Closed auction of rare wines

Château de Valmont, hidden in the dense vineyards of the Loire, was transformed every April into a temple for the most discerning collectors. The stone vaults of the main hall trembled with hushed voices, and the air was thick with the aroma of aged Cabernet, old oak, and expensive tobacco. I, a twenty-four-year-old sommelier, was working at this private auction for only my second time. My task was simple and honorable: introduce the lots, describe the terroir, pour into glasses, and ensure that not a drop was wasted. None of the guests noticed how I nervously twitched my fingers behind my back as the price of yet another bottle of 1947 soared. The auction proceeded as usual—the gavel banged, the glasses clinked, and I stood at the long table with decanters, smiling and nodding. No one suspected that below me, two floors down, in the ancient wine cellar, a completely different game was already underway. After the last lot, as guests began to disperse to the terrace with cigars, the head sommelier approached me—a gray-haired master with a sharp gaze. "Do you want a real tip for the evening?" he asked quietly, almost in my ear. - Of course. What do you need? He didn't beat around the bush. In the cellar, among thousands of barrels, there are a few "special" ones—with hidden niches. Guests who want not only to taste the wine but also to experience... a personal touch, go there after the auction. Complete darkness, anonymity, no names. The staff can earn more in one evening than in a month at official tastings. No one knows who was on the other side of the barrel. Even the cameras don't work there—pure tradition. I felt a chill of excitement run down my spine. Five hundred euros for an hour? For touching in the dark? It sounded too good to refuse. “I’m in,” I replied. The master nodded and handed me a small copper key to the service entrance to the cellar. – From twenty-three hundred hours. Come in whenever you can. And remember: you're not the sommelier there. You're the wine. I spent the rest of the evening pouring the last of the lots, my fingers trembling slightly. The guests looked ordinary—groomed men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns with plunging necklines. But now I saw that same sparkle in their eyes. At 10:15, I quietly descended the spiral staircase. The cellar greeted me with coolness, the scent of damp stone and centuries-old oak. Rows of enormous barrels receded into the semi-darkness, lit only by a few oil lamps. Some barrels had carefully cut round holes at waist level—smooth, polished by time and touch. Several niches were empty—thick velvet curtains slightly parted. I chose the last barrel in the back row, where it was the quietest. My heart was pounding as if I was trying my first grand cru. I quickly unzipped my pants, pulled out my already semi-hard cock, and pushed it into the warm hole. The wood gripped the base comfortably, like a palm. I waited. A rustle. A light draft from the adjacent compartment. And suddenly—warm, confident fingers. They grasped the shaft slowly, almost reverently, as if sampling a rare harvest. The pads glided over the veins, gently squeezing, exploring. I bit my lip to keep from moaning right away. Then I felt breath—hot, wet. Lips touched the head, the tongue ran along the frenulum, tasting. And then—a deep, velvety grip. The tongue worked skillfully, enveloping, swirling, sometimes pressing tightly, sometimes barely touching. Saliva trickled down the shaft, mingling with the scent of oak and my own arousal. Meanwhile, fingers caressed my balls—gently but insistently, rolling them, tugging lightly. I closed my eyes and gave myself over completely to the sensations. Who was there—a sophisticated collector in her forties, or someone younger? Or perhaps one of those serious men in tuxedos? I didn't care. The mouth worked rhythmically, sometimes slowing, sometimes speeding up, knowing exactly when I was on the edge. I couldn't resist and pushed deeper. The throat accepted me without resistance. A wave of orgasm washed over me suddenly—I erupted in thick, hot streams, my whole body shaking. The mouth didn't let go, sucking until the last shudder. Then a soft cloth—a silk scarf, I think—gently wiped me away. A folded five-hundred-euro note appeared in the opening. I stood there, recovering, smiling in the darkness. I returned to the dining room a changed man. The guests were still chatting, but now every glance seemed like a hint. The waiter, passing by, winked: - First time? You held up pretty well. I nodded, feeling a pleasant tiredness in my legs. The second descent happened forty minutes later. The excitement was already boiling inside. I chose the same barrel—it was still available. This time, I didn't wait. I inserted my penis, and almost immediately, bukvoeb.run, felt everything on the other side ready. Fingers quickly applied something slippery and cool—probably truffle-scented oil. Then—pressure. The warm, tight entrance slowly accepted me. I entered all the way, feeling the walls grip me tightly and greedily. Movement began—slowly at first, then faster and faster. Someone there, behind the oak wall, was moving their hips, adjusting to me, squeezing their muscles so skillfully that I almost lost my balance. Moans—muffled but distinct—were echoing throughout the cellar. The scent of sex mingled with the wine. I held the barrel in my hands and pounded it rhythmically, deeply, savoring every millimeter. The orgasm was powerful, almost painful—I came inside, flooding her with heat, feeling her anus contract around me in responsive spasms. When I pulled out, my penis was wiped clean and another bill appeared—two this time. As I climbed back up the stairs, I already knew: I'd never forget this auction. And the next time I'm invited to a tasting at Château de Valmont, I'll be the first one down in the cellar. Because sometimes the rarest and most precious wine isn't the one poured into a glass. It's the one tasted in complete darkness.