Dirty Dining (3 page)

Thomas came around the table to Brice. “You’ll be Green tonight. Enjoy yourself,” he added as he pinned the ribbon to Brice’s lapel and squeezed his shoulder collegially.

He moved to each man, selecting a ribbon from the box and pinning one on each guest. As he made his way around the table, he continued his explanation.

“Your serving boy will be wearing a ribbon matching your lapel ribbon. You will be served only by your boy. Rule number one is you will refrain from touching him in what we call the bikini zone, unless you have his permission. That means you ask. Not all boys are on the menu for touching tonight.”

A low murmur of disapproval emanated from the table, but Brice couldn’t tell who had made the sound.

“Rule number two is you will refrain from touching anyone else’s boy at all, unless invited by the boy
and
his gentleman.”

“Rule number three, no sex in the dining room. And by sex, I mean fucking. No fucking the boys
in the dining room
. Save that for nightcaps in your rooms if it happens at all.”

Brice sucked in a breath. That was good. He hoped he wasn’t going to be expected to do anything in public with this boy assigned to him.

“So, what can we do to the boys in here?” A man with a Texan drawl asked.

“If it’s on their menu, hands and mouths on the boys only. Gentlemen, keep your dicks in your pants in the dining room. If you can’t wait till dinner’s over, leave the dining room.” He glanced around and seemed to be gauging the men’s moods. “But boy-on-boy, anything goes. With permission from both parties. No means no. No exceptions. My assistants will enforce that, and they’re here to protect the boys. Be respectful of them. We can all have fun without anyone getting hurt.” At Thomas’s final remark, two heavily muscled men in tight black T-shirts and black pants straining over tree-trunk thighs entered the room. They looked like a cross between ninjas and bouncers. One moved to each end of the table and took up a post against the wall.

Thomas looked at the men again. “Now, who’s ready for dinner?”

A loud chorus of whoops and affirmative noises erupted.

Brice glanced at Watkins, who was grinning back at him, nodding, with an odd glint in his eye.

“This, my friend, is going to be fun.”

“Can’t wait.” Brice took a gulp of martini and nearly choked, then turned his attention toward the door.

He felt more than heard or saw a commotion in the hallway, and then Thomas nodded and a gong sounded. The door opened, and the first boy came through, wearing a very short gold-edged toga and a bright blue ribbon tied around one upper arm.
Not mine
, Brice thought. The boy was blond, smooth, and very good-looking in that go-go boy twink way he saw too much of at some of the local clubs.

The other men let out oohs and aahs and a few disappointed groans as they spotted attractive boys wearing someone else’s color. Each boy made one round of the table before settling next to his gentleman on the wide bench seats. All were model good-looking, and none wore much. What little they had on emphasized smooth, lithe bodies, focusing attention on nipples painted with glitter, visible through the transparent shirts and tiny tunics that left little to the imagination about the size and shape of their cocks.

Despite his initial distaste for the general setup, Brice couldn’t help feeling a little animal thrill at the sight of all these gorgeous bodies on display, even knowing as the night progressed, they’d be reduced to sexual objects, if they weren’t already. So far four boys had entered the room, and Brice still hadn’t seen his.

Then a boy with an orange ribbon flounced into the room, and just behind him Brice glimpsed a flash of bright green. As the orange boy moved out of his line of sight, he saw the one assigned to him for the night: he wore a sheer sleeveless tunic and a tiny gold-edged loincloth, fluttering with each step, enticing Brice to glance under it.

This boy was no boy in reality. He wasn’t quite as smooth as the others, with a sprinkling of pale hair on his chest and the muscular upper body of someone who played sports regularly, not one who sculpted muscles in the gym. As he came around the table, Brice noticed the gold braid laced up around shapely calves and thick thighs, and he forced himself to move his gaze from the barely-there loincloth to the green boy’s face.

“Hi, I’m J—Remy. Call me Remy.”

“Hi, Remy, I’m—”

“Mr. Green,” Thomas said from behind. Apparently the boys weren’t supposed to know the gentlemen’s names.

“Hi, Mr. Green.” Remy sat down next to Brice, close but not so their thighs touched. He turned and smiled. He looked like he was in his twenties, with clear skin, smooth and just-shaven. He had silky hair the color of wheat and even, white teeth. He looked sober and healthy. Brice wasn’t sure what he’d imagined, but it wasn’t this farm-boy look. Was this better or worse?

