| I asked my hostess for some cabernet, and graciously she poured. First, I admired its color as it ruby ran twixt haughty breasts, spilling delectably in belly quiver ripples. Next, I regarded the robust aroma at the tastevin of her navel, suggesting a bold attack with a lingering finish. Tracing a red rivulet to her velvet tulip filling, overflowing, I allowed it to breathe momentarily, then dipped in my tongue for quick hummingbird laps. Prickly, precocious. I sipped slowly to swirl, swish and spit at the hooded sommelier, standing sternly tip-minded. Supple and leggy, this vintage was not to quaff, but contemplate. Deeper still in the wineskin, I could taste her vulva vinify with honey spice of its own, warming the blend to release a hint of bramble fruit. With a laugh she observed that the bouquet was now quite “heady.” I allowed that she would soon discern a full body with a woody dominance. |
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