Rude Food Pt. 01

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.

Shortly after the hostess is finished, the hot sauce starts to work on Mel. First, she squirms. Then she sniffles. But soon she's full on begging the men for relief. "Get it off. Please please just get it off. I can't take it anymore. Please, please, please," she whimpers.

The men ignore her. And the hostess, seemingly feeling no remorse, picks up my phone and starts to film her discomfort. I watch the view counter in the corner of the little screen, as the hostess gets a nice shot of Mel's thighs, which are squeezing together so tight that they're shaking. Soon enough, Mel gives up begging and just sort of sits there and sniffles. I try to catch her eye, but she's deliberately avoiding looking at me.

The idea that at least some of this might be a teeny little bit my fault pokes at me. "I think she's had enough," I say. I brace for the tightening cord around my neck, but it doesn't come.

"Does madam wish to offer her friend relief?" asks the maître d'.

"Yes! Yes I would," I answer quickly.

Just as quickly, the maître d' is pulling me by my short noose forward off the chair. I follow, so as not to become any further strangled, and wind up on all fours in front of Mel. I eye her trembling knees, unsure of how me being in this position is supposed to be any sort of relief to her.

"Madam should open her legs to receive the relief," the maître d' intones in the same bored voice.

Oh. I get it now.

Mel looks down at me, but then immediately away. "Amy," she says, "I'm going to do it. I'm sorry. It just hurts too much." And she opens her legs for me.

I know what's coming now, so I let the maître d' guide me in. As much as we might have teased boys into thinking otherwise, Mel and I have never had a sexual relationship. Yet here I am, not an inch from my best friend's pussy, gingerly reaching out my tongue to start cleaning her.

Mel's wine of anguished shame as my tongue first touches her startles me into stopping. But she immediately begs me to continue. "Please get it all off."

As I do my work, the hot sauce works on me too. My own eyes get teary and my nose starts to dribble. I can't image how awful it must be for Mel. The hostess was liberal with the application. And though the coating is thick, I can only bear to make little catlike licks. In a few minutes though, I've made some progress. From under its coat of orange goo, Mel's pussy emerges.

"Oh my god. Don't look!" she squeals at me.

"But I have to see where the sauce is," I tell her.

Mel hides her face in her hands. The nooses around our necks are slack now. But I don't think to run.

Diligently, I lap away the layers of hot sauce. Mel's pussy is shaved, though a slight stubble lets me know when I've finished a spot. As I reveal the edges of her cleft, I see the skin there is puffy and much rosier than I recall from my earlier glimpses.

Still, I avoid licking directly down her center line as long as I can. Mel must share a similar trepidation. Because even though this is where she must be the most uncomfortable, she waits until I've thoroughly cleaned the rest of her to whisper, "All of it Amy. Please."

At first it's no different. But after a few licks, the contours of Mel's labia are unmistakable. I find myself in a difficult balancing act, trying to scoop up as much of the acidic good as possible without pushing it deeper between Mel's folds.

I don't fully succeed. I can tell because Mel tenses and squirms when I get it wrong. More and more I find myself having to dive between her lips with long scooping motions, trying to lap out the poison before it can take burning hold.

It's only once Mel's clit pokes against my tongue that I realize my strategy of starting low and working my way up has been a cruel one. I've been swallowing most of the sauce. But inevitably some of it is gets pushed upward as well, feeding regular waves of fresh lava right where Mel is most sensitive.

Cleaning Mel in this final spot takes forever. The contours and hood of her clit trap orange gloop every which way. But one look at her poor enflamed pearl tells me that I've got to be thorough. The tip of my tongue is on fire, so I can only imagine how intolerable this must be for her. In the end, I resort to sucking, pulling the whole area into my mouth until the sauce, and something that must be Mel's own taste, are suctioned to the back of my throat.

"Woah, Amy. Stop. Stop! You got it all," Mel says at last. She practically gasps it out. She's breathing hard.

I'm instantly plunked back in my seat. The spice has me light headed and disoriented. Something waves in front of my face. It's my phone, being piloted by the hostess girl. When I reach out for it though, she pulls it away. Oh, she's just filming.

She's poking at the screen too. Messing with my settings or something. I'm about to really go off on her, my predicament be damned, some things are just too far, when I hear a little plinking sound. Like a pin dropped on tile.

Plink. Plink.

I know that sound. She's turned on my livestream notifications, and each of those pin drops is another fan!

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

I look over at Mel. Snotty running nose, tear streaked makeup, flushed cheeks, and sweaty brow. She doesn't look much like the girl who walked in here twenty minutes ago. I don't imagine I look much better. Not quite the fifteen minutes of fame I'd planned, but what can you do?

"Ze next course please my good chef," the maître d' orders...