The bulge in Freya’s throat vanishes as her husband hauls his cock free. She splutters, gasping air, head dangling back off the bed, saliva strands looping between them.

She inhales. Licks her lips. “Easy! Berry notes. Pinot Noir.”

“Close. But no.”

He passes the wine glass to his colleague, who swirls his stiff cock in the burgundy liquid, steps in and places the dripping crown on her lips.

“Try again.”

She gags as he fills her throat. Holds. Yanks free to her desperate coughs.

“Beaujolais?”

“Oh dear.” He passes the glass along. “Three more tries then your ass is ours.”