The Tasting Pt. 01

The Tasting: part 1

This story began as a deliciously teasing email exchange between myself and the irresistible @MilesVane1978 -- better known as Veronica Vane. I'd long admired their stories -- the way every detail felt textured, intimate, alive. One playful comment about Tania and Veronica hosting a cum tasting set our imaginations alight... and the rest unfolded in a slow, simmering back-and-forth that was as arousing as it was creative.

We passed the story between us like a secret -- I'd write a few chapters, then hand it over for Veronica's wicked refinements, then back again. The result was something neither of us quite expected: layered, provocative, and deliciously unpredictable.

If this first part left you aching for more, glide over to Veronica's page for the intoxicating conclusion...

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The Cellar

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The wine cellar breathed with old wealth and older secrets. Cool, airless, and rich with the scent of damp stone and oak-soaked decades, it lay beneath the manor like a crypt of pleasure and indulgence. Towering barrels lined the curved walls, each stained and burnished with time, iron hoops darkened with age, their bellies heavy with ancient vintages. The stone beneath Mistress Tania's heels was worn smooth in places, chipped in others, a mosaic of centuries whispering with every footstep.

Click.
Click.
Click.

Her entrance was not so much heard as felt--a deliberate sound that echoed and licked at the edges of the gloom, announcing her before she ever emerged into the low, golden pool of light cast by wrought-iron sconces. The rest of the room remained cloaked in velvet darkness, lit only in suggestion--the gleam of bottles, the glint of polished metal, the glimmer of red lacquer underfoot.

Mistress Tania strode into view like sin wrapped in silk and shadow.

Her short dress was black as ink and wet-looking, poured over her body like it had been painted on. It clung to her every curve and sinew--more a temptation than a garment. The halter neckline lifted and framed her strong collarbones, leaving her shoulders sculpted and bare. From there, the fabric plunged into a daringly low back, exposing the entirety of her spine, all the way to the deep curve above her hips. Every muscle moved beneath the surface like a predator in water.

The hem stopped abruptly at the very tops of her thighs--an indecent whisper of a skirt that offered no illusions of modesty. Her legs, impossibly long in the heels, were nothing short of a weapon. They were toned, muscular and curvaceous, the power in her thighs visible with every step, calves taut and flexed, wrapped in the most luxurious and impossibly shiny tights money could buy.

The black tights--Cecilia de Rafael's Eterno Super Lucido--shimmered like molten obsidian, gleaming in the low light with an oil-slick finish that made her legs look almost unreal. They sculpted to her form without a seam or a wrinkle, catching the glow of the sconces like polished marble. They glistened when she moved, made you ache to touch them, to see if they were real or illusion.

On her feet: sharp Christian Louboutin's So Kate black pumps--pure decadence. Handmade in Italy, smooth patent black leather, dagger-sharp 120mm heels, red-lacquered soles that flashed with every step like the grin of a devil. They forced her gait into a graceful, prowling strut, heightening her already imposing frame to an elegant, deadly 5'9". But it wasn't the height that made her seem taller. It was the presence.

She didn't walk. She arrived.

Her face was a masterpiece of drama and calculation. Smokey eyes, sculpted and shadowed in charcoal and black kohl, framed by lashes thick enough to fan flame. Her cheeks were sharply defined, contoured like marble carved by a master. And her lips--those full, inviting lips--were painted a glistening, viscous red, the colour of fresh cherries, of bitten mouths and whispered confessions. A shade that promised indulgence and punishment in equal measure.

Her hair was jet black, cut into a sleek, glossy bob that skimmed her shoulders with every turn of her head. The fringe framed her eyes like a curtain waiting to rise. On her, it looked both elegant and dangerous, a blade disguised as beauty.

And she was aroused.

Not in the vulgar way of the inexperienced, but in the simmering, practiced hum of a woman who owned desire--hers and everyone else's. The air around her seemed to tighten with it, crackling with unsaid things and unspeakable promises. Beneath the hem of her dress, the muscles in her thighs shifted like coiled snakes, a slight bulge gave away her secret beneath her tight dress. Her hips swayed with the practiced rhythm of a mistress who knew she was being watched--even when no one dared admit it.

Somewhere in the darkness came the faintest whimper.

She paused.

Another sound followed--a muffled grunt, soft but urgent. Men's voices, low and struggling. There was a tremor of chains, perhaps. Breathing that wasn't hers.

Tania turned her head slowly, the corners of her blood red lips curving into a small, knowing smile. Her hand trailed along a nearby barrel, fingertips dragging sensuously over the old oak, nails clicking gently against the surface. She stopped before a wooden table where six crystal glasses waited on a red crushed velvet cloth.

The tasting would begin soon.

But not of wine.

She moved again--heels tapping a slow rhythm of promise and power--and her silhouette disappeared into shadow once more, leaving behind only the lingering scent of perfume and peril.

Tonight, she would uncork obedience. And savour it.

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The Line of Flesh

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The sound came again--low, needy, echoing faintly off the stone. It was not pain. Not exactly. It was frustration. Anticipation, wound tight like piano wire.

Mistress Tania turned toward the noise with a leisurely grace, her heels beginning their measured beat again as she stepped through an arched doorway into the far alcove of the cellar--a private chamber set apart from the rest, lit by flickering candlelight and the faint hum of restrained breath.

And there they were.

Six men, lined up like offerings.

Each one was stripped to the bare, their skin gleaming with oil under the warm light. Every muscle on display, defined and glistening--shoulders, arms, chests, thighs, all sculpted like living statues. Taut bodies trembling, not from fear, but from waiting. Waiting for her.

They were not, however, entirely bare.

Each man wore a pair of black hold-up stockings--sheer, glistening, the lace tops hugging their thighs like a lover's grip. The stockings shimmered under the low cellar light, their delicate, feminine elegance striking a delicious contrast against the raw, muscular power of the bodies they adorned.

On their feet, heels--black stilettos, strapped tightly around their ankles, forcing their legs into a subtly altered stance. The shoes were not chosen for comfort, but for effect: posture, poise, and a little shame.

It was a wicked detail, unmistakably Mistress Tania's touch.

A dash of humiliation, perhaps. Or a symbol--clear and deliberate--of their surrender. The stockings and heels weren't just adornment; they were statements. Each man had been dressed by her, claimed by her, and displayed in these intimate, feminising accents not to diminish them, but to mark them as hers.

She had taken their strength and wrapped it in silk. And they wore it--eagerly, helplessly--like a gift for her.

They were bound expertly, wrists pulled high and fastened to iron loops in the ceiling, ankles spread and secured to the floor with soft leather cuffs, locking them in place with perfect posture. None could tilt his head, a thick leather posture collar that covered their whole neck prevented that. Stiff blinkers were strapped firmly to each handsome face forcing them to look straight ahead--until Mistress Tania stepped into view.

Then, each man shivered. Eyes wide. Straining forward in their bindings. Their gags--large red ball-gags stretching their mouths into a permanent scream--muffled their sounds, but not their desire.

Each one had a painfully erect penis. A thick black cock ring was fitted tight around their scrotums, another around their shaft. Their cocks glistened, swollen. Bright red from the strain, veins proudly on show, their manhood twitching from the agony of being on edge for so long. Their balls tight beneath, aching for release.

But there was another secret torture.

Each man had a large vibrating butt plug inserted into them, stretching and teasing them. It would sense when their arousal dipped, sending a buzz straight into their prostate that soon had them erect again. A generous dose of viagra had also ensured they would stay on the edge for as long as their mistress wanted them to.

And they had been here a long time.

