It's unfair to say that the host is unattractive. He's simply not my preference. He rotates among all the other servers, so he's definitely on the menu. Many people would jump at the chance to have him; he must get special requests all the time. He's tall and well-built, with expressive, hazel eyes. His thick, wavy hair is just light enough to be called brown instead of black. His lips are made to suck cock, and I imagine they'd feel great on my pussy or asshole. I can also tell that his own member is a sleeping titan. The Eden Be Eaten restaurant flirts with the trappings of old-world class, but it isn't about to sacrifice free advertising for old-world modesty. The host's pants are well-tailored. Just enough is left to the imagination, but, given the business he's in, 'just enough' isn't very much.
The restaurant also doesn't let its name dictate its décor. Eden's namesake was a garden. Not many people want to eat -- or be eaten -- in a jungle, no matter how idyllic. The proprietors decided to go all-in with an ancient Greek take on an Abrahamic paradise. White marble dominates; glittering mosaic accentuates; burnished metal caps. The small, gentle waterfalls are holosims. The distant clouds drifting across a pale blue sky are simple vidscreens; the perspective is tilted downwards, so that the horizon line is high. If you look at the images closely, you can see suggestions of human settlements kilometers below; they come in and out of focus as the massive wisps of vapor pass above them.
The employees' default uniforms, on the other hand, ape the traditions of old-world fine dining establishments
.
They're a nice touch. They confirm to all comers that the proprietors know exactly what they're doing. They're having fun. It's commercial art.
Tonight is a special treat for me and my husband. That's not to say we're starved for sex. Curt worships my body all week long, or savagely devours and defiles it, as the mood strikes us. We both have Saturdays and Sundays off, so we'll be attached to each other like horses to feed bags for the next two days. We'll only separate to sleep, bathe, consume actual food, and, of course, have the kinds of sex where getting a mouth on a cock or a pussy simply isn't feasible. Trust me, if science found a way -- an affordable way, at least - we'd lick, suck, and fuck all at the same time. I'd clone his cock at least four times over. He'd turn himself into an eldritch abomination, dedicated to our mutual pleasure; five identical cocks would seem downright mundane.
We each have another day off to handle the chores and errands. Weekends are for sex. Once in awhile, though, Friday nights are for eating and being eaten. Yes, I said it.
"Table for two?" the host asks coyly. That's the default tone here at the Eden Be Eaten. I also detect a note of intrigue in his smooth, deep voice. Parties of two are uncommon. Singles abound. Larger parties are rarer, but still not as rare as the likes of us.
"Connelly and Mitchell," I reply. "We have reservations."
Prompted by the magic word, the host calls up his holoscreen. Our public bracelets and wrist holos both ping and hum. All three of us politely ignore the fact that the holonet could've taken care of all of this. People like old-world touches; Curt and I are no exceptions.
"You certainly do," he says. "Right this way."
We follow the host through the main dining area to a private room. I admit to myself that he offers a nice view from behind too. Along the way, we see a few patrons enjoying dessert. That gives us another, more revelatory taste of what's on offer.
"Redhead, three o'clock," Curt says.
There's no need to steal a glance; I turn my head and take in the sight. Once you've paid the entry fee, looking is both free and encouraged.
A full-figured bombshell is on her back on a thick tablecloth, ass elevated by a pillow. She's teasing her erect nipples and breathing heavily. A plump, butch woman has her face between her dessert's legs, and appears laser-focused on devouring her. From the angle of the redhead's pelvis, and the butch's sloppy technique, I'm guessing asshole a la mode. An after-dinner asspresso would require more restraint to properly enjoy.
"Mmmm, maybe," I reply.
Sexually liberated though the Coastal Alliance may be, blatant discussions of personal preference are still considered crass. Well, it's more accurate to say that the ingenious system of collars and bracelets made them crass again, after a tumultuous transitional period. I'm not about to nitpick a gorgeous woman on the way to our room. I won't say aloud, for example, that I'd prefer someone slimmer, with paler skin, straighter hair, and a bald pussy. Should I tell you there's no accounting for taste, or would that be pushing it?
The host ushers us into our private room. It's the reason our trips to Eden Be Eaten are a rare treat. The restaurant proudly declares that every table for one is actually a table for two -- well, two at a time, that is. Our 'table for two' is a whole room for either six or eight, depending on which course we're on. It's very expensive, and worth every euro.
"There are we are, madam and monsieur," the host says, not bothering to feign an accent. "Privacy controls have been enabled. All staff will use the service entrance." He then motions to another, more obvious door. "Your own bathroom, with our compliments."
"Thank you," my husband says. "Everything looks lovely."
I think Curt may have already decided on his dessert.
