They have met in a small restaurant in Dijon, quite old-fashioned, decorated with crockery, the walls hung with antique ladles and trivets, hunting prints and chipped plates, small, and dimly lit. Julia was feeling frisky and even a bit like a tease, heady with the mixture of meeting her long-distance admirer and from the wine. She says something that makes her host's face go blank and eyes narrow, but he says nothing. She takes that as a sign that she is free to push, and so she does, trying to tease about how well her new boyfriend fucks her, how he has learned to restrain her and give her the submissive thrills she needs.
The man takes a sip of wine and gestures to the waiter, who is hidden in the shadows. "Monsieur?" he says, inclining his head. "Maintenant. Ici, tout les garcons," the man tells him. He leaves the table, slipping away, and the man turns to her.
"I've planned something very special for you tonight, pet. I'm glad you've shown yourself to be the filthy putain I know you to be, because only a cum whore like you have proven to... appreciate what's next."
At that, the waiter leads in the kitchen staff, a motley array of men - disheveled, soiled with a night's work, with rough hands and hard, unshaven faces. There are five of them, plus the waiter, himself an ugly, portly, mustachioed man with thick lips and thicker fingers. The others are rough-hewn, one very short with an enormous nose and a tongue so large he can't seem to keep it in his mouth, who keeps mumbling.
A very lean black man, young but with an enormous scar, perhaps from a childhood accident with fire, smeared across his face, giving him an expression as if he were just smacked, stands there rubbing the front of his pants nervously, making his dirty kitchen whites bulge. Two others are heavy, one very broad and bald, the other just plain fat, with his folds of flesh hanging over his belt and protruding through his kitchen blouse. They are all glaring at you, though the last man simply stands and stares straight ahead while folding and unfolding his kitchen towel.
"Look at these men, pet," the man tells her. "They have a very special dessert for you." At that, the waiter retreats to the sideboard and brings over a round chocolate covered bombe, looking like an enormous breast. He pits it on the table before her. "But it's not quite, ready pet. It needs something extra," he says, and at that, and with a quick hand signal from the man, the cook who was folding his towel steps behind her and in a snap, unfurls his towel and wraps it around her neck, handing the long end to the man. She squirms but the cook slaps her rapidly back and forth across her face, and her host yanks the towel forward, forcing her off her chair and her face flat onto the table. Behind her, she hears the unbuckling of a belt and the rustle of clothes; out of the corner of her eye, she sees the other men begin to open their trousers, smirking or sneering or, the waiter especially, mouths open and beginning to pant with the idea that they will take her right here in the dining room.