Most of the time, we’re in complete agreement about our dining experiences. But my wife is a dreadful snob when it comes to the wines we drink. Like the vintages she claims vastly superior over their California cousins, my lovely Chantal-Marie is an import from the lush fields of the Languedoc region in southwestern France.

Recently, I decided I’d had enough. As we drove home from an excellent meal at one of our favorite restaurants, she made a number of disparaging comments about the perfectly respectable ‘97 Mount Eden Pinot Noir Cuvee des Vieilles Vignes we’d consumed. I listened with only half an ear, for I was happily anticipating her comeuppance.

“Come here, dear,” I said, as I unlocked the door of our home.

“What?” she said peevishly, in her charming accent, a sweet pout on her adorable face as she unbuttoned her blouse. “Where? I don’t want to. Let’s make love.”

“Downstairs, to the wine cellar.” I gently pulled her behind me, chuckling at her protests. When we entered the dimly lit cellar, I picked her up and deposited her neatly on the butcher’s block in the center of the small chamber.

“Time to put your money where your mouth is, my darling,” I smiled at her.

“Money where my mouth is? What’s that supposed to mean?” she retorted.

Earlier I’d left a blindfold on a chair; I retrieved it now and placed it gently over her eyes. “We’re going to see if your delicate palate really CAN discern the difference between two continents. I’ve selected a pair of vintages. You’re going to taste them both and tell me which is the French.” I smiled at her, and saw that her nipples were erect in the 55-degree chill of our climate-controlled cellar. I continued, “If you get it right, our next vacation will be two weeks in Provence.”

She squealed with delight and clapped her hands like a child; then frowned under the blindfold. “And if I’m wrong?” she asked.

“You’ll never speak another word about the inferiority of the Californians.”

She was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “Bring them on,” she commanded imperiously.

I carefully removed the cork from one of the two bottles I’d selected for the occasion; both had sat upright for several days. I slowly drew the cork under her lovely nose, watching her sniff eagerly. I poured a small quantity into the Baccarat glass, then held it to her pretty crimson mouth, watching it part slightly as she took her first sip.

“Mmmm…” she breathed, swirling the liquid over her tongue, tasting its subtle nuances. “Complex… earthy… intense. Currant and cherry.” I watched her throat move as she swallowed and I wanted to put my mouth on that elegant, alabaster column. “Another sip, s’il vous plait?” I held the glass for her again, and as I removed it from her lips, I kissed her deeply. She shivered. “You distract me!” she complained. “Let me taste the second!”

We repeated the process several more times. I became increasingly aroused by my blindfolded little wife as I poured wine into her pretty mouth; her blouse half-open, her skirt pulled up to reveal the lace of her dark stockings. She frowned, intent on the nuances of the wines, determined to identify them. My fingers caressed her breasts through delicate silk, the soft peaks fitting perfectly into my cupped hands. I gently insinuated my knee between her thighs, and parted them over her laughing protests.

“You said you wanted to make love, ma petite Chantal,” I reminded her.

“And you said you wanted me to put my mouth where your money is!” she said. “I am CERTAIN I know which one is the French. Just one more taste.”

I drank from the glass, then covered her lips with my own, letting the wine fall into her eager mouth. I gently pushed the chestnut curls away from her neck and poured a tiny amount of the vintage on her flesh, catching it on my tongue as it began its downward descent into the shadows of her beautiful cleavage. She moaned softly, her fingers searching for my hardness; I heard the rasp of the zipper, and then she held me firmly in her warm hand.

“More wine!” she demanded in a low, urgent voice. I fumbled for the second glass on the table behind me, and fed it to her again. She greedily lapped at my mouth, determined not to spill a drop. But I pushed her back on the table, hiking her skirt all the way up those creamy thighs, parting them with kisses. I gazed down at the tangled curls and the soft pink flower beneath them, and slowly poured the remnants of both glasses into her cunt. She gasped and arched her back, pushing her fruity wetness into my eager mouth.

The delicate taste of my woman, enhanced by the joy of two extraordinary wines… I buried my face in her, and felt I could never get enough. Her thighs wrapped tightly around me; I plunged my tongue deep into her musky little cave and heard her shrieks as she came, her fingers tangled in my hair, calling my name.

Much later, after we’d made our way to bed and found yet more pleasure there, I heard her soft voice where she lay with her head on my chest. “Jack?” she said drowsily. “It was the second one, wasn’t it?” I didn’t say anything. She continued, “I am certain of it… the first bottle was nice enough, I suppose… but the second was more dramatic and opulent…”

“Much like yourself, darling.” I smiled in the darkness.

“The second bottle,” she repeated insistently.

“Is that your final answer?” In response, she tweaked my nipple, hard.

“Owww! Okay, okay… I’ll tell you.” She waited. Later, I’d tell her about the leisurely train tour through Napa Valley, to be followed by an idyllic sojourn at a small chateau in Avignon.

But for the moment, I cleared my throat and reached for a pillow to put over my head.

“They were both Australian.”