She'd told them, in that purring voice of hers, that she needed just an hour to prepare. That they were to wait for her, blind to all but what was before them in the darkness. That they were not to move, not to make a sound unless it was to beg. And then she had vanished upstairs with a wink and a swish of her robe.

That was what, three? Four? Maybe even five hours ago.

Time, for them, had blurred into aching tension and burning need. They had grown slick with sweat and the gleam of her chosen oil--a heady blend of sandalwood and amber that clung to their skin and filled the air with musky longing. Their muscles cramped, their senses sharp. The air around them was thick with pheromones and obedience.

Mistress Tania appeared now like a goddess descended, and the reaction was instant.

The first man saw her as she stepped into his limited vision. His breath hitched, chest rising, nostrils flaring. The sound he made was soft and pleading. His eyes locked on her legs--those impossible, glistening, black-sheathed legs--and his hips shifted just a little, involuntarily. A tremor ran through him.

The merest touch from her would be enough for him to explode.

She smiled.

The second and third men reacted similarly--quivering with restrained hunger, muffled groans becoming louder as she passed, each one devouring the sight of her: the glossy, short black dress clinging to her hips, her bare back exposed from nape to tailbone in a clean line of sin, the delicious curve of her bottom barely covered, the flash of red sole with every slow, echoing step.

By the fourth man, her grin had sharpened into something wicked.

She let one perfectly manicured nail trail along his chest, over the hard plane of his pectoral, pausing to tweak a nipple just enough to make his whole body jolt. He moaned behind the ball gag, twisting against the cuffs that held him.

"Oh, darling," she cooed, her voice soft silk wrapped around steel. "You're leaking already. We haven't even begun."

She moved on.

Each man was beautiful in his own way--different builds, different eyes, different little reactions--but all united in devotion. Not one of them was coerced. This was worship, and they knew it. In fact they had paid quite a sum to be here before her.

Every breath they took was for her. Every ache in their muscles, every droplet of sweat, every tortured second of waiting was service.

When she reached the end of the line, she turned to face them all at once, letting them drink her in as a group.

The heels. The gleaming tights. The curve of her hips. The hard gleam of her eyes beneath the black fringe. The blood-red smile on her lips. The smell of wine, leather, and skin.

She licked her bottom lip slowly, watching them react. Watching their hips twitch, their cocks jerk. Their muffled begging growing louder now, frantic even. They were desperate. Desperate. For her touch, for her voice, for permission to fall apart. For release.

Mistress Tania laughed softly--a dark, melodic sound that echoed through the chamber and raised goosebumps on every inch of their glowing skin.

"Such good boys," she purred, taking one slow step forward, then another. Her voice was low, dripping with amusement. "You waited so beautifully. And look at you now--trembling. Wanting."

She moved to the center of the line again and stopped.

"How long has it been since I allowed you all to cum? A month? Two? How you have suffered in your little cages. How difficult it must have been to hide them in your business suits. Oh I can't imagine the agony. Well, the sweet release is coming soon, if you pardon the pun."

"Tonight..." She leaned forward, letting her fingers hover inches from the nearest man's lips. He gasped behind the ball gag, breath hot and wild. "Tonight I think... we taste more than wine."

She drew back, her grin deepening, and turned toward the little table lined with crystal wine glasses placed on a red velvet cloth. As she walked away, the echo of her heels was drowned out by a fresh chorus of gagged moans--muffled, raw, helpless.

Mistress Tania smiled without looking back. She could feel her own arousal getting more restless. Her nine inch cock, uncut and delicious, stirred under her dress, squeezed into her seamless tights. She knew that each man here would beg to pleasure her, if she let them. But not yet, she too needed to be restrained, for now. Let the evening play out

Let them stew a little longer. Let their suffering drive them even more wild with desire. They knew the prize that they competed for. And the ones that failed, they would be locked away until their next trial. While the three winners would be rewarded.

"Soon Ms Vale will be here and we will begin the tasting. I expect each one of you to be on your best behaviour my pets, or you know how cruel I can be."

A visible shiver passed through the line of men, like a breeze rustling through tall, naked trees. It rippled down oiled spines and across trembling thighs. They knew what was coming--had fantasised about it, longed for it--and yet, the thrill of fear was no less sharp. Displeasing Mistress Tania was unthinkable. And tonight, there would be no hiding.

She turned to face them, lifting the crystal wine glass in her hand as though addressing a room of connoisseurs.

"We'll be judging you this evening," she said, her tone smooth as velvet, laced with mock ceremony. "Much like a fine vintage."

She began to pace slowly before them, heels ticking on the stone.

"You will each be assessed... on taste," she purred, letting the word linger, her tongue flicking over her crimson lip. "Consistency. Appearance. And, of course... aroma."

She inhaled theatrically, then exhaled in a soft sigh. The men strained in their restraints.

"There will be gold, silver, and bronze awarded to the finest offerings." Her eyes glittered with amusement as she let that hang in the air, before continuing. "Presentation matters, gentlemen. So does preparation. Purity. And a certain... finish."

She stopped in front of one of them, tilting her head, watching the way his jaw clenched around the ball gag.

"And the three who don't make the cut?" Her voice dipped, teasingly cruel. "Well... let's just say you will have to find another way to please me."

Her grin turned wicked.

"But you certainly won't be celebrated. You know what lies in store for you."

The men moaned softly, a chorus of muffled desperation. Whether from dread or desire, it was impossible to say.

Mistress Tania raised her glass once more, as though toasting them all. Then she heard a sound. The cellar door opening. Her guest was here. Soon the tasting could begin.

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Veronica Vale's arrival

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The cellar door creaked open -- slow, uncertain -- and a draught of cooler air stirred the candlelight below. The men flinched, trembling, straining toward the sound like animals scenting a new presence. But it wasn't Tania.

It was her guest.

Miss Veronica Vale paused at the top of the stone steps, one hand on the railing, the other holding a small black clutch -- absurd, dainty, useless. It swung gently from her wrist, a feminine tic she didn't know she'd picked up. She adjusted her stance, straightened her spine, and began her descent.

Click. Click. Click.

Her Pigalle Follies -- red patent, 100mm -- struck the stone like punctuation. At 5'10", the heels brought her to a poised 6'1", tall enough to look down on most men. She'd worn higher -- in darker places -- but never with this much meaning. Tonight, they weren't just heels. They were a promise.

The heels gleamed with every step, lacquered and unforgiving -- flashing sex and sin and something else entirely: a personal mythology. In a different life, years ago, watching women in clubs who wore shoes like this. Women who knew they were being watched. Women who wore red heels because they knew what it said -- I like being fucked. I like being seen. I like being used. And sometimes, I like it in the arse. That memory throbbed under Veronica's skin as she reached the bottom step.

Beneath her dress, she wore Cervin silk stockings, fully fashioned, stitched with a perfect back seam -- held taut by an Aubade garter belt that cost more than some women's rent. She didn't wear them to be seen. She wore them because something in her wanted to be judged.

And then there was the anklet. Gold, thin, almost innocent -- until the eye caught the tiny T charm that swung against her stockinged ankle. It was wrong. It was perfect. It made her feel... claimed. Not owned. Not yet. But pre-selected. As though her wrist should have been stamped before she entered.

She crossed into the main chamber slowly, allowing herself to take in the space. The scent hit first: oak, sweat, perfume, pre-cum, and something spiced and ancient, like candlewax and crushed flowers. Then the sound -- low, wet whimpers behind gags, the occasional creak of restraints, and the thick, heavy hum of need pressing in from all sides.

And then she saw them.

Six men. Bound. Beautiful. Quivering. Their thighs tense in black heels, their legs softened by lace-topped stockings, their cocks angry with pressure. Veronica stopped. Just for a second. A tiny intake of breath escaped her lips.

