dinner

page views:1 Publication date:2023-06-11 16:39:12

Melanie pouted her pink lips and quickly checked her makeup in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car. She
walked across the warm sidewalk, her knee-length black dress swaying gently on her thighs as she approached the French café
. There were green, fenced terraces on either side of the entrance, but no customers were seated there.
Melanie was exhausted from an afternoon of shopping and entertainment, including visits to the hair salon and spa; she needed
a good meal to soothe her rumbling stomach. Melanie decided to go to the newly opened café she had heard about. The food was said to be
excellent, and the chef was French, widely considered a culinary master.

Melanie was very satisfied; the food was delicious, and the wine was fine. Melanie relaxed, enjoying her
dinner and the beautiful melodies playing in the café. She let her mind wander, thinking about work, hobbies, and her cat.

When she finished eating, the waiter brought her the bill, his smile tinged with nervousness,
which . She took her credit card from her wallet, handed it to the waiter, and watched him leave.

A moment later, the waiter reappeared, looking uneasy.

"I'm sorry, miss, there seems to be a problem with your card. If you'd like, the manager will
speak , so as not to disturb the other guests."

Melanie's mouth dropped open in surprise. "I don't understand what's wrong with my card. I have a very high credit limit. Hey,
I've already used that card several times today!"

"I understand, miss, but would you please come with me to see the manager? I believe it might just be a misunderstanding."
The waiter extended his hand, gesturing for her to follow him.

Melanie quickly nodded and put away her wallet. The waiter didn't return her card; she wanted to
get it back to call the credit card company's customer service number. She smiled; of course, it was just a small
mistake.

The waiter led Melanie around the tables; other customers were watching them, and although they didn't know anything,
she could feel their gazes on her. Her face flushed red, and she hurried after the waiter, almost
impatiently .

Ahead was a massive sliding door leading to the kitchen, its two frosted glass rings casting blinding light that
contrasted sharply with the cherry wood paneling. As Melanie drew closer, the air was thick with an irresistible aroma—
an aroma that would have made her mouth water had she not just eaten.

The waiter pushed open the door, and Melanie followed him into the bustling kitchen. Melanie hesitated, as
all the chefs, helpers, dishwashers, and waiters paused, staring at her. She blushed again
, as if they were looking at her with a hungry gaze.

She shook her head and turned to the waiter. “Please, let me speak to the manager. I’ll call my credit card
company and get things sorted out.”

The waiter smiled slightly and nodded. “This way.” Melanie followed the man through
the kitchen, past a huge wooden butcher's table. A vast array of vegetables were being washed and peeled, ready to be cooked
or eaten raw. Her nose was once again teased by the aroma; a pot of delicious, bubbling mixture,
seasoned with herbs and olive oil, sat on the stove.

But the kitchen distraction didn't slow her pace; she and the waiter walked to an inconspicuous
door on one side of the kitchen. The waiter knocked twice, then once, and the door clicked open. Melanie saw
two men inside, one in a white jacket and hat, the other in a black suit. The hat-wearing chef sat
in the corner of a large oak table, fiddling with a coil of rope, a smile on his face. His short, dark hair
was neatly trimmed, with a few gray hairs, and his mustache curled upwards as he smiled at Melanie. Melanie smiled and
nodded politely.

The other man looked like a bodybuilder; he was tall and muscular. He
stood silently behind her, close to the door. Melanie's eyes widened, wondering what this man would look like if he wore
nothing . She looked at the two men, wondering which one she should leave her business card with after things were settled.
The waiter closed the door behind them.

"Hello, miss, I'm the chef. Hope you enjoy your meal?" The chef's accent was quite noticeable.

The word "the" sounded more like "zee." Melanie smiled.

"Oh, yes, sir. The meal was delicious. I'm so sorry about the problem with my credit card.
If I could get it back and make a call, I think I could fix it. It's probably just a technical glitch.
You know, things like that happen occasionally." She went on and on.

The chef smiled again. "Oh, I know, of course. Here's your credit card." He produced a card,
and Melanie stepped forward to take it. As she reached out, the waiter and the bodybuilder suddenly grabbed each of her
arms, holding her tightly.

"What…" she began to say. The chef leaned forward, pulled a large white
napkin , and stuffed it into Melanie's mouth. Her eyes widened, and she kicked the white-clad chef hard, but
the bodybuilder stretched out a leg, and kicking that thick leg felt less like kicking a wall.

“Now, now, darling, we’ll discuss your payment right away. Donald?”

