DWB Champagne

But you want to be able to smile at us, just knowing that we would all almost kill each other for that damned glass.

You pick it up and consider it, and us...and move to us, within arm's reach...

You turn to me first. Yes! But then shake your head. Fuck! I guess I have somewhat had the privilege of some other things...but still...I want it!

You turn to the other two, who look like two dogs being made to sit in front of a steak dinner, just barely obeying their master.

Your glass wielding hand feints left, towards Dumb Dog Number 1, who looks like he's about to explode, but then you lift your other hand...and wag a finger at him...he was the one with the phone...We can all see his face drop at the realisation. He done dog gone fucked it up!

And so the glass moves right. And Dumb Dog Number 2 outstretches his shaking hand to take the glass from your grasp.

You let him, and then grab the bottle again and chink it against his won glass.

'Cheers.' You say.

And you both drink. Heartily.

The two of us that have missed out just have to sit there...and thirst.

Never before has Dumb Dog Number 2 given each and every drop of a champagne entering his mouth such consideration. Could there be a more precious liquid on this fair green earth?!

Our eyes return to you as you sit there, on your knees...happily taking a moment to enjoy your devious machinations...

Suddenly, the bottle in your hand slips a little and you notice that the label has come loose. It must have become saturated from the condensation and its time in the ice bucket.

You look down at it, and then take your fingers and delicately peel it off a little. And examine it curiously.

If I didn't know any better, I would say cogs are whirring.

You smile and then put it back on the bottle, which you place at the rear of the table.

You turn away, and, begin dancing again, in no rush to move on to the next stage in whatever you have planned.

Until finally, you bring your hands up to your hips...and hook them into the waist of your g-sting.

Oh my. It's coming off, isn't it?!

You pause, and then squat down to almost sit, and in doing so you pull your thong over your ample arse and hips. We can't see anything extra per se, but know very well that you're now sporting exactly nothing on your lower half!

You fling your sodden panties over your shoulder, and it lands squarely on the lap of Dumb Dog Number 1. A very fine consolation prize indeed!

Your legs open and you look down, and, I think we all know, that you are taking the label and applying it to yourself. Down there.

Eventually, you're satisfied enough to stop adjusting it. It's staying where you want it apparently.

You arch your back and hang your head back to glance at us as we wait for the big reveal. A broad, upside-down smile beams at us. You ain't seen nothing yet. Is the clear implication.

And with that, you place one hand next to you and use it to spin yourself around, on your bum, to reveal your new, ever so modest, covering! But your other hand is covering it.

Like any good burlesque dancer would, I assume...

Honestly this is like the best stripping scenes ever committed to celluloid (Closer, True Lies, and Dusk til Dawn if you don't know) all rolled into one!

You stand up, somehow gracefully, and stand wide, swinging your hips with the music...until the right beat hits, and you pull your hand away.

There it is...the label, expertly applied.

So much....surface...tension...

I imagine hair might have reduced its hold on you, but there clearly isn't any...you're as smooth, and likely damp, as the glass from whence it came!

The fancy gold lettering says something French. It's wording never more keenly regarded and never more irrelevant.

None of us will ever forget that label.

The champagne brand will never have a better brand ambassador than in this flat right now.

Its set low, it has to be, only just covering the top of your pussy, and at the other end, just, your arsehole. You are still, technically if nothing else, decent.

Still, you reach down with your fingers just to confirm that it's held in place. You needn't worry. It has.

Although I for one have never wanted a wardrobe malfunction more in my life!

You have your legs spread completely, such that there are no wrinkles in the label, save for that, fairly significant one, down the middle...

You look down the length of your body, between the stemware, to confirm that we are indeed looking exactly where you intend us to look.

You smile at us, biting your lip, in slight trepidation at your display, in disbelief that you've done it, and relief as it washes over you that you've broken another of the barriers that you've set for yourself.

You bring your legs together and stand gracefully, and then resume your dancing...as free as bird. A rather unfeathered bird, but nonetheless...free.

There's no 'Wey' or clapping now. We're too dumbstruck by the sight before our eyes.

You dance on. You spin slowly, revealing your barely covered bum to us, before coming back around to face us once more...your hands have returned to cupping you down there...both of them, one on top of the other...

