Sips of Ecstasy

by Antonia Kern

Well, it’s easy. You just roll it back and forth on the tip of your tongue,” I was saying. Realizing I had Byron’s undivided attention, I added, “Close your eyes and savor it.” This was one of the very first conversations I had with my husband. And even though I thought he was incredibly attractive, in truth, I actually wasn’t coming on to him. I was just doing my job. As a sales rep for a small family-owned vineyard, I place wine in bars and restaurants. To do this, I bring around my bottles and pour samples for bartenders, managers, and chefs at various hot spots in the city. Byron, the owner of a chic bistro in my territory, grew accustomed to seeing me on the last Wednesday of every month. He complimented me on my outfits and joked with me, often making me late for my next meeting. It wasn’t too many Wednesdays before we fell in love, or too many months after that before we got married.

Since wine had brought us together, Byron thought it fitting that we honeymoon in northern California’s wine country. The Valley of the Moon, which is what locals call Sonoma, is a region rich not only in vineyards, but in romance. Red and fuchsia bougainvillea blossomed from the hotel balconies, lavender bloomed by the side of the road, and roosters in the plaza woke us up with the sun.

Byron’s cock was up along with the crowing birds. It made a pup tent beneath the crisp sheets, demanding my instant attention.

“Please take it off, Toni,” Byron murmured, indicating my nightgown. “Take it off now.”

I didn’t need further instructions. I stripped my nightgown over my head, then watched admiringly as Byron stood to cast off his boxer shorts. My husband is tall, with light sandy hair and a short matching beard. His eyes are a magnificent ocean blue with fine crinkles around the corners. Those eyes were staring back at me now, and he had an appreciative look on his face.

I tan in the summer, and my skin had already turned a nut-brown all over. I could feel his eyes focused on my breasts, which are firm and round and fit perfectly in his large hands. My nipples were already hard, waiting for Byron to squeeze them between his fingers. But his gaze wandered lower, to the patch of dark fuzz shaved in a strip directly over my pussy lips. Then he dropped to his knees by the bedside and pressed his face against me.

Oh, fuck, it felt good. Byron’s tongue wriggled between my pussy lips, circling my clit and then sucking on it as if it were a piece of hard candy. I placed my hands on his shoulders to hold myself steady, and was grateful when he stopped and lifted me in his arms, spreading me out on the bed. Then he went back to work, nuzzling his face against my cunt and tickling me with his whiskers.

Byron knows how to please me, nipping my clit between his teeth, biting the edges of my pussy lips when I’m about to come. Sometimes, when I’m on the verge of climax, he spreads my asscheeks and licks me there. It’s overwhelming, sexy and dirty, and just the kind of thing I need.

Yet even more than having him eat me, I like it when we’re in a sixty-nine, because then we can pleasure and enjoy each other simultaneously.

“I want to taste you,” I said now. As soon as I voiced this request, Byron rose and joined me on the bed. He swiveled his body around and held his cock still above my open mouth, running the head of his rod along my bottom lip. He wanted me to be desperate to taste him, and as he drove his tongue back into my pussy, I was. I am a very oral person, and I crave something to suck on when he goes down on me, something to occupy my mind so that I don’t come too quickly. “Don’t tease me,” I whispered impatiently. “Let me suck you off.”

Obviously longing to feel my warm, wet mouth embrace his organ, Byron didn’t make me wait any longer. First he dipped his cock between my lips so that I could caress it on the length of my tongue. Then he pulled out and rubbed it all over my cheeks, getting my face wet and shiny.

I consider myself a connoisseur, not only of wine, but of oral sex. And I am well-schooled in all the little tricks that Byron likes best. I suckled him, working his cock all the way down to the root. Then I let him slip from my lips and drew only the helmet-head into my mouth. I played with it, tickling it gently between my teeth, then stroking the flat of my tongue around it to rest on the sensitive underside. The velvety softness of my tongue against his most tender region sent violent shudders through his body, and he licked me even harder.

