Tea time; Part 1

We ussually have tea time out by the gardens in the summer. Not tea by the old willow, the gardener gave it a haircut. Something awful I should say.  What we need to do is go down by the old oak with the weird nose,  take a sharp right by the hickory and mums, off you go.

It looks like a tree that got a hair cut with a bowl on it head that willow does. It looks like cousin Linus, you know he’s simple, got those eye. Lovely chap, likes a good hug, you ever need a good solid embrace, go find cousin Linus, i say.

Apologies, I get side tracked dreadfully when I’m parched and famished. Let’s sit for a bit and enjoy our selves. Do try the venison pie. 

My name is Duke Argyle Tweed, pleasure to meet you Sir. Let me show you around the mansion.

Listen sir, you seem to have a refined air about you. We have Ice tea. Or hot. With these fancy little ice balls that Marco (our chef) makes by hand, out of purified water from Greenland no less. The best water always comes from Greenland, and it’s all I really drink when I do drink water at all. Who has time for water when the green faery is always nearby no less. Lovely.

I’ve heard in the Americas, they put water in their drinks. Sounds ghastly being poor. Couldn’t do it. Off you go little poor Americans.

I think it (the ice) has less bite and a moodier temperament when chewed when it comes from Greenland, Ooh darling, I can feel it all cool on my throat.

It is ever so delightful.

We invite everyone. All our friends. Except for Daryl because when he gets drunk he gets a bit handsy with the female tea goers.  Just stay home Daryl. If someone wants a rumpus with a balding sweaty man, everyone knows where you live.

There are all sorts of treats today.

We have afternoon sandwiches, raspberry ripple blondies, delicate butterfly cupcake, with the delicious flavored syrup and different types of frosting.  We have some tray bake, coronation chicken, angel cake, cherry loaf cake. Salty sausage rolls, smoked trout tartlets, Battenberg cake, Pimms, scones, and these nice little egg and cress club sandwiches, scotch eggs, Courgette cake, piccalilli tarts, dark chocolate tea cakes, banana custard eclairs. Jubilee cake, brioche, lemony crab and cucumber clubs, apple and spice tea loaf, Morrocan orange and cardamom cake. You get the point. We do get in with thee refreshments, oh but we need to.

We spared no expense darling.

And the tea. My god. My god. If tea had an Erection. If tea became erect because it was tea, served at the perfect temperature, the perfect way, the perfect cup. I mean we spared no expense. The heady aromas of a delectable English breakfast tea, to the astringent cleansing of the green teas, to the dusty and thoughtful of our favorite pressed and beautiful teas. It would be us! Here. Tea would get hard for us.

I’m passionate about tea. No seriously, I absolutely adore tea. 

From Earl Gray to Herbal Hibiscus. It’s all here. In 20 different tea pots being passed around. Loose leaf, tea bags and everything in between.

Let’s leave at that darling. Shall we? No, don’t go back to tea bag you filthy animal. But yes we do a bit of that too! Just joking, AM I? Oh oh oh. My God. Please excuse me for a second. Princess Valerie is stuck in the bushes again. 

Back. Our table is set, drinks out out. Party goers are out and about. They dance, they chortle, they chuckle, they stuff their faces with the myriad of pastries.  Oh my, Daryl did come. Dreadful.

“HELLO DARLING, YOU LOOK RAVISHING! (Whispers) He looks like a giant fat troll, but nothing some opium and cannabis wouldn’t smooth over.

I mean, Jesus Daryl. Just have a trifle and go you sad BITCH!

My wife, Morry, had a wonderful silk dress on, her skirt a myriad of different gems and sequins dappled and shining in the afternoon light. Her bodice is spilling over, Her corset cinched tight and wanton. Her breasts, rouged and oh so touchable, lockable, suckable and dare u say fuckable as as well. I have to reposition myself a couple of times just seeing her around the party. If I wasn’t already married to her, I’d marry the vixen again.