The bodybuilder moved behind Melanie, grabbing her arms and holding her tightly. He turned her
around and pushed her arms behind her back. The chef picked up a rope and quickly began to tie Melanie’s wrists.
Tears welled up in Melanie’s eyes as she wondered what the cold-hearted chef was thinking of her. She would pay!
She knew she could!

A minute later, her wrists were tightly bound together, the brown hemp rope forcing her hands fixed to
the base of her spine. The unnatural position made her chest thrust forward. The waiter handed the chef a huge carving knife, and
Melanie panicked. The chef cut off the excess hemp rope and handed it to the waiter. The waiter tied the rope
around the napkin in Melanie’s mouth and behind her head.

The waiter and the bodybuilder went to Melanie’s side, each pinning one of her legs down.
As the chef approached with the knife, the bodybuilder gripped her bound wrists tightly.

"Don't worry, darling, this knife won't hurt you." With astonishing control, he
sliced Melanie's clothes into thin pieces, which drifted to the ground without piercing her flesh.

Tears streamed down Melanie's cheeks as the men stared at her breasts, clad in a lace bra. She
She watched the chef with disgust as he studied her figure, as if examining the plumpness and deliciousness of a quail.

"Good choice, buddy," the chef said to the waiter with a smile. "Look how perfect her curves are!
Oh, a very good choice." The chef sliced the bra across her chest like butter.

Melanie groaned, feeling the bra disappear as the chef pulled the tattered bra aside. Her breasts, though
large , were very firm and didn't deform much even without the bra. She blushed with embarrassment as her nipples hardened.
She felt a slight dampness between her legs.

The chef continued with the knife, and soon she felt the last strap of the bra being cut. Just then, the
crazed chef slid the knife across her panties.

"Sweetheart, don't move, because I don't want to hurt you," the chef said carefully. Melanie
was startled, letting the chef easily cut off her silk panties. The man stepped back, admiring her naked
body .

"Darling, you have a magnificent body!" the chef said, turning to the waiter and the bodybuilder. "She's
ready. Take her to the kitchen." Melanie's eyes widened in horror. Being raped in the office had always been
her sexual fantasy, but to be raped and humiliated in front of the entire staff? She shook her head, screaming behind
the napkin .

The bodybuilder dragged Melanie away, and the waiter pushed open the office door. She turned her eyes and found the entire
kitchen staff staring at her. They looked ravenous, and new tears welled up in Melanie's eyes, soaking
the rope gagging her mouth. The bodybuilder dragged her to the butcher's station she had passed earlier, shoved her to
one end of the narrow space, and forced her to lie face down until her chest was pressed against the wooden countertop, her buttocks arching back.

She felt hands grabbing her ankles as her legs were pulled apart. More rope wrapped around her legs, and she realized
the waiter and another kitchen helper had tied her slender legs to the table legs, leaving her most private parts completely
exposed.

"Honey, could you lift your upper body?" the cook asked.

Melanie just lay there, utterly desperate, unresponsive, tears dripping onto the heavy wood.

The cook smiled. “Of course you can. You’ll do it when we need you.” He
turned to the other staff. “Continue with your duties. This is just ordinary food for the guests!”

Melanie’s legs were tied to the table, and she trembled as the dishwasher gave her a hungry glance.
Her body lay on the table, her feet still in the previous toeless high heels, tied to the table legs. She
knew she could lift her upper body off the table, but that would expose her breasts completely to everyone’s
eyes .

Suddenly, she felt a rope tied to her arm pull upwards, lifting her about 15 centimeters
before stopping. Her bare breasts now hung freely before everyone, her erect nipples
only centimeters from the wooden table.

“Now, now it’s time, miss, please don’t be nervous. We’re going to begin,” the
cook said softly.

The cook began to speak to his assistant, his voice gentle, and Melanie tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

“No, no. She’s perfect. Look at these curves, and her body’s reaction. Trust me, my
friend . Of course! No, we have to cool the ingredients first.” The chef took a few steps and
gestured to a man at the other end of the kitchen. “Carlos! Hurry, get the tray out of the refrigerator!”

Melanie watched as a dark-skinned man, clearly Carlos, walked to a metal door and pushed it open,
a gust of cold air blowing into the kitchen. Melanie felt goosebumps rise on her arms and sides. Carlos
returned with a plate that looked like frosted cookies. He carried it closer and closer, and Melanie stared intently at him.

The chef smiled, took the tray from Carlos, and turned to her. Melanie began to struggle as the
bodybuilder ’s hands gripped her shoulders and pressed against her buttocks from behind, forcibly pulling her up.

She watched in horror as the chef placed the plate down, a large metal plate filled with a layer of silvery-white ice
, beneath her chest. She felt the cold air rise from the ice, she shivered, and her nipples hardened.

