The Chefs Special

The door to the restaurant opens to two creaks separated by the sound of the two beer bottles clinking at a far off table. Two men walk in. They are both wearing long cornflower blue tunics, crisp, as if pressed between the desert rocks for days. Both seem oblivious to the splats of brush strokes coalescing as a woman on the door, looking back with her smudged polka dot summer dress yanked over her plump bottom. The older with a grey white stubble presses his hand against the center of the image, where a door knocker sits explaining the woman's tongue falling out one way over the edge of her lower lip promiscuously.

Her buttocks barely fit within the width of the door like a pair of short shorts in beach town of loose individuals. The narrow valley of her spine dips and rises waiting for a finger to traverse it. As they enter, it is calligraphed on the wall. It says,

Through lust, we will find truth.

Vines coil along the writing, like a lover's hand reaching for the further nipple under the dress. There are patches of vine clumps everywhere like green clouds in a quite wind.

Next to the writing is a bicycle with a yellow frame. The wheels are spinning as wildly as the bicycle is stationary. It has a pink number plate that says,

Slu1 w4g0n.

The host gives a knowing nod to the older man. Table for two. His gaze coasts on the younger one with neck length hair. He studies the other one less and only briefly. Taller, less bulkier, in glasses and a grey white stubble.

The waitress, in a black body suit arrives at their table. Her thighs are composed in their muscularity, small burst of micro-twitches from post work hobby of scaling rocks. The calluses in her palms and wrist share a brazenness. The body suit has been designed as if the silhouette of flames are grabbing at her breasts.

"We don't have your usual," she says to the older man.

His eyes are fixed on his younger friend.

"That's okay, Kaitlyn."

Her name tag says Katniss.

"It's Katniss."

"I want to show my friend here a more open and adventurous side of myself today. How about the chef's special for the day?"

At the middle of the table, an upright parchment says,

Chef's special: Geely Salad.

She scribbles into her pad and turns.

"And how adventurous are you feeling today, sir?"

The long haired man looks composed, in a sharp contrast to the tattoo of the puma wearing a bandanna, crouched along his hammer sized forearm.

"Do you have anything to wipe that smirk of this man's face?"

"We do have rather spicy version of a goulash, sir. It definitely did the trick last time he visited."

"He will just have water." The older man interjects, visibly annoyed at the both of them.

She looks at the long haired man to confirm. He nods with a smile, as if he has gained a compatriot.

"You cannot possibly expect me to give you thoughts on this grant. You know my views. Focauldian discourses are getting drab. His views have been recycled and rehashed too often." The long haired man rubs his cheek with his palm.

"I can't help but wonder if your opinion on him is perhaps because you graduated from Ken State. I have heard the department there often rides the buzz."

"If anything, his previous following was the buzz. I frankly think. Now don't take this the wrong way. My toothpick has more concrete ideas."

The older man's response is slow and less agitated. "I hope you take this exactly the way it seems. But I wouldn't be surprised if your toothpick graduated from Ken State too," he says as he stretches his leg, and adjusts his cock over his tunic. You can see his ankles and his sharply shaped shoes point outward.

"Just yesterday I was reading that book. Remind me the name."

The older man clicks his hand to trigger his memory. "Do you mean Deconstructing Power, Knowledge and Cultural Narrative?"

"That's right. Quite a mouthful. I just struck every instance from his book where it says power and replaced it with social influence. And the pages crumbled like fortune cookie philosophy. How long are you going to slavishly dance in your conferences to this. This lady gaga of the postmodernism."

The older man chuckles.

"Lady gaga. Good one. Did you get that from the Chomsky YouTube video you cuddled your pillow to? Did it go well with your late night parfait?" Not clear who he had more disdain for. Chomsky or parfaits.

The long haired man winces a little, like someone smoking a cigarette suddenly pushed the stub against his chest.

Meanwhile, Katniss's calf length boots beat along the waves of growth rings of the wooden floor. She finally pauses at their table. Her gait is effortless. Straight as a taut thread. While she is mostly expressionless, her nipples have dug in visibly against soft texture of the body suit, like jailed twins trying to escape. Almost as erect as the nipples of the woman crawling on all fours next to her.

"And here is your order. Would you like any articles or aides to go with it."

She usually appends a "sir" next to her statements for the guests.

"We have enough appendages to take care of her between the two of us. Thank you."

She gives the long haired man a brief look like he's a wounded child. But she can't help him.

"Enjoy your meal, gentleman."

People at nearby tables are picking at the layers of the salad, their eyes shine like the tips of a fork. Their regret is only hidden from their aroused shadows. As if they are suddenly impatient. Looking around the corner for the person waiting on them to return and give them another chance, "Would you like anything else?"

