Sommelier
She first found herself in that restaurant for a business dinner. It was right at the time when her career was rapidly ascending and was already within two steps of the director's chair. As usual, accompanying the CEO, using a deep neckline over her size-five chest as a distracting maneuver, she was serving her "duty" in the role of a silly blonde, pretending to be a secretary without whom he simply couldn't go. Sometimes she enjoyed this role.
Generally, she was always amused by the effect of a woman's chest on members of the male sex. Even when she was very young—eighteen or maybe even fifteen, now
it was hard for her to remember exactly—she, as is typical for children her age, still spent every summer at the dacha with her grandmother, enriching her lungs with the necessary and health-and-beauty-beneficial "fresh air." At least, that was the reason her parents gave, running into her teenage indignation and rebelliousness, which wanted her to stay with them in the city. Of that entire "dacha-childhood period," she now only remembered playing "war games" and a pile of boards lying next to the neighboring plot, which magically, with the help of childhood imagination, alternately transformed into a tank, then a fancy foreign car, then just a horse. Of course, she also remembered that at that age she still got to be the "main beauty of the village," at whose dacha gate all the boys from the nearest couple of square kilometers would gather, which wasn't so hard—the only competitor was a girl who already weighed about three times more than her.read more
Now, every time during another meeting, their interlocutors would stare into her cleavage, completely losing their train of thought and, ultimately ready to sign anything shoved their way, licking their lips, every time she supposedly accidentally leaned over for the salt shaker or "those very rolls at the end of the table," allowing them to peek deeper into the coveted hollow, she thought that nothing changes with age—still the same "little dicks in the bushes" and "hands kneading breasts, not even really understanding what for."
The restaurant was beautiful with a glass transparent ceiling, right above which the city sky was visible, with spotlessly polished cutlery, impeccably clean glasses, and floor lamps decorated with Swarovski crystals. With its entire interior and, especially, the view from the window directly onto the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood in all its glory, it screamed of its belonging to the "bohemian" life of the city, elitism, and VIP treatment of its clientele, whom everyone referred to only as the establishment's "guests." As proof of this assumption, even in the restroom, instead of regular napkins, there were starched small terry towels, leaving no doubt that the "guest" had landed not in some "pretentious dive." The finishing note of all this bliss was the sommelier, consulting each table on the choice of the most impeccable drinks for having "that very" unforgettable evening.
Apparently, that's precisely why she couldn't refuse him—the impeccably dressed sommelier from that restaurant, so significant, who, unnoticed by everyone, slipped his business card under her napkin. She sent him a short text with a flirtatious "what wine will you treat me to?" that same evening, simply to return the initiative to his hands. With equal success, she probably could have sent just a period or any other sign. The phone rang immediately, even before the delivery report appeared, as if he had been waiting for her to show up, not taking his eyes off the screen.
He undoubtedly surprised her, turning out to also be the general manager and co-owner of the place she had taken such a liking to. Apparently, he was from that category of managers who prefer, following the European method, to be "closer to the client," not wearing out their pants in big leather chairs, pretending to be busy analyzing statistical data for their business. She loved such people doubly. They agreed to have a tête-à-tête lunch on the weekend during that beautiful daytime when the sun fills the entire hall with light, making the decorative crystals shimmer with all the colors of the rainbow in its rays, and the restaurant itself is still closed, expecting visitors only closer to evening—for some reason unclear to her, it started its work no earlier than seven o'clock. However, after a little thought, she concluded that this was indeed more than a reasonable decision—few people start romantic dinners earlier, and for business casual lunches, the average check amount was too high.
He met her in a beautiful silver daytime suit "fresh from the tailor," at the sight of which it immediately occurred to her that he most likely had his clothes custom-made or had them tailored to fit in an atelier. On the impeccably set table, she was greeted by the signature Greek salad she had liked so much last time, a freshly baked French roll, and, of course, a glass of white wine—he said he chose the variety based on the color of her eyes and, of course, that wonderful fragrance that emanated from her shoulders, whose scent he had been able to so keenly appreciate, leaning toward her on that first evening of their meeting to fill her glass.
even if she hadn't known who he was—sommelier would have been her first guess.
He asked her only one question before his fingers pulled the zipper of her red pencil dress she was wearing that day—"Are you sure?" he asked. Of course… of course she was sure. Even that morning, getting ready, choosing between a lacy black set and an erotic red one—she was already sure of what the best scenario of their date, painted in her imagination, should end with. Of course she was sure she wanted to be naked in this hall, flooded with sunlight, of course she didn't even doubt how much she wanted to feel the shimmer of all those thousands of sunbeams sparkling on all the walls on her skin. Of course—not a drop, not a second of doubt.