Both, he decided. He certainly wouldn’t mind touching this guy, but the downside was how much he might want to by the end of the evening.

“Another drink, sir?” Remy motioned toward Brice’s martini glass.

“No thanks.”

“Do you want wine with dinner?” Thomas addressed Brice.

“Just a glass, not a bottle.”

“Come on,
Green
,” Watkins shouted from across the table, smirking as he emphasized the pseudonym. “Look, it’s on my expense account, so let’s have a bottle of something good.” Watkins leaned down, and before he could grab the wine list, his boy had handed it to him and opened it up. Watkins snaked his arm around the boy and they murmured, cheeks together, as he made his choice of wine. Thomas nodded.

“Boys, the first course is ready!” Thomas announced, and Remy hopped off the bench and lined up to leave the room. He moved gracefully but swiftly, as if he couldn’t wait to leave. Brice wondered if he should have done or said something differently.

A few moments later the boys paraded back in, each holding a plate, again circling the table and most of them doing their best to show off their physiques. Remy came around toward Brice and bowed low, then placed the plate—a salad—in front of him.

Around him Brice noticed the other men, including Watkins, were removing clothing items from their servers. Watkins had pulled his boy’s tunic off so the young man sat shirtless, dark nipples budding in the chilly room.

“What should I remove, Mr. Green?” Remy asked.

“Uh, your armband?”

“Do you w—”

Suddenly it seemed creepy to want to watch this guy peel off his clothes for Brice—even worse to do it for him.

“No, you do it.” Brice watched Remy’s face, saw his eyes flaring as he took in Brice’s choice. The armband had to come off at some point.

Remy couldn’t unsnap the green band on his own, and Brice had to help him. His fingertips brushed against the firm, smooth bicep muscles, and he felt the warmth of Remy’s skin. The jolt of sensation traveling from his fingers into his core surprised him. He took his time at the task and noticed Remy’s eyes flutter as he looked away. How did he manage to look so innocent and naïve?

Remy sat down next to Brice and poured him wine and another glass of water, clearly waiting for Brice to ask him to perform a task. The other men seemed to enjoy having their serving boys feed them or sit on their laps, the gentlemen stroking a thigh or pinching a nipple in between bites of salad. One man had removed his boy’s shorts and was stroking the boy’s firm cock while being fed. Brice wondered what would be left for later if the guy started off there.

Across from him, Watkins’ boy sat on his lap, with Watkins’ hand under the filmy cloth. It was hardly subtle, but somehow preferable to what the other guy was doing.

J
EREMY
WASN
’
T
at all sure what to expect from Mr. Green. He was good-looking in a polished, Richard Gere way, a few strands of silver sprinkled at his temples. It looked good on him. He was somewhere in his thirties, no older, despite the gray strands. His eyes were the color of chestnuts and opened wide as Green looked at Jeremy.

At first, he glanced at Jeremy’s body, but then he seemed to make a special effort to focus on Jeremy’s eyes. Maybe he was embarrassed to ogle him, which made a nice change from the way some of the other gentlemen leered at him, clearly wanting to touch what they weren’t supposed to. Jeremy glanced at the two guards and felt marginally safer.

The salad course was awkward. Jeremy wasn’t sure if Green wanted to be fed. Jeremy reached for the fork in his hand, but Green jerked his hand away and fed himself. With nothing to do, Jeremy watched the other boys feeding their gentlemen, being fed by them, or sitting in laps and playing with the gentleman’s buttons or collars. And they were all chatting. Mr. Green kept stuffing salad in his mouth, leaving Jeremy no opportunity for discussion.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Jeremy asked, hoping Green didn’t hear the tremor in his voice.

“Uh, no.” Green didn’t look at him. He leaned forward and his leg pressed against Jeremy’s, firm and warm.

“I don’t bite, you know.”

“Unless I want you to?” Green actually smiled this time.

He had a beautiful smile. Even, white teeth like a model in a toothpaste ad. There was a tiny dimple in his right cheek, and his eyes crinkled up a little now he was actually smiling.

“Do you want me to bite you?” Jeremy tried to put a touch of sex in his voice as he asked. He sucked at flirting. He was more of a buy a guy a drink and leave, without much talking. But Mr. Green was a challenge Jeremy suddenly wanted to overcome.

