Blind Tasting

Behind the blindfold, Xuan Wei let the darkness settle over her like warm water.

This was the moment before anything began, when her sight was gone and the world collapsed into sound and scent and the press of air against her bare skin.

She could hear the crowd breathing, a hundred chests rising and falling out there in the dark. She could hear coins clinking along the rail and someone swallowing.

She could smell the oil in the lamps and the sweat of a hundred bodies. Threaded through it all was the musk of four men standing hard in front of her, and she could already tell that one of those scents was familiar, though she could not yet tell which.

Her pussy was wet. It had been wet since the punishment table, and the cord at her wrists and the cloth over her eyes had only made it worse. She could feel the slick between her folds and the silk pressed against it, warm and clinging.

The organiser turned to the crowd and chose three men with a lazy finger.

The first was an old man, roughly Xuan Wu's age to look at, grey at the temples and confident in his stance, the sort of demonic elder who had spent decades winning smaller games than this one. The second was an ordinary-looking man from the press of bodies, neither handsome nor ugly, his eyes already wide with luck he could not believe. The third, to the surprise of everyone in their party, was Han Fei.

The disciple froze for half a heartbeat when the finger came to rest on him. Then he grinned beneath his mask, sharp and young and hungry, and climbed onto the stage with the easy walk of a man who had fucked his master's wife before and saw no reason to pretend otherwise now.

They lined up across the boards, and their trousers came down in a rustle of cloth and buckles, and four cocks stood in the lamplight like a filthy little parade.

The old man's was small, short and modest, the kind that would vanish easily into a mouth and leave room to spare. It stood stiffly from a nest of grey hair.

The ordinary man's was a little longer but thin, a pale length that looked almost delicate beside the other two. It bobbed with his nervous breathing.

Master and disciple both carried big, thick, heavily veined cocks, the kind that made a woman adjust her jaw before she began. Han Fei's was darker at the head and already beading at the tip, a clear drop swelling and trembling there under the lamps. Xuan Wu's hung heavier and stood more patiently, the broad head flushed, the veins standing out along its length like cords.

Han Fei stood third in the line. Elder Xuan Wu stood last.

Xuan Wei waited for a moment, bound and blindfolded, like something painted for the private wing of a demonic temple.

Then she bent her knees and sank to the boards in front of the first man.

Her knees settled on the wood. Her bound wrists flexed behind her, the cord creaking faintly, and she sat back on her heels for a breath with her breasts lifted and her chin raised, before she leaned forward.

The crowd surged the moment her ass came fully into view.

The rear panel had shrunk into the crease of her cheeks as she knelt. Both full curves were bare from behind, round and pale and pressed out over her heels, split only by a thin dark line of silk.

From certain angles, the tension of the cloth pressed the outline of her pussy lips against the front strip. The two plump ridges showed clearly through it, already faintly damp, and the silk between them had darkened into a narrow shining line.

Men muttered. Somebody near the front swore in pure hunger, and somebody else adjusted himself openly without the least shame.

She leaned slowly toward the old man's cock and breathed in.

It was not her husband. She knew it at once from the scent, the wrong musk and the wrong sweat, thinner and older than the smell of the man who owned her mornings and her nights.

She moved closer anyway and took him into her mouth, because that was the game.

The skill she brought to it was on another level entirely. The small cock disappeared between her lips as though it had been made to hide there. Her nose pressed into the grey hair at its root. She sealed her mouth around the base and worked her tongue in tight wet circles beneath it, her cheeks hollowing and filling in a slow rhythm.

The sounds that rose from her were obscene and rhythmic and professional.

The old man's hands flew out at his sides and found nothing to hold.

At the end of the line, Elder Xuan Wu watched his wife's mouth slide down another man's cock with an expression of calm, deep pleasure, the way a man watches a sword he forged cut cleanly through a target. His own cock stood bare and waiting, and he watched her past the other three with his head tilted.

He had taught her this, or rather they had taught each other, across decades of nights in rooms like this one and rooms far worse. Every movement of her head and every flutter of her tongue was a sentence in a language that only the two of them truly spoke.

The old man in the line did not know what was happening to him. He only knew that he was being undone by a stranger's mouth faster than he had ever been undone in his life, and Xuan Wu found that very funny.

Schluck. Schluck.

The old man's knees buckled in less than a minute.

He came before she had truly begun. His hips jerked forward and he grunted, high and helpless, and he spurted thick ropes across her tongue. She drew back to taste him and the last pulses caught her face, a few hot drops striking the lower edge of her mask and the corner of her mouth.

She tasted it carefully, the way a wine merchant tastes a poor vintage before he spits, rolling it over her tongue.

Then she let him slip out of her mouth with a wet pop.

Pop.

She shuffled on her knees to the second man.

