by Carolina Moon
(07/17/02)
As enthusiastic gourmets, my darling and I share meals as eagerly as we
share our bed.
Most of the time, we're in complete agreement about our dining experiences.
But my wife is a dreadful snob when it comes to the wines we drink. Like the
vintages she claims vastly superior over their Californian cousins, my lovely
Chantal-Marie is an import from the lush fields of the Languedoc region in
southwestern France.
Recently, I decided I'd had enough. As we drove home from an excellent meal
at one of our favorite restaurants, she made a number of disparaging
comments about the perfectly respectable '97 Mount Eden Pinot Noir Cuvee des
Vieilles Vignes we'd consumed. I listened with only half an ear, for I was
happily anticipating her comeuppance.
"Come here, dear," I said, as I unlocked the door of our home.
"What?" she said peevishly, in her charming accent, a sweet pout on her
adorable face as she unbuttoned her blouse. "Where? I don't want to. Let's
make love."
"Downstairs, to the wine cellar." I gently pulled her behind me, chuckling
at her protests. When we entered the dimly lit cellar, I picked her up and
deposited her neatly on the butcher's block in the center of the small
chamber.
"Time to put your money where your mouth is, my darling," I smiled at her.
"Money where my mouth is? What's that supposed to mean?" she retorted.
Earlier I'd left a blindfold on a chair; I retrieved it now and placed it
gently over her eyes. "We're going to see if your delicate palate really
can discern the difference between two continents. I've selected a pair of
vintages. You're going to taste them both and tell me which is the French."
I smiled at her, and saw that her nipples were erect in the 55-degree chill
of our climate-controlled cellar. I continued, "If you get it right, our
next vacation will be two weeks in Provence."
She squealed with delight and clapped her hands like a child; then frowned
under the blindfold. "And if I'm wrong?" she asked.
"You'll never speak another word about the inferiority of the Californians."
She was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "Bring them on," she commanded
imperiously.
I carefully removed the cork from one of the two bottles I'd selected for
the occasion; both had sat upright for several days. I slowly drew the cork
under her lovely nose, watching her sniff eagerly. I poured a small quantity
into the Baccarat glass, then held it to her pretty crimson mouth, watching
it part slightly as she took her first sip.
"Mmmm," she breathed, swirling the liquid over her tongue, tasting its
subtle nuances. "Complex. Earthy. Intense. Currant and cherry." I watched
her throat move as she swallowed and I wanted to put my mouth on that
elegant, alabaster column. "Another sip, s'il vous plait?" I held the glass
for her again, and as I removed it from her lips, I kissed her deeply. She
shivered. "Enough! You distract me!" she complained. "Let me taste the
second!"
We repeated the process several more times. I became increasingly aroused by
my blindfolded little wife as I poured wine into her pretty mouth; her
blouse half-open, her skirt pulled up to reveal the lace of her dark
stockings. She frowned, intent on the nuances of the wines, determined to
identify them. My fingers caressed her breasts through delicate silk, the
soft peaks fitting perfectly into my cupped hands. I gently insinuated my
knee between her thighs, and parted them over her laughing protests.
"You said you wanted to make love, ma petite Chantal," I reminded her.
"And you said you wanted me to put my mouth where your money is!" she said.
"I am certain I know which one is the French. Just one more taste."
I drank from the glass, then covered her lips with my own, letting the wine
fall into her eager mouth. I gently pushed the chestnut curls away from her
neck and poured a tiny amount of the vintage on her flesh, catching it on my
tongue as it began its downward descent into the shadows of her beautiful
cleavage. She moaned softly, her fingers searching for my hardness; I heard
the rasp of the zipper, and then she held me firmly in her warm hand.
"More wine!" she demanded in a low, urgent voice. I fumbled for the second
glass on the table behind me, and fed it to her again. She greedily lapped
at my mouth, determined not to spill a drop. But I pushed her back on the
table, hiking her skirt all the way up those creamy thighs, parting them
with kisses.
I gazed down at the tangled curls and the soft pink flower beneath them, and
slowly poured the remnants of both glasses into her cunt. She gasped and
arched her back, pushing her fruity wetness into my eager mouth.
The delicate taste of my woman, enhanced by the joy of two extraordinary
wines. I buried my face in her, and felt I could never get enough. Her
thighs wrapped tightly around me; I plunged my tongue deep into her musky
little cave and heard her shrieks as she came, her fingers tangled in my
hair, calling my name.
Much later, after we'd made our way to bed and found yet more pleasure
there, I heard her soft voice where she lay with her head on my chest.
"Jack?" she said drowsily. "It was the second one, wasn't it?" I didn't say
anything. She continued, "I am certain of it. The first bottle was nice
enough, I suppose. But the second was more dramatic and opulent."
"Much like yourself, darling." I smiled in the darkness.
"The second bottle," she repeated insistently.
"Is that your final answer?" In response, she tweaked my nipple, hard.
"Owww! Okay, okay. I'll tell you." She waited. Later, I'd tell her about the
leisurely train tour through Napa Valley, to be followed by an idyllic
sojourn at a small chateau in Avignon.
But for the moment, I cleared my throat and reached for a pillow to put over
my head.
"They were both Australian."