Her dress -- a black corset pencil silhouette with an indecent hemline -- clung to her waist and hips like it had been tailored by lust itself. It ended just below the curve of her bum, leaving the tops of her stockings permanently on display: sheer, seamed, and shameless. Every step, every shift of weight, felt like a gamble -- not if they would see, but how much. It was meant to empower her, but it was also exposing her.

Beneath the tight fabric, her 7-inch, uncircumcised cock was already hard, pushing insistently up through the waistband of her pink lace thong -- the head clearly outlined under the dress if you knew where to look. Often caged when visiting men, it felt oddly, rebelliously free tonight.

She stood tall anyway. Her posture was elegant. Her chignon secure. Her velvet choker firm around her throat. She smiled -- a small, polite smile -- and took another step forward. From this angle, two or three of the men -- maybe a fourth -- had just enough visibility to see her from the side. Their blinders didn't block the full view. And what they saw made them strain against their cuffs.

Her arse was magnificent. Taut, rounded, earned -- the kind of bum that only came from years of squats and Romanian deadlifts done properly, with slow eccentrics and no shortcuts. It didn't just move -- it commanded attention. Feminine, yes -- but full of power, the kind that made tripod girls in the gym pause their sets to watch. Some envied it. A few had asked about it. None could match it.

Now, wrapped in that scandalously short dress, the curve of it was only barely concealed -- and even that modesty was an illusion. The men who could see it weren't thinking about tasting wine. They were begging, silently, for permission to worship something far richer.

Mistress Tania turned.

God. The room shifted.

Veronica had seen powerful women before. Had tried to be one. But Tania wasn't performing power. She radiated it. Her black dress barely concealed anything. Her body shimmered with lust and purpose. Her cock, hidden beneath glossy tights, made its presence known like a spell that needed no incantation.

Veronica stood taller -- by an inch or two. But it didn't feel that way. Tania's presence bent the room around her. She didn't dominate through size. She dominated by simply being. And Veronica felt herself shrink beneath it, gladly.

Veronica bowed her head just slightly. Not enough to mark her as submissive. Just... respectful. "Forgive my delay," she said, her voice smooth and modulated, though she could feel the tremble beneath. "I wanted to look my best."

Tania's gaze slid down her body -- from her eyes, to her lips, to the crimson lacquer of her Louboutins, to the golden T that kissed her ankle.

Veronica felt her cheeks burn. But even as she blushed, her own eyes couldn't help drinking Tania in. That black dress, painted onto her like a threat. The bare expanse of her back, exposed from nape to the curve of her hips -- a detail Veronica didn't know she found erotic. But now?

Now she saw sinew and stillness, posture held like a blade, the subtle play of muscle beneath smooth skin. Tania's back looked sculpted for worship. Veronica felt the sudden, involuntary shift inside her -- her cock stirring, hard, and awake.

Then Tania stepped forward. No command. No flourish. Just... presence. Their eyes met.

Veronica hesitated only a moment before closing the distance. She leaned in -- carefully, reverently -- and pressed her lips to Mistress Tania's. It wasn't performative. It wasn't rushed. It was soft, slow, and utterly sincere. A tasting of her own. A greeting and a longing folded into one. Their tongues met, gently at first, then deeper, more deliberate.

Behind them, the restrained men moaned -- gagged and helpless -- as they watched the two women kiss. The image of elegance and corruption, lipstick brushing lipstick, clutch resting against thigh, nylons whispering together in the dim light.

Up close, the scent of her was undeniable. Something floral but spiced. Veronica felt it coil into her lungs, dizzying, commanding. She knew her own perfume was sweeter -- ambered and warm, with just the faintest trace of sweat beneath the carefully powdered skin of her chest. A subtle musk between two dressed women, their bodies already awake beneath the silk and seams.

Tania smiled. "Welcome, Veronica," she said softly, fingers trailing along the edge of the clutch. "Shall we begin?"

Veronica swallowed. "Yes, Mistress," she whispered.

And the tasting began.

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The Tasting

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Mistress Tania rose first. She didn't speak. She simply turned, eyes glittering, and looked down the line of restrained men. Veronica expected her to begin with Number 1 or Number 6 -- one of the ends. That's what made sense. That's what felt fair. The men likely expected the same.

Instead, Tania gave a soft little smile -- the kind that carried no kindness -- and dragged a low chair across the stone floor. The legs scraped deliberately, the sound like steel on bone. Then, with apparent randomness, she placed it in front of Number 2.

Veronica saw it clearly. It wasn't random.

It was cruel.

Number 1 twitched in his bonds -- his cock jerked visibly, swollen and neglected. He had been so close. So certain. Now he would watch. Now he would wait.

Tania sat without ceremony. She crossed her legs. A flash of glossy black tights stretched tight over her thigh, gleaming in the candlelight. Veronica followed. She took a second chair from the wall and dragged it beside Tania's. She positioned it carefully. Closer than was polite. She sat and her thigh brushed Tania's. Neither of them moved away. The contact was electric.

Her bare bum met the cold wood, the shock of it cutting through the warmth held by her dress. The lace of her pink thong stretched taut against her arsehole, delicate and obscene, a whisper of femininity doing nothing to hide her reality.

Her cock, still painfully hard, lay flushed and leaking against her stomach, pinned beneath the tight waistband, barely contained. A throb. A pulse. A silent confession. And now, she was face to face with Number 2.

Seven inches of circumcised cock, gleaming with pre-cum, angry with restraint, stared back at her. Thick. Beautiful. Desperate. Lined up behind it -- in her peripheral vision -- were five more: trembling, swollen, twitching from hours of denial.

For a moment, Veronica felt something unexpected: guilt.

How long had it been since they'd had a piss? Could they even piss, with erections this hard? Were they aching with more than just lust? It felt real, suddenly -- not theatre, not kink. Men, leaking and locked, and she was here to taste them.

And then -- just as strong -- she felt something else.

Dominance.

It was new. Thin as a shadow at first, just the shape of it. But it was there. A stillness in her limbs. A sense of being observed, not for being pretty or vulnerable -- but for being the one who might decide.

Mistress Tania moved first. She leaned forward in that smooth, predatory way she had -- back straight, legs composed -- and wrapped her fingers around Number 2's cock. Her grip was firm, claiming. Her nails, lacquered a deep crimson, looked like weapons made for pleasure -- precise, polished, and devastatingly feminine.

She angled the shaft slightly upward, her gaze unreadable. The man's entire body jerked. His cock twitched against her palm, thick and hot, the head slick with weeks of suppressed need.

Then she brought her face closer. She sniffed.

Not dramatically -- just a subtle, intimate inhale, just beneath the ridge of the glans. Her lashes fluttered. Then lower -- to the balls, which hung swollen and tight, twitching under the cock ring. Another soft sniff. Another reaction. The air was thick with salt, leather, skin, and something else: the metallic sweetness of cum long held back. Not fresh. Not clean. Real.

She turned to Veronica. "Go on," she said quietly, almost gently.

Veronica hesitated -- not from fear, but from the weight of it. Then she leaned in, her breath shallow, and followed Mistress Tania's path.

The scent under the head was warm and sharp -- like skin just released from fabric, but magnified. Faintly metallic. Faintly bitter. But unmistakably human. It hit the back of her throat like a secret. The balls were different. Musky. Animal. Not sour -- but thick. Heavy with meaning. Her nose brushed against a stray hair. The man trembled.