The old man stumbled back a step with his small cock softening and dripping, and the crowd jeered him good-naturedly, because everyone in the hall had seen how quickly he had fallen. He did not seem to mind.

He stood swaying with a dazed smile on his face, staring down at the kneeling woman as if she had shown him a vision of the immortal realms, and when the organiser waved him toward the edge of the stage, he went reluctantly, looking back over his shoulder the whole way.

Before he reached the steps, he was already asking one of the house attendants in an eager whisper whether the masked lady and her husband ever played on the upper floors, and the attendant only smiled and bowed and told him nothing at all.

This time she put out her tongue before anything else, pink and wet and deliberate.

The moment it curled around the ordinary man's thin cock, she knew. The shape was wrong and so was the girth. Beside what she lived with, it felt little thicker than a finger.

She drew back after a single slow lick and shook her head.

The man's face behind his mask fell so comically that the crowd roared with laughter. He stood there with his cock bobbing and glistening from that one lick, his luck slipping away, while she moved on to the third.

Han Fei's cock was the problem.

It was close to her husband's in size, thick and long and heavy. When she breathed it in at the root, the scent was not unfamiliar, because this young man shared her bed far more often than outsiders guessed.

She took the head into her mouth and slid down slowly, feeling for the curve she knew. Her lips stretched around him. Her tongue pressed along the underside, searching the veins, and she could not be certain.

Her own spit made everything slippery and confusing. It shone along the veins and dripped onto her bound wrists when she shifted, and ran in warm trails down over her breasts and under the edges of their strips.

Gluk. Gluk.

She pushed her face lower and sucked at the base to smell him again.

Then she went lower still, to his balls. They were heavy and tight and furred with dark hair, the same as her husband's. She sucked one into her mouth and then the other, rolling them on her tongue with her cheeks hollowed, and her spit soaked the hair until it glistened.

Han Fei groaned above her. His thighs shook.

Still she was not sure.

She went back to licking his shaft, long, slow strokes from root to tip, her face wet with saliva and the old man's leftover seed, using nothing but her mouth because her hands were useless behind her.

Her throat clicked when she took him deep. Her thighs trembled where they pressed the boards.

Han Fei had never had his master's wife give him a blowjob in front of his master like this.

It was not as though he had never fucked her. He had, more than once, in the private rooms and gardens of Xuan Wu's estate, sometimes with Xuan Wu watching from a chair and sometimes with Xuan Wu joining in and sometimes with Xuan Wu simply smiling at them both from the doorway. But never bound and blindfolded on a public stage, with a crowd of masked strangers counting every wet sound.

The weight of that audience and the heat of her skilled mouth broke him faster than he would have liked.

His hand found the back of her head and held her there.

He came in a huge flood across her tongue and down her throat, and he made her drink all of it, keeping her pinned for a greedy moment while thick seed filled her mouth.

Gulp.

Some of it escaped her lips. It ran down her chin and dripped onto the upper slopes of her breasts in sticky white lines that crept slowly toward the red strips.

She swallowed what she could, her throat working and her eyes watering behind the blindfold. When he let go, she drew back with a long string of seed and spit stretching from her lip to his cock, and moved on as if the taste had only been information.

Beyond the stage rail, Yan Tian watched from the crowd with his cock aching inside his trousers.

He knew exactly how skilful she was. On the night of the dice she had made him come twice with her mouth alone, years of dual cultivation sharpened into a weapon of lips and tongue.

But watching her from behind, like this, was something else.

Her ass was bare and flexing with every bob of her head, the silk sunk deep between her cheeks. The insides of her thighs were shining with spit and her own wetness. Her back was arched by the cord at her wrists, and her heavy breasts swayed each time she leaned in.

He swallowed hard. His fingers curled at his sides.

The hunger that had been waking in him over these last days, the masked shadows in his bedroom and the stares of his own elders and his wife's body offered up by other men's rules, throbbed hotter with every wet sound Xuan Wei made.

For one guilty heartbeat he imagined Yan Mei in that same pose. Her famous face hidden under black cloth. Her heavier breasts swinging. Her lips parting around a stranger.

The thought made him harder, and he did not push it away.

Xuan Wei finished with Han Fei and shuffled on her knees to the last man in the line.

Her mouth was full of the taste of Han Fei, salt and youth and the faint bitterness of the pill he took before cultivation. Her jaw ached from the size of him. Seed was drying in a sticky film on her chin and on the upper curves of her breasts, and she could feel it tighten on her skin each time she breathed.

For one lazy moment she wondered whether she had already passed her husband without realising it. It would not have been the first time. Once, years ago in a house much like this one, she had chosen wrongly on purpose, simply to see what the stranger would do with the lamp burning, and her husband had laughed about it for a month.