When I sensed that Byron was about to come, I pulled him all the way into my mouth. He pounded against the back of my throat, driving so hard that I almost choked on the thickness of his rod. Then, whispering my name in a voice that was half sigh, half moan, he shot his sweet load. I drank it all, coming at the same time he did, grinding my hips forward so that my cunt was pressed firmly to his face.

We both wound up wet and sticky, our faces glistening with the nectar of our lovemaking. But it was worth it. It’s always worth it.

After losing half of the morning to our sexy sucking games, we decided to do some sight-seeing outside of the bedroom. Byron suggested that we tour one of the quaint Sonoma vineyards. Dressed for the hot summer sun, we took our time walking among the vines, observing their branches bent under the weight of the ruby-red grapes.

Perhaps because we were on our honeymoon, or because of how we’d spent the morning, everything we did seemed drenched in sexual innuendo. First it was the fruit on the vine. Byron tweaked a handful of grapes between his fingers so that the sweet juices ran clear into his palm. When I bent to lick the pulped fruit from his hand, I worked my mouth over his thumb and forefinger, and he moaned and looked around the vineyard—as if there might be some place we could find for a quickie! There wasn’t, and we were forced to behave ourselves for a little bit longer.

Next we stopped in the winery itself, for a sampling of their wares. For once, I was the one being sold to, given glasses of dark, heady liquid to sip slowly and enjoy. I pretended I was a neophyte, listening to the woman behind the bar as she led us through the five steps of basic wine tasting: color, swirl, nose, taste, and finish. Under this woman’s guidance, we observed the color of wine in our glasses, swirled the wine, sniffed the bouquet, took a sip, and admired the aftertaste. The lesson we received sparked our overworked libidos once again.

“Roll the liquid along the tip of your tongue, then let it flow around in your mouth,” the woman instructed, echoing the words I’d once said to Byron. My husband nudged me, then gave me a lecherous wink.

“I’d rather be tasting you,” he said against the skin of my neck, his voice low so that only I could hear him. Standing at Byron’s side in the cool semidarkness and swirling a sip of Sonoma’s best around in my mouth, I suddenly knew how I wanted to spend the evening.

“Cock tasting,” I explained to my husband once we’d arrived back at the hotel. He gave me a look, his brow furrowed. I could tell that he thought I meant to taste a variety and then choose which one I liked best—just like at the wine tasting. But that wasn’t what I had in mind at all.

“I’d like to spend the evening sipping from my favorite 1961 vintage,” I explained. “Smelling it, savoring it, tonguing it . . .”

I could tell that Byron liked the concept, not only from the smile on his face, but from the bulge in his khakis.

“So how do you want to proceed?” he asked, looking toward the king-size bed in the center of the hotel room. I thought about it for a minute. Then I took his hand and led him into the bathroom. The heat was evident between us, almost tangible, and I knew we could have gone at it right there, on the fluffy white bath mat in the center of the tile floor. But demonstrating impressive restraint, we climbed into the shower together, turning beneath the hot, pounding spray, letting the water wash away the traces of vineyard dust that had collected on our skin and in our hair.

Byron used the oatmeal-scented soap to lather me up, running the hard bar along my ribs and down my flat belly. He pressed it against my pussy, and I thought I might come just from his washing me there. Who knew getting clean could feel so dirty? Still, I worked to stave off my orgasm, letting Byron rinse away the milky bubbles, a soft cloth replacing his fingers.

Once squeaky clean, I was ready to proceed with my plan, sliding onto my knees on the base of the shower and staring up Byron’s body. His cock was rock-hard and ready for me. I admired it before bringing my lips to the head, staring at the length—easily as long as a half-bottle of wine—and the color. The tip was a dark purplish hue, reminding me of the blushing grapes we had observed earlier in the day. The shaft was the paler pink of a fine rosé. I parted my lips, ready for my first intoxicating taste, but Byron stopped me. “Change the name of the game from ‘cock tasting’ to ‘sex sipping,’ baby,” he smiled, “and let me go first.”