Suddenly, the bodybuilder released her, and she fell onto the table, her two naked, white breasts slamming against
the ice cubes in the plate. Her screams were so shrill they could be heard even from behind her napkin as she desperately tried to lift her head and chest,
trying to get her breasts off the plate. She struggled to move her body away, or to stand up straighter, away from the ice, but to no avail. Her
legs were completely immobilized, her upper body semi-immobilized, and she could only move within a very small range. She trembled from
the pain and the damage from the cold, her nipples still feeling the cold air rising up, caressing her
breasts, her nipples only centimeters from the ice.

Suddenly, she felt a gentle touch, and her thoughts were pulled off course. Her waist trembled as
slow fingers slid upwards from her wet cleft, caressing her petals. She groaned, her chest aching, her nipples
frozen, a burning pleasure surging through her vagina.

"Great. She's very lubricated. Please pass me the cucumber," she heard the chef say.

Suddenly, her fingers were replaced by something large, hard, wet, and cold. It rushed in, filling her
completely, and she thought her vagina would burst. It moved inside her, and she groaned, pushing her hips back as the vegetative penis
slowly penetrated her. The sensation in her lower body made her unable to hold on any longer, and as her strength waned, she
gritted her teeth and placed her icy breasts back on the ice plate.

As the burning cold bit into her body, she felt the cucumber push deeper, slowly thrusting in and out.
Her nipples felt like they were on fire, and her whole body trembled. Finally, she stood up again, her chest frozen white, the melted ice water dripping from
her breasts into the plate. As the cucumber went in and out of her body, she closed her eyes, feeling her vagina being expanded. She felt an indescribable need and an impulse

in her body , so she pushed her hips back again, trying to push the cucumber deeper. She felt tired and heavy until her nipples touched the ice again. 　　She arched her back, pulling her breasts up again, crying out, barely aware that the cucumber had been removed, leaving a hole desperately in need of filling. Exhausted, she fell again, unable to lift herself up any further. Melanie now had half of each breast exposed to warm air, the rest, including the nipples, submerged in a mixture of ice and water .

Melanie was filled with despair; her breasts were numb with cold. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her vagina as a
thin, finger-length object was thrust deep inside, pushed further in. One object after another slid into
her body, slowly filling her. She realized it was chopped carrots, squash, zucchini
, and other vegetables being pushed into her vagina, soaking in her love juices.

"Very good, her breasts are ready now. Pull her up," the cook said to the bodybuilder.
"The marinade?" he called out.

Melanie barely noticed the hands pulling her up; her poor nipples were
sensitive to even the slightest air. She tried to turn her head and saw the cook gesturing to another man. Another metal dish, similar to the previous ice dish,
was placed on the counter, deeper than the first. Melanie watched as the man poured a sauce from a pot on the stove
into the dish, the sauce dotted with green and red spices.

The cook picked up the tray, placed it on the butcher's block, and smiled, like an artist pleased with his work
. Hot steam rose from the plate, which he placed on the counter beside her. She watched him dip
a finger into the sauce and taste it. He leaned down and whispered in her ear,

“This is my special marinade, my dear. I hope you like it. Its main ingredient is the finest
cold-pressed olive oil, extracted by virgins under the moonlight.” His eyes crinkled with laughter. “I’m joking, of course.
I believe it was pressed by some machine in Italy. But we must indulge our little fantasies, must we?
Miss, don’t worry, because the marinade isn’t very hot, just the temperature you’d feel while bathing.”

The chef removed the ice plate and placed the new one under her breasts. Melanie’s eyes widened in horror as
the first wave of heat condensed into droplets on her still-dripping, icy breasts. She felt a sharp pain as her cold breasts were heated
. The chef said it was like warm bathwater, and she felt as if she were being placed on boiling lava.

The bodybuilder pressed down, and Melanie screamed again. Her breasts sank deeper and deeper into the black oil
. Unlike the ice water before, this dish was much deeper, the marinade submerging her entire breasts, touching
her cleavage. She tried to stand up, but the bodybuilder held her down.

Melanie's tears welled up as her breasts throbbed and stabbed in heat and pain. Her nipples
throbbed terribly as her breasts cooked in the hot oil. She squeezed her eyes shut, panting, trembling in terror. She
could no longer think, her body acting on instinct. Her vagina suddenly felt soaked, and she craved the vegetables inside her
to move or plunge deeper. As her breasts adjusted to the temperature, she began to writhe.

