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This site contains explicit stories of sexual & kinky fantasies and is not intended for readers under 18.

The Dinner Party

by | erotica | 0 comments

Bethany Paige had beautiful huge round wine glasses. They were fish bowls with stems. Not only were they enormous, but there were so many of them. There had to be twenty-five people stuffed into her Williamsburg loft and every guest held one of these goblets. Plus there were a few dozen more perfectly arranged in a square on the butcher block topped island in her kitchen.

It was a weird thing to get hung up on, but I often got hung up on weird things. Did she rent these glasses? Did she buy them all at once? 

I swirled the blood red wine in my glass and wondered what level of adulthood one had to attain to make a glassware purchase of that magnitude.

The wine was good. Someone said it was a juice Super Tuscan. Separately I knew what those words meant, together I wasn’t so sure.

“Henry!” a shrill voice called from across the room.

It was Bethany’s husband. A man who called himself Charlie. He was tall and ginger and bearded and the kind of person who would prefer Charlie over Charles.

His nasal voice mixed with the tannins in the wine was enough to start me on the way to a serious headache. That was until I saw who Charlie was dragging over to meet me.

She was about the same height as me or at least she was in heels, but she had the presence of someone taller. She wore a simple, but very well made, black slip dress with a white peter pan collar and short sleeves that were capped in white as well. She had that split-endless expensive looking hair. The color of single origin chocolate, that was at least 94% cocoa. It was short with side swept fringe. Her eyeliner was winged and her lips were matte red.

“Gretchen, this is Henry. He writes for food magazines, just like you!”

We flashed the brief smiles of the introduced and then started comparing resumes. It always disturbed me when worlds collided. I liked being the only magazine writer in the room.

She had a slightly breathy voice though it wasn’t to the point of affect. 

She was slightly younger and slightly better educated than me, but we had written for some of the same books. Food & Wine. Savour. Travel. 

She had thick thighs and a her dress was somewhat short. I was trying to maintain eye contact, but part of me needed to know if she was wearing pantyhose or proper stockings.

Although I couldn’t get a real read on her I very much wanted to kiss her. She held the drama of a business woman in control but mixed with the faux innocent yet deeply jaded aesthetic of a French cinema ingenue only physically think where they were thin. 

I had drank enough wine to feel charming. But as I started to turn the conversation I was once again beckoned by Charlie.

He was holding court by the fireplace, talking with his hands and when he signaled for Gretchen and me, he nearly knocking over Leslie, a yoga instructor. 

“Adam, Leslie, Hamilton, Luisa, Gretchen,” Charlie went around the little circle introducing us all.

“This is who I was just talking about! Henry, what were you saying about oral sex the other day?” Charlie asked, grasping my shoulder. 

I sighed deeply.

Charlie was one of those people that I dislike greatly but constantly found myself in deep conversation with. Mostly because he never shut up and I was often bound by some sense of politeness. 

“Henry has this theory, about sex and fetishes and things. How you can completely lose yourself in a the physical to the point of-what’s it called again?”

The yogi was suddenly interested. Gretchen raised an eyebrow, but not in a particularly positive way.

“I don’t think I remember what you’re talk about,” I lied, but Charlie waved away my hesitance.

“What was it? Ego destruction?” Charlie said, rubbing his beard and trying to remember the exact phrase.

“Ego death,” I corrected.

“Right, right, you’re just eating pussy and you’re so into you completely lose yourself. Every fiber of your body is focused on the pussy, it’s just pussy,” Charles stopped, laughing as he looked at the various people at the party turning to listen to the popping Ps of his punctuated pussies.

Adam, a professor in a suit with a turtleneck, straightened his glasses.

“Ego death has been well chronicled. Campbell had some serious thoughts on what he called ‘self-surrender and transition,’ which is an important step in the hero journey.”

“Joseph Campbell wrote about oral sex?” asked the confused yogini.

“No, no-” Adam started, shaking his head.

“I thought ego death was a Denis Leary thing,” added Hamilton, a tall be-dredded fellow who was also confused.

“I think you mean Tomothy Leary,” Luisa corrected.

“Right, with the LSD!” Hamilton remembered with a snap of his fingers.

I didn’t particularly want to talk about it. It’s not that I didn’t like these people or that I didn’t enjoy red wine and locally grown and or ethically raised foods. I enjoyed them all. It’s just that my sexuality was deeply weird or at least it felt so and I had spoken perhaps too freely to Charlie fueled by a sweat and just slightly smokey single barrel bourbon the weekend before. 

I wanted to talk to super hot and interesting Gretchen and I thought starting our evening with my philosophy of eating pussy might be a little too direct an approach for what seemed to be a nuanced and enlightened woman.

But everyone was looking at me waiting for me to say something.

I sighed.

“I don’t know, I guess I was saying that we, we meaning the people in this room, think too much and we are always looking for ways to stop thinking or at least to stop thinking about things that we aren’t currently doing. Isn’t that the idea, to be in the moment? To shut out everything else and just think about what you are doing-” I started.

“You can be in the moment with meditation,” Leslie the yoga instructor added, but no one seemed interested in meditation at the moment.

“Right, well, sex is another way of hyper focusing and being super in the moment, in my experience. And even more than most sexual practices, a lot of fetishes can be even more useful to really wipe your mind-” I started, but Hamilton interrupted.

“Are you saying oral sex is a fetish?” he asked with an approving nod from Luisa. 