I love oral sex, both giving and receiving, and I wasn’t about to stop my husband from pleasing me. Rather, I made myself comfortable against the edge of the tub and waited to see what he’d do next. Getting down on his knees in front of me, he parted the petals of my pussy, staring downward, then looked up to meet my eyes.

“First, I check out the overall color, right?” Byron asked, remembering the wine taster’s instructions.

I nodded, feeling overwhelmed by his touch. He gently spread apart my labia and observed me carefully. His fingers slid a little in the sweet liquid that had already gathered dew-like on my lips, but his grip was just tight enough that he did not let me go. “Lovely,” he murmured, “a light pink that grows deeper inside, turning to a dusky rose.” He bent closer, placing his face just a sliver from my sex. “And the aroma—” He breathed in deeply. “Oh, what a bouquet.”

I thought he was teasing me, but when I looked at him, I saw that he was seriously concentrating on the task at hand—and the task within reach of his tongue and lips. Because now he bent forward for his first taste of the evening. He spent several moments licking me, his tongue flicking between the lips of my pussy to tickle my clit, then dipping lower into my slit and collecting drops of my nectar. I could feel his whiskers against me, rubbing along the insides of my thighs, and that rough sensation against my delicate skin made me moan and grip his shoulders.

Suddenly he leaned back on his heels. “I did that wrong.”

“No, you didn’t,” I said, breathless. “You did that just right.”

“The second step was swirl, right? Not nose.”

I understood and nodded. In wine tasting, “nose,” which refers to smelling the wine, comes after the swirl. Swirling means that you move the glass to oxygenate the wine. But Byron gave it his own special meaning, dipping his tongue between my thighs and rotating it in perfect circles. I liked this definition for swirl much better than the original, and once he had me on the edge of orgasm again, he pressed his face up close to me, getting his nose in between my delicate pussy lips and tickling me with it.

The term nose describes smelling a wine to determine its characteristics. Is it fruity, nutty, corky, foxy? Byron took the term to mean deciphering the scent of my sex.

“Definitely foxy,” Byron said, “I’ve never smelled a foxier aroma than that.”

Well, now that we were back on track, Byron was ready to really focus on step four, which is taste. I was ready as well. With his mouth pressed to my cunt, lips circling my clit, he flicked his tongue back and forth, making rapid, hungry motions that had me aching for release. Suddenly Byron stopped again, and I could hear him saying something, but with his face pressed against me I couldn’t make it out. Regardless of the message, the words felt fantastic vibrating against my innermost regions. Still, I wanted to know what he was whispering to my pussy.

“What did you say?” I asked him, my voice hoarse.

“Roll it around on the tip of your tongue. . . .” He was repeating the first words of the lesson we’d learned about savoring a glass of wine. “Isn’t that what she said?”

I nodded, but he couldn’t see me, so I made myself say, “Yes, that’s right.”

Byron continued to follow this instruction precisely, rolling my clit back and forth with the softly pointed tip of his tongue. I couldn’t believe how excited it made me. The sensation had me raising my hips, trying to press harder against his face, but Byron grabbed me by the waist and pulled back.

“What came next?”

“Close your eyes,” I told him. Mine were already closed. “Close your eyes and savor it.”

“No,” he said. “I’d rather watch.”

For a moment, he replaced his tongue with his fingers, sitting back on his heels to observe as the sensations flowed through me. I could feel his eyes on me, watching, but I didn’t meet his gaze.

“Please,” I finally murmured, needing to feel his mouth again.

“She said to be patient,” Byron reminded me, “to spend as long as you needed with any particular variety.”

We’d made love like this countless times in the past, but this was the most desperate I’d ever felt. I longed for his tongue to continue tasting me, sipping from me, but I did my best not to beg again, to content myself with the gentle motions of his fingers as they rocked up and over my mound, tickling, probing. I wouldn’t be able to come from only his fingertips, but I found myself enjoying the plateau, being kept on the edge but unable to reach release.

