Tea & Training at The Lowell

The host was exceptionally accommodating, sweeping away our shopping bags with discreet efficiency and leading us to a spacious corner table, one grand enough to accommodate both our legs and our indulgences. Theo claimed he was 5’10, but I would wager he’s a touch taller—his posture deceives, so refined and composed. More elegant than Adam ever was, if I may allow myself the comparison.

We had spent the better part of the afternoon at Saks on Fifth, selecting a careful array of pieces that, to any casual observer, were unquestionably mine. And yes—three of the seven bags were. But the remaining four held items chosen solely for Theo, each one more delicate and humiliating than the last.

Once seated and served, we must have looked the picture of maternal warmth—an elegant woman and her charming adult son sharing tea. I must admit, Theo’s resemblance to a young Leo Woodall is disarming. That boyish grin, those ocean eyes. I doubt he’s even aware of the effect he has.

“Elbows off the table,” I said, the edge in my voice so refined it could cut crystal.

His eyes fluttered closed for a second too long—a tell. He knew what that slip would cost him later, and the anticipation already made him squirm, if only inwardly. Like a chastised child. My lips curled with a wicked smile.

I took a delicate sip of the first blend—a seasonal coconut, they claimed. Odd, I thought, given winter had just surrendered to spring. Coconut isn’t typically a winter flavor, but perhaps that was precisely the appeal: something exotic, out of place, indulgent. Like Theo.

Around us, patrons cast glances tinged with admiration, maybe even envy. I played the part flawlessly—hair swept into a sculpted updo, a tailored silk blouse tucked into my charcoal pencil skirt, sheer stockings glistening ever so slightly beneath the table, and the pièce de résistance: a new pair of Miss Z stilettos I’d been coveting for weeks. Theo knew it too. He had watched me caress them with my gaze as if they were an extension of myself.

His outfit, by contrast, whispered restraint. A slate-gray cashmere sweater over a crisp white polo, black tailored trousers—handsome, effortless. But beneath those elegant slacks? My little secret: thigh-high stockings held in place with delicate garters.

I extended my leg beneath the table, tracing his calf with the point of my toe, then letting the soft silk of my stocking drag along his shin. He shifted slightly in his seat. Good. I wanted him just uncomfortable enough to remember where he was—and whom he belonged to.

I brought my teacup to my lips and smirked deviously, the red lacquer of my nails catching the light, matching the curve of my smile. I let the silence linger after my last command, sipping the coconut tea once more, this time slower, as if to underline my authority. Theo straightened obediently, folding his hands in his lap like a schoolboy. I could feel his restraint—it pulsed in the air between us.

“Such good posture,” I said quietly, just for him, “but we’ll still need to correct your earlier mistake, won’t we?”

He gave a barely perceptible nod. His throat twitched as he swallowed. Beneath the table, I slid my foot up his calf again, this time letting it rest atop his knee, pressing lightly.

“Do you remember what’s waiting upstairs?” I asked, not looking at him.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Say it properly.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he repeated, a bit louder now, the words coming out smoother than they had before.

I dabbed my lips with the linen napkin and looked around—still the image of sophistication, as if nothing at all had passed between us.

Once we finished, I stood, offering my gloved hand. He rose instantly and took it, always the gentleman.

We moved toward the elevator like any other well-dressed couple heading up for a digestif and a view. Except his pulse was thundering. I could tell by the way his fingers flexed slightly in mine, by the way he avoided eye contact with the concierge.

Inside the elevator, I turned to face him. Gilded mirrors reflected us back from every angle. I slid off my gloves slowly, one finger at a time, my eyes never leaving his. He looked down instinctively, and I saw the flush rise in his cheeks.

“Undress me when we get inside,” I said. “And then I’ll undress you. But not before you apologize. Properly. On your knees.”

The elevator chimed. Our floor.

I stepped out first.

The moment the suite door clicked shut behind us, Theo turned instinctively, but I said nothing. I let the silence stretch like lace across a thigh—delicate, deliberate.

“Undress,” I said at last, my tone calm, nearly indulgent. “But slowly. Let me enjoy the view.”

He obeyed. First the sweater, then the polo—neatly folded and set aside, as he’d been trained. When he slid the trousers down, I caught my breath—not because it was unexpected, but because it was divine.

Black lace panties, sheer in all the right places. Stockings held in place by satin garters. His thighs, long and trembling slightly, as if aware of their exposure.

“Turn.”

He did.

I walked past him to the velvet chair by the vanity and set one of the bags gently on the surface. Pale tissue rustled.

“Come here.”

He stepped forward like a servant entering the queen’s chamber. I pulled the new bra from its box—champagne silk, whisper-light. I held it up for him to see.

“Luxury,” I said, brushing the cups against his chest. “But earned.”

He leaned forward, arms lifted obediently. I fastened the clasp, adjusted the straps. My fingers trailed along his collarbone and down over the lace as I whispered:

“I want you caged in softness, Theo. I want your shame to feel expensive.”

He exhaled, shaky.

I reached for the second bag—brushes, palettes, lip stain in a cruel red. I motioned to the vanity chair. “Sit.”

With the same reverence he’d use for an altar, he obeyed. I stood behind him, letting my fingers trace along his jawline. My movements were precise, painterly. Rouge, highlighter, mascara. A touch of glitter at the corner of each eye—an indulgence.

Then the wig: long, dark, glossy. I smoothed it into place with care.

“Well,” I said, leaning in to speak into his ear, “what’s her name?”

He blinked into the mirror, lips slightly parted. “Vivienne,” he said softly.

“Why Vivienne?”

He hesitated. Then: “Because… she’s everything I’m afraid to be. Elegant. Untouchable. Chosen.”

I smiled, darkly pleased. “Perfect.”

I stood, walking slowly to the foot of the bed. My silk robe unfurled around me as I moved. Underneath, my lingerie revealed itself like a secret—corseted, black, trimmed in blush lace. From the curve of my thigh rose the strap—flesh-toned, seamless, beautiful. Not a toy. A declaration.

When I turned to face him, he stared, lips parted.

“Vivienne,” I said, my voice a blade sheathed in velvet. “Come kneel for something real.”

He did.

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