Faithful Affair Cock Au Vin

Whether any guest ever noticed it or not, Ella sometimes found it hard to suppress a secret smile when she brought out wine glasses. It was the single cut-glass champagne flute at the back of the cupboard that caused the smile; or rather, it was the absence of its twin -- and the memory of how it came to be broken.

They were beautiful glasses, a generous Silver Wedding gift from friends; and they had both been on the table that night when Tom had served her with 'Cock au Vin' in his own inimitable style. She remembered his voice, sounding strangely formal as it floated up the stairs...

"Darling, would you like to take your seat at the table? I will be serving in five minutes exactly!" This was followed instantly by a sharp 'Bong!' as he struck the gong -- no doubt signalling the start of the five minutes.

The antique gong at the foot of the stairs had been a gift from Tom's aunt, a brilliant cook and notoriously touchy about prompt attendance at her meals. Had Tom been recreating her famous soufflé in the kitchen from which he had banned his wife for the day? Surely not -- he had promised her

coq-au-vin

-- but what else called for such precision? To show off a soufflé at its best demands split-second timing, but slow-cooked

coq-au-vin

isn't that fussy about an extra hour, if that's how the evening goes. Still, Tom was in charge tonight and she had better not be late. She gave herself one last look in the mirror, and was really quite impressed.

Ella stepped out very carefully down the stairs in her highest heels. She didn't wear heels very often, but Tom had insisted on 'full rig' for dinner tonight so 'full rig' it was. She would probably have preferred to change after eating, but if it gave Tom a thrill that the woman sitting across the dinner table from him in her perfectly respectable dress was hiding her finest stockings, suspenders, basque and crotchless knickers under it, then it was a small price to pay if he was going to take care of the cooking. And, damn it, she

did

feel very sexy in them.

The kitchen door was firmly closed, as it should be, and Ella went straight into the dining room. Candlelit, of course, with the aid of a subtle table lamp in the corner. The long, solid oak dining table was laid for two ...well, sort of. There was something -- quite a lot, actually -- unfinished about it. Poor Tom must be getting a bit flustered with managing everything. There was an answer to that, of course: give him more practice!

She was very grateful for his attention, and she had really enjoyed the 'leave everything to me' day he had given her; in fact, she had so enjoyed the drive, the pub where they had stopped for a snack and the walk afterwards that she was quite prepared to give him credit for arranging the sunshine as well. However, he was clearly starting to flag now -- and she was struggling to 'leave everything to him'. Years of practice as the main provider of meals to her household were kicking in. She could at least start by moving the folded rug that he had carelessly left on the table, and the piece of paper that was on it, and then she could find some glasses and side plates...

The piece of paper, however, momentarily distracted her; and then it stopped her in her tracks. It was a menu --

the

menu, presumably, very elegantly presented. Above the word

Menu

it was headed,

Cock au vin

and the date. Surely meticulous Tom knew that it was spelt

coq

? Just a little saucy joke on his part, no doubt.

The starters were called...

Gallant Compliments and Gentle Kisses

...whatever they were. They were not things that Ella had ever encountered in a cookery book, but maybe Tom had been researching and found something obscure on the Internet: they should be interesting.

The next course... Ella glanced down to count them: there were seven courses in all, followed by...

Dinner

? What did that mean? Perplexed, she turned the paper over, but the back was blank. She turned it back and resumed her reading: the next course was...

Whispered Ears and Kissed Shoulders

and those were followed by... ah!

Oh yes, it was a menu all right, but food had clearly not been uppermost in Tom's mind when he wrote it. She had an idea that the

Gallant Compliments

would not last long, and that the

Gentle Kisses

would soon be something more urgent. She could feel him pushing aside her hair to whisper words of fire into her ears. The

Gallant Compliments

would be left behind, and the words would be less than gallant and more than mere compliments: words of desire, of lust and of intent. His hands would pull her dress off her shoulders, and his lips would be on them hungrily; and the kisses would be not so gentle then.

She knew that Tom would have trembled a little when he typed those words, because he valued the uncovering and kissing of her shoulders like almost no other part of her body: he frequently remarked on the beauty and magnificence of her shoulders, but he often added that to him they were also the sign of everything else that was to come. And what was to come?

Stroked Thighs and Kneaded Buttocks

She imagined that he would be behind her at this point, and while his lips still lavished their greedy attention on her shoulders his hands would be sliding down her sides. She could feel them pausing for a moment to acknowledge her still-impressive waist, relishing his grasp on her, squeezing her tightly as if to encourage yet further the efforts of her basque. His fingers would not resist the temptation to slide down across the flat of her stomach and survey the soft cover of what he called her 'sexual engine room', the mysteries within her that never failed to respond to his touch -- she could feel those deep places stirring now at the very thought of his hands on her. Then they would be gone, stroking down the front of her thighs before pulling back up, ruching her dress and playing with her knicker-line, toying and teasing with threats towards her central treasure; and all the while, his lips would still be ploughing her shoulders and her neck with ceaseless kisses.

She could feel her pulse quickening even as she imagined all this well-rehearsed routine: she would be softening and sagging under his assault as he ceaselessly ransacked her dress and caressed her body. And then, perhaps after a playful plunge into her crotch, his hands would move on, back round her thighs to grasp her buttocks with animal intent. There would be less caress and more power, less tease and more authority, and her muscles would stiffen in response. It would not last long, however, and neither would her dress; there would be other parts of her body claiming his attention...

