Tongue on Her Skin

The air in the private cellar was thick, almost syrupy with the summer heatwave pressing down on the old stone walls. Even twenty feet underground, the temperature refused to drop below eighty-five. I stood there in my linen shirt, already sticking to my back, watching Elena circle the tasting table like a predator in heels.

She was the city’s top sommelier, all sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue, her dark hair twisted up off her neck to reveal a faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone. I’d written a column last month calling her “technically flawless but emotionally cold.” She hadn’t forgiven me.

“Blind tasting, critic,” Elena said, voice low and amused. “No glasses. No notes. You identify every note directly from my skin. Fail one and you admit in print that your palate is overrated.”

I laughed, but my throat felt dry. “And if I nail it?”

Her smile curved, slow and dangerous. “Then I let that skilled tongue of yours keep going wherever it wants.”

The challenge hung between us, heavier than the humid air. She dimmed the lights until only the amber glow of a single sconce remained. Then she reached behind her back, unzipped her slim black dress, and let it slide to the floor. Underneath she wore only a sheer black bra and matching panties, both already damp from the heat. The scent of her skin—warm, faintly salty, laced with the ghost of the Riesling she’d been sipping—hit me like a drug.

“Start simple,” she whispered, stepping close enough that I could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat.

She lifted her wrist first, offering the delicate inside where a single drop of chilled Sauvignon Blanc had been painted like perfume. I caught her hand, felt the tremor in her fingers, and brought her skin to my mouth. My tongue traced the faint green-apple brightness, the wet-stone minerality, the hint of cut grass.

“Sauvignon Blanc… New Zealand… 2022-ish,” I murmured against her wrist, lips brushing her racing pulse.

Elena’s breath hitched. “Lucky guess. Try harder.”

She turned, presenting the curve of her shoulder. A richer red had been stroked there—something darker, earthier. I leaned in, inhaling the warm scent of her skin first, that intoxicating mix of woman and wine. My tongue flattened against her, slow and deliberate, tasting the black cherry, the leather, the faint iron of old cellar dust.

“Cabernet from Bordeaux… left bank… probably ’09,” I said, voice rougher now.

Her laugh was breathy. “Not bad.” She was breathing faster, nipples visibly tight against the sheer bra. The heat in the cellar made every inch of her glow.

Elena stepped even closer, until her breasts brushed my chest. “One more. The hardest.” She reached behind, unhooked her bra, and let it fall. A thick, sweet droplet of dessert wine glistened on the upper swell of her left breast, right beside the stiff peak of her nipple. The scent was pure decadence—honey, apricot, toasted hazelnut.

I sank to my knees without thinking. My hands settled on her hips, thumbs stroking the damp waistband of her panties. The first slow lick started just below the droplet, catching the runoff that had trickled down the warm underside of her breast. Elena gasped, fingers threading into my hair.

“Fuck… tell me what it is,” she demanded, voice cracking.

I dragged my tongue upward, gathering the thick, sticky wine mixed with the salt of her skin. The flavor exploded—Sauternes, botrytis, that unmistakable silky sweetness. But beneath it was something even better: the faint musk of her growing arousal.

“Château d’Yquem… 2015,” I whispered, then closed my lips around her nipple and sucked gently.

Elena moaned, the sound echoing off the stone. “Correct… now don’t you dare stop.”

I didn’t. My hands slid her panties down her legs; they clung for a second to the wetness between her thighs before dropping to her ankles. She kicked them aside. I guided her back until her ass met the edge of the tasting table, then spread her legs wide. The air was so thick with heat and the smell of her—wine, sweat, and pure eager pussy—that my head spun.

“Look at you,” she panted, watching me with dark, glittering eyes. “So fucking cocky earlier. Now you’re on your knees tasting me like you’re starving.”

I answered by dragging my tongue up the inside of her thigh, collecting a stray rivulet of sweet wine she’d deliberately let drip there. Then higher. I parted her slick folds with my thumbs and licked her slowly from entrance to clit, savoring the way her own taste mixed with the last traces of the Sauternes.

“Oh shit… yes,” Elena hissed, hips jerking. “Deeper. Use that critic tongue.”

I groaned against her pussy, the vibration making her thighs tremble. I fucked her with my tongue first—long, thrusting strokes that made obscene wet sounds in the quiet cellar—then sucked her swollen clit between my lips, flicking it rapidly. Her fingers tightened in my hair, pulling me harder against her.

“I’m—fuck—I’m close already,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Don’t stop… make me come on your face.”

I slid two fingers into her tight, dripping heat, curling them against that spongy spot while my tongue worked her clit in tight circles. Elena’s moans turned into sharp, desperate cries. Her thighs clamped around my head as she shattered, pussy pulsing hard around my fingers, a hot gush of her cum coating my tongue and chin.

She was still shaking when she dragged me up by my shirt, kissing me fiercely, tasting herself and the wine on my mouth.

“Your turn to strip,” she ordered, voice husky. “I want that cock inside me while the aftertaste is still on your tongue.”

I yanked my clothes off, cock so hard it ached. Elena turned, bracing her hands on the table, arching her back so her ass lifted invitingly. I gripped her hips, rubbed the head of my cock through her soaked folds, then pushed in deep in one smooth thrust.

“God, you’re tight,” I groaned, feeling her walls flutter around me.

Elena pushed back, taking every inch. “Harder. Fuck me like you mean that review you wrote.”

I did. The cellar filled with the slap of skin on skin, her moans, my ragged breathing. I reached around to circle her clit while I drove into her from behind, feeling her pussy squeeze me tighter with every thrust. Sweat dripped down both our bodies in the sweltering heat.

“I’m gonna come again,” she whimpered. “Fill me up—let me feel it.”

The words snapped my control. I slammed into her faster, deeper, until my balls drew up tight. With a guttural groan I buried myself to the hilt and came hard, pulsing thick ropes of cum deep inside her spasming pussy. Elena cried out, her second orgasm milking every drop from me.

We stayed locked together, panting, the stone walls still radiating summer heat around us. Finally she turned her head, a lazy, satisfied smile on her lips.

“So… how would you score that tasting, critic?”

I kissed the sweat from her shoulder, still buried inside her.

“Perfect score. I might need to do more research though. Lots more.”

Elena laughed softly, clenching around my softening cock.

“Good. The cellar’s ours all night.”