Enjoy your meal

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

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 restaurant. 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 puzzled Melanie. 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 with you privately, 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 thick with an irresistible 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 the various cooks, helpers, dishwashers, and waiters paused, staring at her. She blushed again, as if they were looking at her with a hunger-like intensity. 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.

The distraction in the kitchen 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 when 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 but swimming trunks. 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 obvious.

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

"Oh, yes, sir. This 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 laughed 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. The chef leaned forward, pulled a large white napkin from his jacket pocket, 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 strips, 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 watched the chef study her figure with disgust, 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 with the knife like butter.

Melanie groaned as she felt the bra disappear, and the chef pulled the tattered bra aside. Her breasts, though large, were very firm and didn't deform much even after being removed from 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 the sides of her panties.

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

"Darling, you have an amazing 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 that gagged her.

The bodybuilder dragged Melanie along as the waiter pushed open the office door. She turned her eyes and saw all the kitchen staff staring at her. They looked ravenous, and new tears welled up in Melanie's eyes, soaking the rope binding her mouth. The bodybuilder pulled her to the slaughterhouse she had passed earlier, shoved her to one end of the narrow passage, and forced her to lie face down until her chest was pressed against the wooden surface, her buttocks arching back.

She felt her hands grab 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; her most private parts were now completely exposed.

"Darling, 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 will when we need you to." 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 was slumped over 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 in front of everyone, her erect nipples only centimeters from the wooden table.

“Now, now is the time, miss, please don’t be nervous. We’re going to get started,” the chef said softly.

The chef 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 reactions. Trust me, my friend. Of course! No, we must 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 fridge!" 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 Melanie stared intently at him.

The cook smiled, took the tray from Carlos, and turned to her. Melanie began to struggle, the bodybuilder's hands gripping her shoulders tightly, pressing against her buttocks from behind, forcibly pulling her up.

She watched in horror as the cook 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 in the plate. Her cries were so shrill they could be heard even from behind her napkin. She struggled to lift her head and chest, trying to raise her breasts off the plate. She tried to move her body away, or straighten herself, 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 of the previous impact and the damage from the freezing, 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 crevice, 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 plant-like 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 from her breasts dripping 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 urge in her body, so she pushed her hips back again, trying to press 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 needing to be filled. Exhausted, she fell again, unable to lift herself up.

Melanie now had half of each breast exposed to warm air, the rest, including the nipples, submerged in a mixture of ice and water.

Despair filled Melanie's heart; 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, soaked 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 chef picked up the tray, carried it to the butcher's table, and smiled, like an artist pleased with his work. Hot steam rose from the plate as he placed it on the table, next to 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'll like it. Its main ingredient is the finest cold-pressed olive oil, squeezed out 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?

Don't worry, miss, 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 placed on boiling lava.

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

Tears welled up in Melanie's eyes as her breasts throbbed and stabbed in heat and pain. Her nipples throbbed terribly as her breasts were 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 soaking wet, and she craved the vegetables inside her to move or plunge deeper. As her breasts adjusted to the temperature, she began to twist her hips.

“My friends, it’s time to cook her. We’ll all take turns. Pierre! Please bring the oar from the oven.” Melanie’s eyes opened again as she watched the man take a large wooden oar from the wall next to the wood-burning stove. It was large, like the kind used for toasting bread or pizza, over a meter long. Pierre brought it to the cook, smiling, and the cook stepped aside, gesturing for Pierre to begin.

Melanie struggled with all her might; if the bodybuilder hadn’t held her down, the marinating tray would probably have been knocked off the table. The oar 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 cook gestured again. Two more blows followed, sending new ripples through her buttocks, trembling from the hit area all the way to her chest. Another cook’s assistant stepped forward.

Melanie quickly lost count of how many blows she had received; the temperature of her buttocks soon surpassed the heat of her chest. She could feel the vegetables sliding up and down as they were struck, the vegetables at the entrance of her vagina being smashed and driven deep inside. Only twice did the chef ask to stop, to reinsert a fallen carrot or a slice of zucchini, and then continue. Melanie groaned longingly.

