Elevator doors slid open without a sound. The lobby was mostly vacant, unlike the pandemonium of earlier in the day when a crowd scurried to and fro with private urgency. Silence was in stark contrast to the activity of the day when every conference room was filled with a varied cross-section of agendas. My own conference room now lay in mute repose, waiting for the next day’s training to commence. Emails were answered, additional work placed in queue; my day was finally approaching completion.

I was alone, as usual. Alone with memories haunting me with private pleasures; anything else trying to get into my head ignored, suppressed with a vengeance. My mission had been reduced to its most simple form, a nightcap. A glass of wine, maybe two would be my final act of the day, and long overdue.

The bar was empty at this late hour. Those choosing to imbibe and socialize had long since departed. Closing time stood as a lonely sentinel waiting to execute a different act of conclusion. To my good fortune, there was time left to add the finishing touches to an otherwise uneventful day.

"Keeping late hours tonight, my friend?" the bartender broke the silence first as I slid into a comfortable bar chair.

"I’m afraid so. Good news is...we’re both nearing the end of this day."

The bartender wiped the rich mahogany surface in front of him. "Right you are. What can I do to enhance your exit from this fine evening?"

"I think I need a perfect cabernet," I replied, stretching in resignation.

The bartender turned away to respond to my request. Hands perched on his hips; he surveyed what choices were available to address my “departure”. He reached into the darkness of a cabinet full of different wines and pulled an unopened bottle off the rack. Tilting his head up, peering through bifocals to inspect the label, he nodded to himself before turning to present me with his choice.

"I have affection for this particular wine," he spoke with confident conviction. "It’s a Guenoc cab, 1990. It’ll cost you about ten bucks per..."

"Do it!" I replied with no hesitation, cutting him off in mid-explanation. His choice was excellent. I could not think of a single occasion a 1990 Guenoc cabernet would spoil; one of Sonoma’s finest.

He smiled at my approval of his choice and produced a corkscrew to initiate the process of preparing my departure.

"You’ve had this wine before?" he asked.

"Yes. My first experience was with a very rare piece of prime rib in Raleigh, North Carolina. I was impressed that it held its ground despite an onslaught of taste interference by killer, raw horseradish. It never wavered, and it finished with a nice peppery statement. It lingered with precision that impressed me, and I’ve found nothing like it since. I compliment you on your selection."

He smiled. It was apparent we both knew what we were talking about. A wineglass was placed in front of me, and the pouring commenced with the deft flair of a professional. There’s something about the sound a good wine makes when it’s first poured. It doesn’t gurgle, it clicks. The slap of liquid against the inside of bottle as it fights through atmosphere fifteen years younger than itself delivers a sharp, snapping staccato, a crispness that defies its liquid nature. Visions of spiked heels on perfect legs walked right into my mind’s eye, synchronized with the steady click of the wine’s approach to readiness.

The bartender broke the hotel’s rules of engagement, filling the glass well over the official half-glass limit. The single drip that physics permits to linger on every bottle’s lip rolled expertly into oblivion as his pouring finally ceased. Everything seemed to shift into slow motion. A transition began to take shape. My focus sharpened. My pulse quickened. This was going to be so very, very oral.

Deep within my silent reverie, thoughts transitioned from merely sipping a glass of wine to delights of delivering lingering oral sex to a woman who craves such private attentions. The give and take is so alive. Every aspect of it is as vivid as the sensory experience of sipping a good wine. My thoughts expanded as I considered what was yet to come.

My anticipation was nothing short of arousal as I swirled the rich, ruby liquid around the graceful curves of the wineglass. The recessed halogen lighting above me reflected with sparkling brilliance as sharp as the crackle of the original pouring. Shards of light danced, enticing me with a silent call to smell the essence – her essence – to breathe deeply of her maturity, her personal perfection. The cabernet became my lover, waiting for gentle touch and lingering attention. The give and take would happen slowly, so very, very slowly. Every nuance of what she had to offer devoured with patient elegance. There was no sense rushing through what had been fifteen years in the making.

I lifted her gently, cradling the firm curve of her bottom, fingers brushing past the long slender stem of her neck. My eyes closed in an effort to shut out any distraction between us during this first intimate touch of our lovemaking. Her sweet smell of her sex flooded into my brain, as I drew a slow steady breath. My mouth began to water, aching to taste her, taste her maturity, and her perfection. My lips parted, drawing her closer. Slowly, patient hand coaxed and she slipped toward me, nectar poised to flow into my waiting mouth, deserving to dance a lingering celebration with my tongue.

She came suddenly. Exploding in her splendor as lips brushed her surface, tongue accepting her sweet offering. I knew she came right then. I knew her taste in that moment. I knew how long she’d last and every other subtlety of her oral completion. I held her in my mouth, tongue moving left, then right, rolling her, swirling her, twirling her, making sure I exposed her to every corner of my mouth.

Finally I swallowed her wonderful wetness marking mutual submission to this magic, yielding to the ultimate power she held over me. I leaned back to enjoy another look at her rich vibrancy. She was beautiful indeed. I exhaled slowly; experiencing her scent as it flowed out through my nostrils.

"Kind of like making love to a beautiful woman, isn’t it?" the bartender said softly as he smiled at me.

"You must’ve been reading my mind."

"No my friend," he spoke slowly, "I read your face."

We both laughed at the obvious enjoyment I displayed. I raised the glass and drank of her once again, drawing her in deeply, holding her long enough to savor every nuance of who she was before swallowing greedily. My tongue slipped across my lips to find the small traces of her left behind. It was obvious I’d never have enough of her to satisfy me. I’d never tire of spending quality time wrapped in her warm embrace, marveling at her maturity, licking evidence of her perfection from my lips.

"My friend, I’m afraid it’s time for last call."

I rose from my chair and reached for the bottle.

"No problem," I said with a smile, "we were just going up to my room anyway. Close me out, so I can finish treating her like the fine woman she is."

He nodded and smiled a knowing smile.

"Good night, my friend."