She leaned in and breathed in his scent for a long moment, her face almost buried at the root of him.

Then she took him into her mouth, and she knew him immediately.

It was the familiar musk and the familiar weight on her tongue, the exact curve she had trained on for years, the pulse she had felt in a hundred private rooms and public games. Something in her chest unknotted.

She began to suck more aggressively.

She took the whole length of him into her mouth until her nose pressed against his belly and her throat opened around the head. She held him there. She drew back to the tip, swirling her tongue around the ridge of it, and then swallowed him down again.

Gluk. Gluk. Gluk.

The sounds she made were deep and wet, and thick strings of spit ran down her chin and swung there and fell onto her breasts.

Behind her, her pussy was dripping openly. The front silk had gone dark and clung to her. A thin shining line of arousal tracked down the inside of her thigh toward her knee and caught the lamplight like varnish.

For Xuan Wu, the moment her lips closed around him was a homecoming.

Three strangers had warmed her mouth for him, and the taste of all of them was still on her tongue. He could feel her chasing it away with his own scent as she swallowed him down, her throat working around his head in long hungry ripples.

He laid one hand on her hair, lightly, without pushing, simply to let her know that she had found him, and felt her shiver under his palm. Twenty years of marriage and hundreds of games like this one, and that small shiver still pleased him more than any victory at a gambling table.

He let her work.

She took him to the root and held him there until her shoulders began to shake for want of air. Then she drew back to the tip and swirled her tongue across it, and took him all the way down again.

The crowd counted each plunge aloud like the strokes of a temple bell.

"Seven. Eight. Nine."

Louder and louder, until the counting itself began to make the men around the stage rail groan.

Yan Mei stood behind her husband in the crowd and watched with her face on fire beneath her mask.

She was wearing the same outfit as Xuan Wei, the same scraps of silk, the same exposure.

She tried to imagine herself on that stage in the blindfold with her hands bound behind her. Kneeling in the lamplight. Sucking stranger after stranger until she found her husband's cock by taste alone.

The image made her stomach turn over and her pussy clench so hard that her thighs shook.

Could I ever do something so vulgar in front of so many people?

She was already wet. The liquid seeped out of her and soaked the thin silk between her legs until it clung to her lips like a second skin, cool where the air touched it and hot where her flesh pressed against it. She could feel the shape of herself through it, the swollen folds, the small hard knot at the top of them throbbing in time with Xuan Wei's head.

Several of the men crowded around her were not watching the stage at all.

They were watching her instead. They were watching the heavy bounce of her breasts when she shifted her weight, and the dark patch spreading between her legs, and the way her ass twitched each time Xuan Wei took her husband deep.

Yan Mei felt their stares like hands and did not look back at them.

She kept her eyes on the stage and tried not to press her thighs together where everyone could see. She failed. The wet silk made a small sound when her thighs met.

Shlick.

Someone close behind her drew in a sharp breath.

A man behind her leaned close enough that she felt his breath on the nape of her neck. "Is the lady next?" he murmured, his voice thick with wine and want. "I'd stand in that line for you all day. I'd let you taste me twenty times and never once tell you if you were right."

Yan Mei did not turn around.

She kept her eyes fixed on the stage and her spine straight and pretended she had not heard him. But the words went into her like a hook and stayed there.

Twenty times.

Her pussy clenched so hard around nothing that she had to bite the inside of her cheek. A fresh warmth slid down along the silk.

The man laughed softly and said nothing more. He did not move away either. She could feel the heat of his body a hand's width behind her for the rest of the game, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her nape each time he exhaled, the faint smell of wine and sandalwood drifting over her shoulder.

She was aware of him the way she would have been aware of a lit brazier at her back, warm and close and impossible to forget.

Yan Tian heard every word. He turned his head slightly and looked at the stranger over his wife's shoulder, and the stranger looked back at him through the slits of his mask without the least embarrassment, as though to say that in this house a husband's glare was only one more thing to enjoy.

Yan Tian should have been furious. Instead he found himself looking at the back of Yan Mei's neck, where a fine sheen of sweat had gathered under her hair, and imagining what she would look like with a strip of black cloth tied over her eyes, and the thought made his breath come short.

A few moments later, Elder Xuan Wu came hard in his wife's mouth.

His hand tightened in her hair, only once. His hips pressed forward and held. Xuan Wei's throat worked around him in long, steady swallows.

She confirmed that it was him without needing to say so. She softened around him as she swallowed, and held him until the last pulse had finished. Then she drew back slowly and licked the final bead from his tip like a signature.

The crowd cheered so loudly that dice players at the nearby tables turned their heads.

In truth the real winners of the game were the men on the stage, three strangers and a husband who had all been emptied into a beauty's mouth for the price of standing in a line with their trousers around their ankles.