Chapter 31: The Dinner Dare
The taxi dropped them outside her brownstone, but the energy still crackled between them, a live wire. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, the city noise feeling distant. “I’m starving,” Ryan said, his thumb brushing the back of her hand. “And I don’t mean for that.”
She smiled, a real one that reached her eyes. “I know a place. Quiet. Dark. The garlic bread is sinful.”
Il Forno was half-empty, a Tuesday evening sanctuary. The host led them to the corner booth, a velvet-draped cave that smelled of garlic, wood smoke, and old red wine. They ordered a bottle of Barolo and the sinful bread. The candlelight caught the silver in his hair, the faded ink on his forearms as he poured.
She listened as he talked about his sabbatical, the book on stoic philosophy he was supposedly writing, the quiet desperation of campus politics. She nodded in all the right places, her therapist’s mind effortlessly tracking his subtext—the restlessness, the unspoken question of what came next. But her body was on a different frequency entirely.
Under the table, her hand drifted to her thigh. She gathered the hem of her skirt, the black wool soft under her fingers. She slid her hand beneath it, over the silk of her stockings, to the bare skin above. She was already wet, a slick heat that had been building since the store, since the taste of him in the taxi. Her fingers slid through her folds, collecting the evidence.
She held his gaze as she did it, her voice calm as she asked a follow-up question about his department chair. “And does she still have that terrifying collection of porcelain frogs?”
Her middle finger, glistening, circled her asshole. She pressed the pad of it against the tight ring, applying a steady, insistent pressure until it yielded, sinking into the tight, clutching heat. A soft sigh escaped her nostrils. She began to work it, a slow in and out, the stretch delicious and dirty.
Ryan’s sentence trailed off. His eyes dropped from her face to the subtle shift of her shoulder, the faint, rhythmic tremor in her arm beneath the tablecloth. His knuckles whitened around his wine glass.
“She does,” he said, his voice lower. “The frogs remain. Terrorizing graduate students.”
Channah added a second finger, her breath catching. She scissored them gently, the burn a bright, focused star in the dim booth. She could feel his stare like a physical touch. She bit her lower lip, her fingers moving faster now, a quiet, obscene rhythm under the polite murmur of the restaurant.
“God,” she whispered, not about the frogs.
She pulled her fingers free. Slowly, deliberately, she brought her hand up to the table’s edge, then to her mouth. She slid both fingers between her lips, sucking them clean, her tongue lapping at the distinct, musky taste of her own ass. She held his darkened gaze as she did it.
She leaned forward, the candlelight dancing in her eyes. “I want you to get up,” she whispered, the words barely audible over the low clatter from the kitchen. “Go to the men’s room. The last stall. I want you to fuck my ass raw in there. And then I want you to cover my face in your cum. I want to wear it out of here.”
He didn’t hesitate. He took a final swallow of wine, stood, and placed his napkin on the table. “Be right back,” he said, too casually, and walked toward the back hallway.
She counted to sixty. She slipped out of the booth, smoothing her skirt. She passed the waiter. “Just freshening up,” she said with a serene smile.
The hallway was narrow, lit by a sconce with a burnt-out bulb. The door to the men’s room was heavy, oak. She pushed inside. It was clean, coldly lit, smelling of industrial lemon cleaner. The last stall was closed.
She lifted the latch and stepped in. He was there, waiting, his jeans already open, his cock in his hand, thick and angry-looking. He didn’t speak. He turned her, bent her over the cold porcelain of the toilet tank. He yanked her skirt up around her waist, his hand sliding between her legs, gathering her wetness, smearing it over her asshole and the head of his cock.
He pushed the head against her. “This what you wanted?” he growled.
“Yes. Do it.”
He didn’t fuck her slow. He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal, shearing thrust.
The air punched from her lungs. A sharp, strangled cry echoed off the tiles. He held himself there, buried, letting her adjust to the overwhelming, burning fullness. Then he pulled back and slammed home again.
“Fuck!” she gasped, her forehead pressed against the tank.
He set a punishing rhythm, each deep drive a raw, possessive claim. The stall rattled with their impact. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She could hear the wet, filthy sound of his balls slapping against her, the ragged symphony of their breathing. One of his hands slid around her front, fingers finding her clit, rubbing hard, rough circles.
“You take it so fucking good,” he snarled into her ear, his breath hot. “This filthy, hungry ass. You’ve been dreaming of this all day, haven’t you? Since you woke up with my cock in your mouth.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, the pleasure coiling, a wire pulled taut. His fingers, her own taste on his skin, the violent possession of her ass—it overwhelmed her. She came, a silent, shuddering convulsion that clenched violently around him.
He fucked her through it, his pace becoming frantic, losing its rhythm. “I’m gonna come,” he gasped. “Where do you want it?”
“My face,” she panted. “On my face. Now.”
He pulled out of her ass with a slick pop. He spun her around, shoved her down onto her knees on the cold tile floor. His cock was purpled, slick with her. He fisted it, stroking hard.
“Open your eyes. Look at me.”
She did. Her lipstick was smeared, her hair falling from its clip. He groaned, and the first thick rope shot across her cheekbone. The next landed on her lips and chin. He kept jerking, painting her, stripe after hot stripe, until her face was a glistening, dirty masterpiece. It dripped from her jaw onto her blouse.
He slumped back against the stall door, breathing heavily.
She remained on her knees. Slowly, she extended her tongue, licking a thick blob from her upper lip. She swallowed. Then she used her fingers, gathering what was on her cheeks, sucking them clean with a obscene, wet noise.
The sound of the main door opening made them freeze. Footsteps. The click of a urinal.
Channah stood, her legs shaky. She pulled a wad of toilet paper, wiped her face quickly, though she knew the sticky residue remained. She smoothed her hair, straightened her skirt. She looked at him, at his spent cock, at the utter carnage of the moment. A wild, unhinged smile touched her lips.
She unlatched the stall door and walked out, passing a stunned older man at the sinks. She washed her hands calmly, avoiding her reflection. She walked back to the booth, the taste of him and the chill of the tile still on her skin.
Ryan returned two minutes later. He slid into the booth. Their food had arrived. The garlic bread steamed between them.
He looked at her, at the faint, shiny trail near her temple she’d missed. He reached across the table, his thumb gently wiping it away. He brought his thumb to his own mouth, tasting it.
The waiter appeared. “Is everything to your liking?”
Channah picked up a piece of bread, the butter glistening. She took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Perfect,” she said.