Wine Tasting

12 min read

It was a slow day. A few customers, no one of particular interest. The hands of the clock seemed static. Dressed for success, she felt it a waste. A tedious day in every respect. Home soon, to be mom, caretaker. What she would give to have a break. To just be lost for a while, just a brief respite.

She did not give pay any attention to the customer before her. An anonymous, autonomic transaction. Money tendered, change given. Until: “Ummmm, this is for you.” The patron, looking slightly uncomfortable, dropped the envelope on the counter and scurried out of the kiosk before any question could be formulated.

The sealed envelope was off-white, watermarked and carried a vaguely familiar scent, though she could not discern its origin. Across the seal was an unmistakable calligraphy. A wry smile upon her lips. Could it be? The elegant script gave a formality, a commanding presence to a simple instruction: Now.

A little assertive for the person she thought this missive might be from, but the formality and the workmanship led her to believe that it was indeed this surprising source. The store was dead and it gave her opportunity to linger on the thought. If the sender were watching she might suffer the consequences of delay. She savoured that thought as well. So many possibilities. She was tempted to disregard reality and retreat into fantasy for the remainder of her time at the store, then thought better of it. With the heady pulse-inducing anticipation of slowly drawing the scissors through the envelope, she let her mind wander just a bit more before facing the reality of its contents. It had been so long since a game of this ilk had come her way. She wanted, no, needed to draw it out. Make it hers. A deep breath. Opened.

If the envelope were considered to be esoteric, the contents were more so. Howard Linen, Ivory. Watermarked. Again, the hand-wrought calligraphy was unmistakably his. This revelation had her off balance. Enough so, to cause her to set the note aside so that she might collect herself before reading the contents.

The pause was broken by the intrusion of a customer. Already the mere receipt of this note had her in a new mind space. Regardless of the portent of the note, its existence had set a new direction in her day. She dispatched the customer with uncharacteristic brevity, only to be affronted by another and yet another. By the time she was done, she was so compelled to be immersed in the potential that her hand trembled while grasping the note once again. PULSE! She could feel it. So palpable.

“Some people go through their day without thought as to what makes them feel alive, or why. Days turn to weeks, which slip into months. The stirrings you have just experienced, savour them a moment more. Then take the time to contemplate them. Contrast them to your recent past. Then answer this simple question. Do you want to amplify those stirrings tonight? It’s a simple yes or no question. No rules of engagement, no further dialog. For this to be successful you must be ready to give in to your needs. As always a no is fine, with no repercussions. A yes is irrevocable.”

The limo pulled up at precisely the time stipulated. “How presumptive of my yes,” she thought. Of course the script pointing to one author but the verbiage distinctly that of another virtually compelled an affirmative response. So there she was, being escorted into the gleaming stretch Lincoln by the driver. As she stepped inside, it took a moment to adjust to the darkness. A form. The Calligrapher. Silent. Suit jacket, tie, handing her a note. The closing of the car door startled her. Same paper, different handwriting. She turned on the reading light. She understood that the game had surely begun. She had done this before, but this had a sense of intimacy that she was having trouble quelling. The note was perfunctory: Panties, bra. In his hands. Discreetly. Now.

She removed her garments with a skill that belied her experience. Her wry smile seemed to reflect that of the silent passenger’s. She glanced at him once more to try to discern his role in this exercise. The next note in his hand was almost expected, his role cast. She knelt astride the middle of the seat as the note instructed, facing the rear window. She felt the seatbelt winding around her left calf, heard the confirming click of its security. The right. Her pulse was racing, but not for the usual reasons. The cuffs on her wrists secured to the tether on the rear deck made her immobility complete.

She felt her messenger shift away to the opposite side of the limo, she suspected to gain a better view of her. Not knowing what would transpire, she had opted to dress for success after work. Short black dress, boots. The dress was riding quite high on her thighs, with no opportunity to adjust. She bore no sense of false modesty, she was getting off not only on the restraint, but the obvious show she was providing.