"Mmm..." the chef hummed, placing his fingers on her swollen, red buttocks. "She's quite ripe, 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 still burning, and the metal probe continued to penetrate, deeper and deeper.

It stopped, stayed inside her for a moment, and then the chef removed it, looked at it, and said,

"Not quite ripe yet. Three more strokes." He announced.

The chef picked up the paddle and struck Melanie's bare buttocks quickly and forcefully. 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 flow 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 immediately get up; her body was exhausted, and her breasts weren't as hot anymore. They left her lying there, stuffed with vegetables, her breasts soaked in spiced oil, her buttocks still enduring the burning sensation.

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, each taking a moment to watch her cooked body with relish. Suddenly, the chef's face appeared before her, smiling.

"Ah!!! Miss has done the final preparations before serving! She has been frozen, stuffed, marinated, and cooked. All that's left is to skewer her

." 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 at what was inside, and what her poor breasts could possibly endure now.

Her eyes widened in horror as 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 up, and the cook lowered the tray, letting the bodybuilder grab her shoulders again.

"Now, now, darling, you don't need 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 can assure you, darling," the cook said.

As the cook slid the new tray beneath her, pushing 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, forming 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.

A few minutes later, she slowly and gently lowered herself, voluntarily 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 raised her head again, trying to free her breasts from the nails, but they were already deeply embedded in the flesh and could not fall off. She fell down again and again from exhaustion, rose up again from pain, almost stabbing every single one into her abused breasts. Her waist convulsed and trembled until she lay quietly on the table, her breasts squeezed into the tray, studded with countless glittering little stars.

Melanie felt the ropes on her back being untied, and her body was lifted to a standing position. The cook picked up a large brush, pulled the spikes from her nipples, and then grabbed one nipple and lifted it up. The cook began to slap her poor breasts with the brush until about 50 nails were knocked off, then the other one. Melanie trembled, forcing back her tears, perhaps because they had run dry. Her eyes glanced down at her breasts, and she wearily noticed that despite such cruel treatment, there was no blood on them. 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 didn't respond. She could still feel the vegetables stuffed inside.

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

The cook took two plastic strips, each about 5 centimeters wide and 15 centimeters long, and bent each one into two loops. 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, steaming sauce poured into the rims, filling each one, making Melanie's nipples stand erect like islands in the middle of the ocean.

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

"Fantastic!" the chef exclaimed. "Cover her up and take the food to the special box. Our guests arrived twenty minutes ago," he said, leaning over Melanie's face. "Serve the food and ingredients at the right time. That's my secret, 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 ashamed, Melanie didn't cry for help. When another door opened, replaced by the voices of several men, her mind went blank, wondering if she should shout to get the diners' attention.

The cloth 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 thanks. Our chef is an artist. Gentlemen, enjoy your meal."

Two hours later, the waiter helped Melanie off the plate. Her arms and legs ached, and the chopped vegetables in her pink dress were gone. Countless forks were inserted into her vagina, skewering vegetables and dipping them in sauce from her breasts. Her nipples were swollen and red from being sucked, and her hair was damp with sweat in clumps. The waiter led her to a large shower room 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 the 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 the dress, zipped up the back, and even put on sparkling earrings. Everything was perfect; her image was once again exquisitely refined.

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.

"Greetings, 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 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 shimmering beauty emerging from the kitchen, and the whispers subsided. Her clothes glittered under the lights, and countless men in the restaurant wished they could meet this beautiful, sexy, and fashionable girl.

Melanie ignored them. Her body, having experienced too many orgasms, was in a state of apathy. She followed the waiter through the dining room, ignoring the hungry gazes of the men, and even some of the women. As she reached the door, she noticed the chef hurrying towards her, a smile on his face.

"Miss? I'm so glad everything went well. We're delighted to have you here. In fact, we hope you'll have time to come again." He stopped abruptly, leaned forward, and grinned mischievously. "However, I'd like 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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