Vintage Wine

She was waiting for him to come upstairs for the night. As she had every night for so many years, she knelt at the foot of the bed.

She was relaxed, so accustomed to the position that she took it without thought. Knees spread moderately, bust inclined gently forward.

It was a quiet moment, when remnants of the day could flit vaporously through her mind. Or older memories. Or nothing at all, her mind drifting softly in nothingness.

The deep soft rug was comfortable. Once in a while, she reminisced about the early days, when she knelt directly on the hardwood floor. Back then he had needed her discomfort, even a little pain, as proof of her submission. The thought of those times always brought a small smile to her lips, as she remembered how quickly he had lost that need. This was the fourth rug – the softest and deepest – and she knew he was always on the lookout for something better yet.

Her nose itched. Without thinking about it, she leaned to her left and rubbed it on the edge of the bed. She couldn't scratch herself, of course, with her wrists crossed behind her back, held there by invisible but unbreakable bonds.

Then her shoulder itched, and in turn she scratched it against the bed. Oh, oh … Getting an itch-craze while waiting was one of the things that she definitely did not like. There was just too much of her naked body that was not scratchable without breaking position, and that was not an option. Now there was an itch on her left breast. Unreachable. She shook herself, jiggling her breasts, hoping that would take care of it. It succeeded, by distracting her – she realized that she had let herself slouch a bit, that her head was drooping over her bosom.

As if burned, she jerked upright, thrusting her shoulders back and her breasts forward, regaining the proper position. Her breasts weren't great. They never had been, and they weren't getting any better with time. Too small. But at least their size meant there wasn't much sag, even now.

She strained forward, listening hard, hoping he wasn't there yet. Hoping he hadn't seen her failure.

He could move so quietly, despite his size. More often than not, he was already in the room before she heard anything at all.

There was only silence. Gradually she relaxed. But now she was careful to maintain the proper posture. Her mind drifted again on the flowing time.

Once upstairs, she rarely heard anything at all, until he told her to come to bed. That's all right, she thought, with a smile at the edges of her mouth. The most noise she'd ever heard was his snoring the night he fell asleep in his easy-chair. She was so-o-o-o stiff by the time he woke up and came upstairs.

From time to time she tended an ear, but for the most part she drifted patiently.



He sat, cross-legged, just a few feet from her. Watching her. Admiring her. Drinking in her glory.

This was the best moment of the day, the time that made all his life worthwhile.

He studied her, detailing every part of her, every square inch. He did so every evening, and never tired of it.

When she scratched her nose on the bed, he smiled. Ah, when she started itching! Maybe no one else would be thrilled, but he knew her so perfectly. The thought of using her hands did not enter her mind. He never tired of watching her contortions.

As always, his sex was rampant as soon as he entered the room. And when she wiggled her breasts, he thought he might explode. As she drew herself up rigidly to the proper position, and strained to listen for his presence, he literally stopped breathing to hide his presence. Although how she could avoid hearing the thundering of his heart …

His gaze stroked her long, slim neck as she strained forward listening intensely. And also the burnished stainless-steel ring which encircled it. His eyes traveled down her neck to those precious little breasts, whose nipples seemed to beckon his caress.

And down still, past her adorable tummy to the origin of the world. As always, his throat dried at the sight of her naked, shaven sex. The sight of her rings made his sex throb, and throb.

Unbidden, his hand rose to one of her breasts, softly tracing the limits of the aureole.

She sighed, almost purred; her smile turned radiant.

He bent to her, kissed an eyelid. Then rose and moved to the bed.

"Come, love."

Rising and moving to his voice, she was a bit stiff with no hands or eyes.

She was exquisite.