Caressed Breasts

with Sucked and Nibbled Nipples

With her dress gone -- lovingly, teasingly unzipped and slid down her with many an unnecessary but very welcome touch, no doubt -- his attention would turn to her basque. It would be cursory, however; the basque did a job under her dress, but now it had played its part. Now it represented a rival: Tom's hands would want to take over every part of its grip, grasping her hips, squeezing her waist, caressing her ribs, pushing up her breasts, pressing on her nipples. He didn't have enough hands, of course, but that wouldn't stop him trying. The basque would swiftly follow her dress to the floor.

Still behind her, he would revel in holding, caressing and kneading her breasts. His grip on them would tighten; for a moment she involuntarily groped her own breasts at the thought of it. She could feel how his urgency would convey itself as he sought to claim all of her, and at some point perhaps his lips would briefly break off their continued ravishing of her shoulders, neck and throat to form some throaty and mildly blasphemous exclamation over her satisfying fullness.

Then he would be round, and down on his knees, grabbing her waist to hold her securely as his mouth homed in on her nipples. They hardened now at the thought of his hungry mouth fastening on them in turn, teasing them and licking them, sucking them extravagantly and nibbling them. From time to time his hands, now roaming over and plundering every part of her torso, would return to grasp as much as they could of her whole breasts; or the fingers and thumb of one hand would combine to pluck the unattended nipple playfully as his mouth was fully engaged on the other.

Long minutes of erotic thought were crammed into seconds as she read down the menu, but she knew that Tom would be rushing on too. Eventually a roaming hand -- and the focus of his attention -- would slide down inside her knickers...

Stimulated Clitoris

A delightful selection of manual, lingual and mechanical treats

He would stand to her side, no doubt, with one hand roaming her back, unconsciously caressing anything from her buttocks to her neck as the fingers of his other hand probed into her crotch. Gently he would work his way in, deeper and deeper, to find her opening and draw out some of the wetness there that could provide some lubrication to her clitoris -- she could feel that she was already a little wet, just from all these thoughts, let alone what the actuality of Tom's attentions would cause. Then his fingers would withdraw to find her hood and the treasure within, and who knew what would happen then?

To be honest, her clit was a fickle thing: she and Tom did not always get this part right. In this moment of imagination, however, her mind was free to make it the best ever; she tensed herself and squeezed her thighs together, and let out a little involuntary moan as she almost produced in reality the orgasm she imagined.

For all that it was on the menu, Ella wondered if the 'mechanical' treat would really feature. Perhaps Tom would magically produce a small vibrator from his jacket pocket -- surely, he would have shed his jacket by now? -- and add it to the mix. Maybe, but she was fairly sure that Tom knew full well that she was more turned on by Tom's fingers, Tom's tongue and (above all) Tom's cock than by any plastic replica, however many speeds and modes it could boast. Her knickers would not last long, though Tom would probably leave them on her for a moment as a tease to himself while he paused to shed his own clothes before returning to slide the scanty, lacy thing down her legs with many a reverent exclamation.

And then he would grab her and push her back to the table and help her on to it. That, of course, explained the shortcomings in his table-laying: crockery and cutlery would only get in the way of the feast that Tom had in mind. He would spread that rug for her, too, if she insisted; but she knew that he would much prefer her to feel the hardness of the wood under her. She had been on that table once before, and she remembered that Tom had said then that he wanted her to know, as he put it so delicately, "That you're being fucked on the dining table, not in a badly made bed." Thinking about it now, she knew that she wouldn't insist; she felt the thrill of the naughtiness of it all surging through her, and she put her hand down and caressed the polished oak. She could hardly wait to feel its brutal, unyielding strength under her as she would lie on it, her legs (stockings, high heels and all) in the air and spread wide as much for her own pleasure as for his. Desperately she wanted to be 'fucked on the dining table' -- right now -- and she hardly gave a thought to the promised lingual delights as her eyes ran on down the list to the main course...

Deep Thrusts of Hardened Cock

with Increasing Penetration and Accelerating Rhythm, topped with Orgasmic Cataclysms

The door opened, and she just had time to note that her much-desired conclusion was followed by 'Calm Reflection and Refreshment' when Tom, debonair in his dinner suit, entered the room. He was carrying a bottle and a pair of champagne flutes, and he smiled gleefully at her as he pushed the door shut behind him.

"Dinner is on its way," he reported. "But for the moment..." he went on in a mischievous drawl, brandishing the bottle and the glasses, "I've got the 'vin', and I

guarantee

the cock."

Tom poured the wine and handed a glass to her. They toasted each other and sipped, then Tom lowered his glass. "You are so beautiful," he said gallantly, gazing into her eyes. "But you are more than just beautiful, you light up my life; you turn my night into day." Then he kissed her on the lips, so gently. It seemed that the first course had started...

Eventually, an appetite stronger than their thirst for sparkling wine would take over, and they would put down their half-full glasses on the rather chunky coasters that Tom had thoughtfully put out at the far end of the table. It would be time to concentrate on each other's bodies.

She might have foreseen that as the

Deep Thrusts of Hardened Cock

became more penetrating, and their rhythm accelerated towards the

Orgasmic Cataclysms

, the pounding would shake not only her body but also the table on which she would be lying in gloriously naked helplessness. However, she could hardly have known then that, in the shaking, one of those two elegant flutes behind her head would eventually wobble off its thick coaster, topple over and smash to pieces in a welter of bubbles and broken glass; and that her husband would only laugh at it as he continued to hammer his cock into her. So they would forever be one flute short; and its bereft twin would stay in the cupboard, mute witness to a moment of quite stupendous pleasure. And fun.