And then came the mercy. Tania tilted the shaft toward her -- just slightly -- and said, "Here." A single bead of pre-cum clung to the tip. Glimmering. Waiting. Permission was everything. Veronica leaned in and let her tongue flicker over the slit. Salt. Musk. Surrender. She swallowed without thinking. Tania didn't speak, but there was something in her eyes. Approval. Kindness. A shared look between women who understood how rare such a gift could be.

And then the tasting truly began.

Mistress Tania stood. She didn't speak, didn't look at Number 2 with sympathy or disdain. She simply reached to the little table and retrieved an expensive crystal wine glass -- a Baccarat Massena, its stem thick, the body carved in radiant grooves that caught the flickering candlelight.

She stepped back to the man, grasped his cock once more -- firmly -- and began to stroke him. Not slowly. Not lovingly. Efficiently. It was mechanical. Measured. She almost looked bored, as though performing some compulsory lab procedure she'd done a hundred times before. This wasn't for him. It was for the sample.

Veronica watched -- and then moved. She stepped behind Number 2, her heels whispering on the stone. The man flinched as he sensed her presence. She placed one hand on his lower back, then slid it down to his glutes.

God, he was strong.

Dense, hard muscle -- built not for show, but function. Veronica's palm pressed firmly, then wandered down between his cheeks. She felt the base of the plug -- smooth silicone, flushed with warmth -- and gave it a gentle tug.

It resisted. She twisted, pulled again. Still tight.

Had it being going five hours? Even the best batteries would've died. And the plug was still warm from him, still slick. She gave a firmer tug -- a little twist -- and finally slid it out. A wet sound followed. The scent hit her immediately. Bitter. Earthy. Intimate. But clean.

She dropped the plug to the floor beside her heel. Then, delicately, she raised her hand again -- and pressed her middle finger up into him. No glove. No warning.

Her nails were short, neatly filed, not weapons but tools -- pretty, red tools -- and the moment she felt his inner ring give, she slid in with practiced patience. His muscles twitched. She pressed forward, then curled slightly.

And there it was -- his prostate. She pushed. Wiggled. Then held. Number 2 let out a sound behind the gag -- raw, guttural. His knees tried to buckle, but the restraints held him firm. Tania didn't pause. She kept stroking -- same pace, same grip.

And then he came. Hard. Loud. Violent. His whole body jolted as his cock erupted into the waiting Baccarat glass. Ropes of cum, thick and desperate, splashed against the crystal like some obscene communion. He groaned, over and over, as his muscles clenched and Veronica's finger stayed buried inside him, pulsing against the source of it all.

When it ended, he sagged. Veronica stepped back, slowly removing her finger, and wiped it clean on a cloth placed on the tasting table -- placed there, she realised, just for this. Mistress Tania lifted the glass, swirled it once like a sommelier, and brought it to her nose.

The candlelight caught in the thick arcs of white along the sides, still warm, still clinging. Ropes of denied devotion. The scent had begun to rise -- not sharply, but richly -- like a secret allowed to breathe.

Then, without flourish, she passed it to Veronica. The glass was warm where her fingers had held it. Veronica brought it to her nose, softly, slowly. She inhaled.

"Salt. Sweat. A faint metallic note like rust on wet stone. And underneath it, unmistakably, man -- not just body, but effort. Aged in restraint."

She held the glass steady as her cock throbbed once, unbidden, against the inside of her dress. Her lips touched the rim. She tipped the glass -- not much, just enough to let a silken drip kiss her tongue. Warm. Viscous. Slightly bitter. The texture was thicker than she expected -- like cream mixed with glue -- and it coated the inside of her mouth before sliding down.

She swallowed. Closed her eyes. Felt the warmth follow her all the way down. When she opened them again, Mistress Tania was watching her. Veronica smiled. Just faintly.

"Creamy," she said. "With a sharp finish."

Tania's lip curled. "Gold contender?"

Veronica nodded. "Definitely."

She handed Tania the glass. Her fingers brushed hers -- a soft exchange, rich with meaning. The real tasting, Veronica knew, was only just beginning.

---------------

Riesling Obedience

---------------

Mistress Tania cradled the glass delicately, turning it slowly between her fingers as she stepped toward the man she had just so thoroughly emptied and tasted. His body sagged in the restraints, trembling slightly, a flush of relief softening the tension in his limbs. The heat of his release was already fading, replaced now by the creeping sting of shame and worry over how they would rate him.

The tight grip of the heels on his feet, the cling of the sheer stockings on his thighs--what moments ago had felt deliciously degrading--now seemed unbearably absurd. His breath hitched behind the gag, a whimper escaping despite himself. A thread of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth, tracing a line down his chin as he looked up at her, eyes glazed and wide.

Tania's heels rang out in the silence, slow and commanding, like the ticking of some decadent metronome. She stopped just before him, letting the warmth of her presence linger over his skin. The man's breath caught. His muscles tensed instinctively, though he could barely move. Oiled and bound, he shimmered like a specimen on display.

"Mmm..." she murmured, eyes fixed on him as if reading a label. "German. Bold, efficient... a certain clinical precision to the texture, wouldn't you say?" She turned slightly toward Veronica, her voice purring now. "Notes of Berlin arrogance. Brazenly unfiltered. He's trying to impress."

Veronica gave a soft laugh, just behind her. "Corporate fruit," she offered. "Very high-end. But still fruit."

Tania grinned, letting her eyes wander over the man's bound form. "Tech CEO," she said aloud, mostly for his benefit. "Disruptor class. Multi-exit founder. Reinvents the future by day, begs for relevance at night."

The man whimpered again behind his gag--barely audible, but there.

Veronica's eyes glittered. She stepped closer, circling behind the man like a sommelier inspecting a vintage. Her heels whispered across the stone, then stopped. She bent slightly--elegant, effortless--and pressed her cheek against his lower back, her breath soft against his skin. He flinched.

She inhaled. "Hmmm. Distinct base notes," she said. "Pine, maybe. Or sweat. He's been holding back for so long." She straightened, smoothing her skirt with theatrical calm. "It's... honest. But no I've had some more time, I think I've tasted more depth."

"Gold is still premature," Tania agreed. "Perhaps silver, for now. We will see how the others perform."

Tania smiled as the disappointment flashed across his face -- shocked by the demotion, quietly aching at the loss of gold and the ultimate pleasure it might have brought.

She reached up, trailing a long black nail down the man's chest, slow enough to make him squirm. "But the finish, darling," she whispered near his ear, "that's what we remember most. And we're far from finished."

She handed the glass back to Veronica and moved on to the next man in line.

Tania lingered a moment longer beside the German, watching the flicker of emotion behind his eyes--the sting of lost status, the aching denial of gold. She let the silence stretch, her smile slow and wicked.

"Did you see that?" she murmured, turning her head just enough for Veronica to hear. "So sure he'd pleased me... and then--snatched away."

Veronica stepped closer, standing just behind Tania now, her body almost brushing hers. "Cruel," she whispered, voice velvet-soft. "Deliciously cruel."

Tania arched an eyebrow. "You say that like you didn't enjoy it too."

Veronica's lips parted into a small smile. "I did," she admitted. "He twitched when you said 'premature'. I nearly moaned."

Tania chuckled low in her throat, her gaze flicking over the next trembling man in line. "They want so badly to be chosen," she said. "To be tasted. Praised. Used." Her voice dropped to a purr.

"And they'll ache for it... even when they know they can't all win."

Veronica's eyes traced the next man's body--he was already straining, every inch of him desperate for attention. "What about this one?" she asked, voice light but loaded. "Shall I go first, or would you like the honours?"

Tania didn't look at her immediately. Instead, she took one step forward. Then, just as her fingers grazed the new man's chest, she turned slightly, her face half-shadowed.

