Nunhead Nectar
"Wine merchant Abena runs the best cellar in Nunhead. When sommelier Marcus visits to stock his restaurant, she offers him a private tasting that intoxicates in ways wine cannot."
The Nunhead wine cellar was legendary among those who knew—rare vintages, perfect conditions, and Abena, who knew every bottle personally.
Marcus was opening his first restaurant and needed excellence. What he found was transcendence.
Abena was Ghanaian-British, mid-fifties but timeless, with thick curves in an elegant dress and a palate that could detect single hillsides in Burgundy. She toured him through her collection like a museum.
"This one you can't afford. This one you should. This one..." She paused at a particular rack. "This one requires a special relationship to purchase."
"What kind of relationship?"
"The intimate kind."
They tasted for hours—her pouring, him learning. Wine loosened inhibitions, and her cellar felt increasingly private.
"You have a good palate," she said. "But you're not tasting properly."
"Show me."
She poured something rare and took some in her own mouth, then kissed him—wine flowing between them, flavors mixing with desire.
"Now that's a proper tasting."
The cellar was cool, but their bodies generated heat. She reclined on stacked wine cases like a throne, her dress opening to reveal the wealth beneath.
"Best terroir I've ever seen," he murmured, tracing her curves.
"Compliments won't get you a discount." She pulled him close. "But effort might."
He tasted her like she'd taught him to taste wine—attentive, patient, appreciating complexity. She moaned approval.
"Yes... you're learning..."
He entered her there among rare vintages, surrounded by years of careful aging and sudden passion. Her thick legs wrapped around him.
"Like this... slow... let it develop..."
They made love at wine's pace—building, deepening, growing more complex. She came with a sound like satisfaction, like a vintage perfectly opened.
"More. Don't stop."
"The cases," she gasped. "Lay me on the cases."
He obliged, taking her on beds of Bordeaux and Burgundy, her thick body bouncing against priceless inventory. She didn't seem to care.
"Yes! There! Perfect!"
She came screaming into the cellar silence, and he followed, both drunk on each other.
Later, she poured something extraordinary—a vintage that had no price.
"For special occasions," she said. "And new relationships."
"The intimate kind?"
"The only kind worth having." She clinked glasses with him. "Your restaurant will have my best wines. And you will have my best... everything."
His Nunhead nectar was the finest vintage he'd ever experienced. And Marcus intended to age this relationship perfectly.