She is glorious. Her wig is piled high above her. Freshly powdered with bees floating around it like some hairy beehive. I know precisely how many Bobby pins she has keeping that thing balancing and secure. She is lovely. Her mole just there, and fresh from mummy and daddy’s winter retreat. Her face porcelain and vibrant with a bit of rouge on each cheek.  She exudes beauty and pageantry. She is magnificent as she quietly chuckle with her ladies in waiting.  She fans herself demurely. 

I am wearing a sumptuous some thing as well. Maybe not as sumptuous and elegant as my Morrigan…My sweet, fiery, Valkyrie. 

Morry for short, for love, for so many delicious adventures.  She is intoxicating. My favorite tea cookie, my lovely mouthwatering beverage. Ever bit of her body I adore. Every bit.

I must confess, I do, on occasion watch her when she is licking the frosting off some of the cookies and pastries. There is something intoxicating, lewd, sexual, and innocent watching her tongue glide across food and when she looks me in the eye I am so overjoyed to be her husband. And on occasion her blatantly perverted husband as well.  SERENDIPITY!

Now, I myself have a Norfolk jacket of a beautiful Magenta, along with a black and white modest vest and necktie to match. Ochre woolen breeches to finish everything off. My mustache has been gently waxed as has been my glorious locks. I am perfumed, and ready to fuck my wife. I think it might be my duty to walk amongst the party goers like this is my mating ritual. This is my walk, nay my saunter to the creamy folds of my wife’s sweet pussy. Her elixir is the only beard oil I need.

We look absolutely ravishing…Is my point.

Tea and toasts and tea and toasts. We have jugglers, minstrels, poets and acrobats. We have singing dogs, birds that make fart noises, and a violinist from Lisbon.  We have corgis walking tight ropes, jugglers juggling goldfish bowls and children running around in masks throwing horse dung at unsuspecting guests. Altogether a fabulous party. I run around talking and chatting. Greasing palms , and generally being an amazing entertainer as always you dumb whore! My light is as well always there to help her guests with a bit more tea or the best flower arrangement for a friend with syphilis. She floats around on cherub wings always alight and fluttering. I think by the end I might have eaten 10 scotch eggs by myself, and I can feel my gout settling In for the night. But nothing can. Be done for it, so more tea! More wine! More libation! More sore big toes I suppose as well. C’est la vie.

And then, just like that, the party is done, and the last party goes goes. All that is left is my wife and I, and her lady in waiting, and a great many pastries and buckets of tea.  I shake hands with a duke I never introduced myself to, and walk back to the table where my wife is sitting with her lady in waiting.

“Marvelous party love. Truly the best I’ve seen in ages. I should say ever.  Mrs Candy can you think of a better party ever?” I say. She smiles coquettishly. and I sit down beside her opposite her lady. I look around the table, spy another tray of scotch eggs and grab 2 from the platter. I scoot back to them both.

“Darling, the next party we have we need to find that doctor.  Oh you know-“ I say and she interrupts me, 

“Dr. Levaticos! The Mesmer. How delightful. Will he make me think I’m a partridge or an eel on the floor? Perhaps some low born swine eating out of a trough. I love it, I’ve always wanted to be seedy love.“ She says as she pats my hand and smiles at me.

Her lady in waiting is named Candy. She is her most trusted confidant, and a fellow admirer of Rimbaud as well.  She has the wonderful predicament to look slightly like my wife. With such good genes and taste it was only a matter of time before we became, the very best of friends.

And…so…she is here now.  We are all here now. And the party is done and now I must commnse to fucking my wife in her perfectly wonderful pussy. Excelsior! Oh goody.

I rather like a brisk fuck out doors. I’ve taken the liberty of blind folding the waitstaff, as my wife thinks it odd when they make eye contact while we are fucking. What’s a baron to do, I say. Blindfolds for everyone which is ever so humorous, For the waiters take turns tripping and falling on their rude, poor, peasant,  faces all the while.

TO BE  CONTINUED….