach cursed me and I it. So late at night, I crept through the shadows of our small loft to the pantry. My feet knew where to go to keep boards from creaking and I was so small and my mother so tired that I was probably never in danger of discovery. Still, it was an adventure to me. In the dark pantry, a treasure of breads waited for me and perhaps a wedge of cheese if there was enough to not be missed in the morning. How I shook when my fingers finally closed around my prize. Faster than a mouse, I grabbed then scurried underneath the table, munching the stolen morsels. And for all my mother's skill in the kitchen, these tasted sweeter, left me sated and somehow proud. I wonder now if it was that they were forbidden that made them tickle my tongue so, slide down my throat and leave warm pleasure all the way down to my stomach. I went to bed tired but miserably happy in my trickery and craft. Full and happy. In the morning, my mother woke, smiled at me, ruffled my hair with her callused hand and offered me praise for being so good, working so hard. And even the guilt I felt at stealing from her couldn't lessen the satisfaction in my belly. Jack tastes like this, like everything I'm not supposed to have. It's always wet, kissing him; his tongue leaving a trail of saliva connected to mine. Slurping noises, like long draughts from a flask, sound through the room as he drinks from me. He seems to enjoy how I taste and I cannot fathom why. I must taste as new and bland as I feel placed beside him, wrapped in his arms and pinned beneath his body. He tastes of exotic spice, rum and something that lingers at the back of my throat. Something else so potent I lick my lips hours after and find myself wanting. Something else? Ah, yes. Sin. I am somehow never satisfied of that taste. I can roll over exhausted, messy and sweating only to want more in minutes. I think it amuses him. "Lusty youth," he calls it then takes me again so hard I ache. And still want more. Delicious pain all across my back and thighs and inside me. It's a madness. ***** Elizabeth takes her tea extra sweet. Her maid shakes her head in disapproval as she adds yet another lump of sugar, and then another. And another. I joke and ask Elizabeth if she wants tea with her sugar. She giggles. Somehow I've come to connect the smell of tea steeping with Elizabeth. Patiently waiting however long it takes for water to boil; for tealeaves to soak and for cup to cool just to get the right taste. Waiting eight years to kiss one woman. And each time I kiss her or she kisses me, I am surprised that she does not taste of tea or even sugar. Does not taste of long awaited treasure. She tastes of mint, which leads me to believe she chews mint leaves between meals. Odd, perhaps, but I tell myself that I appreciate how fresh she tastes, her flavor even more chaste than my own. Today, I kiss her after she drains her teacup and am rewarded with the sensation of tasting how I feel she should taste: all tea and sugar. I find I like this better; Elizabeth sweet like I imagined she would be, not falsely fresh and clean. I am too ardent this time, kissing her more hungrily than I ever have and I lose track of where my hands travel, though I like what I'm feeling; soft curves and firmness. Her gasp and moan says she likes it, her upbringing pushes me away. I'm not surprised when I am dismissed. Of course I go to Jack. Jack who never denies me, Jack who kisses roughly and fucks even harder. Jack, my secret. I sneak through the shadows to him just as I did when I was a child. And just like then, I tumble into bed full and happy. Only now I'm full with Jack's cock and his seed. The happiness comes from that. The next time I kiss Elizabeth, I am the perfect gentleman. My hands stay at her waist; my lips remain soft against hers. And when she parts them, silently asking for more of what she denied me before, I am given the fake taste of mint instead of the sweet tea I crave. I search the dampness of her mouth, lap up the mint, swirl my tongue through her innocence and find I'd like a good dose of sin instead. ***** "I don't have rum here," I explain, gesturing around the smithy. "Only tea." Jack turns his nose up at the tea, stares at me like I'm a fool. I press and he capitulates, but not before he draws a leather flask from inside the many layers of his clothes. He adds a fat drop of rum to the delicate porcelain cup, takes it all back in one swig, then declares that the tea is "not so bad after all!" Tea, he