"Oh no, darling," she said, eyes gleaming. "I set the palette. You... can cleanse it."

Veronica shivered, heat blooming behind her sternum. She lowered her head in a gesture that was almost a bow, the corner of her mouth lifting in obedience.

"Of course, Mistress."

Tania smiled, dark and amused, as the next tasting began.

She circled the next man slowly, heels clicking like the ticking of a courtroom clock, each step marking time toward an unspoken verdict. He was younger than the first--olive-skinned, dark-eyed, with a sculpted jaw and the kind of beauty that once commanded boardrooms and bedrooms. But there was no bravado now. Just the slow burn of humiliation as he was held, trembling and bare, looking gorgeous and ridiculous in the high heels and sheer stockings clinging to his masculine form.

"Ah," Tania said softly, almost to herself. "The Italian."

She smirked, brushing a hand down the man's chest, letting her finger linger just long enough to make him gasp as a sharp red nail raked his chest. "Oh yes. They're all theatre, these ones. Passion, presentation... everything for show. Ran some flashy startup in Milan. I can smell the espresso and desperation."

She leaned in close to him, lips nearly brushing his ear. "You were a prince once, weren't you? Now look at you."

Her hand moved down his chest slowly, inching closer and closer to his aching cock. She smirked as he twitched and writhed, so very desperate for release.

When her hand was so close to his cock the slightest movement would have resulted in a caress, but instead she turned suddenly.

"Miss Vale," Tania said coolly, not even glancing at the man writhing beside her, "I think our Italian needs to breathe a little longer. Let him stew. We'll move on."

A strangled moan burst from his gag. His eyes, glassy with desperation, flickered in anguish. He had been so close -- his whole body straining for the climax that never came. Now it was slipping away, stolen from him with a flick of her voice. The torment etched across his face was exquisite.

Tania paused mid-step, turning sharply as another muffled cry escaped him. Her expression hardened like cooling steel. Her eyes locked on him -- blazing, unblinking.

"Did I give you leave to protest?" she said, her voice low and dangerous.

The Italian fell silent at once, trembling beneath the weight of her disdain.

She stepped back towards him. Veronica could see his eyes wide in fear, his body trembling. Tania's hand moved to his crotch, but this time it was not to tease or give pleasure. It was for pain.

Her sharp dark nails dug hard into the soft flesh of his ball sack. He bit down hard on the gag, fighting the scream that threatened to rise. Any sound -- any weakness -- would only make it worse.

Tania stepped closer, her voice like a blade.

"How dare you moan at me, slave." She let the silence hang, cruel and heavy.
Then, with icy finality:

"For that little outburst... you'll go last."

The Italian nodded solemnly, still trying to contain the sharp pain of her talons deep into his softest area as a tear rolled down his cheeks as he whimpered like a puppy.

As one, they moved to the next man -- heels clicking in slow rhythm on the stone floor, the soft shhhk of sheer silk gliding as their thighs brushed with each prowling step, a whisper of nylon that stirred the silence like a promise.

---------------

Napa Nocturne

---------------

The next vintage was a younger pour -- early thirties, perhaps -- with a smooth caramel complexion that spoke of mixed heritage and bright sun. His physique was the most sculpted of the lot: bulging biceps, chiseled pecs, a torso clearly carved in some private gym. The lace-topped stockings clung absurdly to his thick, muscular thighs, a delicious contrast, while the heels arched his calves into taut perfection. It was a beautiful, ridiculous sight -- masculinity wrapped in silk and submission.

Veronica licked her lips, her eyes lingering with open admiration. Of all of them, this one stirred her the most. There was something in the way his body held tension -- barely restrained strength, the promise of power beneath the shame. She imagined what it might feel like to ride him, to straddle that raw masculinity and make it hers. One day, she hoped. One day, she would.

He shivered in anticipation. His cock a fine nine inches and thick. Straining just like the rest with a mix of arousal, the plug inserted within him and the tight rings keeping his delicious shaft painfully stiff.

Tania seemed to notice her apprentice's attraction and called her over.

"On your knees Veronica darling. Why don't you give this man a taste. See what you can tell me.

Veronica moved slowly toward him, their eyes locking--hers glinting with cruel knowledge, his wide with desperate longing. She licked her lips, savouring the way his body trembled and shuddered as she closed the distance.

Tania withdrew a plush red velvet cushion from beneath the table and set it gently before the man's feet.

Veronica lifted her skirt with slow, calculated grace, just high enough to unveil a flash of creamy, untouched skin above the dark band of her sheer silk Cervin stockings. The suspender clips gleamed, deliberately exposed.

With feline poise, she sank to her knees on the velvet, her movements unhurried, luxuriant. One hand hovered between them, fingers dancing in the charged air. The man bucked instinctively, hips jerking forward, his breath ragged with desperation. The leather at his ankles groaned under the strain, his whole body trembling--aching to be touched, to be claimed.

She reached up, her finger tips slowly enclosing themselves around the base of his cock before moving her mouth towards him. Forming her delicious wet lips into a perfect 'O' shape she slipped the helmet of his cock into her mouth.

The man's eyes rolled back in instant pleasure, the chains restraining him shook as his body reacted to the warm, soft wetness of her mouth.

Veronica inhaled his aroma, strong musk, intense and powerful. She hummed as she took him deeper into her throat, swallowing much as she could take of his large shaft. Her eyes closed as she started to move her head up and down, her fingers teasing his balls. Getting lost in the moment.

The man trembled and groaned, his body shuddering with release. The sound rippled through the cellar, stirring the others -- especially those still untouched. Their muffled cries rose in sympathy, not of pleasure, but of aching, desperate need.

Suddenly Veronica felt a sharp pain, her hair was being pulled back. The cock slipped past her lips, her mouth was still frozen in a wide 'O,' her breath hot and heavy.

"Now, now Veronica, you little cock slut. We don't want to be selfish and claim all of his seed without sharing. Do we?" Mistress Tania said sharply.

Recovering herself slightly, her own erection clearly visible in her dress, Veronica nodded.

"No, Mistress Tania. I'm sorry, Mistress," she gasped, her voice trembling as she remembered her place and fought to rein in her rising lust.

As Veronica stepped back Mistress Tania slipped smoothly into her place, her silhouette a striking contrast against the cellar's shadows. The sleek black dress clung to her like liquid night, the plunging back revealing the shape of her back. Her legs shining in those glossy tights and elevated by those unmistakable heels.

Her presence alone sent a fresh wave of tension rippling through him.

A drip of pre-cum fell in a long silky line from the tip of his cock to the floor while he shivered and shook in his bonds.

Tania placed the glass under his cock, catching some of the silver trail, before wrapping her fingers around the skin before vigorously milking his cock. It was both hard and harsh. There was no hint of pleasure, no teasing or attempt to draw out the moment. Her movements were brisk and clinical--like a nurse performing a procedure.

Veronica watched the mix of pleasure and pain flash across his face to the harsh hand-job. It didn't take long.

With a loud guttural moan he came, almost an explosion into the glass. Veronica watched as the relief of release swept over him, his body trembling with the final shudder of ecstasy. Then, as if his very life-force was draining away, he sagged into the chains, utterly spent and limp.

Tania looked at his deposit, swirling its contents with practiced flair in the glass as she held it up to the light. Bringing the glass down again she sniffed delicately, nostrils flaring.

"Fragrant," she said. "Hints of bravado. Strong nose. But does it deliver?"

She tasted. Slowly. Letting the silence stretch, letting him squirm. Her throat moved in a languorous swallow.

Veronica watched intently. "Well?"

