Mel and I arrive at Rude Food only thirteen minutes late. Which is practically punctual for us. I'm already livestreaming as we enter the dark little restaurant. I can feel Mel's annoyance as I point my phone at the friendly hostess who takes our reservation, and ushers us to the establishment's sole table. I know my streaming bothers people, but what they never seem to understand is that the staff here is temporary. After our meal, we'll never see them again. But the views. The views are forever.
The maître d' is a tall skinny man in a neat black suite and bowtie. With a bright red napkin over his arm, he waves us to our seats. Opposite each other, across a small table, I peek out from behind my phone to smile at Mel. She shows me her teeth and I roll my eyes at how nervous she is. I'm about to tease her for being such a baby when the maître d' clears his throat.
"Will madams be enjoying one or two tastings this evening?" he asks. His accent is aggressively French. Overplayed to the point where I'm positive he's never so much as set foot in Eurpoe.
I swivel my phone to take him in. "This is our first time here. What do you recommend?"
"Madams may find that sharing a single tasting allows them to best digest the experience," he says, and slides a thin laminated menu in front of me.
I don't recognize any of the dishes on offer. But I figure it won't make much difference for the content. So I just check a random box for each course.
"That's a lot of courses!" Mel whispers across the table.
"That's how you know it's fancy," I tell her.
As soon as I finish, the maître d' whisks away the menu and disappears through some saloon doors. To wake up the chef, I presume.
"Yeah, so this place is supposed to be totally wild." I continue chattering, half to Mel and half to my phone, "I had to sign a waver just to get a booking."
"Really?" Mel asks. "What kind of stuff was on it?"
"Oh, I didn't read it. It was super long."
"Then it was probably important!" she hisses at me. But she falls silent as the maître d' returns, now accompanied by a shorter, broader, man who I assume to be chef. I assume he is the chef because he's wearing all white, including a silly cylinder hat. I make sure my stream gets a good shot of him.
The maître d' sets a small silver serving tray in the center of our otherwise empty table. "For ze appetizer. Oysters fa diablos." He lifts the lid with a flourish. My phone's camera is expertly positioned to take in the amazing food without steaming up the lens. But on my screen, all I see is a gravy boat brimming with vibrant orange sauce. Beside it lie two loops of what looks like rough help rope. I look at Mel and see she's just as confused as me.
"So the oysters are in there?" I ask, pointing at the gravy boat.
The maître d' and the chef say nothing. Instead, they move swiftly and in unison to grab the loops of rope. Before Mel or I can process what's happening, the maître d' is behind me, the chef is behind her, and they're looping their rope around our respective necks!
"God damn it Amy. This is one of those sex rest-" Mel manages to yell before the rope is pulled tight, pinning her back against the chair. Her eyes are wild as she claws at the rope. Not that I should judge, I'm doing the same. My phone skitters away across the table.
The livestream is now transmitting the restaurant's low, but vaulted, ceiling. Not the kind of content my viewers are looking for.
I manage to get my hands under the rope. And though the maître d' might as well be a million times stronger than me, I'm able to apply enough counter pressure that I can still breath. Even if it's difficult.
"Miss Jezebel, we will require your assistance for this course," the maître d' says. He doesn't seem to be having any difficulty restraining me. He's not even breathing heavy.
"Of course, Sir," the hostess answers. She saunters over to us, pausing briefly to pick up my phone. Carefully, she sets it on the table, checking the screen a few times to make sure it has a good view of my predicament. At least my followers will know how I died. In fact, snuff films always go viral. We could be on track for record breaking numbers. "Who's having the first course?" the hostess asks.
It takes Mel and I a few moments to realize the question is directed at us. We make eye contact, and she does her best to shake her head, despite her limited mobility. We don't know what the first course is, but suddenly it's seeming like something neither of us want. I summon a quick burst of strength and pull the rope away from my throat just a little. "Her," I manage to croak.
The chef choking Mel is doing a great job. And I'm not able to make out any distinct syllables. But she seems pretty mad.
The hostess nods, kneels down and, dodging Mel's flailing legs, she grips her skirt by the waistband, then pulls.
I'm shocked to see Mel's panties come down too! It takes her a moment to notice she's now exposed. And, as she keeps kicking, the maître 'd and I are briefly treated to an uncensored view of her pussy. Her flailing is so wild she's practically spreading it apart for us. Once she realizes her situation though, she clamps her legs together. Now, instead of fighting, she's sitting as still as she possibly can. Except for a little wobble im her knees. Like she's hoping maybe everyone will just find something better to do, and move along.
The pretty host girl tries to part Mel's knees. But Mel is having absolutely none of it. Until, that is, the chef whispers something in her ear. Her eyes go wide and suddenly, the hostess is able to spread her legs apart. The chef, in some sort of sick trade deal, appears to loosen the garotte.
It seems Mel is too busy sucking in air to notice the hostess between her legs, even as she reaches up to pluck the gravy boat off the table. But I stare in horrified fascination as she dips a little brush into the boat and then, carefully, begins to paint Mel's pussy with the thick orange liquid.
"Hot sauce. Made in house of course," the maître 'd intones.
Mel snaps back to reality, and the maître 'd and I watch as her face first flushes red, when she realizes that the pretty hostess girl is nestled between her legs, before it completely drains of color at the horror of what's just been done to her. Mel starts to struggle again, but the chef puts a quick stop to it with his rope. She can't close her legs again. The hostess's shoulders are in the way. All she can do is cringe, as her most sensitive place is lathered with hot sauce.
