The following piece was presented at Jersey City Writers’ literary event – 800 Dirty Words. Please enjoy.
It’s all in the back room, the one that overlooks the vineyard. The room stays cool all day, a touch of warmth from the Mediterranean sun, but with a light breeze that stirs the air. The vintner keeps her in a corner by the window, and on bright days he sits on the ledge and smokes and looks at her. She is perfect, il torchio vino, the wine press.
The vintner comes to her at dusk. His hands are calloused from a day of turning soil and he should rest, but can’t stay away. The basin, a tapered steel tno, has held steeping fruit all day and he runs cool water over his hands and reaches in. The liquid is warm and dark as midnight’s sky. It invigorates the nerves in his fingertips and he pulls them back and puts them on his tongue. He keeps his eyes on her, torchio, all the while.
The room is tight around him but he conducts it like an orchestra, every brush of the hand precise and cautious. The motor’s in-hose is attached already to the basin, and he attaches it now to the pump. The rubber gasket makes a tight fit and he can feel the steel on steel coming together. He takes the out-hose from where it hangs like stockings draped over the windowsill and fits it to the pump’s other side. He lets the hose hang loose in his hand, its tip just at the basin’s edge.
The vintner begins with recirculation. He turns on the motor, and he can feel the pump’s vibrations running through the hose. It’s light first, then faster, and the thick liquid begins its motion through the hose which shudders and stiffens in his hands. He moves his hands back and forth along its length, helping the pulp ease through. He can feel it strain – the motor’s too low, on setting 6. He turns it up – 7, then 8, then 9 and the hose pulses and tightens, pulses and tightens – 10, 11, 12. Suddenly the pump groans and shudders with a kind of need and he knows this is the last of it, moving fast through its channels. The liquid stops, the tension in the hose builds and all at once with a moan from the motor the hose bursts, spraying the basin with pulp and seed.
It’s finished, yes, but only for him. He turns off the motor. It’s her turn.
He turns to her, two steel plates, penetrated by perfect parallel lines. On one plate are her two openings. Between the plates he rests filter slats and between those the sheets of soft cotton. He turns the handle to tighten the plates, turns, and feels her resist. She’s not wet enough, so he opens a bottle of vintage cabernet and pours it over the cotton filters. The handle gives and the final push of torque brings her parts together and she is open now, and ready.
He pulls the hose from the basin. It still drips with the dark, warm liquid. He secures it to her lowest opening and gingerly, careful not to push too hard, he opens her low valve. Just above it is a small round point, to which he secures a cloth decanter. He won’t open this point yet. It’s not good to open the output channel until enough pressure has built.
Torchio. The word almost forms on his wine-wet lips. He’s on his knees beside her. He must watch the pressure and tighten the plates, of course, but he also enjoys being next to her. Isn’t this what it’s been for, after all? The toiling under the sun, hands deep into the dirt, flesh and clothes torn by the elements? All for her—
The vintner turns on the motor. It’s a slow rev and the gentle vibrations shudder through her. He was harsh with the hose, but with her he’s gentle, slower. It’s not about strength with her, but endurance. He sets the motor at seven, and leaves it there.
He opens a small valve at her top, and it lets out a whispery sound. It allows the pressure to build, and it tells him when she’s ready. There’s always a moment of doubt when he’s not sure she’ll get there, when she lingers tight but dry and the top valve gives him only a hiss. He waits, his breath caught, until a deep exhale sings from his torchio and sweet, clear perfection flows forth from her. It’s not an explosion as it was with the hose, but rather a steady, rhythmic urging as she presses and presses and presses the wine.
He kneels at her feet until every bottle is filled and finally, before closing the shop, the vintner puts his lips to her for a taste.
Buttocks in latex swish and bounce, but not in leather. The muscles under the black leather look more like a factory machine under a tightly sealed cover, precise and sharp. A corset, snapped with leather straps in the back, pulls together smooth shoulder blades. Makes the back shapely, and makes the tits stick out.
Are you taking notes?
Stilettos give a special switch in the walk, and make the thighs rub together in a way that gets them sweaty and wet. If your thighs touch, wear your stockings high to avoid chafing.
Accessories are kept up here.
You’ll see four grades of whips, kept on the back wall and up for rent for any patron. Don’t ask for payment. It will be added to their bill. Grade one leaves a mark. Grade two leaves a bruise. Grade three leaves a dozen bruises at a time, and grade four leaves the imprint of their daddy issues. Also, because it’s a genuine jockey’s riding crop, it doubles for bestiality.
What was your question? No, cuffs straps and chains are kept in the chambers.
The chambers are in the back. The doors are narrow so you have to stand close and smell each other walking in. Don’t let them take control here. They’ll try. Use the latex coated cane to pull a leg out from under them when you’re next to the feather bed. Here. I’ll demonstrate. They’ll fall, and when you tighten the leather straps against their straining wrists, they’ll let you.
Questions so far? No, no, they give the safety word to the concierge and he passes it to you on a post-it. Otherwise it kills the mood.
Some of them wear cotton, some silk, but most show up in cheap thongs bought at adult video stores made of an unpleasant spandex. Get those off right away. Slide them down their legs and over their feet before binding their ankles, and for god’s sake, take their socks off.
Group A, you can follow Mistress Hannah into chamber 4 now. She’ll demonstrate proper use of a cock ring. Group B come with me. We’ll cover clamps.
They look fancy, especially these with the feathers, but most are plastic bread bag clamps. This gentleman has volunteered to demonstrate. Could one of you hold the phallus up for…. Ah, yes. Nevermind. He’s not a shy one.
Note that the clamp should be secured here, at the base, close to the pelvis to ensure minimal physical damage. Don’t just close the clamp, snap it, like so.
On a related note, you’ll notice that the gag muffles the scream but doesn’t entirely silence it.
Each of you will demonstrate proper clamping – yes, you, in the back? Nipple clamps are self-explanatory. We won’t be demonstrating those. Mistress Bell will observe, then will show you to the locker room. Everyone has their elbow-length gloves? Good. This afternoon we’re talking scat.