Tania tilted her head, lips curling. "Sweet," she said at last. "Almost cloying. Very forward at first, but no depth. Like a charming dinner guest who talks too much about his yacht."

Veronica laughed, stepping close, their bodies almost touching. "But so very pretty..."

Tania handed the glass to Veronica to taste. She placed the glass slowly to her lips, her eyes on the man had just filled it, watching the hopeful look on his face for a good grade. She inhaled the aroma before taking a deep swig.

She thought for a moment, letting his juice slosh around her mouth, before swallowing.

Then she gave a soft, contemplative sigh.

"Mmm. Californian," she said at last, dabbing the corner of her mouth with the tip of her finger. "I'd stake a Château Margaux on it."

Tania cocked an eyebrow. "How can you tell?"

Veronica tilted the glass to catch the light, then swirled it with mock solemnity. "It's all sun and swagger. Bright, fruit-forward. The kind of flavour that bursts in, uninvited, and assumes you'll be charmed."

She sniffed again, theatrically. "Notes of almond milk, ambition... and something artificial underneath. Protein powder, maybe?"

Tania chuckled darkly. "Tech bro?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. Probably runs a wellness app. Lives in Venice Beach. Microdoses psilocybin and calls it therapy."

She handed the glass to Tania with a delicate shrug. "He's... pleasant. Very easy on the eye and a was a delight in my mouth. Eager to impress. But no staying power. Like a cabernet someone's poured too warm."

Tania sniffed the contents with a wrinkle of her nose. "Not bad. But not gold material."

Veronica leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, "A contender for Bronze, if he's lucky, if the next one can keep it together."

She turned back to the man, her voice honeyed and cruel. "Smile, sweetheart. You're still very... drinkable."

Then she turned to Tania, lips close to hers. "Ready for the next course?"

---------------

Rioja Ritual

---------------

Tania nodded before lifting the next clean crystal wine tumbler from the table, weighing it like something ancient and sacred. She looked at next man they were about to milk -- the Spaniard -- doing his best to hold a regal posture despite his humiliating position, his wrists bound above his head, legs clad in fishnet stockings, feet enclosed in sharp heels, his chest rising and falling with shallow hope.

He was older than the others. Early fifties, maybe, with iron-threaded temples and a neatly trimmed beard. The kind of man who had once commanded boardrooms and bloodlines, but now he was utterly at their mercy. The strain of being in bondage for so long showing on his face and the slight sweat on his brow. His dark eyes clung to Tania's face as if the outcome of the world depended on her lips.

Tania walked up close to him, smiling her wickedness smile as she ran the palm of her hand down his chest.

"Hmm, some class at last. In fact this one is an old favourite of mine. How long have I been your mistress? Ten years? More?"

She crouched down low in front of him, her lips tantalisingly close to his cock. Smaller and thinner than the Californian, but it had a delightful bow to its shape, curving round as it extended from his scrotum, then almost bending back to touch his stomach. It was a clean and smart cock, elegant, like him.

Tania leaned in, her soft red lips parting like a whispered invitation to a world only she could offer.

Behind her, Veronica froze, mesmerized by the curve of her mistress's behind framed perfectly by the sheer black tights and the teasing lift of her short skirt. A fierce, aching hunger swelled within her--a desperate need to trace her tongue slowly along the crevice of that flawless behind, to taste every inch of the woman who held her captive in desire. She longed not just to touch, but to be consumed by the essence of Mistress Tania herself.

Veronica's hand slipped under her own skirt, feeling her cock pressed tight in her panties. She started stroking herself gently as she admired her mistress. Almost aching as much as the slaves held captive before her.

Meanwhile Tania slid her hands down the Spaniard's thighs, her palms smoothly gliding over his skin. Then she leaned in further, so close her lips almost brushed him--only to exhale, a slow, deliberate warm breath across his soft flesh.

To Veronica's amazement that was all it took, in no time the Spaniard jerked and twitched, letting out a muffled cry. Tania quickly grabbed his cock and in one quick stroke milked him into the glass as he continued to groan and cry behind the gag.

Veronica watched his face, entranced by the delicious torment that twisted his features. When release came, it caught her by surprise -- not the act itself, but the tears that followed. First a single drop, then sobs that shook his bound form. Whether they were born of pleasure or sorrow, she couldn't say. But watching him unravel was its own exquisite reward.

Tania paid no heed to his emotions, vigorously and harshly masturbating every last drop into her glass, watching the pained expression on his face as it became sensitive, before leaving him deflated and beaten.

She raised the glass to her nose, inhaling deeply, just as before. Then she took a generous sip, letting the flavour linger on her tongue, savouring every note.

Without passing her own judgement she handed the glass to Veronica. "From the house of Aragón," she murmured, amused. "One of our more... established vintages."

Veronica accepted it with reverence, and crouched before him with slow, deliberate grace. She let her hand brush his thigh -- featherlight -- then raised the glass to her lips. The man's eyes widened, almost stricken with anticipation.

She took a sip. Closed her eyes.

"Mm..." she said, drawing it out like silk unwinding. "A rich mouthfeel. Complex. And a depth. There's something earthy at the core -- truffle, perhaps. Tobacco leaf. Definitely oak."

She glanced up at him. "You've been aged well."

His lips trembled. She watched him swallow back a desperate little sound.

Tania was circling now, slow and silent, like a predator in heels.

Veronica took another taste, letting it linger longer. Then: "There's warmth, too. Sun-drenched stone. Old money. Old pride. He wants to be perfect for us."

"Is he?" Tania asked, stepping in close behind her, sending a slight shiver down Veronica's spine.

She turned slightly, her cheek brushing Tania's. "Almost." Veronica's voice was hushed now, intimate. "But he's trying too hard. There's a tension in the finish... fear, maybe. Or shame?"

Tania looked at the man. "Do you feel ashamed?" she asked gently.

He nodded, just once. His eyes were glassy with need.

She smiled, then leaned in to speak into his ear. "Good. That means you remember what you are."

Veronica set the glass aside, licking a last trace of the white creamy fluid from her lip. "Still... refined. Well bred. He's no gold, but I'd drink him again."

"Bronze?" Tania offered.

"Bronze at best," Veronica agreed.

The man exhaled, trembling with quiet relief. For now.

---------------

Malbec Mercy

---------------

Tania clapped her hands, crisp and sharp as a riding crop. "Now... bring us the Argentinian. Let's see if fire can rival finesse."

Then next man was striking in a wholly different way--less brute strength than the Californian, less polished than the Spaniard, and far more raw than the others. He was perhaps in his early forties, his body a sculpted contrast of strength and sensuality, drenched in oil that gleamed like sunlight over polished leather. His skin held a bronzed, dusky warmth, somewhere between mahogany and burnt copper, and a faint scar curved like a crescent beneath one collarbone--a whisper of violence long past.

There was something untamed about him. His hair was thick and dark, unruly in places, like it would curl if left to grow out. Greying stubble framed his strong jaw, and even gagged, there was an intensity in his eyes that burned with restrained fire. He was beautiful, but not in a delicate way--his beauty had weight to it, like a glass of Malbec: dark, brooding, with a finish that lingered long after the first taste.

This one wasn't born into riches. He'd fought for them. Possibly killed for them.

Tania circled him slowly, her heels clicking a precise rhythm across the tiles. Veronica followed just behind, her fingers ghosting over the Argentine's oil-slick skin, watching the muscles ripple beneath her touch. He inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring, head tilting back in aching submission.

"A stallion," Veronica whispered softly, eyes flicking to her mistress. "Wild and proud, even in chains."

