Literotic Adventures of Jane Prynn

Chapter 3 – Refusal to Serve at Le Petit Chat Noir

Chef Dominique Mirabeau's driver was waiting at the airport.

"Mademoiselle, my name is Luc and I will take you to Le Petit Chat Noir."

He took her bag and led her outside where an old white Rolls Royce purred invitingly at the curb. He bowed his head and opened the door; she stepped in and the door clicked shut. From the back seat she watched the finely boned hands of the driver maneuvering the polished wooden steering wheel as they made their way into the heart of Paris.

Everything stirred the senses. Outside the air was resplendent with the fresh scent of a recent rain shower. They drove down the Champs d'Elyse and she gazed up at the Arc de Triomphe. Along the wide avenue, people strolled arm in arm and sat talking in cafés. Inside the car, her hands stroked the soft leather seat as she stared out at the lights of the city.

Le Petit Chat Noir was located in the Madeleine section of Paris and as they drove on she began to open herself to the moment and emotionally prepare for the role she was about to play.

Chef Dominique Mirabeau was famous. He had managed to maintain the Petit chat Noir's five-star reputation for six years and the French treated him like a celebrity. He had written a treatise on French cooking which had acquired academic status and was mandatory reading in every major culinary institute. Under a pseudonym he had also published "Avec le Doigts – La Verite Nue" (Finger Food – The Naked Truth) a cookbook on the delights of aphrodisiacs.

This was his 40th birthday party and a rare occasion to close the restaurant for an intimate dinner of friends for whom he would prepare this most exotic meal.

Jane Prynn would both serve and be served.

When she arrived at the restaurant, Luc took her into the kitchen. She had studied French service on the plane and she waited for instructions. Waiters and sous chefs ran from station to station, slicing meats and chopping vegetables. Steam rose in delicate smoking coils out of stockpots and the aroma of freshly chopped herbs and melting butter wafted out from under the lids of saucepans that sat in rows on the burners of a tremendous flaming stove.

She began to sweat and her top clung to her upper body, outlining the shape of her breasts. The anticipation of the evening consumed her thoughts and now she too was hungering for this experience. As it drew nearer, a hot wave of pleasure flushed her face, she could feel the dampness between her legs. Her nipples were hard and fully visible through the now translucent white silk.

Staring through the oval glass in the kitchen door, she surveyed the restaurant. Once the family home of a Baroness from Gstad, the Petit Chat Noir now inhabited the former living room. A fire blazed in the grand old fireplace and the mantle was covered with candles, tea lights and vases of peonies. The wide pumpkin-colored planks of the wooden floor cast a warm glow throughout the room. Black and white photographs of Paris in the 30's and 40's mingled with colorful paintings from the same period, grounding the room in another time. Visitors had the impression they had stepped out of the modern world and into a fashionable salon which held the promise of heady conversation and a meal which would match any lofty subject word for word, flavor for flavor.

It was not large and on a busy night might only hold 15 tables. Tonight only the table in front of the fireplace was set for four. She looked at the clock on the wall above the door, it was nearing 9 o'clock and the guests would arrive soon.

She would know them only as Monsieur Phillip, a wealthy French industrialist in his early fifties who had flown in from his casino in Monte Carlo; his 35-year old wife Madame Justine, a sculptor of some repute and Rene, an art dealer from Paris in his mid-forties.

"Excuse me Mademoiselle," a young Frenchman with a wry smile, startled her by the door.

"Allow me to introduce myself . . . Louis," he held out his hand. "I am the Sommelier."

"Pleasure." Jane met the soft green eyes and held them with her steady gaze. He smiled.

"Mademoiselle, would you like to taste tonight's first bottle?"

"I'd love to."

He presented bottle of Chateaux Margot of what must have been an admirable vintage.