As the car came to a stop, the anticipated blindfold was placed on her and adjusted for comfort. The cold air rushed in as the two side doors opened, then closed abruptly. A bottle corked. Fizz. She heard the two glasses clinking in salute. The tentative sips. Quiet. Her head pulled back. A kiss. Was it the champagne that tasted of ambrosia? Or those lips? Head held back. Another kiss. Different. More champagne. Her hair being stroked, played with. Kisses plied with champagne, too innumerable to count, not that that was her focus. The limo accelerated onto the highway. She was curious as to the destination, marveling at the traffic that they were passing. What would they think of her predicament?

Two hands. One on each calf. Massaging, kneading, plying. Caressing. In concert they crept up beyond her knees, beyond her dress hem. Kneading her ass. Touching each other. Both grazing her pussy, but not in any aggressive manner. The tension was palpable. They would note her arousal, to her it was inescapable. The crop was not unexpected either. Only the timing. And the fact that there were two. Such a contrast to the gentle, caring hands. She was already in a perfect zone. Warmed up, blissed out, not a care in the world. Just sensation… and an overdriven curiosity.

The limo sliced through the traffic, though she no longer thought about it. Her attention was fully engaged in the sensation of the crops, accentuated by her anticipation of what might transpire at the destination. If there were a destination. It was not inconceivable to her that they might drive about for some time and drop her off at home. What role did the Calligrapher have to play? Only that of messenger?

The limo decelerated and gently rolled to a complete stop. While it was dark outside, and the window tinted, she could tell that they were not in any developed area. Not a light to be seen. The blindfold negated any further investigation of her new environment. Bindings being undone. Three sets of hands. Perhaps more than a messenger after all. They got out of the car, leaving her there. For a moment she thought that she might be staying there. Long enough to send her pulse rate up.

Hands reaching for her, guiding her out of the limo into the cold night air. Stairs. The door opening. She felt the radiant glow of the fireplace just a millisecond before the scent of maple crackling reached her nostrils. It did not take long for the rope-work to begin. Starting at the left forearm, wrapping up around her shoulder, down the other arm, Each leg. Standing. Spread eagled. Clothed. Blindfolded. Facing the fire. Heavy footsteps leaving the room. Quiet. Alone? The sound of a slight sigh negated that thought. Zippers. Shoes. She could barely discern the sounds of activity beyond the crackling of the fire. She was curious as to who was doing what to whom.

A scent, familiar to her, came to her senses as an overtone to the smoky maple. She assumed it a product of her fertile imagination, for that scent was barely discernible at its source. The fingers intruded her mouth forcefully, her tongue willingly accepting the invasion, lapping over the digits to extract that lovely elixir. The tasting ended abruptly, replaced by the force of a body pushed up against her. Another familiar scent came to her senses. Then the rocking motion began. The pressure against her undulating with the rhythm of their coupling. She tried to get a feel for how things were progressing by keeping her hearing as selective as possible. Upon occasion the inevitable indignity of copulation would resound in her ears, but other than those brief interludes the crackling fire was the predominant sound in her ears. That and the sound of her own pulse. The rocking pressure ended abruptly. She felt further exposed now not being covered by that body, despite being fully dressed.

The room was silent once again, except for the stochastic crackling of the fire. The warmth was reassuring to her in some way, ersatz warmth replacing that of the woman who used her as a backrest? The sense of calm that the fire evoked was soon shattered by her worst nightmare. The touch of cold steel upon her flesh sent an overriding panic throughout her system. She could feel the bile in her throat. She was ready to present a solid “NO!” knowing that as always it would be heeded without question. She also knew that the scene would end then and there. Trying to suppress her primal need to disengage, she barely registered the fact that the cold metal was no longer touching her. The sound of the sheers snipping gave her the clue that she needed to settle down, only to register a new fear. Her clothes were slowly and deliberately being cut off of her. No, that was incorrect. Her clothes were being altered. Cut at strategic spots. Erogenous spots. Erotic spots. Breasts, pussy, ass. All now exposed, enveloped by the tatters of the garment that she still wore. The chill that went through her was enigmatic given the heat of the flame and of her libido.