says, is for women and dandies. Men, of course, drink rum. I've given up trying to argue with him. I much prefer it when we get along. When he has something wicked in mind and I want nothing but to humor him. I moan when our lips meet and then have to stifle a gasp when his mouth opens and I am accosted with the taste of tea and rum. I pull away. He wonders what's wrong. I smile and lie. He pretends to believe me. Of course it's just as raw as always. His tongue is useful for more than spinning lies and spreading half-truths. I am undone beneath him, would be embarrassed to hear myself begging and moaning if I could hear above the blood rushing in my ears and my heart thudding in my chest. He thrusts again, crashes on top of me and our lips meet one last time. Now he has the flavor of sex and I can taste myself on his tongue, a relish that as he drops into sleep. Accompanied by nothing but his soft breathing, I am left to ponder what caused my discomfort earlier. Rum and tea. To have my worlds pushed together in such a way. To taste both things on Jack's tongue. It's wrong for sin and innocence to mix like that. I never again want the taste of Elizabeth on Jack's mouth. ***** He surprises me and asks for tea. I tell him I've run out. If he were to insist, I'd tell him flatly "no." But he knows I'm lying and doesn't press the point. Instead, we fight, both of us sweaty and gasping for different reasons this time. After it's over, I congratulate him for not cheating and he punishes me for my cheek with a kiss. Somehow I don't feel reprimanded. But he maddens me. His hands will not move, he keeps his hips away from mine. My cock is throbbing with need for him and he is taking his time, kissing me with such thoughtfulness that I want to hit him and thank him all at once. Instead I gasp in frustration and try again to bring his hips against mine. At the moment, I am not above relieving myself if he will not. "Impatient," he scolds, distancing our bodies even more and only slightly deepening the kiss. Jack's tongue traces along my parted lips then dives in to caress the roof of my mouth suggestively, like the rhythm his hands sometimes take against my hips. "Please," I hear myself beg, but I'm too needy to be embarrassed. It's only when he sighs, a sad, disappointed noise, that I realize he hadn't been teasing me, hadn't been trying to drive me mad with need. He had been...enjoying? I'm apologizing before I know what I'm apologizing for. Kissing him again as an offer, hands safely at my side. With my lips, I hope I'm saying, "take your time." "Thank you," he breathes against my lips. And I let him indulge himself for awhile, puzzling at the odd sensation of feeling completely explored and treasured. When our lips finally part, I ask shakily, "Why?" He laughs. In the low light, I barely notice the flash of gold teeth. I've even come to ignore the jangling of his adornments though he cannot move without it. "You taste of goodness," he explains, finally leaning his body into mine, bringing his hardness against my own. While I savor the feeling caused by having his weight and his length so close again, I consider why Jack enjoys my taste as much as I enjoy his. Perhaps it makes sense that one so dark seems to crave the light. Suddenly, I grind against him so hard his breath catches. And he can't hide his shock when I push him down and roughly finish what he started. If he likes the taste of good, I have to admit that I'm addicted to the taste of bad. I know I'm not gentle. I know I'm not kind. It's brutal and messy, hard, ragged, furious sex. It's also the best it's ever been. I lay on top of him, breath refusing to return to my lungs, satisfied beyond my wildest imagination. I kiss him deeply, trying not to notice how it's different from before. And I know, simply know, that he didn't like that. Even though it felt just as good to him, he didn't enjoy my behaviour. He would keep me untainted, always the pursued and dominated. Forever tasting of goodness. But I know what innocence tastes like and I know what sin tastes like. And I know which one I like better. It's about time Jack got to taste that too; got to savor what it is about him that attracts and intoxicates on my lips for a change. Then maybe he'll understand why I always come back. In the low light, with him against my side, I find that the truth doesn't hurt as much as I once thought it would: I would take the taste of Jack's sin over Elizabeth's innocence any day. God knows I would. |