With a practiced hand, he poured and held out the silver sommelier cup. She went to take it and he shook his head, stepped closer and gently pressed the edge of the cup against her lips. She drank in a sip and let it rest in her mouth . . . heavy, velvety, it suffused her taste buds with the flavors of blackberries and coffee. She swallowed. He reached over to catch a drop of wine in the corner of her mouth and licked it off his finger.

"Please wait here for now. This is for you." He reached behind him for a glass from the cupboard, filled it with wine, placed it in her hand, bowed slightly and went inside to stand beside the table in anticipation of the guests' arrival.

Suddenly, a loud voice echoed off the walls and a great commotion ensued in the stairwell across the kitchen.

"Now, now, it must be now! What are you all doing? Waiting for a sign from God? Onion tarts in the oven now!" It must be him, she thought, the great chef barking out his orders.

The kitchen burst into a flurry of activity, one set of hands reached over to agitate a saucepan, another to slam an oven door. Sous chefs and waiters murmured to each other in French. Still the great chef did not emerge from the larder.

Then Jane heard sounds coming from the dining room. She brought the wine glass to her lips, the crystal was as thin as paper, delicately she took a large swallow and opened the door a crack to look inside.

A man with a lion's mane of wavy dark grey hair strode into the dining room and greeted the sommelier. On his arm, clad in a green silk slip dress, a lithe fine boned woman was laughing. It was Monsieur Phillip and Madame Justine. They arrived in the middle of a spirited conversation which they continued when they sat down. In a moment, Rene, the third guest greeted them each with a kiss and together they sat in anticipation. Jane surveyed the table set before them. Large glasses for red wine sat beside each plate, which bore the initials D.M. In the center of the table, a white porcelain bowl filled with water held the glossy heads of exotic flowers and floating tea lights.

The sommelier offered them a taste of the wine. They nodded and he returned to the kitchen and gave the bottle to Jane.

"It is now time for you to serve." He handed her the bottle and as she turned to go out the door, he gave her a light smack on the ass.

"Bon appetit!"

Jane walked into the dining room.

"My dear, may I please have some more wine?" Monsieur Phillip was listening intently to Rene discuss the merits of his most recent purchase.

Before she could answer, Justine pulled at her elbow.

"Refuse him," she whispered. "He would like it very much, if you would refuse him . . . vehemently."

"The wine please!" He demanded again.

"No." Jane held the bottle to her chest.

"I said, the wine, you are to serve me at once!"

"I will not." she said impassively.

"So you are our little cat for tonight? Do you scratch, do you hiss and bear your teeth? Come here."

He pulled her onto his lap and parted her legs with his knee. With one hand he reached under her blouse and caressed her breasts.

"Do you still refuse to serve me?" He squeezed her nipple hard.

"I do." She held her breath.

"Ha." He slapped her breast and held it in the palm of his hand.

"Then I shall pour for you." He took the bottle, refilled his glass and pressed it to her lips.

"Open your mouth." She sat still.

He removed his hand from her shirt and grabbed a fist full of hair behind her head. Gently he tugged.

"Open your mouth, my dear."

She lowered her jaw slightly. Justine reached over, dipped a finger into the wine and painted it onto Jane's lips. Then she reached over and kissed her.

Monsieur Phillip fed her more wine. Jane's head began to swim, her hands tingled as the alcohol worked its way down to her fingertips. She was soon overwhelmed by a gentle buzz and quickly the room, the soft music, the glowing light, these people ... all beckoned her onward.

The meal continued with squash soup, onion tarts, pheasant and roasted potatoes . . .

Jane served flawlessly. Periodically she refused Monsieur Phillip the salt or pepper she and received a slap on the ass.

The meal was timed perfectly, each course following the next in perfect precision. It was now time for dessert . . .

In the kitchen Chef Mirabeau dipped his index finger into the chocolate sauce, placed it in front of Jane's mouth and nodded. After she licked it off he ran his finger over her lower lip, slowly down her chin, the length of her neck, between her breasts and down to reach under her skirt and into her moist slit. He placed a hand on her shoulder for leverage so he could insert it further. She sucked in air.

