Summer’s end. Time for the grape, both sipping and harvesting. I’ve got this huge extended family here in California–we were here prior to the Gold Rush –and along with orange and avocado groves, there are miles of vines. Everyone gathers for the press and for futures tasting, and during one of the gatherings some friends of my cousins caught me in an odd moment. I’d just gotten off the phone with my lover, who was on his way out of the country and was pouty (though he denied it) over the fact that I was not accompanying him this time.
Jim and Bev were on the deck sipping chardonnay when I stepped outside. I was tucking my phone away between my breasts when he looked directly at me and said “That gives whole new meaning to ‘you’re talking to my breasts’,” and then laughed at his own joke. I smiled politely at him, remembering that he and his wife owned a local B&B that my cousins had cross-promotion arrangements with. Be nice, I told myself.
Bev held out her hand. “You’re Pamela aren’t you? I’m–”
“Bev,” I interrupted her. She seemed pleased that I remembered her name.
“You really are lovely,” she said. “You look just like your grandmother… wasn’t she French?” Which lead to a discussion of where I get my looks–Yes, my paternal grandmother was French and Arab–she had an Algerian grandmother herself, and the coloring that distinguished me from all my blond cousins did indeed come from her side of the family.
I did my best to re-direct the conversation toward them, asking after their children. Most people love talking about themselves, but for some reason, Jim and Bev were fascinated with me and would not be deterred.
“So what is it that you do?” Jim asked me. Like most people, especially men, Jim operated under the the assumption that you are what you do.
I laughed behind the rim of my wine glass. “Oh wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Of course,” said Bev, giving me her full attention.
“Oh, I don’t do much of anything,” I said airily, prevaricating. For some reason the small amount of wine I’d taken in interfered with my ability to pull whatever seemed suitable out of my bag of talents and skills. Since I’d moved back home to California I usually said I was a perpetual student, or taking a sabbatical, or confessed with mock shame to living off oil lease income. All true, in their own way, but not the whole truth. While I am known as the sexually deviant black sheep of the family, I have been careful to be discreet so as not to be a source of discomfort for the more prominent members of the family.
“Now that I find difficult to believe,” boomed Jim. “You’ve got too much energy to be the laze-about type.”
Bev touched my arm. “There’s no need to be shy with us.”
The ridiculousness of anyone considering me shy made me laugh again. I imagined them both kneeling naked at my feet, presenting the implements they’d chosen to be punished with. I banished the image from my mind as inappropriate and focused my attention on Jim and Bev, reminding myself that they were business associates of my cousin.
“Are you the one who is a scientist?” Jim asked.
Without thinking, I answered, “I was,” and then kicked myself. I could have bored them with talk of genome mapping and PCR and they wouldn’t have been any the wiser.
“And now?” Bev asked. She leaned into me, brushing her hip against mine. I knew that move and what it signified.
I gave her a big grin. “You might want to get that idea out of your head,” I said to her.
“What idea?” she asked, her eyebrows raised high over wide eyes.
“The one where you and your husband take me home and have your way with me,” I laughed. “I’d top you both in a heartbeat.”
When the look on their faces registered, I rewound what I’d said in my mind and then gave myself another kick. The heated discussion with my lover had me a bit more flustered than I’d realized, if I was slipping up so badly.
The change in their energy was like the difference between a light bulb and a solar flare.
“You’re in the lifestyle?” Jim asked, with incredulous hope.
Ah well, no sense trying to close the barn door now. I chose the simplest, most straightforward word I knew.
“FemDom.”
It hung there between us.
“Come home with us….” Bev suggested softly, her longing perfuming the night air. I could smell her arousal.
I thought about my lover, who was boarding his international flight right about then. I hadn’t seen him in a week and my sexual frustration was acute. It would be another 10 days before I saw him, and it was unthinkable what might happen when we did end up in bed if I didn’t get some of my frustration worked out beforehand.
I made up my mind. “Ok. Lets go.” I said, setting my glass down on the railing.
I glanced from one to the other, looking forward to some serious queening. One of them was going to learn to breathe pussy juice toight, and I was leaning rather heavily toward Bev. No one sucks cock like a man, and no one eats pussy like a woman.
“Well?” I asked them, my eyebrows arched imperiously.
“I’ll get the car,” was Jim’s answer.
Bev and I linked our arms and followed behind at a leisurely pace.
-*-
By dawn we fell asleep in a heap. They’d both been paddled and thoroughly sucked and fucked. And me, well, I rode face for much of the night just like I’d wanted, when I wasn’t using my strap-on… What in the Dickens — talk about Grape Expectations 