Tania gave a small smile, drawing a sharp fingernail down the centre of his chest, watching his entire body strain toward her. "He'll beg like all the rest," she murmured. "But not before we taste the edge of his fire--there's a capo's pride in him still."

His chest rose in shallow, measured breaths, though the faint twitch at the corners of his mouth betrayed a hunger to please. Like the others, he wore sheer stockings and glossy black heels--a quiet, exquisite humiliation, one that might cost him his life if his rivals ever saw. But that only sharpened his devotion, heightened the thrill of risk. The thick collar at his neck gleamed under the lights, and the leather blinkers stole everything but sound, scent, and sensation.

He couldn't see the others that had been tasted... but he knew.

There was pride in this one -- a hunger to prove himself worthy, to be the finest of her collection.


Tania seemed to favour him. She lingered, circling slowly, like a lioness with her chosen prey.
Her fingertips traced along his flanks, gliding over oiled skin, feeling the tension coil beneath -- sinew and muscle taut with need, straining at her touch, aching for more.

She stepped in close, until their bodies brushed -- a whisper of warmth, of promise.

With deliberate grace, she lifted the hem of her dress, inch by inch, until Veronica could clearly see the curve of her backside as it came into view. Taut and toned, sculpted to perfection, her cheeks were wrapped in whisper-thin black -- silk-gloss sheer, clinging like a second skin.

The delicate weave shimmered with each subtle shift of muscle at her hip, a sensual tension of her body pressed against him made the Argentinian swallow hard... and drew a breathless gasp from the watching Veronica behind.

Tania raised herself on her tiptoes, while her hand slipped down and pressed his cock between her legs, gripping it tight with her strong nylon clad thighs against her crotch. The main moaned with pleasure as his sensitive cock came in touch with her warm inner thigh, feeling the smooth, silky hose rub against his flesh.

Slowly she began to thrust in and out, moving her hips back and forth, sliding his bare cock over silky nylon as she gripped him tight with her legs and her crotch. Fucking him without letting him have the honour of penetration, just the silky hose pressing against his sensitive skin.

Her hands moved around his back, nails digging in hard to the soft flesh of his ass-cheeks. Knowing how much he liked pain mixed with his pleasure.

"Miss Vale, be a darling and prepare the next glass. I don't want a single drop on my beautiful Cecilia de Rafaels. And I don't think our friend will last much longer."

Veronica moved quickly, her heels clicking as she fetched a fresh Baccarat Massena--eager to please, and even more eager not to spill. holding it close to the soft flesh of the head of the Argentinian's cock as it poked out from just below Mistress Tania's ass cheeks and above her muscular thighs.

She heard him moan first, and then large spurt of cum followed, rope after rope blasting into the glass. She was careful to catch every last drop, holding it against the soft skin of his helmet, catching every last dribble so as not to ruin her mistress's expensive hose.

But the sight of this cock squeezed tight between her mistresses taut nylon clad cheeks was too much to bear.

Veronica leaned down to her haunches and took the tip into her mouth, her nose pressed into the crack of her mistress's ass as Tania gripped him still with those powerful thighs, inhaling her mistress's aroma while tasting his last drips of the Argentinan's seed.

Veronica heard her mistress moan softly with pleasure as she felt her pet nuzzle into her behind.

At last, when she was sure not a single drop had been wasted, Veronica eased away, allowing her mistress to dismount with grace.

Just like the others, the Argentinian hung limp in his restraints, utterly spent.

But there was a flicker of contentment in his expression -- a faint smile that suggested he felt just a little more favoured than the rest.

And perhaps he had been.


Tania held the glass between her fingers like a chalice, swirling it with deliberate grace. The fluid caught the low light--thick, glistening, a gift from the man now hanging limp in his restraints. She raised it to her lips first, letting a single drop touch her tongue. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she savoured the taste.

"Mmm... bold," she murmured, her voice low and rich with amusement. "Earthy. A little wild around the edges."

She turned to Veronica and offered her the glass. Veronica accepted it with reverence, fingers brushing Tania's. She took a sip, slower than she meant to, her breath catching at the heat of it, the intimacy of it as Tania wrapped an arm around her hips, pulling her closer.

"There's spice," she whispered. "Something reckless underneath. Like he'd bite if he wasn't bound."

Tania smiled and leaned in, her lips brushing Veronica's cheek as she whispered, "He would have. That's why he's mine."

Tania took the glass back, taking a long deep drink of the contents, before turning her head back to her pet.

The Argentinian moaned. His muscles tensed despite his exhaustion, his cock twitching at the sight now before him.

Tania reached up, fingers light beneath Veronica's chin, guiding her closer with a touch as delicate as breath. She brought their mouths together in a slow, deliberate kiss--deep and wine-dark, as she shared the creamy liquid between their lips. It was intimate, languid, and full of unspoken possession. The way they savoured each other, and him, was almost cruel in its beauty. He had never felt so powerless... or so completely desired.

Tania broke the kiss with a soft laugh, licking her lips. "Untamed," she said, her eyes on him. "But not anymore."

Veronica held the glass up once more, studying the remnants. "Complex. Dangerous. Decadent." She grinned. "He might be a contender for gold."

Tania nodded, her smile approving. "We'll let the last two finish... but yes. He lingers delightfully."

---------------

Pinot Provocation

---------------

The Frenchman was the youngest -- perhaps just thirty -- with soft, pale skin and an aristocratic grace that made Veronica pause. His cock, while not the largest in the room, stood proudly between his thighs, slender and elegant, like the rest of him. A gentleman's cock. Six inches of quiet promise.

He was restrained like the others, of course -- wrists bound, legs parted, clad in shimmering black hosiery and narrow heels that elevated his slim calves with just the right tension. But his expression wasn't defiant or broken. It was open. Receptive. He gazed at her like a man already in love with being used.

Veronica kept her gaze lowered, her tone respectful. "Mistress Tania... may I be permitted to set one palette? I wish to learn, under your guidance."

Tania studied her in silence for a moment -- a thoughtful, unreadable gaze -- then gave a single, deliberate nod. No smile. Just permission. Then, softly:
"Very well, Ms Vane. Let us see what your palate remembers... when your hands are the ones preparing it."

Veronica stepped in close, saying nothing. Her breath was soft, her eyes heavy with promise. She lifted her skirt, her stockings already on display, black lace biting gently into her thighs beneath the garter straps.

She guided him into place with calm precision, mirroring Tania's earlier method -- her hands finding his hips, then sliding down to cup the soft weight of his bum, gripping it firmly. She rose slowly onto her toes, her chest brushing his, oil ruining the fabric of her dress, and pressed his cock between her thighs. Skin on skin -- the heat immediate -- and the head of his cock nestled just beneath her lace panties.

She held him there, squeezing with her legs -- cock snug between them -- and began to move her hips in slow, teasing thrusts. His shaft slid between bare thighs with each motion, friction making him gasp. She let him feel her -- her heat, her scent, her control -- while her hands gripped and kneaded his bum, pulling him into her rhythm. He was being fucked, but not allowed to fuck. And she loved it.

She eased herself closer until their faces nearly touched. She could see every flicker in his eyes -- the restraint, the hope, the aching hunger.

"You're trembling," she whispered. "But you're not afraid, are you?"

He shook his head, gagged but lucid, his eyes holding hers like a vow. She began to move with pressure. A slow grind, her panties dragging along the length of his shaft, the fabric growing wetter by the second with precum. His breath hitched. She leaned in, forehead brushing his. They shared air.

And still she moved. Gentle, intimate friction. Behind her, she sensed Tania's presence approach -- not interrupting, merely witnessing. She crouched beside them, glass in hand, watching the growing tremble in the Frenchman's thighs.

"Now, Veronica," she said quietly. "Catch him."