"My friends, it's time to cook her. We'll all take turns. Pierre! Bring
the oar for the oven." Melanie's eyes opened again as she watched the man
take . It was large, like the kind used for toasting bread or pizza, over a meter long. Pierre
brought it to the chef, smiling, who stepped aside from Melanie and gestured for Pierre to begin.

Melanie struggled with all her might; if the bodybuilder hadn't held her down, the pickling tray would
probably have been knocked off the table. The wooden paddle swung forcefully, striking her buttocks, landing squarely
on her vegetable-filled vulva. The second blow was harder, and she trembled and convulsed under the steely hands holding her down
.

Pierre smiled and walked away, and the chef gestured again. Two more blows followed, sending
new ripples through her buttocks, trembling from the hit area all the way down to her chest. Another chef's assistant stepped forward.

Melanie quickly lost count of the blows; the temperature of her buttocks soon surpassed
that . She could feel the vegetables sliding up and down with each blow, the vegetables at the entrance of her vulva being crushed and driven deeper. Only
twice did the chef ask to stop, to reinsert a fallen carrot or a slice of zucchini, and then continue.
Melanie groaned longingly.

"Hmm..." the chef groaned, placing his finger on her swollen, red buttocks. "She's quite cooked,
but it's still necessary to check her temperature." He turned and waved to one of the chefs.
"Michael, please. Meat thermometer."

Melanie felt her buttocks being spread open, and then a very cold metal probe was slowly pressed into her
anus . Her anus contracted, trying to resist it; her buttocks were still burning, and the metal probe continued to penetrate, deeper and deeper.
It stopped, stayed inside her for a moment, before the chef removed it, looked at it, and said,

"Not fully cooked. Three more strokes." He announced.

The chef picked up the paddle and swiftly and forcefully struck Melanie's bare buttocks. When the chef finished the last stroke, her
body continued its rapid dance. Tears streamed down her face, and then she felt a cool sensation flowing down her swollen
skin . She realized the chef was rubbing oil on her buttocks.

"Just butter, darling, just butter," the chef said.

Melanie trembled as the bodybuilder released her. However, she didn't get up immediately; her
body was exhausted, and her breasts weren't as warm anymore. They left her lying there, stuffed with vegetables,
her breasts soaked in spiced oil, her buttocks still enduring the burning pain.

A few minutes passed, and she opened her eyes, lifting her head to look around. The kitchen helpers were busy, each
carefully preparing some special dishes, glancing at the orders, washing various pots and pans, and each
taking a moment to watch her cooked body with relish. Suddenly, the chef's face appeared before her, smiling.

"Ah!!! Miss has completed the final preparations before serving! She has been frozen, stuffed,
marinated, and cooked. Only skewering remains."

Melanie froze at his words. The chef turned around and directed another assistant to open a
counter door, from which another metal tray identical to the one before was retrieved. Melanie strained to look up, trying to
see what was inside. What could her poor breasts possibly endure now?

Her eyes widened in horror when the cook placed the tray before her. Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny nails were scattered across
the metal plate, each one short and sharp. She jumped back, and the cook set the tray down, letting the
bodybuilder grab her shoulders again.

"Now, now, darling, you don't have to be afraid. These needles are too short to pierce your delicate
skin . They will only treat it gently. Tenderized flesh will taste better. No marks will be left."
“I assure you, darling,” the cook said.

As he slid the new tray beneath her and pushed the marinade aside, the bodybuilder gently pressed
her down. This time, she was prepared, her body lowering until her nipples barely touched
the nails. Oil dripped from her chest, pooling into a fragrant swamp, shimmering in the spices.
They knew she couldn’t hold this position for long; they all watched her, but no one touched her.

After a few minutes, she slowly, gently lowered herself, willingly placing her breasts
on the sharp little spears, her breasts trembling with pain. Her vagina clenched, squeezing the vegetables, hundreds of needles
deeply embedded in her breasts.

She lifted her head again, trying to free her breasts from the nails, but they were already deeply embedded in the flesh and wouldn’t
fall off. Again and again she fell from exhaustion, rose from pain, almost piercing every single one
into her abused breasts. Her waist convulsed and trembled until she lay still on the platform, her breasts pressed
against the tray, studded with countless glittering little stars.

Melanie felt the ropes binding her back being untied, and her body was lifted to a standing position. The cook took a large
brush , pulled the spikes from her nipples, and then grabbed one breast by the nipple and lifted it up. The cook began to slap her
poor breasts with the brush until about 50 spikes were knocked off, then the other.
Melanie trembled, and she forced back her tears, perhaps because she had run out of tears. Her eyes
glanced down and saw her breasts, and she wearily noticed that despite such cruel treatment,
there was no . Her breasts were still stained black with the pickling sauce.

