I had been an aficionado of the more creative side of intimacy as far back as I can remember. For which ever logical, or illogical reason, I don’t recall ever having been fulfilled, but through alternative means of physical pleasure. It took falling in love to subdue it. Really it took the fear of losing her, seeing her walk away if she were to experience me in such way. Through the years, I had come to understand that some were just with being conservative. I never really thought it was anything out of the ordinary that I enjoyed, rather, the creativeness that broke the monotony of the same act repeatedly through the years. That’s the fear I had of her. That because of her shyness, normality of her previous relationships, that my whims would rest outside of hers.
Some nights we’d stay awake until the smart phones interrupted us, notifying that it was time to raise from a night of sleep. We mostly spoke about my past experiences, what motivated me, and what would turn me away from a night of enjoyment. I was reluctant initially, but after living love, it became apparent that all of me was to be revealed. By reveal, thought, it was conversing about my past, rather than exercising it in the present. She’d listen for hours, giggling often, acting surprised more times than not, and speaking very little.
One night I arrived home later than usual. The train system had lost power leaving me stranded for hours. I had notified her of my whereabouts, and that I would be riding the local car service home, to leave cash to cover the fare. When I arrived home she wasn’t to be found. I called out her name to no response. I scurried around looking for the cash, instead, on the way back to the den, I found a letter atop an envelope. I could see dollar bills peeking out of the opened envelop. I first picked up the letter. It read “WELCOME”. Looking around I noticed a line of candles and flower petals in direction of the basement. I grabbed the cash, rushed out to the waiting driver, handed him the entire envelope neglecting to count the money, and ran back inside. The man shook my hand, left his personal phone number with me, and smiled his way out of the driveway.
I inhaled strongly and walked slowly back to the house. Thoughts of her tortured my reason. I had become in habit of allowing her to lead our encounters in fear I would send us down a less suitable place for her. I got to the basement door, and took the few stairs leading down to it. Our basement isn’t one of those underground dungeons. It is a very spacious open room. Twelve foot ceiling, the north side is two thirds above ground level, while the floor on the south side is at ground level. One light remained on; it was a spot light shinning on the entrance to the wine cellar. Of wine it wasn’t much of a cellar, I used it to keep whiskey; good ol’e American Whiskey. I did have a few wine bottles which she’d requested I buy, but that was it for the wine.
When I reached the entrance to the cellar, another letter was pinned to the door. The contents read “Have some Manhattan Rye, and come take what’s inside”. She had left my favorite three finger tumbler next to the 375 ML bottle of whiskey. I didn’t bother using the tumbler. I was too intrigued by the events, and coupled to the hesitation of what I was about to walk into, I just didn’t see it fit to drink from the tumbler. Instead, I grabbed the bottle, pulled the cork off with me left hand, brought up the mouth of the bottle to meet my mouth and took a gulp. I cleansed my lips with the same hand I was holding the bottle: the right. Then, repeated the same action twice. It somehow made me feel like man, a scared man. I placed the bottle on the floor next to the untouched tumbler, took a deep breath, looked up, then down; time halted still for me to think of what awaited, then I swung the door opened.
I saw her, I saw it, I saw everything. I had never anticipated to see this again. The small dim lights that ran behind the rows of whiskey had been left on, as was the one light that pointed towards the middle of the room from the doorway. The room took on the colour of amber, as were the contents of the whiskey bottles all around the cellar. It radiated an ambiance comparable to being underwater; that of light moving through ripples. The cellar was a ten foot long room, four feet wide of walking space between the racks of liquor, and twelve foot high ceiling just as the basement. And, at the center, oh at the center, there she stood. Not truly standing, but stood! She hung from the ceiling, sitting on an apparatus that brought back memories that had evaded me since falling in love. A rope, attached to the wooden beam preventing the above floor from caving in, came down from it separating the one into four, each connecting to one corner of the apparatus. On each of her hands, straps that ran away from the center of the room towards me, connected to the frame of the cellar door.
She was fully unclothed, not saying a thing. An empty bottle of her cheap wine stood on the floor, half of the contents rested on her chest, the other half had dripped onto the floor. This woman is the sight that causes leaders to wage war on foes to honor their ladies. That’s what she looks like, and if you got to know her, inside is the wicked attraction that made me fall in love.
