Petrus

The tale of a neighbour drinking truly remarkable wine in a restaurant is true, from a couple of weekends back. (Hey, we have posh neighbours round here, OK?!). The rest – well, that may be a little more creative!

—-

The gentleman perching next to us at the counter was quick to strike up conversation. “Do you live locally? Do you eat here often? Do you like the place?”

She was shy; I chatted away, and noticed that he’d arrived with his own wine. The house Chablis was rather on the rough side; I was surprised to see that you could “bring your own”.

“I come here a lot, and they don’t mind,” he replied. “And this one’s ready to drink.”

He showed us the bottle; I tried not to splutter. Petrus. 1984. “Wow…”

He suddenly looked serious. “It’s really rather nice. As is the young lady with you.” (Who blushed deeply, at this point). “Care to swap?”

—

An hour, we agreed. To use her however he chose, whilst I stayed behind and sipped his claret.

—

Fifty-eight minutes later. Not that I was watching the second hand tick by…

“She’s in the back of my car outside. My chauffeur will be happy to take you home. How was the Petrus?”

“Remarkable.”

“The same could be said about the girl. Once she decided to be obedient.”

—

She wasn’t naked. Quite. Although the lack of underwear and torn dress rendered her almost so.

Cowering, in the corner. Dishevelled. Bruised. She tried to smile, but the tears were flowing too freely. I reached for her hand. She hesitated, before proffering hers.

I spoke to the driver, giving him the address. No more words during the subsequent ten minutes, until he deposited us in the dark of the familiar street.

No more words in the ten minutes after that, either, as she curled in a ball into my arms.

And still none as I did what I knew to be needed. Turned her onto her front. Pulled up the remainder of her dress. Moved on top of her. Brought her back from his world into mine, gently at first and then – thrusting hard against the expertly-administered weals that striped her buttocks – as roughly as I knew how.

Finally, the whisper: “May I cum for you, sir?”

My affirmation. Her gasp.

And then more tears.

And cuddles. The tightest of cuddles.

—

It was three days before she told me what had happened. Three days of processing, of hiding, of shame. Three days before the long email, headed ‘Confession’.

Ten minutes, before my reply: ‘Obedience’. How she was a good girl; how proud I was of her for taking what he’d done. How her initial reluctance was understandable; how what he’d done next was more than adequate punishment.

—

Two more days before his letter appeared on the welcome mat. With thanks. And with photographs. And with the request – or was it an instruction? “8pm on Saturday. I think you’ll find the Latour ’82 to your taste.”