The fantasy dinner party

About this story

It’s pretty rare that someone shares an exact fantasy of mine, right down to every sticky detail. I think the same is true for most of us, which is why those ‘top fantasies’ surveys are usually far too broad to be useful on an individual basis. X per cent of men fantasise about having a threesome – big deal. Who is the threesome with? What happens during it? What’s the atmosphere like? Is the main participant a passive receptacle for the sexual whims of the other two, or are they an active and eager consumer, sampling whatever deviant delights they are offered? Is this threesome in a specific place, or are specific words said? When you get down to the granular detail of a fantasy, it’s incredibly rare to find someone who shares something identical, in every possible respect. So, when I tell you that I once explained this fantasy to someone, and watched their eyes light up with gleeful enthusiasm, as they told me they had exactly the same desire, I hope you can understand just how rare that was. And how utterly soaked I was by the time they’d finished explaining exactly why they liked it too. The fantasy dinner party A group of guys sit down for a meal. They’re a bit drunk, quite boisterous but not in a gleeful way: in an obnoxious, city-boy way. The kind that click their fingers for another drink rather than addressing me directly, and make lewd comments about me when I bend over to pick up the forks they’ve deliberately let slip to the floor. My job is to serve them. Dinner and… well… whatever else they want. Some time between the main course and dessert, the guy at the head orders me onto my knees under the table. I comply immediately. The other guys around the table accept it like it’s par for the course. As they continue their conversation, guy at the head reaches down to unzip his flies, pulling out a semi-hard dick and casually squeezing it. I’m pretty crowded under there – legs and feet spread out, nonchalant and brazen. I can hear, muffled slightly by the table and the cloth and my own pounding arousal, that the people above are talking casually. Despite his cock growing hard in his hand, the guy at the head is chipping in to the discussion. I watch him as he removes his hand from his cock, angles himself better to display it to me, then reaches down and snaps his fingers. I go to work. It’s somehow understood, yet entirely unspoken, that part of my role in the evening is to suck him under the table. My wet lips should be as willing and unquestioning as my steady hands were when I poured him a glass of wine. Importantly – crucially for this fantasy – my mouth around his prick should be acknowledged with the same degree of careless nonchalance as any other service I’ve provided: i.e. barely. The odd sigh of satisfaction, perhaps, as I push my head down right to the base of his dick. Maybe a murmured ‘good girl’ or a quick hand on the back of my head, shoving me further down, but no more. When he gives a final stifled grunt, and shoots ropes of spunk into the back of my throat, he expects me to wipe him clean with my tongue and hands, before zipping up his trousers and moving round the table. So the evening goes on. Hands, mouth, tongue… round and round the group of men who sit at the table. Each of them with his own quirks and preferences which I, as a good host, should be expected to remember. This one likes it softer. This one wants to thrust up and back into me as he gets nearer the end. One of them drags me with rough efficiency by the hair, out from under the table, so he can look into my eyes as he empties himself onto my face. All the while, they talk. Business, pleasure, the traffic on the A34: mundane and casual, barely acknowledging what I’m doing except for the odd comment or bark of laughter. They turned up to fill themselves with food, and empty whatever they have into whatever receptacle I’ll be good enough to provide, but none of them would stoop to something as crass as talking to me. I choose the wines they drink, and the food they eat, and I anticipate each and every preference as I would with a group of fussy diners in a Michelin-starred restaurant. In the same vein, I give them whatever else they want too – whether it’s a quick squeeze of my lace-clad bottom as I stand by them to serve dessert, a swift and efficient hand job under the table, or whatever else happens to take their fancy. Remember I said someone else shared this fantasy? The thing that made me so excited was that they shared the same desire for exactly that atmosphere: one of pleasuring strangers you borderline hate, for rewards that are vague and undesirable. They shared not just the fantasy of the physical – getting a faceful of spunk under the table at a dinner party – but the air of indifferent use too. At the end of the fantasy dinner party, as I clear away the plates and straighten out my clothes, I hear them taking their leave. The wine has opened the discussion a bit, and they make lewd comments and comparisons, that type of kiss-and-tell banter that implies none of the participants want to admit how much they enjoyed it. The guys around the table had a hell of a lot of fun, but they’re taking it all for granted because it’s so much cooler to pretend that it meant nothing. I served them, and they accept my service as if it’s their due. I, on the other hand, standing with a dirty dishcloth in my hand and the memories already dripping through my knickers, feel less like the used and more like the user. I may have done what they asked, but I was the one who got exactly what I wanted. If you liked this you’ll probably also like this sofa-gang-bang fantasy, which comes from a similar place.