Blind Tasting

by EllaRegina

They called themselves The Montridge Eight, after the metropolitan area suburb in which they lived, a thirty-nine-minute commute to the city, and though the name sounded like an underground terrorist group from the 1960s, their most incendiary efforts had involved turning on a Viking stove or lighting a Weber grill. A four-couple gourmet cooking club, The Montridge Eight met once a month, their homes revolving as venue, to travel the world gastronomically, one country and cuisine at a time. Creative professionals all, they were detail-oriented: an evening's theme would extend well beyond the food, to the decor, the wine, the music, sometimes even to the furniture.

The Greens, the Blacks, the Grays, the Whites: a box of crayons—an odd one since the Blacks were not, the Whites were light brown and the Greens and Grays beige variations. They were the epitome of sophistication and urbane modern living. The men had long been vasectomized, completely relieving their marriages of pregnancy scares and latex fluid barriers. The couples were close and getting closer. The Montridge Eight gatherings elicited flirtatious behavior that grew stronger over the years. It began with one foot finding another under the table, or venturing further, toes slowly massaging a crotch. Hands would sneak inside waistbands from behind. Soon, parlor games were incorporated: first dirty Mad Libs—"Name of Person in Room" particularly revealing—then adult Charades, followed sequentially by Twister, strip tease, Strip Poker and Spin-the-Bottle. The Blacks, who lived in a former firehouse, offered their pole for dancing when they hosted, a mirrored ball on the high ceiling throwing sparkles over the dimmed space as each woman spun around the shiny brass upright, inspired by the thumping disco groans of Donna Summer and company. With each installment of the cooking club The Montridge Eight became increasingly daring and experimental. Perhaps it was the Cabernet, or the Pinot Grigio, or the Riesling, or the Rioja.

Although beyond familiar, the Greens, Blacks, Grays, and Whites—a living version of the board game Clue—decided from the onset that during these occasions they would refer to each other, including their own spouses, as Monsieur or Madame, evoking old black and white movies where the husband called the wife "Mother," lending the evenings a certain frisson of staged formality—an interesting counterpoint to the sub-table footsie and miscellaneous lusty doings—often inspiring unscripted postprandial role-playing once the couples were back in their own bedrooms:

"Would you do it to me in the Library with The Lead Pipe, Monsieur Gray?"

"Most assuredly, Madame Gray. My very large one. Where shall I put it?"

Across Montridge's verdant tree-lined streets, a parallel scene was unfolding at the Green house:

"In the Billiard Room, on the table, with The Rope, Madame Green?"

"Of course, Monsieur Green. A hog-tie is definitely in order," she replied, spreading her excited legs as Monsieur Green undid his perfectly slip-knotted neckwear, anxious to truss Madame's limbs, rigid cock pointed towards her from an unbuttoned fly.

* * *

The February get-together, at the White home, followed a Brazilian theme, it being a Saturday coinciding with Carnival in Rio de Janeiro. Invitations were e-mailed to everyone separately. In those sent to each Madame, a curious request was made. After noting her specific menu contribution—assigned from wine, hors d'oeuvre, side dish and dessert categories; the hosts would provide cocktails, the main course, and coffee—it was stated:

If not already hairless in your nether regions, a full Brazilian waxing should be undergone the day before The Montridge Eight event. Do not expose those waxed parts to the Monsieur, let him feel them, nor explain why. Note: if skin sensitivity precludes the application of hot wax a cream depilatory may be used.

No perfume or scented body lotion.

The Monsieurs received similar directives to eliminate any existing hair from navel to knees, by whatever means necessary, the day of the meeting. Monsieur Black was asked to shave off his goatee and, if queried by Madame Black, to say that he just felt like a change. The playing field was to be leveled, literally mowed. Fingernails were to be neatly trimmed.

All e-mails gave the same cryptic proclamatory ending:

The evening will conclude with a Blind Tasting.

On February 21st The Montridge Eight will travel further than they have ever gone.

* * *

The Whites: the Monsieur, a film producer; the Madame, an architect, lived in a house of Madame White's design—a sprawling one-storey of stone and glass. A central hall was flanked by sixteen interconnected corridor-like rooms that could be walked through, from one to the next, with the exception of a guest bath and five sleeping chambers—rectangular beads on a string, each painted a different vivid color. Traversing their floor plan was crossing a rainbow. The Whites joked that their home simply reflected that they were people of color, but the spatial effect was more than ironic—the palette had a cumulative beguiling influence.