When he withdrew it, she could see it glistened with her fluid and he, in turn, licked it clean.

"Mmmm, delightful as I knew it would be."

Then, roughly he flicked at her nipples, stopping to grab each one between thumb and forefinger. He squeezed, rotating them while he stared into her eyes. She stared back at him and raised an eyebrow. He reached behind him and took a knife from the table. With the pearl button of her blouse between his fingers, he pulled at the fabric then, one by one, cut the thread holding each button in place. When he was done, he called to the waiters.

"Remove it."

Two waiters stepped forward, each holding one side of her top. In what seemed like a single gesture, they ripped it from her body, revealing her breasts. Again the chef stepped forward. He held the bottom of her skirt and with the knife, cut a small knick and pulled the skirt apart, until she stood naked before him.

"Arrange her."

The waiters brought in a tremendous silver tray, engraved with the initials D.M. and meticulously polished to a mirrored reflection. They placed it on one of the long stainless steel tables. A sous chef walked over to Jane and lifted her onto the tray so she was seated in the center, he then coaxed her to lie down on her side with her elbow bent and her head propped up on her hand, her left leg lying flat and her right leg bent at the knee.

"Taste please," one of the sous chefs nodded in Jane's direction as he frantically stirred a bowl of whipped cream.

Another sous chef casually ran a finger along Jane's intimate folds, licked it and dipped it into the whipped cream

"It'll need more sugar," he replied.

Sugar was added.

"Taste again."

Again he reached over to Jane and this time, with two fingers, gently glided them into her and then into the frothing bowl of cream.

"Perfection!"

On a nearby table, Chef Mirabeau had a large bowl filled with raspberries, blackberries and cherries, all large and ripe.

Artfully he placed the fruit around Jane's body, fitting her nipples with raspberries, adorning her belly button with a halved cherry and inserting blackberries inside her warm, glistening lower lips. Then after filling his pastry tube with whipped cream, he covered her body in elaborate designs, topping them off with chocolate shavings and a thin, delicate stream of Belgian chocolate sauce.

Two waiters carried Jane into the dining room. On the stereo, the pulsing opening strains of Bolero were just beginning to build . . .

The trio looked on admiringly.

"He has indeed outdone himself." Justine lit a cigarette and sipped her aperitif.

Rene began the feast. He ate the berries from her nipples, gently sucking on each one before kissing his way down to her stomach where his tongue carefully licked off the light, delicious layers of cream. Phillip parted her legs and began to devour the cluster of blackberries filling the inside of her tender mound. He pulled with his teeth on the stem of a cherry, which Chef Mirabeau had thrust inside of Jane as a finishing touch. The cherry slid loose and he dipped it in whipped cream and handed it to Rene who offered it to Jane. She took a bite, tasting a hint her own flavor for the first time.

Rene began to kiss his way down her body, starting at the base of her neck, moving to the space between her breasts, the slopes on either side of her abdomen, the soft cleft below each pelvic bone. Phillip stroked the skin between her legs.

The measures of Bolero were rising . . . dum ba da dum, bada dada dada dum bada dum . . .

Phillip rose and dabbed at the sides of his mouth with his napkin and looked at Jane.

"Now that I am sated by this wondrous meal, I must tell you that refusal to serve properly when asked is a punishable offense among refined diners."

Suddenly, Phillip removed Jane from the tray and hoisted her onto the table. Rene cleared a path behind her, grabbed her shoulders and eased her back until she was lying down, her knees bent over the table's edge, staring up at the crystal chandelier. Rene raised both of her hands behind her head and held them firmly. In a low voice he spoke to her in French, whispering things she couldn't understand. Then he licked the curve of her ear and bit lightly on the fleshy lobe.

Phillip pressed his palms down on her knees, then slid his hands down to clasp the pointed heels of her shoes and began kissing the tips of her toes.