The sound of a door opening broke her reverie, her attention now focused on the distinct clinking of glassware. The uncorking of bottles, the decanting. Gentle conversation, indiscernible. Laughter. Obviously pleasant company. The voices louder now, approaching her. Her wrist restraints lowered, she was gently encouraged to kneel. A padded surface prepared for her, the posture was not at all uncomfortable. Wrists now fastened to each other from behind. Breasts jutting out. The scent of wine close by. She felt the cool drops, one at the top of each breast. Felt it travel along the curvature of her flesh. More drops. A trickle on each. Enough to cover all of her tit flesh. Drops falling from her nipples. Two tongues. Lapping. One upon each breast. More wine. The sounds of a passionate kiss.

“Note the hint of spice in the aroma of this one.”

“Cabernet Franc/ Sangiovese 2004 from Australia.”

The whispered question was straightforward enough. “Would you like to taste this Yaka Jack reserve? Yes, or no?”

The answer equally simple, although with a hint of breathless anticipation, “Yes. Please?”

The sound of the wine decanting further heightened her anticipation and curiosity. The gentle nudge on her chin bidding her to open and accept what was coming was comforting. She rolled her tongue along the cock presented to her, accepted its intrusion. Savoured the hint of allspice, waited eagerly for the next sample to arrive. A pattern developed. New sample of the same wine, gentle strokes of the cock in her mouth, repeat. Each turn bringing a new taste on the palate, each serving delivered with more of a sense of urgency.

After a fashion the pretense of the wine tasting was over. She was being face fucked vigorously, appreciative of the fact that both the wine and the cock were delightful. His words recalled a time long ago: “Don’t swallow.” His essence, not at all unpleasant was scooped by a tongue, along with a kiss. Not His. Hers. Ah, another passionate kiss between Them. The exchange complete, she was at a loss as to what might come next, but fully hoped it would get her off. She was more than ready with this tease of a scene.

Chin held open again. No one had recovery power like that except one, and she knew he was not there. The Calligrapher? Her face was pulled into the soft folds of Her flesh, the scent of the wine wonderfully blended with Her musk. She lapped greedily. Wine poured from above so as not to interrupt the process. The simple sigh belied the orgasm achieved. Withdrawn. She now knelt alone, gently shaking from the intensity of her need.

Her chin nudged once again… baked brie on a rice cracker. Hmmm. Hint of raspberry. That felt better. Her passion somewhat subdued, she awaited the next stage. Chin. “What now…” Her query cut short by the clamp on her tongue. She felt the tip of his stylus as he crafted his word upon her tongue. It took five minutes to complete his ornate message, but it seemed much longer to her. In many ways this invasion seemed so much more intimate than the cock just a while before. Much more invasive. The stylus in turn tickled and stung her delicate tongue tissue. It sparked curiosity and apprehension. When would this work be revealed to her? What did it say? How permanent was it?

It was a relief to have the bonds behind her undone. Gentle massage of her arms, refreshing them after that extended position. Guided to the front of her, the chains pulled taut before her arms. A gentle twist encouraged her to roll over. Arms spread widely. Legs as well. Spread eagled on the soft duvet.

The sound of the vibrator foreshadowed the intense feeling on her clit, but not at all accurately. This was INTENSE! Unable to thrash about, she whimpered and moaned and writhed her hips to align things as she needed them.

The vibrator was held in place, while two tongues danced around her nipples, flicking them to life. Then the teeth. The left nipple first. No warm up, she thought that maybe they had drawn blood: her shriek would suggest so. Now the right. Not quite as hard. A chuckle from the left. A new variation of chicken. She shuddered at the thought of that and what the end result might be. They were merciless in their attacks, the pain washing away any purchase that the vibrator had on her much needed release.

Then nothing. No vibe, no bites. Her. Lying with a sheen of sweat on her flesh, a bead trickling down her side. Her need to cum was no longer urgent. Her lower body writhing involuntarily. Fuck that felt good, whatever that was… oh… cock, stroking her folds, rubbing her clit. Slap. Slap. The cock was slapping her vulva in random spots now. Almost taking her where she needed to be. Back to rubbing. Up, over, stopped.