The slut on all fours can feel the weight of their gaze like a hot plate on her ass. But her eyes are transfixed. She has already caught sight of the portion of the tunic rising up between the stubbled man's legs. She can feel a low purr unfurling at the back of her throat.

This groan feels like a twin of the excitement that had sown it's seed in her when Katniss came to escort her out through the walnut shaded kitchen door. All she said to the chef was, "They want your special." Four words that get her warm and moist in an instant. And then she felt Katniss's hand slide down her mesh pantied pussy and said, "Good, you are ready to be served. And serve."

She liked how Katniss would rub her folds a little more than that was needed, closing her eyes as if meditating on her exploration, her eyeballs turning almost backward behind her lashes. Every morsel of desire was worship to her.

An old Romanian song plays in the background. It translates roughly as, "Do not leave yet. My heart has a few more empty rooms."

The stubbled man looks down at his salad. He cups her chin with the base of his thumb, one half of his attention swiveling towards the effect of her cleavage on how his muscles feel on him. His body opens a little.

He continues to address his companion. "You see, Takeru. Power before Focault was like fire. People thought it was a god trapped at the top of a mountain. He set the god free. Like a river without any beginning or end, raging through the village."

He pulls her chin upward, encouraging her on her heels.

"You don't think I became chair of my department just like that. Did you? I am sure I can convince you." He brushes her hips approvingly.

"Well, I am a sucker for reason," Takeru responds.

The stubbled man turns the woman away from himself. "On the contrary. I think you will find yourself open to a very different kind of persuasion today." She barely fits between the table and him. Takeru catches her fishing for his eye. Like she's chasing his gaze, wondering where it will land and nibble at her. His annoyance is cracking a little. He flusters and flutters like she blew dust behind his lids.

The older man, slips a finger beneath her translucent bra presses where a decorated leaf covers the top of her breast. And then, as if opening a plump plum apart he tugs the noodle width strap over shoulder arm, collecting drops of water hanging along her skin like on steamed bathroom walls. He licks the drops on her nape in tandem.

The long haired man watches her bra slide down like husk and bunch up on her hips. He seems to stiffen a little at the sight of the older man flick her nipple.

The slut notices Takeru on the edge. Like he wants her to be ravished. But just not by this man. She gives him a coy look and pushes her wet wavy fragrant hair against the face behind her. The long haired man's body language still speaks resistance. She adds a hint of gasp, and then the spins a bitten lip as a extra length for her lasso.

"Is this your cheap way of making your point." He looks like he had something more to say. But his eyes seem wider. As if he was holding an imaginary axe ready for battle, and it just vanished mid swing into ash and smoke. The salad likes the effect the older man's fondling is having. She groans at this and spreads her legs a little, and slowly slides off her panty till it plops on the ground next to her ankle. The onlookers admire this exchange under the creeping vines on both walls angling away from both the men.

Takeru looks like a blueberry being tested for it's rigidity. Barely keeping from going splat. He tries to ignore the arc of wet patch making her panty more translucent. His face goes purple, trying to maintain eye contact with the old man.

"My point will be made when you will taste my cock tonight, Takeru." He laughs, as if only half joking, pulling the salad at her hips as if to demonstrate his claim.

The slut starts biting her lips and tossing her head backwards, as if she wants the older man to kiss her clavicle. She starts grinding against his pelvis over his bunched tunic. He seems to like the feeling of her bare bottom. She gets what she wants. She gets what she wants.

The long haired man scoffs as if someone asked him to sign of his appendix away. He sinks himself a little lower down the mahogany table, hoping the dim lights from the fish basket lamps hanging above them would add to his false confidence.

Her breasts are being fondled now, from lower base to above and the side like a globe of watermelon.

The older man pulls his pants down. She looks so pleased, her knees swiveling open like gates to feel his naked cock. If she bit her lips any harder it could bleed. She widens her eyes at the long haired man, her face masked with scarf of lust. She wants something from him too.

"Power is a complex thing, Takeru. It doesn't flow down like some open tap. Think of it like maple leaves of fall. The yellower the leaf, the more power you have. You can get lost in the force of it. Like there are no other seasons. it can feel like it will never leave you. And just then, a new hand of the wind switches it for a green leaf.

He starts to slide one hand behind her butt. She leans in forward, as if to let him in.

"Take this slut for instance. Why do you think she's so subservient."

Her ears perk up at the word, "slut". She's running her hands through the older man's silver hair.

The long haired man tries to compose himself, broadening his shoulder as if pulled back by an invisible hand patting his self esteem, "She's just a.."

"You might say. She's just a whore. Just a hungry mouth for cock on the menu. But it's more than that, Takeru. Do you know she is just here as a volunteer? Ever since she saw me she has been writhing behind the counter, waiting for me to place the order." He swirls his finger at the edge of her asshole. The long haired man winces at the lewd demonstration. She bucks her hips back, the probing index slides in and out, as her knees rise and dip. Rise and dip.