As she was placed on the silver platter on the carriage, the bodybuilder pulled her back, and she barely resisted.
Her wrists loosened, her head drooped limply, and her arms felt like lead.

Her heart screamed for her to stand up and run away, but her body did not respond. She could still feel the plate
stuffed full of vegetables.

The waiter and bodybuilder started tying her up again, this time her arms were raised overhead,
a welcome stretch for her aching muscles. Her legs were pushed up, knees apart, tied to
either side , the soles of her high heels together, then tied together.

The chef took two plastic strips, each about 5 centimeters wide and 15 centimeters long, and bent each one into
two . He placed each one on one of Melanie's breasts, then grabbed the nipple and pulled the flesh into the loop.
A saucepan was brought out, and steaming sauce was poured over the loops, filling each one, making Melanie's
nipples stand erect like islands in the middle of the ocean.

Melanie could feel other plates around her body and between her legs. Some were hot, some were cold, but it
didn't affect her body. Her breasts were heated by the sauce, feeling warm but not scalded.

"Fantastic!" the chef exclaimed. “Cover her up and take the food to the private room. Our guests
arrived twenty minutes ago,” he said, leaning close to Melanie’s face. “Serve the food at the right time, with the ingredients prepared at
the right moment. That’s my secret, my dear.” The chef waved to the waiter, urging him to
move the cart.

A white sheet was draped over Melanie, and she felt the cart move. The restaurant door opened, and she could hear
the hushed conversations of the guests, the clinking of forks against porcelain, and the clinking of glasses against ice.
Feeling too embarrassed, Melanie didn’t call for help. When another door opened, replaced by
the voices , her mind went blank, wondering if she should shout to get the diners’ attention.

The sheet was dragged away, and Melanie looked up at the waiter. He and the bodybuilder carried the plates to the table, and
Melanie saw the diners at the private party staring at her with undisguised longing. Candles were lit, and soft
music played.

“This is what I call a perfect meal!” a voice said. "Please tell the chef he's a master."

The waiter bowed. "Of course, sir. I will convey your gratitude. Our chef is an
artist . Gentlemen, enjoy your meal."

Two hours later, the waiter helped Melanie off her plate; her arms and legs ached, and her pink
floral dress was empty of chopped vegetables. Countless forks had been inserted into her vagina, skewering vegetables and dipping them in
sauce . Her nipples were swollen and red from being sucked, and her hair was damp with sweat. The waiter led her to
a large bathroom and gently pushed her into a warm drizzle, washing away the marinades, sauces, and
semen from her face.

Melanie obeyed the waiter's care like a little girl, even letting him wash
the semen from her vagina and rectum. She followed him, draped a towel over herself, and went into his office, where he gave her a cardboard box tied with a bow.
She opened it and found a new dress—elegant, sexy, and very expensive—with matching shoes, stockings,
and even a low-cut silk panty. The waiter helped her put on her clothes, zipped up the back of the zipper, and even
put on sparkling earrings. Everything was perfect; her image was once again exquisite.

Finally, he handed her a new wallet, filled with her own belongings. It was made of very high-quality leather,
matching the rhinestones on her dress. Finally, the waiter handed her her credit card and her bill.

"Congratulations, Miss. The chef says your bill has been paid in a special way. Thank you for your
patronage , and we hope you can give us suggestions to help us improve. Personally, I hope you
'll come back for another date sometime," he said with a smile. "Now, let me show you the way."

Melanie followed the waiter out of the office, past the former butcher's block. It had been cleaned
of the ropes and marinades, and a fresh batch of vegetables was being prepared in the corner.

The waiter pushed open the kitchen door, and Melanie entered the dining room. The diners gasped in surprise
at the sight of the shimmeringly beautiful woman emerging from the kitchen, and the whispers subsided. Her clothes
shimmered , and countless men in the restaurant hoped to get to know this beautiful, sexy, and fashionable girl.

Melanie ignored them. Her body, numb from too many orgasms, was in a state of apathy. She
followed the waiter through the restaurant, ignoring the hungry gazes of the men, and even some of the women. As she reached the door
, she noticed the head chef hurrying up, a smile on his face.

"Miss? I'm so glad everything went well. We're delighted to have you here. In fact, we hoped you could..."
"Come again when you have time." He suddenly stopped, leaned forward, and grinned mischievously. "But I wanted to ask
if you'd like some dessert?"

Melanie paused, her face becoming inscrutable, while the French chef smiled at her. She felt
another strange feeling, deep within her. She smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

"Sir, I'd like to stay for dessert."

(The End)

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