“Well, no. Well, I mean anything can be a fetish. But I was talking about a specific thing with Charlie. Face sitting. Kind of forced oral sex. When someone lays down or is tied down and someone else sits on their face and sort of smothers them,” I said.

The people around me all nodded and raised their eyebrows and I wondered how much they were judging me.

“Sounds better than meditation,” Luisa thought out loud.

Leslie looked hurt. 

“It’s just, there is something about oral sex. About getting lost in the carnality. When you are with someone and they are beautiful and their pussy is the core of their sexuality and they are pushing your face in it. You are giving up your own pleasure, maybe even your own oxygen, just to eat this pussy. Just to pleasure this person. And you get mental and emotional and actual tunnel vision and all there is, is the pussy-“

“Dinner is served!” said Bethany from the kitchen.

“Indeed!” Charlie laughed.

Everyone milled towards the table, taking their goblets and leaving me feeling like weirdo ranting about pussy. I shrugged and went to find my seat, but a tug on my sleeve stopped me.

Gretchen didn’t say anything, she walked away from the fireplace into a hallway away from prying ears. I followed. Eventually she led me to a bedroom with a large window with a view of Manhattan.

She turned and face me.

“So is what you are saying, submitting to someone?” she asked.

“That’s part of it.”

She nodded slightly.

“I mean, you mentioned giving yourself into your partner’s pleasure,” she said coolly.

“Ideally, that’s what it is about,”

“It is, but I don’t know if that was exactly what you were saying. The way you put it, sounded very greedy,” she said simply, while looking out at the city.

I walked to the window, standing next to her and looking out as well. It felt like a surreal New York moment. Two well dressed people in a fancy apartment, looking out on the skyline and talking about sex.

“I never say I wasn’t greedy.”

She rolled her eyes, but only a little.

“I suppose not, but there seemed to be an implied submission in your little talk about oral sex,” she countered.

“Who said submission is altruistic?”

She narrowed her eyes and it made her about five times more attractive.

“I assumed to submit is to give yourself over to someone else for their pleasure,” she said.

I couldn’t tell if she was angry or flirting. I hoped for both.

“I think like most things, submission is a complicated umbrella term. I have been both submissive and dominant and have felt far more greedy in the former than the latter.”

She turned on me.

“Maybe that makes you less of a philosopher and more of a bad sub,” she said taking a full step forward.

There was something in the look of her. Black dress, her thick thighs, her round ass. Intellectual, curious, slightly cocky. My body wanted to top her but my head wanted something else. The two desires weren’t very far from each other. The idea of grabbing her by the hair and putting her over my knee was warring with the desire to get on my knees and show her my throat.

“I never said I was a good sub, I only implied I was good at giving head.”

She was only very slightly amused.

“That sounds the same big talk I’ve heard from a lot of small men,” she said, getting even closer.

She was in my face. I stayed stock still. I lowered my eyes as she stood a bit taller.

It’s interesting how sometimes the symbolic “power exchange” can feel quite literal. Like some fluid energy moving from one person to the other.

She brought up her hand and I winced before I could stop myself. She let out the tiniest chuckle. She touched my cheek softly.

“Such a pretty well dressed boy you are,” she said sweetly.

That part of me that wanted to grab her by the hair shrunk and disappeared with a squeak of blushing embarrassment.

“Thank you,” I said, though the words begged to be capped with some title of reverence.

She looked to the door.

“We don’t have a lot of time. Maybe I could test you. See if you’re worth further investigation,” she said reaching up for my tie and pulling me down, as if to kiss me, but instead whispering in my ear. 

“Get on the floor.”

I dropped. Luckily she let go of my tie. I flattened myself on the floor in front of her.

She smiled.

“Look at that, even the glimmer of hope and you’ve already forgotten about the party or someone walking in. Hyperfocus indeed,” she said with a glorious smile.

“Now let’s see about killing that ego,” she said as she stepped over me and looked down at me.

She stood over my head, hands on her hips. I was looking right up her dress. Black stockings, garters thankfully, black panties.

Then she slowly moved down, her legs spreading, her other hand pulling up her dress.

There was a strength in her thighs, thick and muscular. She held herself over me, one hand planted on the windowsill and the other reaching down to clutch my hair. 

I strained up, desperate for this stranger, but she held my hair tight.

“Stay still,” she ordered and I stiffened.

She let go of the windowsill and pulled her dress up further, over her waist. Then she moved her hand down her body and let one finger slip over her panties, pressing into the cleft between her thighs.

I heard her sigh and my body tensed with need.

Her fingers, the nails red like her lips, moved down and to the right and hooked the edge of her panties. She pulled them to the side and I saw short light brown hair that split to show a soft coral pink.

She dipped down lower and I arched up, like two sets of lips meeting for a first kiss, but she held me down by his hair and refused the connection.

“Please!” I whispered.

So close. So close I didn’t care about being good and holding still. I strained against her grip, but her hand held me just out of reach. 

I could smell her. A wet tart scent that triggered biological needs. 

“Please,” I whimpered. 

She chuckled down at me.

“We have to go back to the party like nothing happened. But I’m going to give you one little taste. Let’s see if you can lose yourself, greedy boy,” she said.

She lowered herself again, closer. I waited for her command. A dog waiting for a bone.

Then, from somewhere, a glass broke and a door opened and Gretchen was suddenly standing and I was getting up. In seconds we were back in the living room and in the commotion of some overturned tray no one noticed.

She ate her kale with a smile that nearly killed me, ego and all.

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