#161) UNwineD – mild sexual content

In the best of all possible worlds, I would come home from my hard day’s work, after this long week, to be greeted by my lover at the door.
“I have a hot bubble-bath drawn,” he’d say. “Here, let me take that…” and he’d relieve me of my heavy satchel, and kiss me a fond Welcome Home. He’d help me undress, kissing every place that’s bared. I’d get in the tub, where he’d shampoo my hair, wash my body, towel me off. And because it is Friday, I don’t have to grade papers, or compose a test, so we can make love long into the night.
This work-a-day teacher doesn’t live in that universe, however. No one is standing just inside my door, no hot bath awaits. Even though it is Friday, there is more work that I can get done in the weekend ahead, so I do knock off a little grading. But I knock off from this task earlier than usual. The midnight oil will be burned this evening with some Me Time.
I was given a really nice bottle of red wine over the holidays. I know wine, I like wine, but on my budget, I mostly drink it out of a box. This bottle is a very expensive label and a very nice vintage, far better than I’d purchase for myself. The bottle has been around for nearly three months now; no one is coming over to share it anytime soon. Tonight I’m going to treat myself, put a dent in it, if not polish it off. It’s been that kind of week.
I pull the cork and let it breathe. I take my clothes off, feeling great relief when I peel my pantyhose off. I let my privates breathe. One nice red deserves another, I think to myself. I pull the thin belt from my pants loops, hold the buckle in my hand and wrap a length of leather around my fist. I take a healthy sip of wine with my free hand, more like a gulp, loving the warmth it imparts as it sinks into me. That’s no way to savor something special, I tell myself, putting the glass down on my bedside table. I turn over the edge of my bed. With all my might, I whip the belt around my right hip. It leaves a vicious welt across the summit of my cheekiness. It doesn’t quite break the skin to bleed, just rises from the previously smooth cool surface. It feels like the very air makes this stripe burn hotter, like it’s a stripe of actual fire. Let it breathe, I say to myself, taking aim for the next lash, loving the heat they imbue, as the pain sinks into my flesh. Over the course of the next half hour, I color my buttocks with a set of perfectly parallel, nicely grouped red stripes, twenty of them. I’ve also enbibed three-quarters of that nice bottle of wine.
My butt burns too painfully to put any panties back on. I don’t even want to roll over; the three hundred thread-count sheets (a gift from a rich former lover) seem like sandpaper at this moment. So I reach underneath my nude body to jill-off.
My fingers part my labia, find a puddle of arousal pooled inside. I spread it all around, under the hood, around my ever-hardening clit.
“Let it breathe,” I mumble out loud to no one but myself, telegraphing that I’m drunk. “To catch on fire, it needs a little oxygen. Just like red wine, just like belt welts…”

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