Justine stood next to her, picked up a thin tapered candle and looked into Jane's eyes. Finding total clarity and a fearless, defiant stare, Justine held her gaze and tipped the candle so it shed a string of tear-sized drops of wax onto Jane's abdomen.

Jane felt the sting and cooling of each droplet. As she tensed her muscles and tightened the flesh to receive the hot wax she struggled to free her arms, but Rene held them more tightly. Instinctively, she continued to fight against his grip, although she did not want to be freed. He bent down to kiss her and she tasted the wine on his breath. When he turned his head to watch the candle, she inhaled the scent on his neck and longed again for taste of his lips.

Justine tipped the candle on her breasts sending a shiver down the length of Jane's body. With one hand, Rene traced the melting wax over her nipples and Justine passed the candle to Phillip who sent a stream of wax down the length of her thighs.

Forced to submit to the whims this engaging trio, Jane found the pain delicious. Her erotic nerve endings were pulsing with pleasure. In her mind, something was unfolding and yearning to bloom like a dormant bulb stirred to wakefulness by the sun's heat.

Rene removed his necktie and bound her wrists carefully, then he removed a linen napkin from the table and blindfolded her. At first, she a felt a tendril of fear wind its way into her chest. She liked to be able to see their faces, to gage their desire and to imagine the type of scenes that played out in their imaginations. Tonight she alone could guess their yearnings and wonder about the stories that dwelled within them, unwritten on the faces that they wore when conducting their everyday lives. It was time to test her resolve, to give herself up to the moment and let her mind drop away.

There was movement above her, a whistling in the air, murmurs in French.

Smack! Something hit her stomach, the thin cords of a whip, it stung and left a lingering sensation. Then it was quiet. What would happen next? Someone was tracing the outline of her body with the tasseled end of the whip . . . it slapped lightly at the palms of her hands and playfully ran down the outside of her left arm and across her armpit, sending a shiver of sensation across her chest. When it ran across her face, a hand parted her lips and a cord of the whip slid into her mouth, it was made of licorice. She bit off a piece before it was snatched away.

Smack . . . smack . . . the licorice whip bit delightfully into her skin again and again, and then . . . quiet. The center of her stomach burned as she waited, the muscles of her abdomen tensed and flexed in anticipation. She could feel her breasts bouncing as she twisted from side to side. Someone's hands clasped them hard, rubbing her nipples between their fingers.

She writhed against her bondage, twisting her wrists and trying to force her thighs closed. Then there was a change of hands on her knees, two sets on each side, who was it? Rene or Justine? She couldn't tell. Another sensation burned feverishly on the spot where small welts must have been rising . . . only after a moment could she discern it as a freezing cold pool of water. An ice cube melting, she thought.

Cold rivulets ran down the sides of her body and then someone's warm breathe, a mouth pressed against her side, licking the water away. The ice cube was moving down the center of her body, a hand guiding it towards her core. Gently it traced her inner folds, making her gasp. It was withdrawn and replaced by an experienced tongue that used its fullness to lick at the source of her juices and then narrowed to explore her soft lower lips.

Bolero was moving towards a crescendo . . .

The whip began to fall again, lightly, harder, harder still . . . then softly. It reigned down across her stomach, her breasts. There was breathing in her ear, then a caressing tongue, circling . . .

Below, a mouth pressed into her, the tongue of its owner rhythmically sucking away at the bud of her desire. She began to shake uncontrollably, her breathing quickened, the tongue inside aligned its movements to match the rising pitch of her arousal. Someone squeezed her nipple hard. She felt tiny circles of rapture open and close throughout her body, then burst like bubbles inside her head.

Jane thought to herself, 'fly up and don't look down'.

Waves of longing rocked her body like a seismic shift, it pushed outward looking for release. When it came, she screamed out. It was as if she had visited the depths of herself and returned after a long journey. She lay still, exhausted, marveling at this new hunger and the ferocity of her own appetite.

* * *

Stay tuned for Jane's next adventure . . .