A female voice in her ear as the cock was poised, the intent obvious. “Yes, or no?”

“We, I…” the cock withdrew, back to rubbing on the surface of her and in turn her need. The sound of his release coupled with the feeling of warmth on her vulva answered her internal thoughts. Some things remain the same… at least for the present.

The pressure on her pussy was intense, causing her to scream out once again. She was fucked hard and fast. Clit on clit, grinding together, slickness enhanced by his contribution. It was over for both of them in a scant few minutes. Their culmination a case study in contrast. One screaming, groaning as one possessed, the other a contented sigh, followed by that wonderful form falling to her side, lying beside her. She felt Her leg entwine with hers. Then, the tongue. Lapping with fervour. Following every nook and cranny. Then gone. Followed by the sounds of lapping very close by, and shortly thereafter, another contended sigh. His tongue met its objective in her next orgasm after all was cleaned up.

She heard the sigh of Her beside her once again, this time not in culmination, but beginning. In time she could here the distinct cadence of flesh on flesh, her soft moans indiscernible due to his deep throated growl. The hands that held her thighs apart were not unkind, but firm in their resolve to hold her in place. She was washed, and a topical was applied to her mons. The stylus was ticklish on this part of her flesh, so newly sensitized to the feel of cock and cunt. She could imagine the things that He was saying that he would do to Her. For Her. His yell was a stark contrast to the usual vocabulary. A single word said so much. Fuck.

As the echo of His success reverberated through the room, her mind was lost on the last stroke of the pen.

She was not sure how long she had been asleep, but the aroma of roast beef brought her to full consciousness. Meat. Finger fed. Medium rare. Picchio Chianti Classico Riserva 2005 served, from succulent breast and cock in turn, as well as proffered by cupped hands from which she lapped the wine. A languid repast. Earthy notes. Plum and strawberry undertones. The hard metal of Her nipple a contrast to the soft suppleness of His cock. The wine remnants licked off of her face. Two tongues, each covering its territory and meeting in the middle. Dare she join in that dance? A tentative dart of her tongue welcomed by the two.

A warm cloth, starting at her face and languidly caressing her every nook and cranny. Trembling hands holding that cloth. Hungry hands. The task accomplished, a warm terry cloth robe around her shoulders. Refreshed, fed, clean. She felt her heart rate quicken. This time it was not her body, but her instinct driving her pulse.

Having sensed the people around her before being touched, she gave in to their ministrations without reserve. The robe gone, hands on all limbs. Held in place as the rope took its form upon her. Breast harness, rope corset, arm gauntlets… these took time. A lot of time, yet she was not really aware of its passage. Only of her bondage, and the freedom it presented. Bent over, ankles tied to thighs. Hair braided in rope then fastened. Head down, ass in the air. Constricted by rope. The insertion into her ass bore no novelty any longer. The gold piece found its home. A tongue on her clit… teasing… Facial hair. Male. Who could it be? Her thoughts gave way to the sensation… she could care less who was servicing her, it was doing the trick.

The plug removed. Warm lube and a gentle finger probing. Then the pressure. Gentle, slow, but incessant. She let out a sigh. Not often was she used in this fashion and it was a novelty still. The pace increased over time as did the intensity. Soon she was being soundly fucked while being serviced from the anonymous hairy lips. Her release was a vocal one, even for her, and it was the tipping point for His. Their cries reverberated through the room and with one last thrust, he withdrew. The tongue did not stop. Slowed some, gently lapping at her. Her ass felt very exposed now that it had been so soundly fucked. It also felt decidedly empty. She flinched at the pressure of the bulbous head at her entrance. His work, and his cum made for an easier penetration. She knew as soon as the hilt of the harness met her cheeks. The fucking began anew. It was hard to tell who was fucking who… the gentle sighs on the other side of the harness told the story of how this was rigged. It did not take long. The tell was but a whisper. Her own followed suit in its typically voluminous fashion. A statement, not a question. She felt very empty now. Exposed. Used. Fulfilled.

The Calligrapher took his time for this last inscription. This scene had come to its logical end. It was time to go home.

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