When the dress fell at her feet, she merely stepped carefully over it, enjoying her semi-nudity. She was still standing with her back to the sommelier, her fingers touching the glass separating her from the world outside. She wondered how she looked in his eyes now and if there were any curious people at the far end of the square, peering at her figure, which was so hard to miss in the floor-to-ceiling glass opening. She turned to him only upon hearing the rustle of his jacket being removed, at that very opportune moment when he, loosening his tie knot, began unbuttoning his shirt—she didn't know if there was anything more erotic than this moment in the process of a man's body being revealed. Button by button, movement of fingers after movement of fingers… and the tie carefully pulled aside so as not to completely undo the knot—for this sight alone she was ready to make love with a man again and again and not even demand, not expect from him hints of orgasms.
When he took off his top, remaining only in trousers, whose perfectly straight creases attracted her gaze with their neatness, he knelt before her and, covering her legs with kisses from her thighs to her ankles, began slowly removing her nylon stockings. She watched his movements, periodically squinting with pleasure, like well-fed wild animals basking alone in the grass on a warm summer day. Finishing with this part of her attire, he returned with small kisses back to her thighs, sliding his hands along the line of her legs. Glancing at him, still kneeling on one knee before her, she smiled and whispered what seemed to her more than appropriate at that moment, "Kiss me, please." As he rose, she couldn't help but imagine what his lips would taste like—the aftertaste of the just-drunk glass of wine and his own unique flavor, which were supposed to make her head spin no less than everything he had done to her body with such impeccable taste before. She was right—when he pressed her back against the cool glass behind her and pressed his lips to hers, she felt as if she were melting, like sweet, sticky ice cream under the rays of direct summer sun. His sweetish taste, mixed with the slight tartness of white wine, made her head spin, depriving her of solid ground under her feet. And his hands, so skillfully caressing her body, made her breathe more and more frequently and loudly with each new touch.
Laying her down, he removed the remaining clothing from her body and, without a trace of embarrassment, began to look. Had this happened a couple of years ago, she, then still convinced that her figure had too many "too much's," would have been embarrassed, tried to cover up, urgently pull him to her, distracting with action from this silent, studying contemplation. But now, with the years, she understood a simple truth—if a man has already started looking at you, it's only from admiration, and by no means from some "evaluation" invented by internal complexes. No one will ever scrutinize what disgusts them or seems ugly—to see ugliness, a fleeting glance is enough; to see beauty, several hours are insufficient, and all "too much's" are destined sooner or later to drown in the awareness of the complete imperfection of this world.
They didn't have crazy sex on the table, didn't sweep dishes onto the floor, didn't break chair legs in fits of uncontrollable passion, they didn't even do it on the lid of the beautiful grand piano standing in the corner—essentially, they didn't do anything that people who have just met usually do in such a setting on a first date that ends in sex.
They made love as if they had known each other for many years, as if he had been courting her favor for months, as if a happy future lay ahead of them and at the finish line, when his juices would burst forth, he would whisper to her about love. It was so intoxicating that she even forgot they had only known each other for a couple of days; it seemed she was there with someone else—an ephemeral being from her fantasies, that very "prince on a white horse" who was supposed to take the beautiful princess far, far away, freeing her from the captivity of the evil ruler of the dark forest. She thought about this, periodically opening her eyes and looking at the sunbeams flickering before her eyes—it had long been unclear to her whether they were only in her eyes or whether the sun had changed its angle and the reflections from the decorative crystals had moved from the walls to the ceiling… and at that moment, deciding for herself this, as it seemed to her then, vitally important question, she felt warmth spreading in her stomach—warmth creating a sensation of "fluttering butterflies" somewhere inside, caressing the walls of her stomach with their thin wings. She closed her eyes, completely surrendering to this sensation and, it seemed, floated somewhere far away,… among butterflies and sunbeams… hovering before her eyes.
She returned to him, feeling him stroking her hair, kissing her cheeks, the tip of her nose, and carefully touching her eyelashes with his lips. She smiled, looking into his eyes, and ran her hand over his bare chest, feeling his breathing return to normal. He had also come, though she didn't know at what moment, but she wanted to think it happened when the butterflies were joined by the sunbeams that scattered like stars across her own inner sky.
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Author's e-mail: аvеlinа.smith@gmаil.cоm