“I suppose it depends where.” Green put the fork down and turned more toward Jeremy.

Jeremy licked his lips. “Hmmm. Maybe I’d start with your… earlobe?” He reached up and caressed Green’s ear before tugging the lobe. Jeremy seemed to have no control over his hand and just watched, as fascinated as Green.

“That’s a fine place, to start.” He turned a much warmer gaze on Jeremy, making Jeremy’s pulse race.

Now he really wanted to touch this man, to be touched by him. It would feel good. It would be fun.

“More salad, sir?” Jeremy picked up a piece of cucumber and brought it to Green’s mouth, letting his fingers brush Green’s lower lip. His skin tingled from the touch. He breathed in Green’s scent, and a wave of arousal washed over him. The tiny loincloth lifted a little, and Green noticed, glancing down. He seemed surprised; then a little smile told Jeremy he liked having that effect.

“Would you like some wine?” Green asked. He let his hand linger on Jeremy’s as he passed him the cup and Jeremy took a sip. Green’s hand stayed on his the entire time, burning into his skin. Jeremy’s breath quickened, and the loincloth fluttered.

Green’s fingers wrapped around Jeremy’s wrist, loosely at first and then more firmly. He licked his lips and felt himself getting hard enough for the damn loincloth to flap like a flag in a hurricane.

A gong announced the end of the course.

Jeremy stood, Green’s hand still on his wrist, as if he didn’t want to break their sudden powerful connection. Then Jeremy reached for the plate, and Green let go.

B
ACK
IN
the hall between the kitchen and the dining room, Kit and Rand came up to Jeremy.

“Looks like you’re having some fun.” Kit lifted the loincloth and examined Jeremy’s half-mast cock.

“I’m so glad,” Rand said. “I could see it was a little awkward at first. But by the end of the next course, you two should be more relaxed.”

They were. Even more after the third, where Jeremy was wearing just the gold leaf thing in his hair, the tunic, and the bottom piece. He sat pressed up against Mr. Green, and they fed pieces of some beef dish to each other. The banter continued as Jeremy found himself ever more turned on not only by polite but sexy Green but by the whole scene.

By now some of the boys wore only shoes. One had a shirt but no loincloth. Jeremy wore the most of the whole group. Green was still wearing his jacket. At least Jeremy had loosened his tie.

“Would you like me to help you with your jacket?” Jeremy asked in a low whisper against Green’s ear. He fought the urge to take that bite he’d mentioned during the salad.

“Help me?”

“Why don’t you take your jacket off?”

Green looked around as if seeking permission, and Jeremy found himself making the decision for him. He slid the jacket off Green—who pulled away at first when Jeremy took hold of it—and hung it up on the conveniently provided racks near the wall. It would have been fine, but when Jeremy stood up, his state of arousal was obvious to everyone in the room. He might as well not even be wearing the tiny squares of sheer fabric. His cock jutted out, balls bouncing slightly with each step, reminding him that everything was pretty much on full display already.

“Go on, Green, give the boy a hand,” one of the men shouted. A few others offered suggestions.

Jeremy’s face heated up, and Green wouldn’t look at him until the course was over.

At the fifth course, dessert, Green had to choose the tunic or the loincloth. He went for the top.

“Would you mind helping me?” Jeremy wanted Green’s hands on him in the worst way. In any way. He was beginning to wonder if the man was even gay. He had a nice bulge in his pants, but he hadn’t yet done anything overtly sexual.

Green’s hands skimmed up Jeremy’s sides as he pulled the shirt off. Jeremy arched his back as the tunic fluttered from his fingertips. Now Green stared at sparkly pink nipples and Jeremy’s sculpted torso. A few of the men applauded; they’d probably been waiting to get the last boy—Jeremy—out of his kit.

“Would you like me to sit on your lap, sir?”

Green just nodded, and Jeremy perched himself on one thigh. An arm circled his waist, and he pressed closer to Mr. Green. He could feel firm, warm flesh just the other side of the cotton button-down shirt.

Around them, the other men had their hands on boys’ cocks or asses, and half the gentlemen’s shirts were unbuttoned, boys playing with their nipples. Why didn’t Mr. Green want to play with him? Clearly there were very few rules and even fewer inhibitions here.