Squashing the grapes is the first step in making wine

The oxen were exhausted. This was the last batch of grapes for this season and the women waited knee deep in all the grapes that we’ve gathered. We have an old saying: Let the wine be pure and good, like the souls of these fair maidens. The deep indigo-red stained the skin of their calves and I watched how the skirts were raised higher and higher revealing the thighs. I was playing with a grape and when she bent a bit to fix her skirt, I seized the moment and tossed it down her linen blouse. A look of anger, followed by a sly smile and a quick hand movement and I was covered with grape juice from head to toe. I yielded under her victorious eyes. And so, I went off to change my shirt. Between some large wooden pails full of grape juice, as I was changing my clothes, I heard someone tiptoeing behind me. I turned, and there she was: grape juice still dripping from her hands. Fixing me with her eyes, she lifted her skirt. Fair skin, red hands, lost in her dark bush. She moved in closer and started to smear all that red pulp over my chest, hands and face. Then, she started to lick it off slowly. It was like some kind of ritual.

“...the legend has it that the King of Thebes was torn apart by the crazed Maenads”