You seem to have something else planned...we can tell by the look on your face...devious, wild-eyed, joyous.

Your inner most hand presses harder against you and you slowly raise it up...a keen observer, and we are all that, can just make out the tell-tale traces of black underneath your fingers such that it is clear that you are removing said label.

Your other hand maintains your modesty and presses down against you in its place...seemingly nothing else in between.

But then...you slowly raise that hand too...to reveal:

Wait a minute! There's another label! But...not the original one. Fuck!

It's the one that's on the back of the bottle! The much thinner one!

It's what? An inch and a half wide...maybe? Just enough to cover your slit...but this one....really, really leaves very, very little to the imagination!

You must have had that hidden in your other hand the whole time!

You stare at us as we stare at you. At it. It's black too, and looks like a tiny black line you might see in a near pointless nod to censorship laws somewhere. Technically covered, but barely worth the bother.

Unbelievable!

At first you are careful to keep from showing too much of yourself for too long...perhaps because you're not sure if the label will stay put, or perhaps it's just to keep the tension, and expectation bouncing along at a rolling boil.

But slowly, as the label improbably manages to hold, you loosen up, your gait widens, and more and more of you, and your crevices, are seen by us all, for longer and longer.

What follows is an act of unbelievable playful teasing...as you alternated your hand and the label upon you...peeling it off as you cover yourself with your hand, and then swapping them expertly to never actually show us anything, before, placing the thin label back on again to dance on.

It's nothing less than mesmerising.

Again, sorry to be lewd, and I can't speak for the others, but I again I can't help but want to take my dick and just go and fuck that label deep up into your quim. Sorry. But it's true.

And more than that. I want to push it in. And then pull it out, reapply it, and then fuck it back in again. Rinse and repeat. Until it's just a mushed up soggy paper mess down there. I'd be amazed if the others aren't thinking the exact same thing.

I know, that's not the nicest thing to say. But the dick wants what the dick wants. I'm just my dumb dick's messenger.

You don't know this though (or maybe you do!?). Either way, you dance harder, the bases of the glasses still stuck to your tits clinking together, every so often.

The label is staying in place. Improbably. Annoyingly!

I've never been one for strip shows. I've always found them, I dunno, removed? An unwelcome tease, a pointless frustration.

But this! I finally get it!

The wonder that is the female form. The perfection. Every inch shown, and every, very few, inches hidden, combine to hypnotise, to dominate, to render still, and make the dumb male marvel, and realise, if only for a moment, that, no matter what the wider world tries to tell us otherwise. Women have the power. The rest is just pretend.

I hope you're realising this too. I think you are. It's not just champagne coursing through your veins. Its power. And we are in utter thrall to it.

The only thing dry in that place in that moment was us males' eyeballs. Blinking has long since been forgotten.

You dance, and slap your bum cheeks, and jiggle your glass covered breasts. All of it...the label, the glasses, the boldness, the bravado, and the silliness...it's just too good to comprehend.

The song, finally, begins nearing its end. Not fading out. Reaching its crescendo.

The show, is, finally, nearly, over. A moment in time that can never be recreated. A goddess in motion. A silly, funny show. Sexy and hilarious all at once. Thank you!

You dance around to turn away from us...and pick up the bottle of champagne and step down on the other side of the table, where the TV unit is, and put down the bottle on it...

You then reach up, and, I don't know how, remove one glass from your breast, and place it on the unit...in our view. And the other.

You then reach down this time, and remove the label from its newly acquired home...and place it, back from whence it came...on the back of the bottle.

Bare, nude bum! But you're standing, and just far away enough so that we can't see past your luscious bum cheeks to the naughty winking eye nestled within. But its winking all the same!

You then pick up the bottle and pour, the last few drops, into each of the newly freed glasses.

You turn your head and look back at us all, sitting there, still gawping, mostly braindead...and give a quick smile and a wink and then turn, with an arm across your chest, and a hand amusingly trying to cover your nude bum, just as the song ends and trot off into the hall.

Leaving us numb-nuts...likely literally, in a pool of our own drool, and sheer bewildered incomprehension at what we have just been witness to.

The best Burlesque. By the best person I know.

Here's cheers!

THE END