The group ambled through the house, giddily drinking Caipirinha lime cocktails, the Monsieurs in cashmere sweaters and wool suits; the Mesdames wearing flowing crepe and clingy silk, tottering on stilettos and kitten heels—they could be quadruplets or a ballerina quartet, so similarly sized, shaped and toned from weight-lifting, tennis and Pilates. The Monsieurs also had comparable physiques—athletic well-tended bodies the result of running, swimming, and biking. Even their cocks shared a resemblance, formidable every one, this mutually and tacitly observed in the pool club locker room.

Monsieur White's custom audio mix played everywhere, emanating from speakers hidden behind walls: The Girl from Ipanema bossa nova charmed the Ballroom; a samba romanced the Conservatory; and Carmen Miranda belted out a frenetic Tico Tico from an unseen Copacabana in the Lounge. Other rooms featured Brazilian jazz or indigenous music—natives playing whistles, flutes, horns, rattles and drums, imitating the sounds of the Amazon Rainforest. The entire house was animated.

Plasma HDTVs descended from ceilings in almost every room, volume muted, looping TiVoed soccer games with Brazil always in the lead, teams on each 30" flat panel keyed by their uniform colors to the room itself. In the blue study two Donald Duck cartoons were projected onto mammoth screens posted at opposite walls: the mischievous fowl rescued from the blues by an Aracuan bird in a samba café—dancing, getting mixed into a cocktail, being kicked in all directions from between the flesh and blood legs of a woman working the pedals of a Hammond organ. Keyboards explode: flying ticker tape ribbons. At the drive-in across the room an artist's paintbrush sketched blue Brazilian waterfalls—cascading ejaculations on an otherwise white background.

* * *

In the kitchen, three varieties of Brazilian red wine stood uncorked, brought by the Greens. The hors d'oeuvres—ripened Brazilian cheeses, Broa fennel corn bread and soft Pão de Queijo rolls (the Grays)—were set out on the soapstone-topped center island, and consumed standing up, hands grazing rears, fingers edging shoulders, calves against shins.

Once the churrasco-style meat was grilled, Monsieur White carried a tray of loaded skewers to the dining room table.. Madame White followed with the other foods: Coxinha, chicken-thigh-shaped croquettes; Feijoada, Rio's traditional black bean and meat stew (the Blacks); Farofa—a yucca, banana, egg and onion mix—collard greens, rice and beans, chouriço sausage, and fried plantains (the Grays).

Everyone took their places—green, black, gray and white dinnerware indicating seating arrangements. Orchids lay horizontally above each Madame's plate. Eight small white envelopes, centered on the dishes, identically stamped:

~ READ ME ~
YOUR BLIND TASTING INSTRUCTIONS

The printed contents were perused with a grin and a blush, then the papers slid into pockets or tucked inside brassieres.

By the time the meal commenced it was a pure bacchanal, fueled by the Blind Tasting intimations. Hands, mouths, tongues, foods—all mixed up—this one feeding that one, the sucking of dripping meats and fingers, stray morsels licked off cheeks, cashmere, wool, silk and crepe. Eating utensils were hardly touched. It was primitive, nearly pagan. Wine glasses spilling and refilling. Every cock was hard under the mahogany, every pussy ready and drooling.

Dessert eventually landed, a cloud in a decadent haze—coconut flan. The coffee, brewed from dark Brazilian beans purchased on Amazon.com, was drunk slowly, not just for savoring but so everyone could regroup. The evening was not over, the Blind Tasting still to come.

Each Madame selected a bathroom and freshened up on the bidet. Then, arm in arm, they descended the basement stairs, giggling in unison, flushed from the wine and the anticipation of what awaited them.

* * *

The windowless underground space functioned as a screening room, draped on all sides with black velvet curtains. It contained blue upholstered seats from a demolished Broadway theater and a carpeted podium, at the edge of which—just for this evening—was a freestanding wall, the meeting's centerpiece. Discovered by Madame White at the flea market, it was an artifact from a dissected carnival, part of a game where balls were pitched into open clown mouths. There were four such faces, each six feet high, painted mural-style across the partially three-dimensional paneled structure. Haywire raffia hair sprouted above ears, red punching bag noses drooped below each pair of wild eyes, and four gaping O mouth cut-outs—several feet above shoe level—were lined with red patent leather cushioned lips, worn and battered by a fifty-year swirling galaxy of balls in motion. A blue velvet curtain framed the unusual flat. Below each silently hysterical jester, distinctly shaped black terrycloth cushions—a circle, triangle, square, and diamond—lay on the floor; stunted tuffets.