"Power can come and go." Rise and dip. A wind chime nods in tin tinted approval. Beads of sweat rolled down the long haired man's forehead. Crease to crease to crease, like a worm suddenly realizing what it needs to survive.

"She used to be one of those bubble gum bursting students in my class once. But ever since her eyes shelved itself between the clumps of university visitors and hosts on my lunching here eating a bowl of greens, something kicked her wheels in motion. She wanted to be added to the menu, with a detailed description of all her slutty offerings. She even groveled to the chef. So he obliged. He tore her shirt and skirt off her. And experimented. One orifice at a time. Perfecting her day after day. Dressings after dressings. And now here she is, a body to be consumed."

At this point, the stubbled hair man, forces his large veiny palms on her wet locks and yanks her back with his closed fist, crunched like hawk talons that now knows the prey won't make it to the burrow.

"Isn't that right, you cum drunk slut? Too dumb for an A.You just want your C+ for cock don't you? "

It's just a whisper, but it feels loud as glass breaking against iron. As if she is amplifying the voice inside his head. She wants to will him to growl it. She can feel the curtains of her forthcoming fantasies draw open like an unhinged play. As if she can see herself showering later, touching herself to the sonorous memory of these hardened words. She wants him to scream the words, "cum drunk slut" so that it would burn in the back of her neck as if she is his animal. But he doesn't. Instead he slides his hand out of her butthole to an audible pop.

"Ughh!" She utters, as if she was a letter that had so much to say and suddenly felt wordless and blank.

But then she feels it. The outer walls of a cock slide wall to wall inside her cave. His cock.

The long haired man is staring at the cock sliding in and out. Her clit trying to feel a graze as it flushes in and out. She needs her clit to be flicked. Aching folds like a cat faced orchid he had admired at garden around the block. She needs her clit to be flicked.

He is trying not to stare at the expanse of her thighs. So red. Her unworn bra, sliding up and down her stomach, barricaded by her breasts and exposed erect pink nipples.

"Go on. Taste it." The stubble haired man goads him.

"No!"

"You think I have no control over you." He stutters through a growl.

Her calves are trembling, her sliding up and down to squishing noises.

"You don't."

She mumbles, "Do it."

"But you see power is dynamic, Takeru. It keeps changing its master.

Or mistress."

The long haired man is startled at being addressed by her.

"Do it.

Lick me.

Here, Please."

"Good god! Yes!!" Hungry eyes from all the corners of the restaurant are fixed toward the table.

"Come to me. Please. I need you there."

The long haired man is stunned in silence. His pants feel like they could tear off. despite how low her voice is. He sees her lift her right heel and reach for his cheek with her sole. She presses her sole harder against his cheek and runs his tongue along it.

"Good boy." She says.

"See Takeru. You can be a good boy." The old man adds between his grunts.

Just when it makes him want to pause this ugly descent.

She assures him.

"Lick. both of us.

A salad goes well with meat."

She pulls her foot back and holds her string bean fingers down, pulling up the low folds and displaying his destiny waiting on her swollen clit.

Takeru crouches up on his chair on all fours. He looks like he is surveying the table, like a cornered rabbit looking for the hole below the fence. He places his hand next to a porcelain vase with the picture of an ancient greek soldier fallen in battle, a spear running through his chest. He is breaths down just over her pelvis. Tears trickle down his eyes.

The slut is groaning louder than ever. She just needs that final push. She reaches for Takeru's long hair, and shoves him down her cunt. Instead of pulling away, Takeru looks finally looks like he has been taken over by the trance, no more the stubborn man who walked in to the restaurant. He is licking like a pet that hasn't been fed for days. He still looks a little hesitant. Like he walked into a stranger's house. He needs another harder push. She gives it to him. And he feels it. The tongue collecting mixing fluids at the clit, pussy and cock.

"Yes! Yes!

Such a good fucking craven slut!"

And they explode. Onto his deliriously happy face.

While the slut and the older man slow down trying to catch their breath, Takeru keeps lapping them up. Eager to take every last bit as if struck by drought and released from a history of doubt.

He feels a pat from his mistress, who slowly pulls his head back and grabs the cock that was just deep inside her. Her thighs, hips, arms and face are beaming brighter than the lights around her, causing flickers in all the watching customers. She smirks as if bracing to spit into his wide open mouth.

She does. One blob catches him in the eye and another more forceful splats at the back of his throat. She then slowly slides his boss's cock in through his slack lips.

"Get him good, cucky."

She then reaches back for the tongue behind her. The table shakes harder every time the two tongues slap against each other over the bouncing long hair below them.