I couldn’t stop staring at her. She stood there as if an act at the opera. Spot light shinning on her and only her. The amber of the side-lighting pressing against her just like I wanted to do. I stood for a second; smell of cheap wine reached my nostrils; smell of whiskey expelled from my breath. I was about to speak when she hushed me. Told me to draw close, and have a taste of the running-down-her-torso wine; to follow it down to where men are trapped in discord. So I did, I cleaned her physique, her chest, stomach, navel, and my infatuation, from any trace of cheap wine.
But, before I gave full trust of my tongue to her. She stopped me, and told me that this day wasn’t meant for her. That it was meant for me. She slid forward just so, enough to allow her legs to stretch up toward the ceiling. She then pulled them apart, and bent at the knees some 120 degrees, resting them on pads hanging from the ropes. I looked down in hopes to see her glisten, to see her already awaiting the imminent. She asked of me to bend down, run my tongue from as far back as I could reach, follow the most intimate path upwards, culminating at the navel. I was most obliged. I was slow at task, tasting, feeling the warmth, dreaming of being within the warmth. Upon reaching the navel she asked me to pull my pants down, as well as my undergarment. As I did.
I was strong willed by this point, as she could attest by looking at me while I pulled the bottom half of my clothing towards my ankles. I was then told not to move, she pulled herself forward with the ropes on her hands just enough where she could wrap her legs around me and force me inside of her. She put the ropes once held on her hands between her teeth, and leaned forward. With a swift move she grabbed both my hands, pulled them behind me, and cuffed me. I was told not to move from there, to attempt my might at holding the position, right where I stood.
She returned to her original position; legs up on the rest pads on the ropes, ropes on her hands, all while she held me tightly inside of her. I could have climaxed just from her ability to move about with me trapped in that position, but I didn’t. I kept it intact in anticipation of more to come. She looked at me and released tension of the rope just a bit to draw me almost completely out of her. I looked down, and looked down to see me receding from inside of her, but my body blocked the one strong light to yield details. I hated that I couldn’t see me, but loved every bit of being inside of her, coupled to my inability to rejoice in the sight. It all felt as it should have been. She would recede slowly, and pulled forcefully on the ropes.
At first I lost control and moved backwards, but her maneuverability saw it that she grabbed me with one hand to return me where I belonged. It took quite a few attempts for me to stand strong in place. I wasn’t sure if it was the lack of practice, or being weakened by what she was giving me. Regardless, I finally got it right. She pulled back, and trusted me in; the collision created a peculiar echo as it escaped towards the whiskey bottles looking for an open one in which to sooth their departure. She spoke to me of the many stories I had told her, the women with whom I had been, the ones I had used, the ones I had hurt, oh so good. Illicit images of them in the room with us ran through my head. She asked of me to mention their names, of each and everyone that made my intimacy worth living. She created filth of the English vocabulary, soiling it liken it wouldn’t recover ever again. I liked it, I loved it. Both the feel of her tightly covering and uncovering me, soaking my bliss almost drowning it without care of ever recovering, as I did hearing her speak such. I heard them all speaking to me, just as I heard her speak to me. As if a commentator in a sporting event, my love spoke of what she was doing to me almost like she was describing our actions to the imaginary audience.
I was weakened by each collision, I didn’t think I could hold on any longer, and then, that last collision of her opened legs against my pelvis. She brought her legs down, wrapped them around my waist and quickly tossed her hips about telling me to be man, and leave inside what she wants to feel. Curse I did, but I tell you that I did. She told me to stay there, to push in, to leave it all in, that she would dismount and clean with her lips whatever residue I thought of taking with me. But, she couldn’t have just pulled out, and let it be. Instead she reached with her left hand and turned on the main light to the cellar. She slowly pulled me out from her, very, very slowly. I watched as she receded, watched as more of me became visible, watched as traces of both me and her stuck to me became ever more visible. The tip finally came out, she squeezed tightly with her delightful muscles, and out I came: drip, drip, drip. Drop by drop mixing with the cheap wine on the floor ensuring that it too got a taste of what it was to be taken by her.
Today, the only recognizable room in the entire home is that of the Whiskey Cellar. I no longer call it Wine Cellar. Can’t call it that any more, as my favorite room should be branded after my favorite drink, giving me my most delighted account of intimacy.