The Dinner Party


I keep everything on this blog Rated R.  I think I have only written two sexually explicit posts.  Well, this one’s the third.  It’s not exactly lurid, but it is very graphic by my standards.  It contains descriptions of sex and sadomasochism.  If you don’t want to read that, you should avoid this post.  Thank you.

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I knew it something sexual was going to happen, but I didn’t know when.  Heinrich had it planned out in advance, but, naturally, he didn’t share his plans with me.   It was a surprise.

We’d just finished a light supper at his friends’ apartment in Brooklyn.  There were four of us seated at the table–Heinrich, myself, and our hosts, who were a couple.  What can I say about them that won’t compromise their privacy…?  The man was tall and dark-haired and worked in the arts.  The woman was a redhead, a true redhead, with long springy hair and freckles on her arms.

I’d just met them both for the first time.  I went with Heinrich to their apartment.  Heinrich carried a bottle of wine, and I bought a bouquet of flowers.

I felt an affinity with them when I stepped into their home: it was full of books and musical instruments.  The woman helped us with our coats and hanged them in the closet.  I felt a little nervous, because I knew something was going to happen that evening.  Also, they were Heinrich’s age–10-15 years older than I, and obviously well-off.  Their apartment was spacious by New York standards and they had nice things. Internally, I geared myself up to practice some class drag: I can pass as bourgeois if I need to, at least superficially.

They were charming and gracious hosts.  The woman brought us drinks (I had tea) and propelled the timeline: first, drinks and a tour of the apartment (a custom that I’ve never understood–why show guests your entire house?), then conversation in the living room, where the man answered questions about his musical instrument.  We talked about music for a while.  Then the woman seated us for dinner, which was delicious but seemed catered.   There were several candles on the table of various heights.  Heinrich moved one closer to me to emphasize my décolletage. 

Now the plates were cleared and the others were drinking port, and I was wondering when it was going to happen.

Heinrich turned to me and told me to stand up, please.

“Pardon?” (for a fleeting moment, I thought that perhaps I was being asked to help with the dishes)

“Stand up, please.  From the chair.”

I did.

He stood up beside me and put his hands on both my shoulders.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

Here it is.  It’s time, I thought.

I nodded.  After Abduction Weekend, how could I not?  I knew he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.  But, still, the anticipation.

He slid the straps of my white dress over my shoulders and it fell in a puddle to my feet, chiffon and sequins.  Then I was standing there in my underwear and my stockings (I hadn’t worn a bra because of the cut of the dress, and my breasts are small).

The couple put down their glasses and clapped their hands a few times.  They were smiling.

I have no hangups at all about nudity, but suddenly I couldn’t face them.  I focused on a painting on the wall instead, behind the table.

“She is beautiful, yes…?”  Heinrich asked his friends.

“Oh, yes! Just wonderful!” said the man.

Heinrich grabbed my upper arm.  There was pressure in it this time.  He leaned in and nuzzled my neck.  I felt his breath on my skin.

“Recite, my dear,” he whispered.

My brain froze.  I stood still as a statue.  Then I remembered…from Abduction Weekend.

“Schön war ich auch, und das war mein Verderben,” I said, and I was so relieved that I remembered my line.

(“Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.” Faust, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe )

Heinrich led me away from the table by my arm, halfway across the dining room.

“Move onto the floor.  Onto the floor!” he said, pulling my arm down.

I dropped to my knees and went to place my hands behind my head, as I’ve been trained, but he told me to go all the way.  Hands and knees.

The couple had pulled their chairs away from the table.  They were staring at us, still smiling.  The guy in particular.  Heinrich put his shoe on my back, like a huntsman posing with a trophy.

“Crawl to him,” he said, and then he gave me a hard kick in the ass.

I started crawling…and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a belt being pulled out of a pair of trousers.  I’ve heard that sound many, many times in my life.  Oh, the belts I have known!

I knew it was coming before it actually hit me: Heinrich belted me.  It hurt and made a loud snap.  I yelped.

“Crawl to him!  Make it sexy!  Make it good!” he roared.

I focused on my movements and dropped lower to the floor.  Now, I was looking at the couple’s shoes.  I focused on his.  They were black loafers.

I crawled all the way across the room, with Heinrich beating my ass every step of the way.  The sound of the belt was the loudest thing in the room, much louder than the Mozart in the background.  After the first hit, I didn’t yell, though I exhaled hard.

When I got in between his knees, I cautiously looked up at him.  Ah, yes, the familiar pose.  I’ve spent a lot of my sex life on my knees, looking up at a man.

At least I knew where this was going.

“Do you like her?” Heinrich asked his friends, the man specifically.  The couple were looking down at me and holding hands.

“She’s perfect,” he said.

“Ask him for it!  Beg him!”  Heinrich said, and belted me again. “Beg him!  Grovel!”

(Heinrich’s English isn’t perfect, but he knows all the words pertinent to his sexual proclivities.  I mean, how many Germans would know the word grovel?)

I asked the man if I could suck his cock.  Please.  I made eye contact.  It was humiliating.

“Beg more!” Heinrich roared behind me.

Dignity has its charms, but this was neither the time nor the place: I started to beg.  Just like Oliver Twist, asking for more.  Please please please, may I blow you, Sir?

“Go ahead,” he said, and my hands flew to the button of his trousers.   I unzipped his fly and then exposed his penis.  He was hard as a rock.

I went to work.

Heinrich finally came out from behind me and stood by my side.  He leaned over and kissed the woman.  I saw it out of my peripheral vision.

“Remember, I don’t do pain like her,” I heard her say (referring, obviously, to me).

“For you, I will be gentle, very gentle,” I heard Heinrich say.  They kissed again.

She got up from her chair, and he picked her up off the ground, holding her in his arms. He carried her to a sofa in the adjoining room.  It was within eyesight.

I was wondering about this moment–how I’d feel inside, knowing he was making love to someone else.  I am not a jealous person at all, but I’d wondered if it would still hurt me somehow.  Sometimes you can’t control if you feel hurt or jealous, even though you know it’s not rational.

It didn’t hurt (thank God).  I had a partial view of them, reflected in one of the mirrors on the wall.

Even when he was bent over her, fucking her, her head with its coils of red hair nestled in his armpit, he was almost completely focused on me.

He stared at me the entire time.  And he looked hungry.

3 thoughts on “The Dinner Party”

  1. First off let me start by saying that I can not believe that this post has not received any comments! This is such an intense post, I am still processing what happened (which makes me wonder if that is the reason why there are no comments, maybe?). Anyway, I wanted to say how different you life is from mine and I do not mean it in a negative way. I am a stay at home mom in a committed relationship, let’s be honest my life is pretty boring. I guess that is why I have been reading your blog for some time now. I find your life very interesting. Thanks for all the interesting posts Miss Margo.


  2. I agree with SAHM – I thought this would have lots of comments. Maybe we all are still processing it 🙂
    This is so intense! And sometimes a little heart wrenching. You and H really seem to, well, be so good together in many ways. I totally understand (from personal experience) that great sexual chemistry does not necessarily mean the relationship can work – but Dang! 🙂

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