On the reverse undecorated side, four heavy metal khaki footstools were planted solidly beneath each portal on the black industrial rubber tiling. A gag—red ball, black strap—sat atop each stool. The Mesdames, as per the instruction envelopes, removed all clothing—tittering nonstop during the unraveling—placing their garments on the dais, but retaining footwear.

Each Madame situated her well-toned rear inside an arbitrarily chosen mouth—like an animal trainer wedging his head into a yawning tiger jaw—and adjusted herself on the padded lips, feet kept on the stool, heels hooked into rungs for leverage. Each Madame took the ball gag and placed it in her mouth, securing the device behind her head. Each Madame waited.

The velvet curtain was drawn, sealing off the clown wall inserted with the four Mesdames—fleshy pegs, corks in holes—their isolated asses hanging in a row from gigantic puffy lips.

The Monsieurs entered and completely undressed as directed, laying clothing over the theater seats. There was to be no talking. Each Monsieur opened a palm-sized purple felt pouch, withdrew an amber glass vial, unscrewed it, and coated his nostril interiors with its contents: essential oil produced from Brazil's finest coffee beans. Spiraled multicolored corded elastic bands emerged next, to be worn somewhere between knee and ankle, Mini-Sharpie markers dangling from attached rings—the color of each writing implement matching the name of the Monsieur to whom it was given; Monsieur White's coil held a pinkie-length Wite-Out correction pen. Finally, each Monsieur took a plastic-wrapped slice from the bag—a cut of mango, papaya, guava or passion fruit—and rolled it in his mouth, a congratulatory cigar. The Monsieurs approached the curtain, stepping randomly onto cushions.

The lights went off. Noises came forth, a soundtrack of the Amazon Rainforest: a spectrum of meteorological effects, frogs, monkeys, jaguars, flowing streams, waterfalls, chirping fidgeting insects, hissing snakes, crying macaws, rackety Aracuan tree birds, crickety toucans, vampire bats and other flying creatures.

Aromatherapy units plugged into electrical outlets released a rainforest smell—a pungent mixture of green, orchids, vanilla, cocoa, mango, wood, leaf and musk. The coffee oil neutralized and masked odors; the Mesdames alone could appreciate the heady aromas.

The curtain slowly opened, its mossy fabric lightly brushing bodies on either side.

The Monsieurs felt an aura of heat at crotch level, issuing from the darkness-cloaked wall. Their hands, all eight, almost simultaneously, reached towards the thermal source facing them, as if to unchill by a campfire. Warm toned round flesh stopped the fingers. The Monsieurs realized that they were standing at an altar of asses. Each signed in using his pen, marking X, centered above the proximate hindquarters, where meaty curve became hard spine.

Then, the hands. They fondled, they prodded, they kneaded. The buttocks were smooth, every crevice and pussy uniformly bald. Each Monsieur sampled the sap of the trunk in front of him. Fingers entered fervent wet openings, rears wiggling encouragingly in response. Each Monsieur removed the fruit from his mouth and used it as a pulpy feather, tickling the labia before him, sliding the sweet piece in and out, sucking it for a moment and pushing it back inside, sometimes along with a thumb. Then the mouth, licking the fruit juice off the radiant aperture, teasing its bloated nub with a fingertip. Then the mouth sucking the slice, now mixed with the lubricious female secretions and returning to the pussy—kissing, tonguing, gently nibbling—each Monsieur different but the same.

On the other side of the wall eight knees quivered, mouth gags prevented voices from calling out, from squealing—blocked them from adding to the pleas of the macaws, the screams of the chimpanzees, the chittering of bats.

Four cocks stiffened in the dark, helped by a firm nectar-sticky grasp or two and the drum beat, the thunder, the wind, the entire jungle hum—its acoustical display gradually building in audibility and intensity. Fingers again at each set of parted lips, or caressing the orb of a rump. One digit entered an asshole, to the delight of the identity-unknown recipient, her derrière shivering.

The Monsieurs arrived at the same point concurrently, aiming their saliva-coated cockheads at the welcoming slippery pouts and slowly submerging.

Four cocks, up to the hilt within four pussies, each either unexplored territory or familiar path. It did not matter—it was the thrill of the not-knowing, the maybe, the notion that they could be poking their own Madame or another with whom they've played footsie, stinkfinger, tickle-rump, and Spin-the-Bottle for years.

