One Sunday morning Cindy nuked the tea kettle. It was an accident. She’d set the kettle on the stove for the morning coffee, and then she returned to the bedroom to wake up Russell and she got distracted. His penis looked so lonely and loveable sticking up like that. A few minutes of licking, a few minutes of sucking, and then she was astride, riding slow and sweet and steady. Not too many minutes later he got that look on his face that said he was close, that another thrust or two and he would spew, and she knew that would take her right over. “Oh, baby,” she said, eager for the first full surge and those sweet jolts of white-hot gush.

But Russell stopped.

“Don’t stop,” Cindy moaned. “What is it?”

“What’s that smell?” Russell said.

“I don’t know,” Cindy said, easing off of him. There was a small, soft pop.

“Probably just something outside, probably it’s...”

“Oh, my God!” Cindy exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth. “The teapot ... Oh, shit!” Naked and flushed, she hurried to the kitchen, rushed to the stove, turned off the burner. But it was too late.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she said.

“It’s okay,” Russell said, putting his hands on her shoulders, pressing up behind her. His penis had softened some, but it was still a little damp, a little sticky.

“It’s not okay,” Cindy said. “It’s ruined. Look at it. Fuck!”

“We can get another one,” Russell said. He smoothed his hands over Cindy’s breasts.

Cindy turned, brushing his hands away. “I liked this one,” Cindy said. “It was a present from ... Who was it a present from?”

Russell shrugged. “Your Aunt Emma?”

Cindy laughed. “I don’t have an Aunt Emma.”

“Right,” Russell said. “So what do we do for coffee? Starbucks? Maybe they’ll have some of those cookies you like. Those ones with the...”

“I liked that teapot,” Cindy said. “I really did. If you hadn’t distracted me.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Russell said. “You seduced me.”

“Uh huh,” Cindy said, staring at his cock, which was beginning to lift a little under her eyes. “You need to learn to resist.” The cock kept thickening. Cindy touched the underside and up it jerked, almost fully erect. “Poor little teapot,” Cindy crooned. “Helpless.”

“Maybe we can use it as a planter,” Russell suggested.

“Mm,” said Cindy. “Maybe.” Her fingers were working the skin of Russell’s penis. Up and back, up and back. “No self-respecting seedling would want to come out of that dark hole,” Cindy scoffed. A lingering squeeze on the head of Russell’s penis, and a half droplet of moisture welled up at the tip.

“Mm,” said Russell. “I don’t know.”

“Mm, I do,” Cindy said, and she began moving her hand faster and firmer.

“Oh,” Russell moaned. “Oh, Cindy. That feels so good. Oh. You’re going to make me ... I think I’m going to...”

“Okay,” said Cindy, letting him go. “Coffee time. Starbucks here we come.”

“What about... ?”

“Learn to resist,” Cindy said. “Pretend you’re a teapot.” And she hurried off to the shower.

Before they left for Starbucks, Cindy made Russell carry the tea kettle outside.

“Where shall I put it?” Russell asked.

“I don’t care,” Cindy told him. “Put it anywhere. I just don’t want it in here.”

Russell put it on the picnic table out on the patio.

“Not there,” Cindy said. “That’s the picnic table my father made.”

All last spring and summer Cindy’s dad had worked on making the picnic table. He was a slow worker, but he enjoyed that kind of labor. He spent weeks going around to the parks researching various picnic table designs, and he spent more weeks fine tuning the dimensions. He made a study of woods, deciding at last that a certain kind of redwood would be best. “This will last the longest,” he told Cindy and Russell when the lumber arrived. After the wood was all cut to precise specification and the table assembled, Cindy’s dad applied several coats of sealer stain. “It’s really pretty, Dad,” Cindy had said. Russell grilled hamburgers and everyone had a few beers. The picnic table was perfect, roomy and solid, solid enough that very late that night after Cindy’s dad had left and Cindy and Russell were finished cleaning up and were sitting on the top part of the table with their feet on the bench, then lying on the table, kissing and touching and almost having sex, the table barely quivered even when Cindy was about to come from Russell’s fingers and tongue, even when she came. “It’s a great table, Dad. Thanks,” Cindy said the next day on the telephone. “Just add a fresh coat of stain every spring,” Cindy’s dad had replied. Over the winter Cindy’s dad died, and so far this spring Cindy and Russell had not stained the picnic table.