Finally Byron bent down again, and I could imagine the look on his face as he continued to follow our wine-tasting lesson. He breathed me in deeply, then brought his tongue again to my clit. And, oh, it was paradise, the warm wetness from his mouth mingling with my own liquid pleasure. I think the best part was that Byron seemed to be getting as much satisfaction from tasting me as I was at being his aperitif. He lapped at me with the thirst of a desert wanderer who had reached an oasis of cool, clear water. I was that oasis, and I gave myself over to him, coming hard and fast on his mouth, gripping his hair and pressing my sopping slit against him.

After that, it took me several moments to compose myself, and Byron held me firmly in his warm embrace, feeling the contractions flow from my body. I thought he might slip his cock into me to enjoy the tight grip of my pussy around him, but he didn’t. Obviously he wanted to make the evening’s entertainment last. Still, as we stood in the shower, I looked down and saw how hard he was. Sticky sweet drops of pre-come had already begun to leak from the tip of his cock, and it was my indication that we should hurry to the next event.

Now that it was my turn to drink, Byron helped me out of the shower and into the bedroom. He sprawled on top of the comforter and looked at me, waiting. Just as he had done, I took my time, crawling onto the mattress between his legs, getting one hand around his cock and stroking him firmly, exactly how he likes it. But because he had made me wait for this, I was so excited about tasting him that I could hardly control myself. I brought my lips to the tip of his cock and pursed them around the head. Then I sucked once, feeling the warmth in my mouth and the pre-come that had been waiting for me to draw it forth. The taste was sweet and light, and I wanted more.

I pulled more of Byron’s cock into my mouth, longing to feel it pounding against the back of my throat. As I worked, I paid attention to Byron’s scent, to the way his cock felt on my tongue. I swirled around it, stroking it while it was inside my mouth, and this made Byron moan and buck against me, driving his cock in even deeper. My awareness was heightened, and I paid attention to the tiniest changes that took place—the drips of pre-come as they slid down my throat; the way Byron’s body tensed when I stroked my fingertips along his balls, cupping them in one hand, grazing them gently with my nails.

The tasting that afternoon had reminded me of the need for patience to truly enjoy an experience. It taught me to observe every nuance, and I employed this lesson in my drinking of Byron. I savored him, swallowing him down, feeling his shaft pulsing in my mouth. I could tell when he was about to come, but he surprised me, gripping my body and quickly positioning us in a sixty-nine. Now we could drink from each other.

I was still wet from his delicious treatment in the shower, and I found that I had to work harder to focus as he brought his lips back to my cunt and teased me once again with his tongue. I sighed, then concentrated on giving him pleasure, working his cock back and forth between my parted lips.

It was sweet torture, trying to remain calm and wait for the climax to wash over me. I did my best to give Byron my full attention, wanting him to feel as fantastic as he had made me feel. But every time he slid his tongue inside me, stroking my inner walls with just the tip, I thought I would melt away. Yet Byron didn’t seem to mind, because each time he drove me onward, I sucked him harder in response, milking him with my throat, swallowing him down.

Again, I came first, as Byron brought his fingers to the split of my body and slid in one, and then another, giving me something to contract upon. And then Byron was coming too, fucking my mouth as hard as he could. I swallowed his pearly vintage, then licked my lips, not wanting to lose a single drop. We had reached the finish, which comes after you’ve tasted the wine. It’s when you let the feeling of the experience sink in.

“So did you like it?” I asked him, still tasting his dreamy flavor in my mouth.

Byron nodded. “Of course, Toni, but you surprised me.” I caught a glimmer of humor in his deep blue eyes, but I could not guess what he was going to say.

“How?” I finally asked.

“I thought that at tastings you were supposed to spit it out.”

“Didn’t you know?” I said, grinning at him, nestling closer between his legs for the final sip of the evening. “The very good stuff you swallow.”