his lips and licking it off with his tongue. He smiled and pronounced it to be délicieux.
Pulling out of me, Pierre started to jerk himself off. He had gotten some flour on his hands, and it had created patchy lumps on his sweaty torso and dusted his cock. He didn’t pay any attention, though, as he whipped the foreskin back and forth over his cockhead. He concentrated on the tip of his dick, getting it really lubricated with cooking oil and swirling his finger all round it inside the foreskin.
With a low groan, he twitched his hips a few times, and his knees buckled, and he poured a cascade of his cream down onto me. When I had seen he was about to blow, I spun myself around so my mouth was inches from his cock, and as he shot his load, I opened my mouth to catch some of the custard. It was delicate and hot, sliding down my throat in a mass of slippery goo, and as he finished dribbling drops onto the edge of the marble table, I smacked my lips appreciatively, enjoying the last remnants of flavor.
When Pierre finished, he hunched over, taking a moment to come back to life. Then he leaned toward me to plant a final kiss on my mouth, which was still smeared with a mixture of our cum.
He licked a drop of it off my chin and kissed me again. We passed the little white ball of salty fluid back and forth between our mouths, sharing the snowball until it became too diluted with our saliva to taste, then he swallowed it and kissed me again one last time.
“That was better than anything else I tasted today,” I told him.
“You have a very discerning palate,” he joked back.
We dressed quickly—a customer could come in at any moment, after all—and Pierre sent me on my way with a bag of croissants and a package of chocolate bonbons before cleaning up his kitchen.
As I left, Pierre told me, “It’s nice to meet someone who appreciates what I do. I hope that you will come back.”
“I plan to be a regular. You can count on it,” I replied. “I’m going to tell everyone I know to drop by.”
“I’m not sure I can handle all that business,” he said, grinning. “But I can try.”
Samuel the Barrel Master
As a writer, I cover everything from current events to art history to food and wine. Basically I am a curious person, and that helps you when you’re a writer since you always want to get to the bottom of everything, so to speak.
While I lived in Los Angeles, I wrote a lot about the food scene, and because it was California, wine played a major part of what I talked about. That was just fine by me, since I am an avid oenophile, and I often plan entire trips around wine-tasting. Living in California was like heaven since I could visit so many different wine regions in my own state. While I lived there, I hit all the big ones, like Napa, Sonoma, and Santa Barbara, and even some of the lesser known regions, like Lodi, and Temecula, which is in the high desert near Palm Springs.
The most memorable trip by far, however, was a road trip I took, à la Sideways to the Santa Ynez Valley north of Santa Barbara. It’s home to some major appellations like the Santa Rita Hills, as well as iconic wine towns like Los Olivos and the Danish-themed Solvang.
I only had a few days, but I made the most of them since the two wines the area is known for, Chardonnay and Pinot Noir, are two of my favorite varietals. I think I managed to hit about six wineries a day, but toward the end of the trip, I slowed down, pacing myself more by plotting wineries that were farther away from the main towns.
That was how I ended up, at the conclusion of my last day, driving for about an hour down the winding roads through the Santa Rita Hills trying to find a particular winery whose wines were supposed to be amazing. I had made an appointment for the end of the day since it was so far removed from anywhere else I had been. I felt like a drunken explorer, wending my way through the little mountains past vineyards and fields dotted here and there with cows and various farm sheds.
After a little while, the road became unpaved, the signage stopped, and I was beginning to get worried that I was on the wrong track, but then I noticed a crude wooden sign for the winery I was seeking that pointed down an even rougher dirt track.
Downshifting, I pulled onto the ranch road and drove another five minutes past some sheds and a trickling creek before pulling up to a rusty iron gate that was flung open to reveal a gravel driveway.
With more than a little trepidation, I slowly pulled onto the drive and continued another couple minutes until I pulled around a bend and saw a huge shed in front of me. I’d arrived at the winery.
Unlike the places in Napa and Sonoma, the wineries down here were more casual, functional affairs. If the building kept the temperature cool, it was good for the wines, and good enough for the winemakers.
I gingerly stepped from my car and walked around the shed to where I could see the huge front doors. No one seemed to be around, not even a ranch dog. I knocked on one of the doors but got no answer, so I meekly stepped inside and started to look around.
I could hear some clanging from one corner of the shed, so I followed the noise, calling out, “Hello!”
The clanging immediately stopped, and as I continued walking, I saw a figure appear from between the fermentation tanks in front of me.
The person who greeted me was a burly young guy in his early twenties, with sparkling green eyes, reddish hair, and the start of a beard. He was about my height, which is to say, not tall, but he had at least forty pounds of muscle on me, which he’d amassed from harvesting grapes, hauling crates, and cleaning the huge tanks. When I met him, he was jollily stomping around in a pair of waterproof boots—the costume of his trade—and he came forward to meet me with a hearty handshake.
“You must be Brad,” he said, smiling broadly.
“I am, thank you for having me,” I said, trying to be polite, though I was immediately charmed by him.
“I’m Samuel, the barrel master. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting!” I stammered. “The drive up here was longer than I thought.”
“I know it, I’ve got to make it every morning!” Samuel said, laughing. “Everyone else has gone home for the day, so it’s just you and me. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I told him, struggling to hide my grin.
“I’m about done here anyway, so let’s get tasting,” he suggested.
I followed him to a little makeshift tasting bar that had been set up in the corner. It was basically a couple planks of wood thrown over two barrels. He raised an eyebrow at me, and asked, “Why don’t we go out and enjoy the sunset?”
“Sounds good,” I replied as he picked up two wineglasses and handed them to me, then scooped up several different bottles in his arms and tromped outside.
He led me around the shed to where there were a couple of beach chairs set up in a clearing that overlooked the hills all the way to the ocean. The sun was almost dipping into the sea as we set everything down, and Samuel poured each of us a taste of the first wine.
The sunset was just spectacular, illuminating the few clouds in the sky with shades of orange, pink, and lavender. Samuel and I sat there, enjoying it in silence for a few moments before starting to discuss the wines.
I was pleased to see that he was drinking them with me. Unlike some of the more formal tastings I’d been on, where one was expected to spit out the wine to avoid getting tipsy, we were both downing our tastes, then comparing opinions.
We didn’t agree on much. He tasted one thing, I tasted another. He liked this one, I liked that one. We were both getting a little “happy,” and our disagreements only contributed to the congenial mood, giving us something to keep talking about.
Now, I thought Samuel was very handsome, with his ruddy cheeks, his beefy physique, and his friendly manner, but I did not have even the faintest suspicion that he might be into guys.