Chapter 6: Dinner Service
The crystal chandelier above the dining table scattered light like shattered diamonds across the polished mahogany. Silver domes covered their plates, waiting. The air smelled of seared meat, red wine reduction, and the faint, clean scent of the starched linen tablecloth. Jerry stood by the sideboard, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his knuckles white. He wore a crisp shirt, the one Sergio had always liked. It felt like a costume now.
Ivan sat at the head of the table, king of the ruin. He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt that strained over his chest and shoulders. He hadn’t shaved. He looked at Jerry, then nodded to the empty space beside his chair.
“He doesn’t need a seat,” Ivan said, his voice cutting through the quiet. “He eats under the table.”
Sergio, already naked, moved from the shadows of the doorway. He didn’t look at Jerry. His eyes were downcast, his movements fluid with a shameful familiarity. The bruises from the balcony railing were visible on his hips, faint purple blooms against his skin. He sank to his knees on the thick carpet, then crawled the final distance, disappearing beneath the heavy linen drape of the tablecloth.
Jerry’s breath hitched. He could see the vague outline of his husband’s form, a hunched shadow between Ivan’s spread legs.
“Serve the first course,” Ivan said, picking up his steak knife and tracing a fingertip along its edge.
Jerry moved mechanically. He lifted a dome, revealing a perfect filet mignon, medium-rare, glistening with jus. He placed it before Ivan, then another at the place setting to Ivan’s right, where Sergio should have been sitting. The third plate, his own, he left on the sideboard. He wasn’t invited to sit.
“Wine,” Ivan commanded.
Jerry poured, the Cabernet Sauvignon splashing dark into the bowl of the glass. As he leaned forward, he saw Ivan’s free hand drop below the table. He heard a soft rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down.
A low, murmured command from Ivan, inaudible to Jerry. Then a shift in the shadow beneath the table. A slight, rhythmic movement.
Ivan cut a piece of steak, speared it with his fork, and chewed slowly. His expression was one of casual contemplation. He took a sip of wine. “Good. Tender.” He ate another piece. His abdominal muscles tightened subtly, a faint flex beneath the black cotton. A quiet, choked sound came from under the table.
Jerry stared at his husband’s empty chair. The ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece was monstrously loud.
“You’re neglecting your guest, Jerry,” Ivan said, his voice calm. “His mouth is occupied. You’ll have to serve him.”
“What?” Jerry’s voice was a dry crackle.
“Cut a piece. A good one. Get under there and feed it to him.”
The absurdity of it, the deliberate, theatrical humiliation, locked Jerry’s joints. He stood frozen.
Ivan’s eyes, cold and assessing, lifted to his. “Now.”
Jerry’s hands trembled as he picked up the knife and fork from Sergio’s untouched place setting. He cut a small piece of the filet, the meat yielding with a soft sound. He then, feeling like a man in a dream, lowered himself to his knees. The carpet was plush and suffocating. He lifted the edge of the tablecloth.
The scene beneath was lit in the dim, golden light filtering through the linen. Sergio was on his knees, his head bobbing slowly in Ivan’s lap. Ivan’s cock, thick and flushed, slid in and out of Sergio’s stretched, glistening lips. Sergio’s eyes were closed, his face a mask of intense concentration. A thin strand of saliva webbed from his mouth to Ivan’s base.
“He’s busy,” Ivan said from above, his tone conversational. “Put it in his hand. He’ll know what to do.”
Jerry reached out, his fingers brushing Sergio’s shoulder. Sergio flinched, his eyes snapping open. For a second, husband looked at husband. In Sergio’s gaze, Jerry saw no apology, no shared horror—only a deep, drowning need and a flicker of impatience at the interruption. Jerry placed the piece of meat into Sergio’s open, waiting palm. Sergio’s fingers closed around it.
He didn’t stop his rhythm. He brought the piece of filet to his mouth as he pulled back, taking Ivan’s cock almost to the tip. He placed the meat on his tongue, then swallowed Ivan back down, his jaw working.
“Good boy,” Ivan murmured, his hand coming to rest on top of Sergio’s head, guiding him deeper. He moaned around his mouthful, the sound vibrating against Ivan’s flesh. Ivan’s hips lifted slightly off the chair, driving himself deeper down Sergio’s throat. The wet, gagging sounds were unmistakable now, obscenely loud in the confined space.
Jerry scrambled out from under the table, his vision blurring. He stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Ivan ate another piece of his steak, chewing deliberately. His breath began to shorten. The pace under the table increased, the movements becoming jerky, desperate. Ivan’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table.
“Gonna cum,” Ivan announced, not to Sergio, but to Jerry. A statement of fact. “You’ll want to watch this part, beta. Learn how it’s done.”
He thrust upward, holding Sergio’s head firmly in place. A deep, guttural groan ripped from Ivan’s throat. His body tensed, locked. Beneath the table, Sergio made a series of frantic, swallowing gulps, his throat working. Ivan shuddered, his head falling back for an instant before he looked back at Jerry, his eyes dark and satisfied.
He relaxed into the chair. After a moment, he pushed Sergio away. Sergio emerged from under the tablecloth, coughing, his lips swollen and slick. He remained on his knees, catching his breath. He still held a half-chewed piece of meat in his hand.
Ivan took a long drink of wine, then looked at the morsel in Sergio’s hand. “Finish it,” he said.
Sergio, his eyes glazed, brought the meat to his mouth and chewed. He swallowed.
“All of it,” Ivan said softly. “Every drop. You chew my cum with the filet mignon, doc. Savour it. That’s the best part of the meal.”
Sergio obeyed, his jaw moving slowly. A tear tracked through the stubble on his cheek, but his expression was one of eerie devotion. He licked his palm clean.
Ivan nodded, then gestured to his own plate, which was still half-full. “I’m done. You can have the rest. On the floor where you belong.”
Sergio took the plate from the table and settled cross-legged on the carpet. He ate with his fingers, head bowed over the china like a dog at a bowl.
Ivan finally looked at Jerry, who stood shattered by the sideboard. “Clean up. Then get your ass in the bedroom.” He stood, tucked himself back into his jeans, and walked away without a backward glance, leaving the two husbands in the ruin of the fine dinner.
The clock ticked. Sergio scraped the plate with his finger, sucking the last of the jus off it. He didn’t look up.
Jerry looked at the empty chair, the used silverware, the wine glass stained with Ivan’s fingerprints. He understood now, completely. There was no coming back from under the table. The man eating off the floor was no longer his husband. He was simply Ivan’s thing, and Jerry was the servant to a thing. The silence in the room was no longer tense; it was final. It was the sound of a door closing forever in a house where he now slept in the guest room of his own life.