FIC: “Dinner & Diatribes”

An original m/f erotic story inspired by and titled after this song. Not RPF, that is, not about Andrew Hozier-Byrne the musician. Behind the veil for explicit language.

“Let’s play a drinking game,” she said into my ear, as our host droned on and on.

“Yeah?”

“One shot every time Jeff says ‘filioque’.”

I could tell she was smiling and I could tell she was hiding it, too. “Christ–” I bit the word off. “Christ no, I’m already too near drunk as is.” Jeff might monologue on theology, but he was a middle-aged gay man. He didn’t serve cheap wine to guests.

Her fingers were toying with the hairs at the back of my neck, the ones that are too short and fine ever to gather into a bun. It started to make the hairs on other parts of my body stand up.

I shuffled my napkin. “Why do we keep coming to these parties?”

My baby shifted a little closer to me. “Because Jeff’s a really good cook, and he buys really good wine.” Yeah, she frequently reads my mind. “We can say no next time, if you want.”

I slumped in my seat. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

Jeff the host and tall Jeff were now arguing over the Immaculate Conception, I think, both with their elbows on the table. Jeff’s parties are the only reason I can tell you that the Immaculate Conception is *not* the same thing as the Virgin Birth, don’t even think it. Jean and Phyllis, the older lesbian couple, were talking privately with looks on their faces that said, “We’re too old and too tired for this shit.” Tall Jeff’s latest twink was looking openly, rudely bored, and Jeff the host’s partner, Ted the doctor, had had the excuse of a day in surgery and was upstairs, probably fast asleep.

“Let’s play a different game, then.” Her fingers crept up my neck, nails dragging, and tugged lightly at the elastic around my hair. Parts of me that weren’t just hair started to think about standing up.

“Let’s play… what I’m going to do to you to reward you for putting up with Jeff’s theological monologues.”

I swallowed hard, then covered it, I hoped, with a swallow of water.

“What you’re going to do to me?”

“Uh-huh.” A delicious little pull, and oh, there went the elastic. Her fingers started fluffing through my hair, separating the strands, setting it free.

“And what do I have to do?”

“Not a thing. Except scream. If you want to.”

All this time I hadn’t really looked at her, because if I did, it would show on my face, what she was doing to me. I had to slump down some more in the damn uncomfortable antique chair so it wouldn’t show anywhere else. Now I had to, I *had* to risk a glimpse of her face. Of the mischief in her eyes, and the tiny little smile, her glossy mouth crooked up at the corners, that said, Oh yes, boy, I know exactly how to make you scream.

I licked my lips. She did know that.

I folded my arms and tilted my head, just a little, into the cup of her hand. “So what’re you thinking?”

Her fingernails dug just briefly into my scalp.

“I’m thinking,” her voice softer than before, “that by the time we can say our good-byes, you’ll be so hard you can barely walk in those jeans. Yet you’ll have to get up and walk just the same.”

Truth. But I just said, “Uh-huh,” as noncommittally as I could, as if I wasn’t even listening.

“And then there’s the cab ride home.”

“Thought you’d rather call a Lyft?”

She was running her fingers through my hair, combing it out. She knew how to work out the tangles. “Hm, we can easily get a cab in this neighborhood. A good old-fashioned cab with a deep, dark backseat, so I can put my hands on you while I kiss you breathless.”

She didn’t say it, but I knew exactly where those hands would be: one in my hair, like right now, but her fingers twined around the curls, pulling just a little, and the other in my lap, over my cock, pressing my fly down onto it, maybe rubbing up and down. While she was kissing me breathless.

“You have the greediest mouth….” And the dirtiest, when we were alone.

“Then we’d have to get through the elevator ride up to my floor. We’d have to wait, for propriety’s sake, until we got into my place.”

Propriety’s sake. One fingernail scratched slowly and deliberately along my skin.

“I’ve been thinking….” She paused and took a sip of wine. Oh lord–those three words usually introduced her latest sexual experiment. She thinks about sex a lot, actually thinks about it. And talks about it. It’s a hell of a ride.

“We’ve done a little bondage.” More than a little. Not enough. “I was wondering if I could bind you by the hair, tie it to the headboard somehow.”