Clues could not be transmitted to the Mesdames; Monsieur Gray had to refrain from his signature figure eight thrust, lest it be Madame Gray on the receiving end of his carnal movements. But no Monsieur felt limited and each took his time with the fucking—testing and withdrawing, diving in again, deeper, harder and unbridled. The Mesdames, rendered weak by their separate anonymous pleasures, were slumped chests to thighs, heads resting on knees, while vigorously being penetrated by unidentifiable thick anaconda snakes through holes in the wall—each taking a slithering fleshy battering.

The Monsieurs were four oil rigs toiling in blackness, grabbing hips with their perspiring hands, pushing towards the back of the wall. One Monsieur felt as if he were motoring a foreign car that fit like a glove, changing gears as he tracked the curves of the road. The Monsieurs varied and ratcheted their paces, somewhat choreographed by hypnotic rhythms and screeching animals; two divergent in momentum—one plunging very slowly, the other jerky and unleashed, spurred by calls of beasts in the feral night. They could not yell out as that would unmask their identities to each other and the Mesdames into whom they were plowing. This proved quite the challenge, especially for a particular Monsieur. He suppressed Tarzan exclamations and deep jaguar growling as his cock probed tight flesh gripping in reply, an invisible smoke signal.

However, when they came, all four within a short period, as if cued by the low grunts of a howler monkey, goaded and stimulated by each other's body heat and the arousing stirring pops of cocks driving into pussies—the Mesdames pierced on the human skewers nearly fainting from their own ecstasies; whimpering like birds unable to squawk—the Monsieurs yowled one collective indecipherable primal utterance, blending seamlessly with the surrounding untamed yelping. At varied intervals, four molten spouts poured into four pussies, dripping onto the terrycloth cushions as each Monsieur gave his final tremor of emission, the wall shaking and buckling precariously. They slouched, one by one, breathlessly on the padding beneath, their ammunition shot, regaining a little strength by eating any surviving fruit slices, listening to melodies of birds and streams, their own racing heartbeats adding to the bestial orchestra.

The Amazon Rainforest lulled and the velvet curtain closed. The lights rose incrementally from pitch black to a steady duskiness. The Monsieurs and the Mesdames re-attired and gathered their carnival props, perhaps to be used again during another scenario. They rested in the theater seats, scattered among a dozen rows, digesting the activities and recouping their energy. The Monsieurs furtively glanced at the four Mesdames, and vice versa, trying—unsuccessfully—to determine who had been with whom. Adieus were finally bid and the Greens, Blacks, and Grays departed; all Mesdames hanging on to their Monsieurs, all ambulation irregular, everybody spent.

* * *

It was only at home that each Monsieur and Madame might learn with whom they had taken their trip around the world. The Madame—a naked reflection in the bathroom mirror—could, with nail polish remover and a cotton ball, rub the X off her lower back. If resisting the temptation to unveil was impossible, she would look at the wad's colored residue. Otherwise, she would throw the unglimpsed lump into the toilet, close the lid and flush, then wash her hands, eyelids shut. If she spotted the family color she could tell her Monsieur that he piloted the airplane taking her on that mile-high Brazilian flight, or she could keep the information secret. She might also dip a finger inside herself and taste mango, papaya, guava or passion fruit, blended with her own juices and semen. Then, she could decide whether to call for her Monsieur, step together into the shower, and suck his fingers or cock before they turned on the hot water.

The next meeting of The Montridge Eight would surely be an interesting one.


_______________

EllaRegina's erotic fiction appears in the short story anthologies "Best Women's Erotica 2008," edited by Violet Blue (Cleis Press); "The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra," edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press, USA); "Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex," edited by Alison Tyler (Cleis Press); "The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8," edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press, USA); "Coming Together: Against the Odds," edited by Alessia Brio (Phaze Books); "Sexy Little Numbers," edited by Lindsay Gordon (Virgin Black Lace; Random House, UK); and "The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9," edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press, USA). Her work has also been featured online at Sliptongue, Cleansheets, the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, and Literotica. EllaRegina's story, "The Lonely Onanista," was shortlisted for the 2007 Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing. When not sniffing naughty words in the dictionary, the author can be found in her city or country online drawing rooms, making dirty pictures out of virtual lint, using a pair of tweezers: ellaregina.blogspot.com or myspace.com/ellaregina Contact: hotelscribe [AT] yahoo.com

Blind Tasting
© 2009 by EllaRegina

 

 
     
     

 

 



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