Veronica nodded, and without breaking eye contact, she reached behind herself and lifted just enough to make space. Tania moved in with the glass, positioning it beneath his cock with graceful precision.

His release came moments later -- soft, wet spurts painting the inside of the crystal. But not all of it. One rope arched high, landing hot against Veronica's inner thigh and the damp panel of her panties.

She gasped, her body stiffening -- in something close to reverence. Still straddling him, she looked down, there was no way to see it, it was performance. Then up at him again.

"You made me messy," she whispered, lips close to his gag. "How very... forward."

Behind her, she felt warmth. Tania had crouched again -- this time behind Veronica -- and gently parted her cheeks with two fingers, her breath brushing over the cum-slicked nylon. Then, without a word, she placed her nose there. Soft. Intentional. A delicate inhale, as if to scent not just Veronica, but the Frenchman.

Veronica tensed. Her breath caught. Was she clean enough? Had the evening left her musky, too raw? Her thighs twitched, a flicker of old self-consciousness bubbling up. But Tania stayed -- silent, steady -- breathing her in through the lace, letting the moment speak.

Then, without hesitation, Tania hooked her fingers into the gusset of the pink thong -- where it clung damp against the soft space behind Veronica's tucked balls -- and drew it aside tenderly.

She exposed Veronica's hole fully, unfiltered now, and leaned closer. And sniffed again. Slower. Deeper. As if the bare scent -- unmasked, intimate, wholly hers -- was something worth savouring.

Veronica flushed. Not with shame, but with something warmer. Tania had gone back in. She wanted more. She liked it. The scent, the mix, her. There was no mistaking it now -- not to Tania, and not to Veronica herself. She smelled like sex. Like confidence. Like exactly the kind of girl she was becoming. And that did something to her. She let out a soft, involuntary moan.

The Frenchman and Veronica's faces were still close. His eyes were tired now, his body sagging with release -- but he watched her. He saw the flicker of something intimate pass through her gaze, knew that Mistress Tania was doing something behind her, something intense. He didn't know what, but he felt it. And when Veronica dismounted without a word -- without even looking at him -- it stung more than he expected.

"You're learning beautifully," Tania murmured. "That... was art." She handed the glass to Veronica, their fingers brushing. "Go on," she said. "Taste him. He's yours."

Veronica took the glass with both hands, steady despite the ache in her cock. The liquid shimmered faintly -- pale, opalescent, still warm. She tilted it, just enough to coat the rim, sniffed the contents, then brought it to her lips.

She let the first sip rest on her tongue. The swallowed. Softly, almost to herself:
"Salt... but only a whisper. There's something brighter beneath it. Not sweet exactly -- more like... the ghost of red fruit. Like berries left too long in silk."

Her brow furrowing in quiet thought. "And there's a touch of acidity -- tart, but soft. Like he's still holding something back. But it feels grounded. Honest." She paused, eyes still closed. "It's delicate," she said finally. "But it stays with you."

When she opened her eyes, Tania was already watching -- a quiet pride in her expression. She touched Veronica's cheek with two fingers, letting them linger there. "You tasted him truly," she said. "Not just on your tongue."

Tania took the glass from Veronica, bringing it to her lips without ceremony. She sipped, eyes closing as the flavour touched her tongue. Then she stilled. A moment passed. Then another.

When she opened her eyes, they were darker. Focused. "He's... remarkable," she said softly. "There's lightness, yes. But also depth. Not youthful, not simple. There's a tension in him -- between what he gave and what he held back. It makes the finish... ache."

She looked at the Frenchman with new weight in her gaze -- not affection, but appraisal. Like a jeweller reassessing a gem. "A contender," she said. "Strong. Quiet. Unassuming. But unmistakably present."

She handed the glass back to Veronica with a faint smile.


"You chose well."

Veronica lingered with the glass after Tania's verdict, watching the last streaks of release cling to the inner curve. Reflexively -- without thought -- she dipped her little finger in and scooped what remained. A quiet, greedy gesture. She brought it to her lips and tasted, moaning faintly, eyes fluttering closed.

A sound from Tania broke her trance. Not harsh -- just the faintest sigh. The roll of her eyes. Veronica froze. She'd shown her roots again. That hungry, unpolished instinct. She wasn't born to this -- not like Mistress.

Their eyes met. Veronica flushed, ashamed. Then, slowly, she extended her little finger -- still glistening with a mix of his cum and her own saliva -- and offered it.

A pause. Then Tania leaned in. No words. No judgement. She simply took Veronica's hand in hers and closed her lips around the offered finger, sucking it clean with slow, deliberate grace. When she pulled back, her tongue flicked once across the tip. "You're learning," she murmured. "But never forget... someone is always watching." Veronica nodded, breath caught, lesson received.

---------------

Primitivo Performance

---------------

The Italian was undeniably handsome -- dark-eyed, square-jawed, with the kind of classical beauty that turned heads without trying. But something in his stillness felt forced, as if he believed his looks were enough. Mistress Tania had been cool toward him all evening. No correction, no praise. Just distance.

When his turn came, she approached without fanfare. She didn't straddle. Didn't whisper or tease. She simply stood beside him and stroked him with one hand -- slowly, mechanically -- as if completing a chore. Her expression looked bored, her body told the story: this was duty, not pleasure.

He stiffened quickly. Of course he did. He thought it meant something. Tania positioned the crystal glass with precise detachment, catching each spurt as it came. The first was strong. The rest tapered quickly, like a showy firework that burned too fast.

She held the glass up to the light, then swirled it with the finesse of a woman who'd tasted true vintages -- and was already disappointed. "All heat, no complexity. A young wine in a handsome bottle." She sipped, just enough to judge. A slight downturn of her lips. "Hot, yes. But coarse. No depth. No patience."

She handed the glass to Veronica like passing off a half-read pamphlet. "You may taste him," she said. "If you're curious. But he's not for gold."

The Italian didn't speak -- couldn't -- but the flush in his face wasn't from pleasure.

Veronica accepted the glass with a small nod, then brought it to her lips. She sipped, let it sit, then swallowed slowly. Her eyes didn't close this time. "It's... hot," she said carefully. "Immediate. Like he couldn't wait to be tasted." She looked at the Italian -- still flushed, still restrained -- then back at the glass. "There's ambition," she added. "But it's loud. Like he's trying to be complex... without doing the work."

She offered the glass back to Tania with steady hands, but her voice softened. "He's not gold," she said. "But I don't think he knows that yet."

Tania gave a quiet hum -- not quite approval, not quite critique -- just a note of acknowledgment. Veronica's claws had shown... just enough.

Something shifted in the Italian's eyes. The arrogance was still there -- but softer now. Tempered. For the first time, he looked at Veronica not like a woman to impress... but like someone he might listen to. A slow exhale left his chest. Not defeat. Not quite. Just... the beginning of understanding.

Veronica sensed it -- and so, she realised, did Mistress Tania. Just that look Tania gave when she saw everything.

They stood together in the hush that followed the final tasting -- the air thick with the scent of cum, tension, and the soft clink of glass on silver.

Mistress Tania set down her glass and let her gaze roam over the exhausted, glistening men -- all spent, all aching, all waiting to be chosen. She smiled, slow and dangerous.

"Well then," she murmured, her voice like velvet over a blade, "shall we see which of our boys is worthy of the final course?"

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If you've enjoyed this indulgent first course, don't stop now -- the real rewards are just beginning. Head over to my wickedly talented writing partner Veronica Vane's profile for Part 2, and discover which of our eager boys earns a medal... and what delicious prizes await.

Be sure to follow my writing partner for part 2 ????