My prick actually twitched, or tried to–not much room in my jeans, even before I sprang a stiff one. I reached for my own wine glass before I spoke. “Want to roleplay Samson and Delilah, do you?”

Her low laugh made me twitch all over. “Oh, I don’t want to make you lose your strength. Oh no.” Her fingers tightened, twisted, in my hair. “I just want you to stay where I put you, love.”

I breathed out shakily. “Oh, I will.”

“You will,” she said, a promise. She tapped at her lips with one finger. The light of the low candles caught the sparkles in her emerald-green polish.

“I think I’ll suck you off first, quick. To give you time to work up to a second round.” Oh, Christ. I’m almost thirty and refractory periods are longer already than they used to be.

“Once you’ve recovered a little, I might want a few orgasms of my own.” The backs of her fingers brushed the corner of my jaw, a little reminder that a lot of the time, her favorite way to get orgasms was to sit on my face.

“I’m sure I could help you with that,” I managed. I crossed my legs.

It didn’t help.

“Then I might just play with you a while. Or I might make you wait, while I stretch out and recover a bit. You’d still be tied up, waiting for me.”

Jesus Christ, I was sweating. My advice to men everywhere, at least if you’re under forty and heterosexual: Find yourself an older woman, put yourself in her hands. It’ll change your life.

“Oh, you know what we haven’t done in a while?” She was getting pretty excited herself: her voice came out higher and louder than it had been, and she covered up by drinking some wine, finding the little bell on the table and snuffing out the candles, which were guttering now. I ached to feel her hand on me again, the alternation of caress and tease in my hair.

When she leaned back, she moved her chair closer to mine. Jean and Phyllis were getting up now, saying good night to Jeff. Tall Jeff’s twink had disappeared. There was a lull as we said good night to the lesbian ladies, Jeff the host saw them to the door, and then he and tall Jeff both wandered off to the kitchen. My lover turned to me, smiling, and said brightly, “I haven’t pegged you in a while.”

I nearly choked. See what I mean about a dirty mouth? Hearing her talk about sexual acts beforehand is nearly half the fun, to be honest.

“I see you like that idea.” We were still alone in the dining room, able to hear the conversation going on in the kitchen. She darted her hand into my lap, quick as a heron darts after a fish, and seized my cock in a perfect grip that didn’t last anywhere near forever, like I wanted it to.

“Would you rather lie on your back, or on your belly?” I was mesmerized by her eyes now, dark and warm and feeding on my face. “Or as the song says, face down ass up?”

My face finally, instantly, caught fire. She burst out laughing and quickly smothered the sound with both hands.

“I think that’s how we’ll start out,” she went on, standing up. She moved behind my chair and wrapped her arms around me as she bent to speak right into my ear. “And once we’re really going at it, once you’re whimpering and begging me for it, I’ll have you flip over onto your back so I can see your pretty face when you come.”

Oh Jesus God in heaven. She wandered off, I didn’t even fucking know where, and I just sat there in that too-small antique chair, legs crossed over my literally aching prick, sweat in my armpits, my heartbeat racing and just short, just short of hyperventilating. If she and Jeff and tall Jeff and the twink came back into the room, along with the President, the Queen, and the Pope, I would gladly stand up and let her jerk me off onto the centerpiece if she wanted. I was pretty sure I’d hit the centerpiece if I was standing in the doorway.

They all did come back into the room together, minus the President, the Queen, and the Pope. “We really must do this again soon,” my lover was saying, in a tone of voice that meant maybe, possibly, same time next year. “Benny, would you get my coat, love?”

I went out to the foyer and took her coat–vintage, green wool, fox collar–off the coat rack. Stayed there with it, by the door, holding it conveniently in front of me. Five more minutes of conversation, at least, and then she and Jeff the host came out, still talking, and I put the coat on her, not saying anything, smiling and nodding politely at Jeff. He thinks I’m an idiot, anyway, which he’s wrong about but I mostly don’t care.

And then we were outside the house, on the porch, in the cold night air. She reached up and pulled me down into a kiss that stole my breath, her suddenly chilly hand around the back of my neck.

“And now, let’s see if we can hail a cab.”

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Author: Merri-Todd

Writer, musician, polytheist, and friend of birds. I groove on transformative works.

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